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unscrupulousartist · 10 months

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hellerby fic, part 10/10

19 December 1929

Sprawled across two booths in the Lackadaisy Cafe, the senior staff loosely gathered for a breakfast meeting. Furthest from the door, Mordecai had a table to himself to accommodate the piles of paperwork and books he was referencing. As such, Mitzi half kneeled in the other booth with Viktor and Ivy, both to be able to lean over the divide to bother him and also so she had a clear view of the doors. Outside, the streets were white with snow. The people of St Louis were bundled in colourful scarves and bulky jackets, and fewer cars were out and about.

“Where is he?” Mitzi grumbled.

“Who?” Ivy asked, voice muffled with food.

Shuddering, Mordecai hunched over his ledger and started a second count of the day’s proposed expenses.

“Zib!” Mitzi answered. “He knows we don’t have a whole lotta time!”

“Perhaps you should get him a watch?” Mordecai pitched in without turning. “Though I doubt it would help. Why are we hiring jugglers?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mitzi reached to smack his shoulder lightly. “You’re goin’ home at noon.”

“Yes, so you’ve said.”

“A nice, relaxing, stress free weekend for you while the rest of us frolic and play.”

“Sounds delightful,” he made a tally in the margin. “And suspicious.”

“Don’t worry so much,” Mitzi ruffled his hair, then straightened as the bell over the door dinged. “There you are!”

Zib’s voice carried across the cafe: “Here I am. Be grateful I’m even awake.”

“And with company,” there was a note of mischief in Mitzi’s voice.

Explained by Wick’s response: “Hullo.”

“Great,” Viktor grumbled. “Who do I owe money?”

“Money?” Wick questioned.

“No one, yet,” Zib answered. “Don’t worry about it, Wick. Ivy, budge over—”

There was some shuffling as three people squeezed together onto a two person bench, all of which Mitzi seemed to have no patience for. She turned to sit properly beside Viktor, leaving Mordecai as an eavesdropper. “Did you get it?” she asked.

“Who do you think I am?” said Zib. There was a fwump as something hit the other table. “Cost an arm and a leg, but I got it.”

Mordecai rolled his eyes and asked: “Is that why—?”

“Shush,” Mitzi shot back at him, then returned to the conversation. “And the recipe?”

“All sorted; I just need an hour in the kitchen before the festivities start.”

Wick cleared his throat. “Is this about the kissing booth..?”

The whole table laughed.

“No, no, Wick, that’s separate,” Mitzi purred. “But we’re still payin’ off Mozzie’s new piano, and there’s always something or another to fix.”

“I definitely have another kissing campaign in me,” Zib added. “You done with the paper?”

“Yea,” said Viktor.

“So…” Wick started. “The mushrooms were for—?”

“Shhh,” Mitzi, Ivy, and Zib all chorused.

“Nothing to worry about,” Mitzi continued.

“Suspicious,” Mordecai repeated.

The bell rang again. “Goooood morning!” An exuberant Rocky sang; Mordecai slumped lower in his booth, out of sight. “Horatio! Good sir! Are there pancakes?”

“Come here, Rocky,” Mitzi called. Someone scrambled to remove something from the other table. “Horatio knows your order.”

“Of course, Ms M—”

“We weren’t expectin’ you this early.”

“Is it early?”

“Oi, Rocky—” Zib waved something in the air. “—says here your boy was found in the Missouri.”

“Freckle?” Rocky questioned. He came close to stand at the edge of the other table. “What was he doing there?”

Quietly groaning, Mordecai reached for his tea to sit and stare at; but he could still see Rocky in his peripheral.

“No,” Zib laughed. “Not him.”

“Freckle’s my boy, Rocky,” said Ivy. “But I forgive you.”

“Ha, of course,” Rocky’s arms flailed high as he rubbed his neck.

Zib’s voice lowered to near a whisper, and Mordecai’s ears twitched to hear him. “The one you kept awkwardly flirting with.” There was a beat of silence as Rocky inhaled, and Mordecai felt something twist in his gut. Zib continued: “Says right here—” there was the smack of flesh on paper; Mordecai pulled his tea close to sip. “—cops finally identified the body they found back in October—”

“Oh good,” Rocky interrupted, sighing. “You had me going there, but I saw Ol’ Serious Face yesterday.”

Sputtering, Mordecai spewed his mouthful of tea across his tableful of paperwork. He continued into a coughing fit as Rocky tensed and twisted to look at him.

“Oh my gosh,” Ivy squeaked. “Rocky!”

“Oh—uh—hey, Mordecai,” Rocky managed a laugh. “Didn’t see you there.”

Staring up at him, Mordecai froze. He could feel his face flushing hot, and his ears angled low and away. But he managed to pick out the details of Rocky’s outfit; a dark gray overcoat obscuring the blue of his usual suit and a hideously yellow scarf, half unwound from his neck. His clothes slowly dripped, a scattering of snowflakes disappearing in the cafe’s warmth. His pupils were narrow, his smile panicked, and he brought his hands up in front of him to pull awkwardly on his sleeves.

“Jeez, Rocky, you can’t just say that stuff!” Zib said loudly. It drew the violinist’s attention, briefly. Just long enough for Mordecai to start gathering his work things into messy piles; he sorted by wet and dry.

“Can’t he?” asked Wick.

“Not about Mordecai,” Zib added. “Not unless you have some sort of death wish. It was a joke, right?”

“Uhhhhh—” Rocky frowned.

“You gotta work on your delivery.”

“Mordecai?” Mitzi knelt again, leaning over the booth to look at him.

“I’ll start that evening off now,” Mordecai rushed. “Should I take these upstairs or—?”

“I’ll get them, sugar.”

“Perfect,” he shifted along the bench, trying not to look at Rocky. “Don’t burn anything down.”

Flinching, Rocky managed a chuckle as Mordecai stood.

Wick asked: “Aren’t you staying for the party?”

“Definitely not,” Mordecai hissed. Standing, he could see the entire second table; they all stared, wide eyed, at him and Rocky. "I was promised ignorance and relaxation. Not jugglers and—"

"It was good to see you, Sugar!" Mitzi shouted, too loud. It drew the attention of several other morning visitors. "And don't you dare take any work home with you! I wanna hear about a boring weekend, full of plants and crosswords."

“So long as I don’t have to hear about tonight’s—”

“Shhh!” Ivy and Mitzi said again.

Shaking his head, Mordecai slipped on his overcoat and reached for his hat and scarf.

Rocky startled into motion, stepping towards him again. “You’re leaving?”

Tense, Mordecai bit his tongue and glared as he looped his scarf around his neck. He turned toward the door.

Rocky motioned as if to block his path, but Viktor reached out and snatched his arm.

“Take the hint, kid,” Zib interpreted. The musician draped across a confused Wick to point at Rocky. “We’re all lucky he hasn’t gone feral again. Remember what happened to Sully?"

"No?" Rocky frowned at the table.

Mordecai used the moment to slip away.

"Miriam?" Zib tried again. "Chance?"

"I don't think Rocky was around yet," Ivy mused.

"Ah—wait!" Escaping from Viktor's hold—he contoured out of his overcoat, leaving the article in Viktor's hand—Rocky stumbled after Mordecai. "I got you something."

Slowing at the doorway, Mordecai was very aware of the room full of potential witnesses. Behind the counter, Horatio stood with a tray piled high with pancakes, and every third table sat one or two people. Still, his traitorous body paused to stare at Rocky, mortified, and he noticed a familiar pair of black cufflinks at the violinist’s wrists. He didn't speak.

"For the candle Holiday?" Rocky explained. He bit his lip.

Back at the booth, Mitzi spoke up: "You mean Chanukah, sweetie?"

"Yes!" Rocky shot her a brief but dazzling smile. Mordecai managed to shift an inch closer to the door before Rocky looked at him again. "It's in the garage? I could go get it right now." And he took a single step backwards, raising his brows at Mordecai.

“Oh, Rocky—” Ivy sighed. “Chanukah isn’t really a gift giving holiday?”

“It isn’t?” Rocky turned again toward the booth, face contorting into a puzzle.

It gave Mordecai the final opening he needed to flee the cafe. As the door shut behind him, he heard Mitzi add: “and it’s next week, sweetie.”

An overcast sky accompanied Mordecai as he stormed home, carefully picking his way over compounded snow and slushy ice as he darted between people and cars. But the short walk wasn’t long enough to calm his swirling thoughts, and he continued past his building and down the block.

“These are nice shoes,” Rocky remarked. Leaning closer, he disappeared out of sight beneath the table.

But Mordecai felt fingers on his feet a moment later. “Stop that—” he pulled his legs up out of reach. Squirming in his seat, he rearranged himself to put the violinist back in his sights. “How much longer are you going to sit down there?”

Half propped against the table leg, Rocky shrugged. “Use me but as your spaniel—” he hiccoughed, blinking, and continued. “—spurn me, strike me, neglect me—oh, hm, purrhaps that’s too romantic a prompt.” He pursed his lips and frowned at the underside of the table. “Someone wrote something under here.”

“Not falling for it,” Mordecai rolled his eyes. Looking across the room, he saw Mitzi and Viktor still watching them—Zib had wandered back to the stage. “Congratulations, Mr Rickaby, you’ve successfully drunken yourself under the table.”

“Not yet successfully,” Rocky countered. Then he listed onto his side, rolling. “But I can feel the first thralls of elixir, so it isn’t so bad.”

Eventually, Mordecai returned home.

Shucking his wet outer garments to dry in the bathroom, he methodically checked his plants. Most of them were dull as they overwintered, but they were still green and healthy. It was a five minute distraction he drug a whole hour out of.

Frazzled, he made tea and a sandwich for a late lunch, which he took in the living room. Bundling up beneath a thin blanket, he curled in the chaise and stared out the window for the exact amount of time it took to steel himself to pick up Shakespeare. He leafed through the pages—now completely graffitied with notes and questions—until he found the sonnets, and read until his eyes felt heavy and his mind could drift.

