Chapter Text
At 20, Prompto Argentum officially starts working as a butcher in his dad’s weapon shop full time.
Well-wait, no, okay that came out wrong. He sells weapons in a butcher shop. Err, it's not really a butcher shop. Technically he cuts and sells meat, so he guesses it is a butcher shop. But he also sells weapons. The butcher shop is a front for selling weapons, but they have more customers picking up Glocks than lamb chops, so sometimes it’s easy to forget which way the business runs.
Basically, Prompto works in his dad's butcher shop that's a front for a weapon shop. A shop that's eloquently called "Butchered Meat." In one of the more sketchy parts of the crown city where they supply restaurants with good meat and in return are supplied with-
Well, Prompto isn’t actually sure. Up until this point, he’s only had to memorize all the different code words for all the smaller weapons that are sold over the counter, so it’s pretty cut and dry on his end in terms of selling guns in a meat shop.
But there’s an inch under Prompto’s skin. A rising dread, tension churning in his gut. Just a few months ago there was a sudden increase in special orders that Cor dropped off every other night for two weeks in a row. That many orders at once would only mean something big was happening, wasn’t it? Sure, they would get busy from time to time, but never that busy. And what are they even supplied with in return?
Prompto heads starts pounding.
Maybe he should stop questioning these things.
"Hey kid," Cor calls from the back, "someone's coming in for a special pickup later. Code is King's Knight."
"Um, you want me to handle it?" Prompto asks because while he enjoys working the double life of a weapon dealing, meat cutting son, the personal codes picked out by the clients are reversed for the bigger or higher risk orders. And, well, the big orders take a certain finesse that he doesn't possess.
Cor walks to the front wiping his bloody hands on his apron, "I have a dropoff to make tonight at 11. Don't worry, you'll manage just fine."
Gods, Prompto hopes so.
"The order is in the freezer. You remember where the switch is to open the wall?" Cor bends down behind the counter under the cash register, feeling his hand around until a switch clicks. The floor tile in front of Prompto pops open.
"Uhh, yeah," he replies, "You sure you can’t stay for the pickup?"
"I won’t be back until 5 AM so it’s a long drive to and from," Cor digs out a small package wrapped in newspaper and snaps the tile back in place.
"We selling drugs now?" Prompto points to the package, because when did they start using newspaper to wrap orders? "Thought we were a weapon shop."
"No, these are opals." Cor grunts. "And we're a butcher shop."
Prompto squints his eyes, "But we sell weapons."
"Prompto, I am dropping these opals off at a fish tackle shop that's a front for an illegal jewel shop that’s run by a journalist." Cor squints his eyes back. "And you're handling the special pickup tonight."
Well, shit.
Confusing and persistent questioning about the shop (or just about anything, really) usually gets him out of handling special pickups. It's not that he doesn't like being around the products they sell, meat or otherwise, it's just interacting with the customers who buy the otherwise products are different than those who just buy the meat products.
The big difference is being at the end of a pointed finger or a loaded barrel.
So yeah, he’s not too keen on getting himself at the business end of a gun. Or a knife. Or a katana. Because of course, they sell katanas. (While Cor was studying the blade, Prompto was busy not being born yet.) There’s an age joke somewhere in there, and even if Prompto finds it he sure as hell isn’t telling Cor.
He also isn’t going to tell Cor how nervous he gets when he has to make late-night dropoffs. And for him to leave at 6 PM for a dropoff at 11 PM? Yeah, definitely no reason to worry.
“Okey dokey, I got it covered, it’s cool, I’m cool,” Prompto leans one hand on the counter, definitely not being cool.
Cor sighs and his hard face softens just a bit.
“The special pickup is for the prince’s advisor,” Cor says. “And my dropoff tonight is with an old friend.”
“So no chance of you being stabbed, shot, or like, killed dead?” Prompto asks, less tense now, less apprehensive about the fact he’ll be back so late. It’s not like Cor hasn’t made late dropoffs before. It just usually ends in him coming home stabbed, shot, or really close to being killed dead.
Prompto swears he’s immortal or something.
“No chance at all,” Cor’s mouth twitches upward, and that’s enough for Prompto.
“So, like, does that fish tackle shop sell fish too or-”
“I am leaving now, and we are not having this conversation.”
---
There’s usually a time frame for special pickups, but Cor never said. So Prompto’s left to protect the shop on his own, and technically their house since they live upstairs. He isn’t worried about having to take anyone in a fight if the need arises. Cor trained him the best he could when Prom was just a little kid abandoned by his adoptive parents.
