Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

• Kissing rocky is like jumping into a cold pool on a hot day. Shocking for the first few seconds, yet everything you could ever want in that moment. 
• Quick and spontaneous, Rocky tends to keep you on your toes. Part of him likes seeing your wide-eyes and lovestruck smile when he catches you off guard, but the other part of him just wants to be as close as he can to you as often as he can. He'd kiss you all day if you'd let him, and believe him, he's tried. 
• His favorite place to kiss you is, well, realistically anywhere you'll let him. But he's rather soft for kissing the back of your hand. It's the romanticism of it all. 
• His favorite place to be kissed, though? Well, that's also anywhere. He just likes your attention. But when you kiss him on the lips, he just melts. You'd have to be blind to miss the hearts in his eyes, nevermind the way he beams afterwards. He likes the intimacy of it -- although, he's also partial to temple kisses... and there's a spot just below his jawline that absolutely shuts his brain off.
• Contrary to what most might think, though, his first kiss with you was… hesitant. Afraid of driving you away, of being too much, he let you take the lead. Soft and tender, it's a moment that he'll remember for the rest of his life. And you'll always remember his starstruck gaze as you pulled away, pupils dilated. The way his breath shook, the way he chased after you when you parted. You still get these kisses sometimes, away from prying eyes.  
• On a happier note: Often tastes like maple syrup. The sweetness matches well with his playful nature. Sometimes he'll squish your cheeks just to see you pout before kissing you. Sometimes he'll nibble at you a little. If he had even an ounce of strength he'd try dipping you into a kiss, but, well… spaghetti arms. It's a curse.
• His hands never stay still either, especially when you get to properly kiss him. His hands always seem to roam, eager to be close, to explore, to hold. It's overwhelming, in the best way possible. The outside world just melts away, leaving only the two of you behind.

Chapter Text

• Serafine Savoy has been described as many things. Hatchetman, bearcat, witch. But not once has she ever been described as a romantic. 
• So if Serafine is with you in the first place… well, it ought to be taken as a point of pride.
• Sure, she's had her flings in the past. Plenty of them. But not once has she been in anything long-term. No one's held her interest enough, and no one has ever been able to keep up with her. To even be in a relationship with her in the first place, you must have something special about you. Something that her Maitre Carrefour likes, too. If you've gotten this far, she's certainly a ride-or-die. 
• But marriage? Marriage is a whole separate thing. 
• She never had the chance to think about marriage as a child. The vague and distant memories of her parents didn't leave a good lasting impression on the concept, and she always found the concept of a ceremony to be, well… boring.
• But when the idea of marriage comes up… she gives it thought. 
• A lot of which are conflicting. 
• She lives an extravagant life -- the closest she's ever been to "settling down" is during the congregation's parties. But that's how she likes it. The adrenaline is what keeps her going, that destructive devotion to the higher power that saved her life is what keeps the blood flowing through her veins. Rifle recoil, ringing ears, and bloody hands are just as important to her as food and water. She couldn't settle down even if she wanted to. 
• So really, you can't blame her for wondering: Why? She couldn't be some white picket fence wife, could never give you that life. She can't settle down. And isn't that what marriage is supposed to be about? Settling down? 
• But that's the thing: You don't ask her of that. 
• You don't ask her to change, to move into some suburban house and leave her life behind. 
• You want to marry her because you love her.
• You love her. 

• You hop the broom with the congregation at the Maribel in the morning, exchange your vows, and dance until the sky fades to black. But that's where tradition gives out, and your true selves start to shine through
• Instead of walking down the aisle the two of you drive down the St. Louis strip, leaving torched cars and fire in your wake in place of rice and flowers. But your joy and laughter rings out all the same, and when the streetlights glint off of your conjoined hands -- stolen gold rings glimmering in the night -- she finds herself smiling brighter than ever before. 