It was full dark when the phone rang. Unused to the reasonable mode of communication, Mordecai chased the sound through the remnants of a dream, flailing away from a despondent violin player on a burning stage.

Sitting up fully, ears perked and eyes wide, his consciousness clued in to what was happening just in time for the ringing to stop. He sighed, slumped, and straightened his glasses.

The phone rang again. Standing, he crossed the small apartment in a few long strides and picked up the device. “What is it?”

“Mordecai!” Ivy shouted, too loud. Then she giggled and shushed someone.

Mordecai looked for his nearest clock. “Ivy?”

“Yes!”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“Is it? It is! Can you come get me?”

He rubbed his brow. “Isn’t Viktor there?”

“His knee hurts.”

Mordecai groaned.

Ivy continued: “Because you shot it.”

“I know,” he hissed. “I was there.”

“Right,” Ivy giggled. “It’s late and I want to go home but everyone is too drunk to drive. Come get me.”

He knocked his head against the wall. “Sleep upstairs, Mitzi won’t mind.”

“Mordecai!” her voice dipped, crackling low over the line. “I’m bringing Freckle with me, I can’t take Freckle upstairs!”

“This seems like a phenomenal lack of planning on your part.”

“Mordecaaaii…”

“I’m not even working tonight.”

“Pleeeeease—”

“Why isn’t McMurray taking you home?”

“I tooold you, everyone is tooooo drunk. Just come get us!”

Waffling a moment longer, his other hand clenched into a fist. “Fine. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” And he hung up.

Not too bothered about being witnessed during the drunken hour, and still mostly dressed from falling asleep, Mordecai made short work of getting ready to leave. He took the stairs for haste, and nodded at the doorman on his way out. The weather, while mild, still held a midnight chill. The sidewalks had glazed over, and troughs had frozen in the streets. Very few people were out and about, and even fewer cars. So it was somewhat of a spectacle to see the dim glow of light coming from the Lackadaisy Cafe, and a small gathering of people outside the doors.

And, as he drew closer, Mordecai saw two unexpected individuals.

“Dere he is!” Serafine noticed him first, and nudged her brother.

“Peekon!” Nico cheered, but stayed in place leaning against the glass beside Viktor, who nodded a greeting. Mitzi, Zib, and Wick closed off the smoker’s circle, each of them bundled against the cold.

“What are you doing here?” Mordecai’s eyes narrowed.

Serafine grinned and shrugged. “Your musician invited us a while back.”

“Dou, he said you’d be here,” Nico added. He tapped the ash off his cigarette.

“Kid’s ballsy,” Zib sighed. Shaking his head, he leaned into Wick’s side. “I swear, he’s got nine fucking lives.”

“None of you could take Ivy home?” Mordecai glared at the group.

“We’re waitin’ for a taxi,” said Mitzi. “We offered to take her, but she doesn’t wanna hang out with the adults.”

“She’s twenty.”

“You try tellin’ her that, sweetheart. Lemme know how it goes.”

Mordecai shook his head.

“We could take her?” Nico offered.

Viktor and Mordecai spoke together: “No.”

“I’m hurt,” Nico pouted, first at Mordecai and then at Viktor. “T’ought we were gettin’ along.”

“Nothing personal,” Viktor over-enunciated in an uncharacteristic voice. Then Nico and Serafine started to laugh.

“I feel like I missed something,” Mordecai remarked wryly. He peered in through the glass, where a dozen strangers were having coffee pick-me-ups before heading home. Horatio was again behind the counter, this time bustling back and forth between percolators. “But I don’t want to know. Where’s Ivy?”

“Garage,” said Viktor. He rubbed at his knee.

“Be sure to knock,” Mitzi added.

Zib snickered into Wick’s side.

“Noted,” Mordecai drawled.

Instead of risking going through the building, he continued on around the block. Bright headlights turned the corner as he darted into an alleyway, and he supposed Mitzi and the rest would be gone soon.

Someone had shoveled the drive, all the way back to the discrete garage, but Mordecai paid the snowdrifts very little attention as he spied the open door. There was no one outside, but he could almost discern the intimate whisperings of a couple. Before he stepped inside, he announced himself: “I’m here.”

There was a scrambling, and he entered to see Freckle awkwardly side stepping away from Ivy, who sat on the hood of their dodgy vehicle. “Mordecai!” Ivy hopped down, swaying. “It took you long enough.”

“Mhm,” he propped his hands on his hips and gave her a practiced look, flat. “This feels unnecessary.”

Freckle cleared his throat and straightened to a stand; but his voice slurred around his words. “Faank you, Missir Heller.”

“Come ooooon,” Ivy urged. She stumbled to Freckle, pushing him at the back seat; but she climbed up front to sit next to Mordecai.

“Did you not have a plan?” Mordecai asked as he came around the vehicle. He pulled open the door. “What were you going to do if I didn’t pick up?”

“Slept here and hate you about it,” Ivy answered simply.

In the backseat someone—not Freckle—groaned. Mordecai tensed as Rocky’s voice floated up from the floor. “Issit t’morrow yet?”

“Yes, Rocky,” said Freckle. He reached down to pat his cousin's head.

“Oh, good… ma’by thin’s’ll be differen’ now…”

Frowning, Mordecai peaked over the seat. Sprawled out on the car floor, Rocky drooled into the upholstery. Slumping behind the wheel, Mordecai turned to hiss at Ivy: “What’s he doing here?”

Ivy rolled her eyes. “Well, usually Rocky drives us home, but, uh—Zib made something?” She scratched her head. “It was sorta like Rocky’s tea? But mush—much stronger.”

“He doesn’ ushully get like this,” Freckle added, then hiccoughed. There was a pause before he continued. “He’s got a tall—a taller—a tall-shurance?”

“Ignore him,” said Ivy. “He can barely tell his reds from his greens right now. Le’sss gooooo.”

Reluctantly, Mordecai started the car. He took care of the garage door himself, opening it, driving through, closing it again, and then they bumped down the little alley and out to the street. A couple more people were leaving the Lackadaisy, but the senior staff—plus guests—were all gone. And then they crawled, extra slow, through the streets of St Louis.

Ivy took up the cause of conversation. “You missed out on a fun party,” she sighed, drifting across the seat. “There was a bit of a theme? The twelve days of Christmas. You know it?”

“Yes,” Mordecai growled. “It’s the worst carole.”

“It’s not that bad, you sourpuss. But ins’ead of the regular days of Christmas, Mitzi mixed it up. You know?”

“The juggler?” Mordecai guessed.

“Jugglers,” Ivy corrected. “Ten clowns-a-juggling, nine swingers swinging, eight—” and she rattled off a whole stream of nonsense as Mordecai tried his hardest not to bend the steering wheel beneath the force of his grip. In the backseat, Freckle occasionally nodded or added a comment, but Rocky was quiet. Oblivious, Mordecai hoped. He still found himself straining to hear any noise the musician might make.

When they finally pulled in front of the midtown apartment Ivy kept, paid for by her inflated paycheque, the girl was still waxing about the three Dutch dancers that had taken up a whole segment of the evening.

"We're here," Mordecai noted.

"Oh—" Ivy squinted out the window, then perked. "We are! Freckle, come on—"

Opening the back door, Freckle stumbled and tripped onto the ground. "Ow."

Ivy giggled, and carefully disembarked the front seat. "Thank you, Mordecai! Have a good—"

"Wait—" Mordecai leaned to catch her door, forcing it open so he could address her. "What about Rickaby?"

Taking on an air of innocence, she blinked at him. "What about Rickaby?"

He grit his teeth and waved toward the back seat. Ivy raised her brows and tilted her head. Mordecai narrowed his eyes and flattened his ears.

“Roooocky,” Freckle sing songed himself upright, and leaned into the car.

Ivy giggled as Rocky snuffled to semi-consciousness. “Whaaaaaa’—”

“Haaaaappy biiiiirthday,” Freckle pushed on the frame of the car, rocking it.

Rocky snickered quietly.

And Mordecai froze, frowning.

Ivy cleared her throat. “You can just take the car back—Rocky will be fine.”

“Goodnight—” Freckle continued. “Sleep tight—”

“No bed buuuuuugs—” Rocky whined.

Mordecai’s ears twitched. “He’s not staying with you?”

“Nope,” the word popped from Ivy’s mouth, then she leaned forward to whisper. “Mitzi doesn’ know—he sleeps in the garage. Shhh…”

“He sleeps here?” Mordecai’s claws dug into the seat. “In the car?”

The backdoor shut, and Freckle stumbled around the vehicle.

“Shh,” Ivy reiterated. Then she leaned into the car to kiss Mordecai’s cheek. “Thanks again. Goodnight, Rocky!”

“Night, Mssssss Pep…”

Smiling, Ivy retreated, slamming the door. Meeting Freckle on the sidewalk, the two walked towards the building. Creeping across the bench seat, Mordecai watched until they greeted the overnight doorman and disappeared inside. Then, sighing, he slowly moved to peer again over the back of the seat.

At some point, Rocky had rearranged himself onto his back. His knees were bent, one foot resting against the back door and one arm sprawled beneath the seat. The thin blanket, wrapped around his waist, had tangled and lowered, showing the wrinkles forming in Rocky’s shirt and vest. His jacket was missing.

Mordecai shivered. “What am I going to do with you?”

Inhaling, Rocky’s eyes snapped open. They were a luminous blue in the darkness, his pupils rapidly growing and shrinking as he tried to focus.

Mordecai held his breath.

Then Rocky relaxed, eyelids drifting partway closed. “‘Mmmmm I dreaming?”

Biting his lip, Mordecai looked around the car pointlessly. “Yes,” he decided.