They were the type of people to get a cute little puppy and then leave it out in the middle of the woods when it got too big.
He’d probably be like, a golden retriever or something.
The chime of the bell on the front door snaps Prompto out of his thoughts. He quickly looks up and his eyes lock with brilliant green eyes.
“Good evening,” the man saunters to the counter, briefly eyeing the meat resting in the cases, “on my way over a friend of mine was telling me about this game called King’s Knight. Do you happen to know of it?”
Prompto gulps, because good gods, if an accent so smooth and sexy can make him this thirsty this fast then-
Oh fuck, wait, that was the code. Get off your ass in gear, Argentum, you have a pickup to deliver. Shit, a pickup to hand over? A pickup to complete? A pickup-
“Oh yeah, I know that game!” Prompto laughs a little too loudly, hands white-knuckling the edge of the counter. “Have you started playing it? Oh man have you seen the new stuff they updated it with?! It’s pretty cool. I loved the latest campaign and dungeons, it’s so addicting. Hey, we could totally friend each other on there! I mean, uhhh, if you want? You probably don’t. You don’t look like the type of guy to play video games-errr, well, I mean, not that-that’s not a bad thing! You look great, you pull off the suit look really good. And I mean really good. I mean. Ya know? I’ve only worn a suit once, but now it’s just collecting dust in my closet. Yours looks designer though, man. Are you wearing gloves? Damn, must be hot. Your hands I mean. Are probably really nice. Uhhhh, um, I mean-”
Take a fucking breath, Prompto. You’re basically fisting your way through a one-sided conversation that didn’t require that shit show. Great job showing off your human interaction skills. Really did a number there sprinkling in that awful attempt at flirting. Probably weirded out the guy so bad he’ll take his royal business to another butcher shop with a weapon front.
Wait, no it’s a weapon shop with a butcher front-
“Oh,” the man looks taken aback, clearly not expecting this amount of fucked up during what should be a very professional exchange of illegal cartel, “well, I certainly wouldn’t oppose befriending each other. Perhaps we can do so the next time I come to pick up my order?”
Prompto’s brain ceases all functions for a moment. Crashes. Reboot. Loading. Reloading.
Right, the pickup. The pick up this guy’s come to get. The guy who’s picking up the order. The order placed by this guy to pick up. Picking up the order this guy’s supposed to pick up.
“Oh shit, for sure, man,” Prompto says, with finesse.
He nods and smiles at the man for a moment too long, and there’s amusement in those emerald eyes as Prompto catches himself and scurries to the freezer. It’s not fair that he’s so hot. And hot people make his face hot. He’s all hot and bothered now. He’ll take a cold shower later, but for now, hopefully, the cold air helps. (It doesn’t.)
He finds the right switch (after turning off the lights on and off a couple of times) and the wall behind a line of hooked up carcasses slides opens.
Behind the wall is a shelf of black plastic wrapped guns and knives, all labeled with their appropriate code words. Most of the bigger products are stored in the basement, and those are usually ordered as special dropoffs. But for just a gun or a knife for over the counter? And to make that a special pick up with a custom code word?
Prompto rubs his temple as a headache begins to form.
Maybe he should stop questioning these things.
He finds the order labeled “King’s Knight” and flips the switch again. The wall slides back into place with a taint click. When he walks back to the front, the guy is still (thankfully) there waiting.
“Is there anything else you want?” Prompto asks as he pulls out wrapping paper and twine. He bites his cheek, not daring himself to speak again and outdo the previous trainwreck that came barrelling out of his mouth.
“Yes, I’ll take three filet mignons and a leg of lamb,” the man says, pushing up his glasses.
Prompto puts on a pair of gloves and takes them all out, carefully wrapping everything up.
“Special order wrapped on its own?” Prompto asks because he’s seen customers very picky about how their products are packaged.
“Please, if you would,” the man nods, and Prompto wonders briefly why the royal advisor to the prince would buy from them. He can’t exactly imagine the Crownsguard running low on weapons in their armory.
But it’s not polite to ask what people do with their products. Their shop doesn’t ask questions. It saves everyone their breath and time. If someone goes through the trouble of using code words and coming to this part of Insomnia, then they probably have important shit to do. Hell, he doesn’t even know what the product he’s wrapping for the guy is.
