Chapter Text
Beebeebeep! Beebeebeep! Beebeebeep!
Beebeebeep! Beebeebeep!
Chance cracked open his bleary eyes to the sound of his alarm. Briefly, he rolled over, buried his face in his pillow, and decided he wanted nothing to do with the next morning.
Then he leapt out of bed with a start, hindered only by the blackening of his vision when he was abruptly informed by his body that he stood up too quickly. After recovering, he remembered to actually turn off his alarm, and then frantically opened his contacts.
You
ELLI
WAKE UP
ITS FINALLY TIMEEEEEEE
Elli :)
i’ve been up for 2 hours, chance
everything is ready, just waiting on you
You
OH CRAP
I’LL BE THERE SOON!!!!
Elli :)
no rush
Chance dropped their phone and hurried out into the kitchen, walking in a couple of crooked circles while he scrambled to figure out what would be the most efficient to start with. In their quest for efficiency, they actively delayed themself, but they were too excited to realize the irony of their dilemma.
Eventually he remembered that he never makes his own coffee or breakfast—why would he, when he’s loaded?—and rushed back into his bedroom to get ready for the big day.
———————————————————————
After combing their hair and tying it into a low ponytail, they tried on various outfits before deciding a sleek, black blazer, rich red button down, and some black slacks would be a nice mix of night-life and casual, perfect for the act he had planned.
Chance burst through the door in a rush, panting frantically. Elliot walked over with faster steps than usual, placing a hand on their shoulder once he reached them, in case they might need to be steadied. “I told you, no rush,” he reminded.
Chance blinked. “You did??” He checked his phone, and—”Oh.” Elliot sighed. Chance offered him a charming—albeit tired—smile for his trouble. “Sorry, sorry, I’m just so excited! This is gonna be such a great case! Besides, I need to look like I’ve been running, right?” He nudged Elliot with his elbow, though he seemed to be too busy reading over some files, only humming in acknowledgement.
“You remember the plan, don’t you?” Elliot clarified. Obviously Chance remembered, but Elliot felt the need to jog their memory anyway. Which was…valid, to be fair. “I’ll be in the background, you’ll deliver info to me. We’ll meet up whenever you get the opportunity, and you be careful.”
Chance rolled his eyes at the last part. “Yeah, yeah, you said that everyday at least once for three weeks.” He crossed his arms, fed up with everyone (read: Elliot and Jane) constantly fussing about the fact that he sort of missed Don.
Composing himself, he sighed and reluctantly dropped part of his persona. “You gotta watch your back too, ‘kay, man?” He placed his hand on Elliot’s shoulder, meeting his surprised gaze head on (mostly). “If the rest of his mob is anything like him, they’ll notice if one face keeps showing up wherever I go.”
Elliot didn't reply for a moment, briefly silent before he relaxed. “...Okay, I will. Thanks, Chance.”
Chance grinned, facade back in place now that that was done with. “You bet!” Heh. Gambling reference. “Now…” Chance swallowed the anxiety that flooded his veins, reveling in the feeling. “...That’s everything, isn’t it?”
Elliot took a grounding breath. “Yes, that’s everything,” he steadily answered. They both stood quietly for a moment, before Elliot sent him off with a nod. “Good luck, Chance.”
Chance smiled, raising an eyebrow. Then he laughed and hugged Elliot; the hug was endured before ultimately being returned. “Thanks, Elli.” He pulled away and gave a fluttering wave, turning to head out into the field. Finally. “See you on the flip side!”
———————————————————————
Mafioso stalked his way out of the Employees Only door and into the bustling casino, only to grab a drink. He observed his establishment from the sidelines, noting any particularly suspicious figures and where his men were positioned. All was certainly not peaceful, but it was in order.
“Pst. Donnie.”
Nevermind.
Mafioso exhaled harshly. “I told you all to quit callin’ me that in public,” he chided. Caporegime shrugged the reminder off. “So? What is it?”
His subordinate glanced discreetly in one direction—Mafioso turned his head to see what he was looking at, but came up empty. “Someone’s been askin’ around about you.” Mafioso raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Hasn't come up to me, Soldier, anyone, only patrons. They seem a little…unsteady.”
“Who?” he curtly inquired. Caporegime pointed him to a specific individual, dressed in classy clothes that were unfortunately askew.
Oh?
Mafioso hummed, examining this individual. The hair that they always were so particular about had strands sticking out of place, some whole sections coming out of their ponytail. He tilted his chin up, curiosity getting the better of him for once.