“Tha’ makes sense,” Rocky sighed and closed his eyes.

Another moment, and Mordecai tapped his claws against the upholstery. “Get up here.”

“Hmm?”

“Up front.” Half crawling, Mordecai reached behind the seat. He caught hold of the blanket first, and tugged.

The motion caused Rocky to roll. “Whaaaaa—” he fell into snickers as he wedged under the backseat. Shifting, he scrunched his face up at Mordecai. “Why?”

“The symmetry,” said Mordecai. “Obviously.”

“Symmetry?” Rocky puzzled. But he climbed up, tipping over into the front cushions.

Sliding back into place, Mordecai threw the blanket overtop of Rocky again. Clearing his throat, he restarted the car. “Well?”

“Well what, silly duck?” Rocky laughed as he fought his way out of the blanket. He managed to nearly kick Mordecai’s head as he awkwardly rolled around the seat, falling off the front. Snickering, he smiled up at Mordecai.

“What should I do with you?” Mordecai asked.

Perking, Rocky struggled back into the seat. “Take me home?”

“I would,” Mordecai drawled. But his carefully measured tone did nothing for the goosebumps rising beneath his fur. He stepped on the gas. “But, apparently, your home is the garage.”

“Well…” still half on the floor, Rocky swayed close. “You could take me to your home…”

Shivering, Mordecai drove.

It wasn’t long before Rocky yawned, eyes drooping. He nodded several times, seeming to catch himself, before finally falling against Mordecai’s thigh. “This’s nice,” he mumbled, eyes closed.

“Is it?” Mordecai replied softly. Overhead the clouds cleared, letting a handful of stars sparkle through the light pollution. The moon was out, gibbous and waning. “We’re just driving.”

“Is nice,” Rocky repeated. “I’s like our first drive.”

“Is it?” Mordecai repeated, panicking.

“Yes—no—” Rocky sighed, and turned to rub his face against Mordecai’s leg. “I couldn’t’ve dreamed that drive, I’m too dull.”

“You?” Mordecai scoffed. And, inexplicably, he relaxed under the pretenses. “Dull?”

“Dim-witted,” Rocky nodded, continuing. “Dotty, daft, dopy, dumb, brain-dead—”

“Sit up,” Mordecai interrupted.

“What?”

“Sit up,” he said. “You’re throwing off the symmetry.”

“Nooooo—” Rocky whined. Pawing, he pulled one of Mordecai’s hands from the steering wheel and held it against his head. “It’s my dream.”

While the drive was relatively easy—nearing five in the morning, the day was too cold and quiet for the general public—Mordecai left his hand where it was. He traced along the nearly-even pattern of Rocky’s fur, listening to him purr and ramble. “Through the forest have I gone, but Athenian found I none—” Rocky spoke Puck’s part as he nosed into Mordecai’s palm. “—on whose eyes I might approve, this flower’s force in stirring love. Night and silence; who is here? Weeds of Athens he doth wear—”

They’d both shifted, laid out facing each other on the roof of the car. Rocky still performed, “Now, until the break of day—” But his voice softened, eyes hooded as he studied Mordecai’s reactions. And Mordecai, transfixed, watched the words as they formed on Rocky’s lips. At some point, his hands lifted to grasp at the front of Rocky’s vest, claws catching in the fabric. Their ankles were intertwined and their tails brushed together. Rocky continued: “—through this house each fairy stray. To the best bride-bed will we—”

Mordecai interrupted: “I think I want to kiss you.”

When they came close, Mordecai idled the car in front of the Lackadaisy. Still lying on the bench—though now he faced the seat more than Mordecai—Rocky continued reciting every line, regardless of character, straight into the third act. He didn’t seem to notice the pause in the journey, nor when Mordecai made up his mind and continued driving home.

Parking in the alley behind his building, he tried corralling Rocky out of the car. But the violinist frowned for a long moment before sitting himself up. “I have presents for you,” he announced; then he climbed again over the seat, falling into the back.

“I don’t need presents,” Mordecai sighed. Stepping out, he moved to open the back door.

Squirming, Rocky searched for something under the seat. Two somethings, which he produced with a flourish and a smile. “Ta da!”

Hesitating, Mordecai observed both objects. One was lumpy and wrapped in newspaper. The other was a cactus, decorated with googly eyes and planted in a familiar old shoe. “Well, I think this is already mine,” he remarked and tapped on the shoe’s toe, then leaned to inspect the unhappy plant. Its needles were shedding and its soil was dry, but it still seemed alive. “And you’ve killed the cactus.”

“Have I?” Rocky frowned and pulled the plant closer to look at.

Mordecai took the other present and tucked it under his arm. “Inside first,” he instructed. “Can you walk?”

“Pssh,” Rocky rolled his eyes, but moved to crawl awkwardly out on all fours.

“Stop, stop—”

“What?”

Mordecai sighed, tilting his head. “Your feet should be underneath you.”

“I’s fiiine,” he insisted. But he still teetered out the door, performing a miraculous shoulder roll to flatten himself on the icy pavement; somehow, the cactus remained intact. Rocky blinked, then grinned up at Mordecai. “See?”

“I see that your feet still aren’t under you.”

“The little details don’t matter.”

“You’re inebriated.”

“Am I?” Rocky’s puzzled. “There was, purrrrrrrhaps, more inbide—imblide—impride—” Scowling, Rocky stuck his tongue out. “Words.”

“Come on,” Mordecai shook his head.

Somehow, he convinced Rocky to teeter on two feet. The trek inside was practice in balance and patience, and Mordecai tried to feel indifferent about the polite non-attention of the doorman and the lift operator. Rocky leaned next to the door while Mordecai fished for his key, and then they were inside.

“This is an awfully long dream, isn’t it?” Rocky remarked as he waited for Mordecai to shed his outer layers.

“I suppose typical dreams are short,” Mordecai agreed. A tinge of guilt crept into the corners of his mind, dark and sour. He tried to shake it off. “You should change into something dry.”

“Present first,” Rocky reminded. His tail twitched, and he watched Mordecai eagerly.

Mordecai frowned, but picked at the newspaper packaging as he wandered across the little apartment. “Isn’t it your birthday? Why get me a present?”

“I’ve never been good at birthdays,” Rocky shrugged, following with cactus-and-shoe in hand. "And I missed yours."

“Hm—” he ripped away the paper and sighed. It was a scuffed menorah, second hand. But… "I don't light candles for Chanukah."

"Oh." Ears lowering, Rocky frowned. "Then, what do you do?"

"Usually? Call my mother." Mordecai threw the candle holder onto the chaise and moved to take the cactus from Rocky’s hold; their fingers overlapped. “This one seems more like you.”

A snort drew from Rocky. Instead of yielding the plant, he moved as if Mordecai were pulling him along, too. “I’ve had it for years. I thought, well—” he let go to gesture at some of the many potted flora dotting the apartment, and Mordecai wrestled the shoe from his hold. “—if anyone could keep it alive, you could.”

“It’ll need new soil,” Mordecai noted. Walking into the bedroom, he moved to the little table by the window. Rocky followed him. “Dry clothes are in the closet. You can borrow something from the dresser, and put your things in the laundry for tomorrow.”

Rocky’s fingers rasped together. “Tomorrow?”

Mordecai tensed. Setting the cactus down next to a flowerbox of ferns, he kept his fingers busy by unbuttoning his cuffs. “Only if you’d like.”

There was a moment of silence, then Rocky stumbled to Mordecai’s little closet. It took a few minutes, but they both dressed down from their day, slipping into clean sleep things. Neither of them looked directly at the other, both awkwardly lost in thoughts and memories, until the floor was littered with clothes and their bedtime preparations were complete. Then Rocky waited, tail twitching, until Mordecai could again meet his eye. Reaching, he took Mordecai by the wrist and pulled him toward the bed.

Even inebriated—especially inebriated—Rocky was a force of chaos. The bedding seemed to rearrange around him as he maneuvered Mordecai into a little spoon. Nested, Mordecai arched back into Rocky’s torso. He tensed as Rocky licked a line up his neck, but slowly relaxed to the gentle pull of teeth across fur. The ministrations went no further.

Eventually, Rocky fell asleep with his face pressed against Mordecai’s scruff.

The hitman was less fortunate. The afternoon’s early sleep, combined with the usual hours of his profession and a dash of nerves, kept his heart beating and mind racing. He tried everything from solving complex algebraic problems to mapping out the most efficient route around the great lakes and couldn’t settle his thoughts. It was worse when Rocky pulled close, an arm snaking around Mordecai’s waist. Then worse again when Rocky shifted to nose at the back of Mordecai’s ear.

And worser still when the first hints of morning finally invaded the room. A glow out the window suggested daylight, and the start of traffic sounds drifted up from the street. All at once, Rocky inhaled, sat up, and scrambled away. Mordecai curled a little tighter around his knees and feigned sleep.

Falling out of bed, Rocky made muted noises as he searched around the room. Mordecai heard him pick up his clothes and tip toe away.

Consumed, Mordecai buried under his pillows and bit his cheeks. Minutes passed. The pain grounded his thoughts, and he tried listing all the reasons he was being stupid. It had been a mistake. A long, drawn out farce fuelled by alcohol and other intoxicants that, yes, perhaps both of them played into on occasion but neither of them had business pursuing. Outside of a penchant for the philosophical—and a precocity of word that often sent others racing for the exit—they had little in common. The idea of them together was a joke to their friends, an inconceivable notion that went unnoticed and unthought of; and even if it had, it would only be as betting fodder. He didn't even like to be touched—usually. And there was blood in Mordecai’s ledger, too much for any person to deserve—

“Shit shit shit!” Rocky’s voice chorused from the other room.

Sitting up, Mordecai smelled smoke. The blankets tangled around his ankles and he tripped from the bed. Half the bedding shed with him as he scrambled from the bedroom, only to pause in the doorway to watch as Rocky dropped a flaming pan into the little kitchen sink. The musician turned on the water, dousing the flames with a hiss.