Okay, he knows it’s a pair of daggers. Even if he usually doesn’t pre-wrap any of the special pickups, he could tell that much from the size and weight. But what makes it special to have to get it like this through their shop?
“Thanks for coming in,” Prompto hands him a bag with all the orders, trying to hopefully end professionally.
“Of course,” the man gives him a small smile, and their fingers brush (professionally) together as he takes the bag. “I will see you next time.”
Prompto’s fingers tingle and in the ultimate act to save face he says, “Uh-huh.”
The man nods and turns, the soft tap of oxfords against tile echo in the shop.
“By the way,” the man turns back, hand on the door, “I think you would look darling in a suit.”
The bell chimes, and as the door closes Prompto collapses against the counter.
“Fuck me.”
---
The living room is aglow with the early morning rays, and the wall clock is quietly ticking. Prompto is sitting at the dining table, gaze shifting between the clock and the front door. It’s 5:31 AM. His leg is so jittery his knee almost knocks into the table. There’s a pile of bandages, disinfectant, gauze, and a spool of thread and a needle in front of him. Maybe he should get the scalpel too.
It’s not that he doesn’t trust Cor’s judgment. He does. He just worries. A lot.
It’s like a dog waiting for his owner to return home.
After another thirty minutes, Prompto starts biting his fingernails. Then he starts pacing. Another twenty minutes pass and he just about makes up his mind to bring out his gun and search for Cor himself. He could text him, or call him, but what if he’s in the middle of a fight or something? Or if he’s on the run from danger and trying to get back here? Calling would distract him, or reveal where he is if he didn’t turn off his ringer.
What if he’s-
“Hey kid, you in the mood for green curry for breakfast?”
And suddenly Cor is standing right in front of him, holding a take out bag in one hand and a small duffle bag in the other. He didn’t even hear him come in.
“Where were you?!” Prompto shouts, scanning over him to check for any wounds. “It’s almost 6:30 in the morning, you said you’d be back at 5!”
“Hey, hey,” Cor sets everything down on the counter and firmly holds Prompto’s shoulders, “the dropoff went off fine. I’m not hurt. My phone died. I knew you would be up early so I got your favorite.”
Prompto breathes, and Cor breathes with him. Inhale. Exhale. Everything was fine.
“So you’re okay?” Prompto asks as Cor pulls him into a hug.
“No stab wounds, bullet wounds, or otherwise,” Cor says, ruffling his hair. “You want to eat now?”
“Yeah,” Prompto inhales, exhales, and smiles, “thanks, dad.”
---
Prompto later finds out that the duffle bag is filled to the brim with bottles of faulty made Pheonix Downs. He's heard that people can get addicted to these.
“Soooo,” he says, “are we selling drugs now?”
Cor takes the duffle bag and carries it with him to the basement.
“Are you using drugs now?” Prompto follows after, watching Cor closely.
“No,” Cor finally replies, “a friend asked me to dispose of it.”
Oh.
“So,” Prompto starts, and Cor sighs, “did they stop selling drugs?”
“Get out.”
---
Prompto isn’t exactly in the complete loop of all the activity surrounding Cor’s job. Which is probably why Cor didn’t adopt him right from the getgo when he found him all those years ago. You find a screaming baby left on your doorstep but little old you is involved in stuff babies definitely shouldn’t be around. What are you supposed to do?
Cor sure as hell didn’t know.
And while Prompto has the feeling there's much more to that story than just being an abandoned baby, he knows Cor wanted the best for him. Probably thought that that couple who adopted him would give him a good, normal life. Cor even stuck around for a bit to make sure too.
So instead of getting left behind in the woods, he was taken into a new home right away.
Prompto couldn’t be happier.
“You have a special order to take care of this afternoon.”
Except for right now.
“Code is Cup Noodles.”
“What the hell kind of code is that?” Prompto has heard some wild code names from clients, but cup noodles is definitely a first.
“He almost made the code Recipe for Temptation,” Cor deadpans, “after some romance novel. Made him pick a different one.”
“Jee, thanks.” Prompto groans. “Alright, where’s his order?”
“Freezer, just like last time.” Cor pulls out his phone, stares at it for a moment, and gets up. “I have to leave early to meet with someone. I’ll be back at three o’clock. If anything happens I’ll call you.”
“A friend or a dropoff?” Prompto quickly asks as Cor turns to leave. “Or dropoff for a friend?”
“Dropoff for a friend,” Cor reaches over to tousle his hair, and Prompto nods. Nothing will happen. He always comes back.
Cor always comes back home.