“I recognize ‘em.” Caporegime shot him a questioning look. “Call the boys out here, tell ‘em to keep an eye out for any of those undercover goody-two-shoes. I’m off to speak with this esteemed guest…personally.”
“What?” Caporegime grabbed his forearm. “Boss, with all due respect, are you sure that’s a good idea? What's the threat here?”
Mafioso turned sharp eyes on him. “You questioning orders, Leo?”
Caporegime scowled, pulling his hand away. First, he hesitated, then with no small amount of reluctance he spoke into his walkie-talkie. “Stay on guard, keep an eye on the dark skinned fella in the red shirt. Messy hair, you know the one. Boss’s orders.”
Mafioso nodded in approval and turned, sliding through the crowd of drunks and straight toward the target. What a sight for sore eyes…
———————————————————————
“Long time no see.”
Chance flinched, his shoulders connecting with his ears. That reaction was…not intended, but he rolled with it. Slowly, Chance turned around, and the sight he was met with made him exhale involuntarily, his shoulders relaxing despite having no right to do so. Don. …Wow.
Mafioso tilted his head, eyeing them curiously. Chance glanced briefly in a few directions and noted some distinct figures positioned at various intervals, boxing them in without being loud about it. “Heard you’ve been lookin’ for me?”
Chance psyched themself up and put on a smile, purposefully leaving the jagged edges where they were. They tried briefly to smooth out their hair, but to no avail. “Yeah, uh—” Their voice cracked. This time, all the nervous ticks were placed deliberately.
Mafioso leaned down, too close for comfort. “You’re looking worse for wear, eh? Heard about what happened to you.” Chance crossed their arms stiffly, trying to ignore the proximity. Mafioso’s lips quirked upwards, just slightly. “Tired of the straight and narrow, are you?”
Chance recoiled in faux shame. “Heh, well…” After a moment of quiet, Mafioso smiling at him with too much intimidating energy to even be fair, Chance let the already strained grin drop, his shoulders sagging. “I…didn’t know where else to go…” he admitted with a dry throat.
Mafioso’s smile faded as well. It seemed like Mafioso was considering his options here, but the odds always were in Chance’s favor, weren't they? “...Let’s talk in private, old friend.” Chance lifted their gaze, a hopeful spark peeking out from where their sunglasses were crooked.
When Chance didn't move to follow, Mafioso appeared to hesitate before letting something like a reassuring smile grace his features, if awkwardly. A smile—equally hesitant, several leagues above Mafioso's in terms of seeming natural—tugged at Chance’s lips. Mafioso inclined his head and placed a hand on his shoulder, guiding him. The warmth made Chance shiver, but he didn't fail to notice the signal Mafioso gave, and how those distinct figures he made note of earlier moved upon noticing it as well. All in the same direction, if Chance wasn't mistaken.
A long exhale made Chance’s form shudder—they were still too disoriented by the closeness, by the feeling of Mafioso's touch after so long. (Not…like that.) Snapping out of it as much as they could, Chance mentally took account of every figure that seemed to be working with Mafioso, memorizing their appearances.
As they approached the Employees Only door together, Chance couldn't help themself from messing with their hair and trying to smooth it down, at least a little. Mafioso chuckled and shooed their hands away from it.
“Leave it alone,” he chided. “It looks cute like that.”
...What?
Chance faltered, looking away from Mafioso. “Uh… Thanks?” They continued to mess with it anyway, earning themself a sigh.
During that whole jarring interaction, they had reached their destination, apparently. Upon being guided into the room, hearing the door shut and lock behind him, Chance observed with a sweeping glance around that there were, in fact, no cameras. Not only that, but four others in the room. Chance made a more detailed memorization of their appearances than he did from afar, finally getting confirmation that they were Mafioso’s goons.
One of them stared at the pair as they walked in, leaning over to another and furiously whispering, “Is Donnie smili— Ow!” The other one kicked them in the shin.
“Have a seat,” Mafioso instructed, after shooting a look at that particular worker. Reluctantly, Chance complied, and Mafioso finally broke contact, only to stand at the other side of the table, still smiling. Then, for whatever reason, he tucked that smile away when he turned to address his…companions? “Boys, you remember back when I was undercover in the FCC, don’t ya?” A chorus of nods and hums.
“Well, this-” he gestured to Chance, “-was my partner, Chance Cruise.” Chance swallowed thickly, putting on a confident act. Again, he left deliberate flaws in his facade while Mafioso’s accomplices turned their eyes on him, either wary, intrigued, amused, or all of the above.