“Not ideal,” Rocky cursed.

Mordecai took notice of the state of his kitchenette. Flour was spread across his small countertop, where a bowl of something sat balancing a whisk. His fridge was open, the contents disheveled as if they had been riffled through. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Startled, Rocky twisted to blink at him. Still undressed, his eyes were manically wide and ringed with exhausted circles. “Uhhhh—” the water was still running; he scratched at his disheveled neck. “—making pancakes?”

Habitually, Mordecai’s eyes narrowed and his shoulders hunched. “That’s cast iron. You can’t leave it in the sink.”

“Sorry—” Rocky darted to turn off the water. “It sort of caught on fire—”

“And—” continuing, Mordecai cast a quick look around the rest of the room. Seeing a pile of material on his coffee table, he pointed at it. “—I told you to put those clothes in the laundry.”

Biting his lips together, Rocky leaned against the little sink and raised his brows. He considered Mordecai. “So… it wasn’t a dream?”

Hand dropping to his side, Mordecai frowned. “... no.”

“I mean, the part where you seemed to reciprocate,” Rocky added. “You know I like you.”

“Yes.”

“And you—”

“Rocky,” Mordecai interrupted. “Please, get out of my kitchen before my cast iron rusts, or you manage to blow up the stove.”

Rocky’s nose scrunched as he grinned. “So bossy.”

“That’s not new,” he replied. Then, hesitant, he walked closer. “I thought you’d left.”

Rocky shrugged. “Technically, you weren’t wrong.”

“You know what I mean,” Mordecai intoned. “I would’ve left.”

Cautiously, Rocky reached out to hold Mordecai by the waist. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Slotting together, Mordecai nestled against Rocky’s neck. “I’m not good at this.”

Rocky snorted. “Neither am I.” He pet a line down Mordecai’s spine. “But… I think I’d like to kiss you. If that’s okay.”

Shuddering, Mordecai pulled back just enough to peer into Rocky’s eyes. “I don’t usually like kissing.”

“Oh.”

“But yes,” Mordecai added. “It’s okay.”

Tentative, Rocky pressed his lips to Mordecai's cheek. He started butterfly soft, leaving a trail of affection across Mordecai’s eyelids and up to his temple. "I don't understand kissing—" Rocky admitted in a whisper.

Mordecai snorted.

"I should say, didn't understand," Rocky corrected. He rubbed his face against Mordecai’s, knocking his glasses askew.

"What's not to understand?" Mordecai asked, aiming for condescending even as his heart beat with sincerity.

Rocky shrugged and tugged him closer. Boxed in against the sink, his hands pushed under Mordecai’s shirt to scratch claws down his back. "Usually people would act nice to get kisses, then hurt me and leave."

He couldn't help purring, even as another twinge of guilt had Mordecai leaning back against Rocky’s hold. Cadling Rocky’s neck, Mordecai pet the old bite wound. "That's what I did."

"You didn't act nice," Rocky snickered, nosing close. "You didn't pull your punches, or go along with things you didn't care about, or pretend."

"I pretended you were still dreaming just to get you up here."

"To kiss me?" Rocky raised a brow at him

Mordecai rolled his eyes.

"That's what I thought," Rocky hummed. "I like kissing you; I didn't realize it was fun for everyone."

"Who were you kissing before, that it wasn't fun?" Mordecai's eyes narrowed. "There's reasons we throw people into the river, Rickaby, and—"

"Hush—" Rocky licked Mordecai’s nose. "Who cares about them? You're fun to kiss—but only when you want to. No need to be a Miriam—or Arty—or Chance—or—"

Mordecai kissed him, licking into his mouth until they were both left panting. He scratched down Rocky's chest, enjoying the soft hiss that angled the musician's jaw wider and sighing as Rocky’s claws combed through his fur. Something reminiscent of flickering warmth and summer nights coloured in the corners of his consciousness, and he leaned closer, closer, closer until he felt Rocky’s spine arching backwards over the sink. Then, nipping at Rocky’s bottom lip, he pulled away. "You aren't like anyone else," he said. "You're very…"

A smile split across Rocky’s face. "Oh?"

"Tolerable," he settled on. “Now—get out of my kitchen, and I’ll see if I can salvage pancakes.”

Snickering, Rocky kissed Mordecai’s cheek before ducking away. He winked. “Yessir, Mr Heller, sir.”

As Mordecai scrubbed and reseasoned the cast iron, Rocky regathered his clothes to dump somewhere in the bedroom—presumably in the laundry basket, but Mordecai couldn’t be sure. He returned to the livingroom as Mordecai was inspecting the lumpy pancake mix, and curled up on the chaise with a well-read copy of the Complete Works of Shakespeare.

When Mordecai served a tray of pancakes with jam—he made a mental note to consider adding syrup to his shopping list—Rocky tucked his feet under his knees and used his finger as a bookmark. “You’ve worked your way through the whole volume,” he noted with a smile.

“You do quote the bard a lot, Roark,” Mordecai replied.

Rocky’s nose scrunched. “Only Aunt Nina calls me Roark.”

“You’ll have to add me to that list,” said Mordecai. And when Rocky blanched, he conceded. “At least some of the time.”

Rolling his eyes, Rocky held up the book. “Do you have a favourite play?”

“I may have formed a preference along the way,” Mordecai sidled onto the chaise next to him. “But I’m afraid it isn��t the frivolous one you like so much.”

“You think Macbeth is frivolous?”

Mordecai narrowed his eyes at Rocky. “Your favourite play is Midsummer’s Night.”

Settling to sit closer to Mordecai, Rocky reached to fill a plate. Undeterred by the lack of syrup, he spread an inch of jam between two pancakes. "Yes, Midsummer is a little frivolous; but why did you think I would prefer Midsummer?"

"You quote it constantly."

"Ah—" Pausing to think, Rocky nodded. "—I suppose I do."

"You convinced the band to do the third act."

"A thematic choice, for Mayday."

"Why quote it if it isn't your favourite?"

Rocky shrugged and pulled the plate into his lap. “It’s a famous tale of lovers, drugged by faeries and left to frolic overweekend in the woods.” Picking up his jam-pancake-sandwhich, he shoved the whole thing in his mouth. “Id feld ap—”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” Mordecai admonished. “Or I’m changing my mind about everything.”

Cheeks puffing as Rocky strained his lips together, he raised his brows at Mordecai. Frowning back, Mordecai’s ear twitched; so Rocky tapped a sticky finger against the volume of Shakespeare as he chewed.

Sighing, Mordecai glanced out the window in pretense of annoyance. Really it was an attempt to stop his face from heating in embarrassment. Outside, the occasional snowflake drifted by. From memory, he recited: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

The rest of the morning passed both slowly and too quick. Food was finished and set aside, but instead of leaving the two cats reclined together. Mordecai dozed on Rocky’s chest; Rocky peered over Mordecai’s shoulder to keep reading; and both of them occasionally purred or whispered to the other. Everything was on track to becoming the most relaxed day off in Mordecai’s recent memory.

And then the window slid open.

“Mordecai!” Ivy’s voice yelled. Both him and Rocky flinched. “What did you—! Oh.”

Looking up, Mordecai and Rocky saw Ivy and Freckle perched on the living room windowsill. The four cats looked at each other for a long moment; then, Ivy continued climbing inside.

“I have a front door,” Mordecai noted. He pushed himself up until he was kneeling, more or less in Rocky’s lap.

“There was no time for the door,” Ivy snapped her fingers at him. “We thought you had killed him!”

“Who?” Rocky blinked.

“You,” said Freckle. He tripped as he tried to follow Ivy, falling to the floor.

“I have to call Mitzi,” Ivy continued, beelining across Mordecai’s apartment. “I think she owes Zib money.”

Sighing, Mordecai slumped against the back of the chaise. “So much for a peaceful day.”

Then Rocky took hold of his hand. “Good day, though,” he said with a smile. “Right?”

“Right—” Mordecai entwined their fingers. "—but if you tell anyone, I'll deny it."

Scoffing, Rocky lifted the limb to press a kiss to Mordecai's knuckles. "Deny it all you want," he said. "I've got you figured out."

#lackadaisy #lackadaisy fan comic #lackadaisy fanfiction #lackadaisy fanart #fanfiction #i haven't picked a title #posting all the parts here before i upload to ao3 later #hellerby #mordecai x rocky #mordecai heller #rocky rickaby #*slaps fic* this baby can fit so many headcanons #Rocky's favourite Shakespearean Play is Macbeth #mordecai is tsundere #inappropriate use of shakespeare #nonlinear #flashbacks #the section where they figure their shit out

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unscrupulousartist · 10 months

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hellerby fic, part 8/10

19 August 1929

Leaning over the small sink in his tiny bathroom, Mordecai used a comb and scissors to meticulously trim the ends of his fur back into its usual shape. He was dressed down for the task, in loose sleep pants and an undershirt he didn’t mind getting littered with hair. In this manner, he was only able to tense and sigh when he heard his apartment lock scrape open. The door caught on the chain, barring the entrance of his wouldbe intruders.

“Mordecai!” Mitzi yelled. “Let us in, it’s an emergency!”

“We were supposed to meet at the Marigold at eight,” he called as he resumed trimming. “If you really need someone murdered, it can wait until tomorrow.”

“Mordecai Elijah Heller, open this door!”

Pausing to take a deep breath, he put down the comb but took the scissors with him to the little entranceway. Through the crack in the door he could see Mitzi, already ready for the Marigold event, glaring at him. “My name isn’t Elijah,” he said as he closed the door. Unslotting the chain, he pulled it open again and saw that Rocky, with violin-case in hand, stood beside the matriarch.

