Chapter Text
He was not that old yet.
It was simply infuriating, sitting there, listening to the assumptions of an ex-psychiatrist (who let their certifications lapse) and a board-certified behavioralist (who sounded like she works with animals, not people), tell him exactly what they thought was wrong with him.
Stress, they dared to accuse, sitting there on their nice couches in a secret base near the coast, was eating away at him and probably contributing to a lot of his issues as of late.
He’d stopped sleeping all but an hour or so each night, too busy with the next idea, heist, racing ideas that whipped through his brain so quickly he had to write them down or they’d be forgotten.
He’d stopped eating, as well, but that was simply because he just didn’t have time. He’d eat something in the evening, make up for it, he was busier than usual is all.
His headaches...he might grant them that, everyone in the organization was a damn headache at times.
And as for his new dissociations, forgetfulness, mood swings, exhaustion, chest pains, extreme paranoia, and re-establishing his childhood habit of biting his fingernails?
It was none of their goddamn business.
“Well,” The ex-psychiatrist had said, tapping their pen against the desk, “Either you take some days here and there to give yourself a break, or we assume this is all just due to natural aging.”
He’d be impressed with their underhanded victory if he wasn’t so appalled.
He was thirty-nine, not seventy-nine. He wasn’t even middle-aged yet!
So yes. He’d acquiesced. He’d take a single day off this week, be dropped off in some surrounding area to spend the day. Enjoy himself.
He’d planned on bringing work, holing up in a Chicago cafe and just resuming duties in a new location, but they’d set his guard dog on him.
Reginald sent a nasty look towards his enforcer, who was sipping a coffee and staring out onto the busy streets ahead of them.
The ignored Toppat bristled, hands around his own mug, rain pattering down around their little umbrella and sending the streets mirror-slick until they reflected the lights around.
It was a grey day. Pale, chilly, colorless, wind biting through Reginald’s black-on-black suit and the ugly brown scarf everyone who lived in this city seemed to own. People walked by briskly, avoiding eye contact with each other as the cars passed and some street musician played jazz around the corner.
It was the kind of day Reginald genuinely really liked, among a busy setting he preferred, and the fact his coffee was the perfect temperature and the food was excellent only served to piss him off more.
“Personally, I think they’re blowing this far out of proportion,” Reginald told Right, who he knew was paying attention even if he pretended he wasn’t. “I just wanted-”
“Not supposed t’talk about work,” Right reminded him. “Pick another subject, Reg.”
The shorter man ground his teeth.
“It’s not work,” He replied testily, “I’m just having a conversation about the appointment.”
There, Right looked over at him, raising an eyebrow. Thunder rumbled overhead, still not able to silence the sirens in the distance.
“Right here,” His enforcer tapped a gnarled finger against the grated tabletop, “Nothin’ about that world exists. So it’s not gonna get talked about.”
He had the gall today, didn’t he? Reginald scrambled for something to bite back with, seething, and Right settled back in his chair. Didn’t care.
Reginald had always been intimidating. The most powerful man in the Clan, a bitter and dastardly creature, willing to do anything for what he viewed as best for his world no matter the costs. He might be slightly short of stature for a man, on the small side and soft rather than muscled, but he knew people were afraid of him. And they should be. He could intimidate anyone.
Except for this bastard.
Right had spent nearly twenty years watching over him. He’d seen Reginald at his lowest, weakest, and never breathed a word about it afterwards. The two of them had been sharing a room, a bed, an exclusive life together for well over a decade. His Right Hand Man was immune to his threatening behavior.
As he should be, but. Well. It was annoying in cases like this.
“Watch the traffic, Reg,” Right told him over the rim of his mug, “Y’like the city.”
He made a noncommittal noise in reply, sulkily sipping at his own coffee.
It was nice out. He loved the rain, love the dullness of color that blended buildings and streets and sky into a monochrome palette, loved the soothing sound of drops hitting pavement and vinyl umbrella. But he was angry, dammit, can’t he be angry right now?
“I don’t appreciate-” He started, and was shushed like a child.
“We’re watching the traffic,” He could hear the smile in Right’s voice. “We’re not talkin’ for a few minutes, Reg.”
The Toppat was disgusted. He narrowed his eyes back out at the street.
