Work Text:
“I got you a shirt.”
Laying on the sofa, Diavolo glanced up from his laptop to see Trish holding a clothing hook, from which hung a long-sleeved satin button-up shirt painted a deep shade of navy blue. Thin white stripes ran down the body of the shirt, separating the navy blue into a collection of symmetrical blue squares. The girl moved closer, almost pushing the shirt in his face.
Her father’s face was less than impressed. With a grimace, his eyes scanned the plain design, the overwhelmingly normal look of it, and he made no effort to hide his grimace. The sight of him made Trish let out an exasperated sigh and throw the shirt in his direction, landing perfectly on the top of his laptop and covering the screen.
“I already told you I have a shirt.”
Trish shook her head, throwing her hands out in front of her, “Please don’t wear that stupid shirt again,” the girl implored, her voice heavy with desperation, “Think about how I’ll look in front of everyone when they see you wearing that- that thing!”
For a brief moment, a malicious smile played on the man’s lips, hidden from the view of his daughter as he set his laptop down on the floor. His hands picked the shirt up with him as he rose back up and lifted himself to his feet.
“Alright. I’ll wear it.”
Trish breathed a sigh of relief and quickly turned on her heel, leaving Diavolo alone in the room. Her father took a brief look at the shirt in his hands, before discarding it behind the sofa and returning to his work.
* * *
Ding-Dong!
The chime of the doorbell echoed around the house, and Trish quickly jumped off of her bed to get it. There was no need to announce that she planned to get it, given her father hated getting up from the sofa for anyone. The girl hurried through the upstairs landing and began to descend the stairs, almost tripping on her own feet in her rush.
A sudden opening of the front door stopped the girl in her tracks. She stood still, frozen in place halfway down the straight staircase. Narancia’s voice was clearly audible from where she had stopped.
“Uh… does Trish live here?”
“That depends on who’s asking,” her father replied. Trish crouched down and saw her father standing in the outfit she dreaded. Messy, two-day old hair draping over a pair of sunglasses, striped purple shorts she was certain he had owned since the 80’s, with his sock-covered feet placed inside a pair of brown sandals. And - worst of all - the shirt she dreaded. Entirely pink, with a gaudy and obnoxious leopard print design throughout. The sleeves reached midway down his upper arms and revealed the floral tattoos reaching town to the wrists that sported sweatbands of equal dirtiness to his hair.
She hated that shirt. It was the most unfashionable thing he owned. Which was easy, given that he only had one shirt, but if most normal people only owned one article of clothing they would have at least wanted one that looked good.
The boy’s voice returned, slightly quieter while he stood in the shadow of the stranger, “Narancia. I’m here to pick her up.”
“Right,” Diavolo hummed. As he turned around he breathed in, before yelling deafeningly loud for his daughter’s attention, “Trish!”
The girl waited for a moment on the stairs before descending fully to the lower floor. She gave Narancia a wave as she crossed the space between the stairs and the front door, stopping to pick out a pair of pink slip-on trainers to match the similarly-coloured blouse she had tucked into a pair of high-waisted blue jeans.
Bruno’s car was parked on the kerb, and his friends peered through the rolled up windows to watch the scene in front of them. Narancia awkwardly tapped his foot, waiting for Trish to finish putting her shoes on. All the while, Diavolo stood by the open door, unabashedly sporting his terrible outfit.
The two couldn’t have looked more different; Trish, with her meticulously styled swirled hair and well cared for nails painted a delicate shade of pastel pink, dressed in one of her dozens of outfits, standing next to her father, whose hermit lifestyle had resulted in him losing any and all sense of fashion. Though whether it was a result of his desire for solitude, or the desire to embarrass his daughter, Trish couldn’t discern. Her only consolidation was that his mob-money went towards her wardrobe - a good enough cause.
Trish finished putting her shoes on and stood up. “Asshole,” she muttered under her breath, directing her insult to the father standing behind her. He raised his eyebrows at her, but let the curse slide. Trish walked past him and moved to pull the front door shut, but Diavolo placed his foot in between to stop it from closing.
“Be back by seven.”
Trish swung her arm around Narancia to stop him from looking back.