“Three names sounds more dramatic, honey, you know this,” Mitzi huffed. Then she pulled Rocky in with her, pushing past Mordecai.

“Hullo,” Rocky smiled awkwardly, his ears low. He looked over Mordecai’s frame, eyes lingering on the exposed scar on Mordecai’s chest.

“D’you still have that hoity toity suit you’d wear to the theatre?” Mitzi asked over her shoulder, dragging Rocky along with her towards Mordecai’s bedroom.

“Why?” Mordecai followed, loitering in the doorway as Mitzi deposited Rocky and his instrument beside the bed, where Mordecai’s suit for the evening was laid out.

“Asa called with a request,” Mitzi growled as she tore open Mordecai’s little step-in closet. It wasn’t as grand as her’s, but it was better organized.

Slowly turning, Rocky's grin grew as he took in the number of plants about the room, the neatness of the shelves, and—most embarrassingly for Mordecai, who flushed and looked away as Rocky noticed—a large book on the bedside table.

Mitzi continued: “Apparently, he heard we have a Concert Musician on staff. He was hoping we’d indulge him with some Classical pieces, for his birthday.”

Mordecai’s tail flicked and he crossed his arms. “And what does that have to do with Mr Rickaby?”

Rocky perked and blinked at him just as Mitzi sighed and turned. “Really, sugar?”

“I can passably play Tchaikovsky,” Rocky explained. He held an unusually humble air, tail tucked between his legs. “Ravel and Mendelssohn, as well. Paganini of course, and a handful of others. My Aunt would say Mozart most fits my temperament… but, I’ve never played with an orchestra.”

“That’s fine, sweetheart,” Mitzi purred at him, then began rifling through Mordecai’s clothes. “There won’t be an orchestra, just you.”

“Of course, Ms M,” Rocky grinned at her, but it pulled a little awkwardly at his face. “You can count on me.”

“Mordecai, honey, do you know what sort of songs Asa likes?”

“Pieces,” Rocky corrected.

“... no,” Mordecai looked between them. “I was usually preoccupied with the Savoys whenever we went to a concert.” Talking about the siblings made his chest itch, and he scratched at the old scar.

The motion seemed to catch Rocky’s attention, and his ears cocked forward.

Somewhat familiar with the past, Mitzi sent Mordecai a concerned pout as she pulled the first of a three piece suit from the closet. "Are they gonna be a problem?"

"Let me worry about them," said Mordecai. "Instead, explain what emergency requires you to destroy my closet?"

That caused Mitzi to snort. "Why? You hiding something in there?" She wagged her brows as she tossed pants and a jacket onto the bed, overlapping the clothes already there. Then she continued digging.

"Nothing you aren't already aware of."

Biting his lip, Rocky’s eyebrows quirked and his tail waved.

Laughing, Mitzi picked out two nearly identical shirts. “I’d think the emergency was obvious, honey.”

Mordecai shook his head and sighed, then stepped away from the scene to return to the bathroom. “Don’t make a mess.”

“No promises!" said Mitzi.

Listening to her fuss over Rocky was strangely reminiscent of days long gone, waiting around in a penthouse suite as Atlas and Mitzi donned themselves for whichever excursion or event they required Mordecai to escort them to. As such, he became an unwitting eavesdropper.

"Here we are—Rocky, sweetheart, put that down."

"Ah ha, sorry—it's hard to resist the siren song of the bard."

“Best to keep your hands off Mordecai’s things, if you want to keep them.”

“Will that, perhaps, be a problem with—?”

“This? No, don’t worry about that, sweetheart. Now, get yourself ready.”

“Sure thing, Ms M.”

Shaking his head at his reflection, Mordecai combed his fur for inspection. In his peripheral, he saw Mitzi step out of his bedroom with a familiar book in her hands. She took it with her across his little livingroom to sprawl across the chaise by the window. Letting the book rest on her stomach, she pantomimed strangling the ceiling. “I can’t believe Asa!”

“It’s a show of power,” said Mordecai. He angled his head one way and then the other, and found another couple of hairs that needed to be trimmed.

“I know that,” Mitzi whined and kicked her feet. “It’s also childish. After all the trouble he caused, he asks for favours?”

“You could’ve said no,” Mordecai offered. He turned to peer out the door, and paused when he caught sight of Rocky, staring, across the apartment.

A dozen or so feet away, Mordecai spied the musician leaning from the throughway to the bar. Rocky worried his lip, brows upturned, tail low and still. Music and laughter filtered past him, the speakeasy still in full swing.

Mordecai squinted from his seat on the stairs.

A grin quirked across Rocky’s face, and he waved. Mordecai rolled his eyes and stepped out of the bathroom.

“I know,” Mitzi sighed, head dangling over the single armrest. “But then he’ll start being all patronizing again, and we just got past that.”

In the middle of the space, out of sight from the doorways, Mordecai stopped. He brushed trimmed hairs from his shoulders as he spoke. “If it’s his murder you want, it really should wait until tomorrow. It would be a little gauche to kill him on his birthday.”

Mitzi snickered and smiled at him. Then, the sound of a tuning violin drifted, somewhat quietly, from the bedroom. Sitting up, Mitzi scowled. “Rocky!”

The sound glissed to a stop. “Sorry!” Rocky called from the other room. “You said to get ready!”

“I meant, dressed!” Mitzi yelled. She shifted as if to stand, book falling from her lap to thunk on the floor. “Oops—”

“Sit, please,” Mordecai waved her down automatically. “Before you knock over something expensive. I’ll sort Rickaby."

She leaned to scoop the book as he turned toward the bedroom. "Anything expensive you got from me, sugar.”

Shaking his head, he heard her scoff. Then he had to pause in his own bedroom doorway. Fur raising on the back of his neck, his mind replayed his absent assertion as his lungs quietly seized.

On his part, Rocky didn't notice. He had dressed down to his undershirt, suspenders hanging at his sides, but had abandoned the task to prop his violin on his shoulder. While he had bow-in-hand, he refrained from pressing hair to string and instead mutely practiced chord transitions as he leaned over his open case. There, a collection of loose papers were gathered in the space that should've housed his instrument.

From this angle, Mordecai could see the bitemark on Rocky’s neck; he exhaled. "Last minute studying rarely works."

"Doesn't it?" Rocky replied without looking. But his bow-hand moved, trilling along a cluster of notes. "I haven't had any opportunities to know, but I'd've thought last minute study to be better than no study at all."

Forcing his shoulders to relax, Mordecai hooked his ankle around the door and kicked it close. It banged, and Rocky startled upright to blink at him. "Instrument away, please—" said Mordecai. He convinced himself to continue normally to his still open closet, where his laundry basket sat beside his dresser. "—before Mitzi has a heart attack."

Rocky laughed, but the sound aborted awkwardly. "She's not at risk to, is she?"

"At her age?" Mordecai glanced to raise a brow at Rocky. "You never know."

"She isn't that old," Rocky shook his head and moved to put his instrument away. He fussed for a moment, ears angling back towards Mordecai. It wasn't until Rocky peeked again over his shoulder that Mordecai realized he'd left too long of a pause. "... is she?"

"Best not to think about it," said Mordecai. Pulling off his undershirt, he leaned over the laundry basket for one more vicious scrub over his head and neck to rid himself of the last of his trimmings. "The last person asking those types of questions ended up taking a long walk off the Eads."

Rocky’s snickering drew Mordecai's attention; the musician grinned at him. "I take it you had something to do with that?"

"I held her purse."

Smile drawing back to reveal his fangs, his focus seemed to flicker up and down the length of Mordecai's body. After a moment, Rocky gestured to the scar carved into Mordecai's chest. "That looks like a story I haven't heard yet, Mr Serious Face."

Finding a clean undershirt, Mordecai shucked his sleep pants. "No one likes hearing stories from when I ran with the Marigold."

"Ah—" Rocky grimaced. "Sor—"

"Don't," Mordecai interrupted. "Just get dressed. Quickly."

"Yes sir," Rocky spread his arms and mock bowed, then perched on the edge of the bed to untie his shoes. Only to get distracted by the bounce of the mattress and the feel of the quilt. "Oh—this is nice." His tail swung up, wiggling.

"We've places to be, Rickaby," Mordecai shrugged into the clean shirt. Then he approached to dig his tidy suit out from the heap of fabric Mitzi threw on top of it.

"You're a poet now?" Rocky raised his brows. "Feeling inspired?"

"What?"

"The rhyme."

"That hardly counts as poetry."

"Sure it does," Rocky shrugged. "Anything could be poetry if you call it poetry."

"Ridiculous," Mordecai's tongue clicked. He started with charcoal pants, fresh from the tailor. "Poetry has rules, structure. You can't just call every accidental rhyme a poem, or the streets would be flooded with half wit poets and no one would know who to read. Next you'll say cereal boxes are poetry."

Rocky’s eyes dilated, the dark of his pupils obscuring the blue of his iris. "Quite the observation, Mr Serious."

Mordecai suppressed a shivver. "It would be best if you referred to me as Mr Heller this evening."

Expecting banter, Mordecai frowned when Rocky dimmed. "Right," he toed off his shoes. "Tonight."

Pausing, Mordecai's brows drew together. "You're nervous."

"Me?" Rocky forced a laugh, rocking backwards as he shimmied out of his blue pants. "Nervous? Why would you think—" twisting, he slipped off the side of the bed and careened to Mordecai's patterned rug. "—ow—that?"

"You tell me." Mordecai secured his slacks and picked up a crisp dress shirt. "Playing music is already your job."

Rocky popped up onto his knees, elbows indenting the mattress. "I play jazz."

"You're always bragging about panini—"

"Paganini."

"—and all those other motifs," Mordecai methodically worked the buttons closed. "You clearly have enough expertise to accept."