After a pause for effect, Mafioso turned back to Chance, familiar exasperation crossing his face. He used to look at them like that a lot. “Y’know… I’ve seen you take a lot of risks you shouldn’t have, Chance, but this is by far the most idiotic.” Chance rubbed the back of their neck, glancing away awkwardly. “The hell were you thinking, anyway?”
Chance threw on an insecure scowl and looked away guiltily. “Hey, man, it’s not like we’re partners anymore. So don’t act like it.”
…
After a brief pause where Chance and Mafioso locked eyes, that mouthy goon from earlier piped up again. “Oh, yikes. Boss actually cared about that gu-UY! OW!” Disoriented, Chance leaned around Mafioso to see the poor guy hunched over on one leg, hugging their other leg and wincing. Chance actually felt a little bad for them.
“You ruined the vibe, dumbass!” another one scolded, smacking the culprit on the shoulder. The whole scene was disarmingly unserious. Mafioso looked absolutely done with them, while the seemingly most mature goon—and the one who kept silencing the outspoken individual earlier—gave a long-suffering sigh.
Mafioso cleared his throat pointedly, and everyone immediately shut up. Even Chance found themself sitting a bit straighter.
“So,” Mafioso slowly began, unafraid to let his current disdain for his workers show, “the idiot here-” he gestured to the scolding one, who seemed rather indignant at his classification, “-is Contractee. The uppity piece of crap is Soldier.” Soldier looked to have resigned themself to their fate of being insulted. “And the only two who could actually remain professional are Caporegime, and Consigliere.”
One of the two he gestured at—Consigliere, apparently—smiled proudly and nodded, like some teacher’s pet. Mafioso’s features remained deadpan. “Nevermind. Caporegime is the professional one, Consigliere is the kiss-ass.” Consigliere’s jaw dropped in offense.
Chance was, understandably, a tad dumbfounded. “Why are you…? Telling me this…??”
Mafioso paused, then his lips spread into a predatory smile. “You had nowhere else to go, didn't you?” Chance narrowed their eyes. “So you came to me.” The smile seemed warmer than before, just maybe, but Chance could’ve been seeing things. The room is pretty dark. “You’re looking to get into the business, eh?”
“Ehh, well…” Yes. That was exactly what Chance wanted. But if they seemed too eager, they might blow their cover, and there was no way they’d lose this case. “I mostly was just…hoping to have a, uh…safe place to stay.” Mafioso’s expression may have softened slightly. “...Don’t really wanna get mixed up in the mafia, though. Not more than I have to.”
Mafioso hummed, straightening up. “So you’re trustin’ me?” he asked with a fair attempt at sounding indifferent. Chance knew his voice well enough to know otherwise, though.
“...I hope I can.”
…
Mafioso spun around to address his workers. “Capo, check the camera footage. If it’s got Chance in the frame, cover it up, burn it—you can even throw it at Soldier if you’d like-” “Hey!?” “-I don’t care.” Caporegime nodded and left to do as instructed. Chance blinked at the sudden shift. “Contractee, get to work findin’ a clean slate for them to hide out in. Consigliere’ll accompany you.” Contractee nodded, waiting for Consigliere before heading out. Consigliere looked a little doubtful that this was the best idea, but they seemed to know better than to question it.
“And you.” Soldier stood up straight, awaiting orders. “Keep an eye on Chance, a’right?” What the hell, don? “Don’t leave the casino.” Mafioso took a step towards the door, stopped himself, and added, “And don’t bet anything you’ll miss if they ask ya to play anything.” Chance sighed with a lighthearted roll of their eyes.
Soldier nodded along, but they couldn't help from asking, “Aren't you gonna be there? Why do they need me?”
Mafioso huffed and opened what appeared to be a burner phone. Chance had to restrain the impulse of checking the contents on it, lest he give away his intentions. “I’ve got somewhere to be,” Mafioso vaguely replied. “Take care of ‘em for me.”
That had Soldier looking a little confused. Mafioso realized he had to clarify, “In the…good way,” before finally leaving.
Soldier turned toward Chance, who remained seated at the cold metal table that was marred by mystery stains. Both expressionless and slightly expectant, they locked eyes. Neither initiated a conversation.
———————————————————————
Soldier laughed heartily, throwing their head back before falling onto the plush cushions altogether. Next to them on the bed sat Chance, hunched over and laughing as well with a rich drink resting lazily in his palm. The sound of their amusement echoed in the spacious room he had been escorted to, a cacophony of drunken hysteria.