A bunch of schoolchildren, too young to drive but old enough to be enthralled with the city, passed by wearing similar uniforms and chattering loudly. He could hear the train streets back, screeching against the rails as it carted people from one end of the city to another.
Around the corner, saxophone music continued to play despite the increase in rain and ominous thunder.
Reginald exhaled, slowly, closing his eyes. He could still see the millions of things he needed done before the end of this week seared into his mind.
“Right,” He said, ignoring tasteful pauses and careful pacing of sentences to get it all out before he was shushed like an infant yet again, “I want to talk about something.”
His mind was still racing. If it wasn’t actively taking in information or otherwise engaged, he felt restless.
“What about?” His enforcer asked him.
Reginald tsked his tongue.
“You tell me,” He said, crossing one ankle over knee, “Whatever wasn’t on the list they gave you.”
“List?” Right repeated innocently, the bastard.
“They had to have given you a list of things I’m not allowed to talk about,” Reg snipped, “You’re very specific when you tell me to stop.”
A single chuckle. “Yeah, alright, Reg.”
The wall of a man turned, metal chair screeching against concrete. Steady green eyes watched Reginald closely, deceptively laid back for a man who could- and has- killed men with his bare hands.
He raised bushy red eyebrows. Waiting.
Reginald spread his hands elegantly. “I don’t know what you expect. I don’t know what to talk about.”
“Not work,” Right told him, leaning his arms on the table. “Home. Anything you have to do. Nothin’ that agitates you.”
“That alone takes a lot of things off the list.”
There, a real smile. Hidden, but large enough that it crinkled the corners of Right’s eyes. He felt quite accomplished.
“Right then,” His enforcer said, something soft coloring his words, “Talk about somethin’ you like.”
Reginald furrowed his brows.
Something he liked. But not work, nothing he had to do. Presumably, he couldn’t talk about things that he’d done, either, which left him...er...
He racked his brains. Something...not related to Toppats. Impossible, nothing- everything he was was related to Toppats.
“There isn’t anything,” He said, appalled. “Nothing outside...home. I was bloody well born into it, Right, I don’t have anything else to talk about.”
The man seemed to mull that over. He stroked his moustache, narrowing his eyes somewhere over Reginald’s head.
They’d met in the Clan. Reginald had only ever worked in the Clan. Aside from student volunteering at University while his Toppat parents worked in the United States, and he hardly counted any of that experience as enjoyable to reminisce about.
“Where do you want t’go for dinner?”
“What?” He looked down at the near-empty plate on the table. “I thought this was all we were doing.”
“It’s not even two, Reg.”
“Well what are we supposed to do,” He was aware he was whining at this point, but god he didn’t care anymore. “When am I allowed to go back?”
“Not ‘til tomorrow,” Right ignored the Leader’s tantrum entirely, too used to it this many years down the line. “Thought we’d check the museums.”
Reginald narrowed his eyes. Art, most likely, or history, both of which were secret interests of his own. It would be like Right to exploit him like this all the rest of the day. Force him to actually enjoy himself.
“Bastard,” Reginald called him, begrudging affection spilling through the word.
Right smiled at him again, a knowing, quiet thing, and turned back towards the street.
Goddammit. He felt nearly warm inside, annoyingly at peace and starting to relax. He could talk anyone’s ear off about different cultures’ contributions to art as a whole, had loved learning about it in school and kept up on knowledge even as an adult. Though others in his employ were more interested in monetary value moreso than cultural.
Don’t get him wrong, so was Reginald, it was his job to lead a bunch of thieves and he was absolutely one himself, but…
Well. Call it a hobby.
Would Right care to listen to him talk about something like that? Reginald sent a sideways look at his enforcer, who looked more relaxed than he’d seen him in ages. It felt embarrassing to think about, somehow, but he would be able to talk about that comfortably and without referencing their lifestyle.
Reginald tipped his head, analyzing his Right Hand Man. The sky continued to rumble overhead, crackling as the Leader finally relented.
He reached his hand forward, gloved fingers sliding under Right’s palm until they were interlocking with his own. The enforcer looked over at him, surprised, and Reginald merely smiled in reply.
Right’s fingers curled around his, and Reginald went from being reluctantly at peace to basking in it.