"Classical soloists are different," Rocky insisted. "Jazz is easy, you flub a note and improvise a phrase and the rest of the band are there to riff off of. When Classical musicians mess up they get run out of the theatre and left to get sick and—ah—" Biting his lip, Rocky shook his head.

"You're assuming people will notice," Mordecai noted. He glanced at his bedside clock, slightly askew; weeks prior, he'd shifted it to make space for his new book. "It's a guarantee that everyone has already started drinking, and more than likely that no one will be sober enough to realize the genre has changed."

For a moment, Rocky stared and blinked at Mordecai; then his smile blossomed back. "You're trying to reassure me."

"Mitzi needs the night to go smoothly." He tucked the shirt into his pants, then found his suspenders. "That means whatever harebrained scheme the two of you devised on the way over here needs to succeed. I'm guessing the plan amounts to you being yourself while Mitzi flaunts non-existent assets to Asa and his boys."

At odds with the rest of his expression, Rocky’s ears drooped. "You think I can do it?"

Mordecai rolled his eyes. "Stop overthinking," he snagged the pile of clothes Mitzi had picked and tossed them all at Rocky's head. The musician guffawed with laughter. "Or do you need a head pat and empty platitudes as well?"

Pulling the clothes away from his face, Rocky’s tail wagged low and slow above the carpet. He bit his lip, brows upturning.

Mordecai sighed. "Just get dressed."

Shifting away, Rocky sat crossed legged with his back against the mattress. He leaned forward to sort the clothes on the carpet, both ears cocking to point at Mordecai. "Getting ready is more than just getting dressed. First, rehearse your song by rote—"

For the first time that evening, Mordecai's eyes were drawn to Rocky’s mouth. Vision glazed in spite of lenses, the musician seemed to split into two. Two of Rocky, both sitting cross legged with a hand resting on Mordecai's exposed sock. Two of Rocky, both leaning forward to soliloquy beneath the table-canopy. Two of Rocky, both petting a line along Mordecai's ankle. It made his head swim, and something selfishly fond dripped warmth along his senses.

Rocky recited: "—to each word a warbling note."

Mordecai watched the syllables take place. He tried to interrupt: "Obviously you rehearse—"

"Shh," Rocky lifted one hand from Mordecai's ankle to wave between them. "It's rude to cut into someone's plagiarisms. Listen—" something thunked to the floor, then Rocky raised both arms to gesture. "—hand in hand, with fairy grace, will we sing and bless this place."

Focusing on the task of dressing, Mordecai managed to tune Rocky’s voice into the background as he layered on his clothes. A holster over the vest, pistols procured from the night table, a matching set of shoes and jacket. For his part, Rocky bounced between characters nonsensically, sometimes pantomiming along lines Mordecai had yet to recognize. Often Puck or Bottom, sometimes Rosencrantz or Guildenstern, occasionally Oberon or Titania. But Mordecai's thoughts were preoccupied with piecing together disjointed moments.

Eventually, as Mordecai looped a tie around his upturned collar—he'd have to seek the aid of his bathroom mirror to make sure it laid evenly against his shirt—Rocky rolled up to a stand. The borrowed white vest was still undone, and he awkwardly turned in place as he fought with the buttons. "This is strange, isn't it?"

"Hm?" Mordecai's ears twitched. He moved to where his cufflinks were stored, on the small table in front of the window, and stopped to poke at one of his plants.

"Getting dressed," Rocky replied, then cringed. "Together, I mean. Not that getting undressed isn't strange! The whole process is bordering on the phantastical—" he slowed, looking at Mordecai as he raised a finger to emphasize. "—and I mean that in the eerie sense."

"Mhm…" Mordecai leaned against the little table as he carefully folded his cuffs together.

"Like a dream and deja vu rolled into one—" he spun his hands around each other, then paused to touch his chin. "Dreamah-vu?"

"Jacket next," Mordecai instructed.

"Right," Rocky snapped his fingers, then scooped the jacket from the floor. "Have you ever told yourself something so many times that you begun to believe it?" He shrugged on the jacket. "Only for something to happen to conjure a near perfect memory of the thing you were trying not to believe?"

Something tingled low against Mordecai's spine. "Are you believing or not believing?"

"Both," said Rocky. "Believing in the not believing."

"That's nonsense."

"Perhaps," Rocky nodded. Then he moved to fish through his discarded clothes. "But have you?" He retrieved his monogrammed tie.

"Of course not. Lies are things you tell other people, not yourself." Mordecai’s eyes narrowed. "What are you doing?"

"Embarking on a perilous parley, I think," Rocky looped the material around his neck and began to tie it from memory.

"You can't wear that," Mordecai clarified. Abandoning his second cufflink, he crossed the small space. "Mitzi picked out a bowtie."

Blinking, Rocky remained stunned until Mordecai reached to pull the tie away. "No!" He dodged backwards a step, the back of his legs hitting Mordecai's night table. He tried to compose himself. "I mean—this is my lucky tie. Surely a smooth evening requires every superstitious ritual to be observed. It's too risky not to."

Mordecai squinted at him.

"It's a perfectly fashionable tie," Rocky argued. He adjusted his loops, fumbling with the tail.

"It's stained," Mordecai pointed out. "I'm fairly certain with blood. If history is anything to go by, probably your blood."

"I need it," Rocky pleaded. He craned his neck, attempting to see his work. "Jazz is one thing, but I've only ever performed a successful concerto with this on. And Ms M is counting on me."

"Mitzi is counting on you to wear a bow tie," he reached again, stopping Rocky’s hands. Slowly pulling the tie from the musician's grip, Mordecai considered the fabric. He made a small concession. "We'll compromise."

Rocky perked, looking. "Compromise?"

It struck Mordecai how close they were standing. Folding the tie around one hand, he gathered it into a small bundle and tucked it in Rocky’s breast pocket. For a moment he futzed to make a sort of pleat, then he pressed the fabric against Rocky’s chest.

Which was when he noticed the musician's hands, still raised but now with palms forward, as if to surrender or placate. And Rocky’s eyes, dark and wide. And Rocky’s lip, bitten.

He pushed Rocky against the side of the car, lips pressing together in a kiss as Mordecai pulled on his lapels.

"Dreamah-vu," Rocky muttered.

"That's not a real word," Mordecai countered, voice too soft for a real debate. Gravity invited him forward, and he felt the world lean.

Then Mitzi knocked on the door. "You boys decent?" she called courteously, only a second before turning the handle. Mordecai had just enough time to stumble back a step before she poked around the doorframe. "Are you nearly done? I swear, Mordecai, you take longer than Zib on Swingers Nights."

"You could've met me at the Marigold," Mordecai reminded her. Face burning, he stalked back to the little table under the window to retrieve his matching cufflink. "And I know how many hours it takes for you to put your face on; don't go throwing stones."

"Whatever, sweetheart," she crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe as she looked both him and Rocky over. "I suppose this will have to do. Rocky dear, where's your bowtie?"

"Uh—" he tugged on the short cut of the jacket and shifted on his toes. "I don't know how to tie it?"

"Oh, dear," Mitzi sighed fondly, then snapped her fingers at Mordecai. "Cufflinks."

"The black ones—" Mordecai picked out another simple set, holding them out as he beelined to exit. "—I won't miss them if they disappear."

Mitzi took them. "Didn't I get you these?"

"My sister," he corrected. Angling past her, he folded his lone loose cuff together and secured it. "And your musician needs some encouragement. Perhaps a sincere atta-boy and a treat."

"My musician?" Mitzi exaggerated a scoff. "We pilfer one suit, and suddenly he's my musician? When is he your musician?"

Hands flexing, his footsteps fell a little heavily across the apartment. "You hired him, he's always your musician."

"I suppose that's true," he heard her sigh and step into his room. "Rocky, come here and hold still—"

Scowling into the bathroom mirror, Mordecai finished putting himself together. His fringe was brushed back with a little product, his tie was secured, and his glasses polished with time leftover for his thoughts to spiral into a dark mood. He returned to the little livingroom to wait, and picked up his newest book—The Complete Works of William Shakespeare—from where Mitzi had discarded it on the chaise.

Leafing through, he found and dismissed the one play he had read and reread—the marginalia made it easy—and moved instead to the sonnets. The regular form and structure, while playfully executed, appealed to him. He traced the edge of a page.

"Hurry, hurry," Mitzi urged Rocky out of the bedroom, one dainty hand clamped around the musician's wrist.

Mordecai snapped the book shut. "What's the rush?"

Even being dragged by the small matriarch, Rocky cleaned up nice. The clothes fit well enough, if a little long in the sleeves and leg, and the splash of orange at his breast was charming in spite of its asymmetry. The hand not captured by Mitzi held tight to his violin case, and his eyes flashed in Mordecai’s direction.

"I left Viktor downstairs," Mitzi explained as she fumbled with the front door.

"What?" Mordecai frowned. Placing the book on his desk, he followed Mitzi and Rocky into the hallway. "Why didn't he come up?"

"Oh, you know Viktor…"

"There's an elevator."

"He's just a little sore."

Sighing, he pulled the door shut. They made the short trip with little interaction, save for Mitzi's habitual banter with the lift operator and the doorman. She quoted the time and unconsciously started the groundwork for a plausible alibi; or she was just being polite, Mordecai always had trouble telling the difference.

Outside, Mordecai glared at the three steps that separated his building's stoop from the sidewalk. But he inhaled, slowly, as he approached the familiar car—and its familiar driver—parked halfway down the block.

Not bothering with the back seat, he pulled open the front passenger side and leaned to scowl at Viktor. "For the millionth time, I'm sorry."

Viktor shrugged, and Mordecai felt the car shift as Rocky opened a door for Mitzi. "Bad veather today," said Viktor. He rubbed his knee. "Is going to rain."

"Move over—" Mordecai reached and tugged his old friend's arm, bullying him across the bench seat. "I'll drive."

"You von't—"

"I will—" Mordecai hissed. A leveraged pull put Viktor off balance.