“You—” Soldier wheezed. “He—he what?”
Chance’s shoulders shook while he reigned in the giggles bubbling out of his chest. “Y-yeah,” he eventually managed. “I don’t know how I didn't figure him out sooner!”
They both laughed about that for a while. Chance still remembered the look on Donnie’s face when they caught him ‘tidying the evidence room’. Their laughter subsided into a rather disappointed exhale—they really weren't sure how they didn't figure him out.
After the while of laughter came to a natural stop, Chance languidly leaned his weight on Soldier’s, waggling his eyebrows. “So~?” he chirped. “Got any good stories for me, eh?”
Soldier giggled hysterically. “Oh, boy, do I.” They took a swig of their drink when Chance nudged it closer. “Okay, so, this was…I dunno, man, last month? And, okay—hic—it was some hu—hic—huge rival mafia, right?” Chance pulled himself from the fuzzy bliss of inebriation. “Crap, I don’t remember the name… Uhm, uhm, they had some logo like—”
And, of course, Don chose to open the door (without knocking! Rude!) at that moment and ruin Chance’s investigation. They rolled their eyes. “Oh, Donnie!” Chance threw their arms in the air, grinning cheerfully with flushed cheeks. Don sighed.
“Wait!” Soldier gasped. “Donnie!? You—hic—call him Donnie!? How close were you guys!?”
Chance smiled awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. “Whoops… I meant Don.” The room felt colder, specifically around Mafioso. “Old habits.”
Soldier glanced between them like a child stuck in the middle of their arguing parents, hissing at the burn. “Oof—hic—yikes.”
Mafioso sighed, keeping his face steelier than usual, and turned to Soldier with a deep sense of disappointment following his stare. “You let him get you drunk.” The hiccuping laughter was answer enough. Mafioso sighed again.
He approached the pair with quiet purpose, wrapping an arm around Soldier and helping them up. “Huh? Where ya goin’?” Chance tilted their head and asked, earning no answer. How polite.
Mafioso brought Soldier to the door, walking slower than usual, and called, “Capo! Would you—”
“Oh, boy…”
“Yeah.”
Caporegime strolled over and took Soldier from Mafioso, wrapping an arm around them. They babbled irrelevantly while he gave Mafioso a nod of understanding, then made his way to some other location. Chance felt like he was watching a family interact through glass.
Then Mafioso turned to them and they vaguely noticed their heart thumping a little harder.
He didn't say anything, he just…seated himself next to them, on the bed. Chance tapped their fingers along the rim of their glass, filling at least some of the silence.
“...You won't call me Donnie,” Mafioso began without warning, making Chance shrivel up marginally, “but ya never stopped callin’ me Don.” They both paused, and when it looked like Chance wouldn’t reply, he turned his head and continued, “Y’know, most people just call me Mafioso.”
Chance kept his expression uninterested, but apparently it must have fallen flat, because Mafioso kept on looking at him.
Eventually Mafioso rested his elbows on his knees and sighed, letting his head hang. “I’m not…good with words,” he said for some reason, rubbing tiredly at his face like a man who’d been divorced thrice by the same person.
Still, Chance remained stubbornly quiet—that is, until he broke under minimal pressure. He’d blame the alcohol for this later. “...Well, yeah, neither am I? You know that, man,” he retorted, nudging Mafioso with his elbow with the same tentativeness of someone prodding curiously at a healing wound.
That earned a scoff. “You’ve written a full song, plus whatever unfinished songs ya wouldn't show me.” The little smirk on Mafioso’s face had Chance’s heart aching in a way that shouldn't feel unknown anymore. “But sure, Chance. You’re bad with words.”
Chance groaned, throwing their head back. Drama to quell the sting. “Oh my gosh, Don, I was fourteen when I wrote that song!”
Mafioso made a blah, blah, blah hand gesture, smiling again. “Exactly, idiot. That’s a song I’d pay to hear, and you wrote it when you were a kid.” He got a punch in the shoulder for that, and surprisingly, Chance found himself smiling too—just a little bit. …Okay, a lot.
But as the conversation fizzled, Mafioso’s smile became something more melancholic. Chance narrowed his eyes, remembering a thought he often had back in their partner days: Wish this guy would say what he’s thinkin’ for once.
Chance froze up just as he was thinking that, because Mafioso placed a hand on his shoulder—and somehow, in this moment, that was enough. For something Chance couldn't name, that was enough, and that’s why it made every bruise, burn and cut that adorned his heart start to throb again.
Chance let his head rest on Mafioso’s hand.