Laughter from the backseat caused both hitmen to look up; Rocky closed the door behind him.

"This is cute and all," Mitzi smiled. "But we really should go. Viktor, let Mordecai drive."

Rocky’s face squashed under the pressure of his grin.

"Fine," Viktor gruffed.

Slamming the passenger door, Mordecai rounded the front of the vehicle to slide behind the wheel. As he was getting comfortable, Mitzi leaned forward over the seat. “Viktor, dear, pass me my purse.”

“Ya, ya…” the old slav grumbled as he reached down to where it had apparently fallen from the seat. He passed it back, and Mordecai started the car.

Digging a couple bills from her purse, Mitzi handed them to Viktor. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

“Vhat’s this for?” Viktor frowned, but took the money.

“Can I have some?” Rocky asked.

“Mordecai’s reading Shakespeare,” said Mitzi.

“Ha!” Viktor grinned and counted the bills. “Told you.”

“How is this news?” Mordecai complained as he maneuvered the vehicle onto the road. “And why are you betting about it? Don’t you have anything better to do?”

"McMurray owes me, too," Viktor flaunted a rare smile.

"Freckle?" Rocky leaned forward to interject.

"Is the band in on it?" Mordecai asked. "Can't you stick to betting on Zib?"

"Oh we are, Sugar, don't worry," Mitzi demurred. "We've got a pool going for how long it'll take Wick to realize Zib’s flirting—five dollar buy in, if you're interested."

"McMurray ask if you vould read Shakespeare," Viktor explained. "Zib couldn't resist."

"Oh shoot," Mitzi snapped her fingers. "I owe him too."

"You bet against me?" Mordecai glanced at Mitzi in the rearview mirror, and caught a glimpse of Rocky trying to keep up with the conversation.

"Can you blame me?"

"Yes."

Viktor twisted, propping an arm on the back of the seat to speak to Mitzi directly. "He hate not knowing. Only matter of time before he go and figure out."

"I suppose," Mitzi sighed, and returned to sorting through her purse.

“I saw your edition,” Rocky admitted. In the rearview mirror, Mordecai watched the musician’s ears rotate forward and his hands come up to rest on the front seat before realizing that he wasn’t looking at the road. Rocky continued: “The Complete Works is ambitious to take on—have you read much of it?”

“I thought it might make a convenient projectile.”

"You should read it, sugar," Mitzi pitched. She pulled lipstick and a compact from her purse. "It's good to do somethin' other than work all the time."

Mordecai gripped the steering wheel tighter as he maneuvered through a turn. "Hypocrite."

"Ooo—we startin' the name callin' early?" Mitzi pursed her lips at her mirror and applied a fresh layer of lipstick.

"Remind me, how many prospective patrons are attending tonight's festivities?"

"I never said I wasn't a working girl, but A-plus deflection, Sugar." Mitzi snapped her compact closed and tossed it back into her purse. "Speaking of tonight… Rocky, honey, there's a few things you need to keep in mind—" and she launched into an impromptu lecture of who to expect and how to act. Occasionally, Mordecai would see Rocky’s reflection nodding along or hear the musician pose a question.

A quarter hour crawled past, and they arrived at the Marigold Hotel. Mitzi herded Rocky and his instrument out, taking the young musician by the elbow for a final look over on the sidewalk. Mordecai took a moment to gather himself as he got out of the car; he rounded the vehicle to see Viktor waiting with a narrowed eye.

He pointed at Mordecai. "Keep Rocky out of trouble."

"Why me?" Mordecai growled.

"Well, Viktor can't do it," said Mitzi. She tugged on the ends of Rocky's bowtie to straighten it under his chin. "Shoulders back, dear. Don't let them see your nerves."

"Ha ha," Rocky chattered. "Of course, Ms M."

Mordecai glared at Mitzi, then Viktor. "If this is about your knee again—"

"This not about apologies," Viktor began a slow march toward the door. "Is simple fact. I not keep up, you can. You keep Rocky out of trouble."

"Fine," Mordecai ground out.

"Relax, sugar," Mitzi stepped away from Rocky to slip a hand around Mordecai's elbow. "Just make sure he gets on stage unscathed. And doesn't burn the place down."

"No need to worry about that, Ms M," Rocky kept pace as they started after Viktor. "I left all my matches at the Lackadaisy."

"Somehow, that doesn't reassure me," Mitzi sighed, then gestured at Rocky. "Try to be a little less… yourself, Sweetheart. We don't need any extra theatrics."

Rocky slumped, ears drooping.

And Mordecai found himself adding: "Just the regular theatrics." Something warm tickled down his spine as Rocky grinned, perking.

"Don't encourage him," Mitzi teased. Stepping into the building, she looked around. "We want to get out of here before sunrise. Oh, there's Asa—Rocky, come here—" switching partners, she pulled Rocky with her towards a crowd of people and away from Mordecai.

Something about the way Rocky looked back over his shoulder, past Mitzi's immaculate hair to check Mordecai's reaction, triggered another memory.

"Come along, Rocky—" Mitzi guided him away. "Time to leave the Big Bad Mordecai alone."

Mordecai blinked after them. "Where are they going?"

"Back to the stage," Zib answered. Hands slipped under Mordecai's armpits to pull him upright: he stumbled. "Easy there, tiger."

"'M fine—"

"Dere he is!" A familiar voice made Mordecai cringe, but he knew better than to avoid the arm that fell across his shoulder. Jostling him, Serafine Savoy grinned and prodded him along. "Nico is gonna be happy; he were sure you weren't gonna come."

"I considered it," Mordecai admitted. Carefully, he pushed on the frame of his glasses. "But it'd be worse if you two showed up at the Lackadaisy."

"Ha!" Serafine snickered. "We woulda."

"I know."

The crowd started filtering toward the ballroom, and Serafine rearranged herself to lead Mordecai after them. "Saw who you were runnin' with."

"Are running with," Mordecai corrected. "And it's not any concern of yours."

"Of course it is, cher," Serafine nudged him with her elbow. "We family."

He rolled his eyes, disguising the motion with a look around the foyer. "Where is Nico, anyway?"

"Oh, you know. Around."

"How reassuring."

"Awe, cher! He missed you too."

Shaking his head, he stepped into the main ballroom with Serafine. The party was already in full swing, a thirteen piece band accompanying a chorus of dancing girls. Tucked in the back, there was a queue at the bar that ringed dozens of tables. Every full seat—and they were all full—offset dancing and chatting couples and groups. Not too far into the room, Mitzi and Rocky were standing with Asa and a couple of gentlemen.

Spying his entrance, Mitzi raised a hand to wave at him, gestured at Rocky, then made loud goodbyes to Asa. The gentlemen all turned and Asa spotted Mordecai next; he hollered something unintelligible over the noise of the room. Mitzi took the moment to slip away, patting Rocky on the shoulder and abandoning him to chit chat with sharks.

Mordecai sighed. "Excuse me—" he brushed off Serafine's arm. "I'm required to supervise my co-worker."

"The slippery one, non?" Serafine let him take the lead.

"That would be an accurate description of Mr Rickaby, yes."

"Always up for a good time dou," mirth decorated Serafine's voice.

"That depends on your definition of a good time," Mordecai drawled.

As they stepped up to Asa's circle, Mordecai took notice of the gentleman caller speaking with Rocky. Inhaling, he recognized a familiar blue handkerchief first pointed out by Mitzi months previous. The gentleman handed a long-stemmed glass to Rocky—who had to juggle his violin case to accept it—and let his hand linger by the musician's wrist.

Asa called: "Mordecai! Have you had a drink?”

“Not yet,” Mordecai answered. He sidled into the group, next to Rocky. “I should be taking Mr Rickaby to the green room.”

“Serious-face!” Rocky grinned at Mordecai, and lifted his glass towards his gentleman-compariot. “This is—”

“I don’t care,” said Mordecai. Reaching, he took the drink from Rocky’s hand. A few cats in the circle chuckled—Asa loudest—and the gentleman next to Rocky frowned. Mordecai continued: “Let’s get this over with.”

“Why, Mordecai—” Asa interjected. “You make it sound like work. I don’t have to worry about any corpses tonight, do I?”

“Admitting it would be inconceivably stupid,” Mordecai spared his ex-employer a look. He raised a brow. “So likely not. But the night is still young, and Nico isn’t here—”

As if summoned, Nico’s voice shouted above the noise of the room. “Peekon!”

Sighing again, Mordecai tipped back the stolen drink. He had just enough time to cringe at the taste, hand the empty glass off to Serafine, and wipe his sleeve across his mouth before brawny arms wrapped around his torso and lifted him in a bear hug. Tensing to stop himself from bloodshed, he stared up at the vaulted ceiling. “Put me down, please.”

“Is been too long!” Nico laughed. Dropping his suspecting victim, Nico left no recovery time before bodily turning Mordecai around to face him. Then he cuffed Mordecai’s neck with calloused hands, to keep Mordecai from moving while he pressed multiple loud kisses to both of Mordecai’s cheeks.

“Please stop,” Mordecai repeated. In his periphery, he saw Rocky staring.

“Careful, Nico,” Serafine tugged on her brother’s arm. “You know how he is. Remember Remy?"

Nico leaned back on his heels to bark with laughter.

"Remy?" Rocky asked.

"You never told me he was an informant," Mordecai glared at Serafine. Then, breaking away from Nico, he took Rocky by the arm and pulled him away from the group. "Good evening, Mr Sweet."

"Don't mind him—" he heard Asa say as he dragged Rocky away. Liquid fire burned a line through his stomach, and he aimed for one of the employee exits near the stage.

Nico and Serafine flanked them. On Mordecai’s right, Nico pressed close to brush shoulders. On Rocky’s left, Serafine wrapped an arm around the musician’s waist. “Co-worker, hm?” She squeezed Rocky close, but spoke past him.

“Don’t remember you evah draggin' us off,” Nico added in a purr. “Eh, Sera?”

“Nah, never.”

“I’m sure it wouldn’t have worked, anyways,” said Mordecai. “None of you are particularly good at listening.”

“Have we been introduced?” Rocky asked, voice raising as he looked at Serafine. “I’d shake your hand, but, well—” he awkwardly flailed both his arms, one still held by Mordecai and the other still clutching his instrument.

Propping an elbow on Mordecai’s shoulder, Nico leaned to wink at Rocky. “Don’t t’ink we’ve ever been on dah same side of a pistol, cher.”

“There’s no need for introductions,” said Mordecai. "If I'm lucky, you'll never be in a room together again."

"Don't be like dat, Peekon!" Nico whined through a grin.

Serafine shook Rocky, which jostled Mordecai's arm. "We just wanna be sure you're nice to your… co-worker," she grinned at Rocky. "You be tuggin' him pretty hard, Cher. He gonna get hurt."

"This?" Rocky laughed. Wiggling, he dislodged himself from Mordecai’s grasp. There was somewhat of a recoil as the tension between them broke, Mordecai double stepping as Rocky waved his arm vaguely at Serafine. “This is nothing compared to the time Ol’ Serious Face broke my nose.”

There was a beat of silence, then the Savoys burst into laughter. Nico shifted to grip Mordecai’s shoulder as he leaned over to slap his knee, and Serafine pressed her face to Rocky’s collar.

“You aren’t helping,” Mordecai intoned.

“So mean, cher!” Serafine boasted. She pulled just enough away to give Rocky a proper look over. “Dou, maybe not so mean…”

“His murderous inclination is part of his charm,” Rocky added.

Nico snorted and bat his eyes at Rocky. “Wha’d about your charm, cher?”

“Nope, no more charm,” Mordecai shook off Nico and went to grab Rocky again. But when he pulled, fist tightening over Rocky’s elbow, Serafine tugged. “Mr Rickaby will be performing—”

“A performer, ah?” Loosening her hold, Serafine lifted a hand to tug on one of Rocky’s ears; in response, the musician’s tail wavered upright. “What will you be performing for us?”

“I haven’t decided,” Rocky admitted. “Mr Smith suggested Paganini.”

“Who?” Mordecai’s eyes narrowed.

“Paganini,” Rocky repeated. “He’s a famous composer from—”

“Not the music,” Mordecai interrupted. “Who is Mr Smith?”

“No one you care about, cher,” Serafine winked at him.

“We don’t like Smith?” Nico asked. “Wha’d he do?”

“Told bad jokes about money, mostly,” said Rocky. “Which Ms M said is a good thing, but I like it better when Zib’s around to take over. Some things are harder to ad lib.”

The details aligned close enough for Mordecai to grasp, and he scowled. "Unless Mitzi's plan was for you to seduce prospective patrons, I suggest against taking any suggestions from Mr Smith. Now come on—" another tug, and this time Serafine let Rocky go.

He stumbled along a couple of steps. "That wasn't the explicit plan—" he managed to regain his balance.

"A contingency, then," Mordecai scoffed. Anger narrowed his field of vision; most people recognized something in his expression and cleared out of their way. In this manner, it slipped his notice that neither Nico nor Serafine were following.

"Well, anything can be a contingency," Rocky reasoned. And he continued babbling some excuse that Mordecai didn't hear.

Nostrils flaring, annoyance boiled up Mordecai's ears. But he contained the steam as they marched the last few yards to the employee exit, passing through a subtle haze of tipsiness. A couple staff were loitering about; they jumped as the doors opened and recoiled as Mordecai dragged Rocky past. It wasn't far to the green room, but Mordecai didn't pay attention to where he was going. At each corner and intersection he checked for people and chose the quietest route.

Eventually, he found a deserted stairwell and stopped.

"Do you know where we're going?" Rocky asked. "I thought I saw a sign; we could retrace our steps—"

Facing him, Mordecai pushed Rocky toward the wall. "Is Mitzi's plan to have you seduce unsuspecting philanthropists with classical violin?"

Stumbling, Rocky leaned against peeling wallpaper. "No?" His voice squeaked, and he held his violin case in front of him. "I'm not sure? She was fuzzy on the details."

Unconsciously, Mordecai stepped closer. "And you didn't think to clarify?"

"I didn't think it mattered?"

"So you would."

"Would what?"

"Sleep with him."

"Is that what we're talking about?" Rocky’s brows upturned and he attempted a smile.

"Yes," Mordecai growled.

"Um—" Rocky’s gaze drifted down, then back up to meet Mordecai's eyes. "... is that a problem..?"

"Yes."

A grin quirked on Rocky’s face, only to be washed away by concern. "How much did you have to drink?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" Mordecai's claws scratched at the violin case.

"You usually only have one," Rocky managed a small shrug. "Did you have something else in the ballroom? Or before—"

"Stop talking—"

Instinct and momentum collaborated; Mordecai pushed forward and kissed Rocky. A moment of awkward shuffling softened into shared sighs, and the instrument case was abandoned to clatter to the floor.

Their pants, somewhat heavier than their other shed clothing, thumped onto the roof of the car.

From his perch at the edge of the backseat, Mordecai shook his head at Rocky. "Why..?" He caught Rocky’s wrist and tugged him closer, between the cradle of his knees.

"I won’t be the one to ruin those pants,” Rocky explained. His hands slid up Mordecai’s thighs, rucking the material of Mordecai’s drawers. “The clothes make the cat, you know.”

“Do they?” Mordecai questioned rhetorically. Then he took fistfulls of Rocky’s undershirt and pulled him forward.

Licking the fur of Rocky’s cheek, Mordecai’s hands moved to grasp at the small of the musician’s back. Idly, he could feel the steady wag of Rocky’s tail, the pant of Rocky’s breath, the clutch of Rocky’s claws. “Don’t you think—” Rocky’s voice hitched when Mordecai’s teeth grazed the shell of his ear. “—that—that Helena is a tragic figure?”

Head swimming—he’d eventually question why one drink would have snuck up on him in such a capacity—the seemingly dramatic shift in subject caught him off guard. He tilted somewhat back, just enough to look at Rocky’s face. “What?”

“Midsummer is a comedy,” Rocky explained. His voice rushed out, and his fingers anchored on Mordecai’s shoulder blades. “And all the couples end the play happily married. But would Helena still be happy if she knew Demetrious only loved her because of an Elixir?”

“It’s a play,” Mordecai drawled. But his shoulders relaxed with the meaningless banter, and he nosed back into the fur on Rocky’s neck. His eyes closed, somewhat heavy. “She’s happy because Shakespeare wrote her that way.”

“So you did read it,” a pleasant note in the musician’s voice washed over Mordecai’s mind.

“Hush—” and Mordecai tried kissing him again.

“Mm!” Rocky tilted his head away. “Are you sure—”

“Certain.”

“Your haste makes me believe you less,” a shallow chuckle echoed from Rocky’s mouth, and he conceded to a peck before tilting away again. “You’re out of character.”

Mordecai snorted against Rocky’s cheek, and the stairwell swayed into darkness.

The taste of blood snapped Mordecai's attention, and he pulled away to blink at the body beneath him.

Tension releasing, Rocky sighed and relaxed into the seat. His tail, still twitching, moved to loop around Mordecai's leg. "Murder," he muttered.

"Sorry," said Mordecai. Stretching out, he used his hands to investigate the bite on Rocky’s neck. It bled sluggishly, and some baser instinct prompted Mordecai to lick at it.

Shuddering, Rocky panted. "Sorry?" He turned his head to rest his cheek on the seat and chuckled. "I see no reason for your sorrys, Mr Serious Face; thou I admit I am a little confused as to your current—ah—state of mind?"

Mordecai hummed and nosed deeper into Rocky’s scruff.

With his arm slung over someone’s shoulders, Mordecai was distantly aware of being walked through a door.

“Almost—” Rocky’s voice was strained in his ear, and he could feel the musician trembling. Then his body experienced freefall, and he crashed into a couch. “—there.”

"You told me to stop?" Rocky prompted.

"No grooming," Mordecai clarified with a lick across Rocky’s jaw.

Someone brushed the hair back from Mordecai’s forehead, and he groaned. “No grooming.”

"No grooming, cher," someone repeated. "Your musician is on stage."

Blinking, cross eyed, up at a vague silhouette, Mordecai tried and failed to lift his arms. "I can't…"

Arching, Rocky whimpered. "No grooming for Mr Serious," he repeated back. "But you like to—?"

"Stop talking," Mordecai growled into his ear; then he set his teeth around the delicate cartilage to tug.

Rocky squirmed. "That may be somewhat of a problem—I've been told I have a great propensity for rambling."

For a few fleeting moments, a familiar violin playing an unfamiliar piece grounded Mordecai in the present. Opening his eyes, he recognized the dingy air of the Marigold's tiny green room. It was full of silent musicians—an entire band's worth—all quietly craning toward the open door, where Serafine leaned to look, presumably, to the stage.

Then the world split in two and glazed over.

Sighing, Mordecai pulled back until he was braced, on hands and knees, above Rocky; it was space enough for the musician to roll awkwardly onto his back. "Is there a cure for your rambling?" Mordecai's brows rose.

"I can think of no true remedy," Rocky bit his lip. "Perhaps, if I were tasked with some other performance—?"

"Up we go, Peekon—" brawny arms scooped him.

Flopped against a broad chest, Mordecai looked up and frowned. "Why do you have blood on your face?"

"Never mind dat," Nico chuckled. "We found your friend."

"One job," came Viktor's grumbling voice. "Should have told Rocky to keep you out of trouble."

"Oh yay, Viktor is here." At ease, Mordecai closed his eyes to succumb fully into darkness. "Viktor's great."

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