Chapter Text

• This is a textbook case of opposites attract. 
• Rocky’s been around a lot of fake-polite people -- Southern Hospitality only goes so far, nevermind Midwest Niceties. He’s been on the receiving end of far too many sneers from the so-called “polite” upper-class businessmen. 
• But you? Your politeness isn’t skin-deep.
• You actually listen when he talks, are always courteous, and god isn't that just the most wonderful change? Needless to say, he attaches himself to you like glue. A bit of kindness goes a long way with Rocky. I won't say it's love at first sight… but it's pretty damn close. 
• The two of you are quite a sight. It’s not uncommon to see him practically vibrating where he stands while you sit calmly. He'll prance around you in circles, waxing poetic as he sways to and fro while you gaze up at him. 
• He is endlessly, and I mean endlessly, fascinated by you. Your past, and the way it guides your actions in the present , is shrouded in heavy mystery. And while he would love to know you on a deeper level… he won't pry. Lord knows he has enough secrets… it wouldn't be right to pry into your past without divulging his own. But sometimes when the music is loud and the conversation takes some of the weight off of him, he'll simply gaze at you. His pupils dilate as he recesses into his own thoughts, thinking about all of the possibilities that surround you. Maybe he's had a bit too much coffee today. 
• He's actually rather hesitant to confess to you, despite the prose that he spills for you on the daily. You're, well, you. And he's just Rocky. He's not blind to the signs of infatuation and adoration -- he recognizes it very, very well in others. And if you had eyes on anyone else, he'd pick up on it in an instant. But he doesn't recognize it so much when it's directed at him. It'll either take quite the break of character from you to lay it on a bit thicker for him, or for one of you to have some near-death experience for him to confess. 
• But when he does? Oh boy, if you thought you were attached at the hip before… 
• He was always rather open with his affections -- the behavior doesn't change as much as the intensity does. His poetry gets a bit more syrupy, a bit more fanciful. And if you'll have him, he loves to touch -- to hold -- to be held. 
• The only time you can get him to sit quiet and still  is when he gets to lay his head in your lap. The rest of the Lackadaisy crew would think he was dead, had it not been for his happy little tail flicks. 
• You're a staple in many of his soliloquies -- it's only fair, with how often you occupy his thoughts. You'd think with the mystery that surrounds you that you'd be compared to a shadow, or a locked box, but he finds that comparison far too cliche and reductive. Nay, he sees you as the endless oceans -- deep and calm like the Pacific, yet as warm as the Atlantic. Naught to be truly known, yet beautiful all the same. 
• All in all, you're his rock. The calm in his storm. The two of you couldn't be more different if you tried, but damn if you don't work well together. 

Chapter Text

• Kissing Mordecai is like stepping out of a loud party and into the night. He's a step away from the busy world, a little token of calm in the midst of chaos. 
• Loving Mordecai is complicated. Anyone close to him can tell that you're special to him, even if he doesn't express his affections traditionally. He doesn't hold your hand in public, but he does keep a hand on the small of your back in crowds. He doesn't leap up to greet you when you enter the room, but he always gravitates towards you throughout the night. And he won't seek out your affections whenever you wake up or leave the room… but when the day's been rough, and night blankets the bustling town his lips find your temple, soothing away the horrors of the day. And it's calm, filled with a tenderness reserved only for you. Only ever for you.
• Kissing Mordecai is rare, saved for special occasions away from prying eyes. But that's what makes them so special. Truthfully, expressions like this are… foreign to him. Romance is complicated enough as is, but the whole concept of physical touch is… difficult, for lack of a better word. For the longest time he would startle at the accidental brush of shoulders -- so it's safe to say that your first kiss doesn't come for quite a while. You know him well enough that it's best to let him initiate, to let him go at his own pace. But that's more than alright. He has his own ways of showing his love. 
• When he does kiss you, he tends to gravitate towards your wrists, temple, and forehead. And truthfully, he prefers the same. 
• His eyes flutter shut as he presses his lips to the inside of your wrist, sighing quietly. His shoulders drop and his brows unfurrow, temporarily relieved of the outside world's burdens. Peace such as this outweighs the price of gold in droves. You've never quite been able to convey the tranquility that Mordecai always seems to bring with actions like this, but while he would never say it outloud… he feels the same. A lifetime of unspoken words are pressed into your skin before he reluctantly opens his eyes. He glances up at you half-lidded, squeezing your wrist. (I love you, his actions say.) Slowly, you turn your wrist in his grasp to cup his face, giving him plenty of time to pull away… but he doesn't. (I love you, his inaction says.) You press your lips to the center of his forehead gingerly, returning every quiet ounce of devotion in the few short seconds you're united. (I love you too, you think to yourself.) 

Chapter Text

• Extravagant; Theatrical; Moonstruck. These are but three of the most common words to describe Rocky. Despite his handpicked friend group -- or more bluntly, his small group of people willing to stick around -- Rocky tends to draw quite a bit of attention. Very little of it is good, but still: words like that are thrown around with ease. As such, one might assume that Rocky's perfect date would be to some extravagant place where the music never stops and the night never ends. 
• But… they would be wrong. 
• Because despite his tales of grandeur, Rocky's life has taught him to enjoy the simpler things. Car rides down the streets of Saint Louis, hopping through abandoned streetcars, pocketing snacks from the big convenience store down the lane… that's what Rocky really looks forward to. 
• And let's face it: Rocky would love to take you out to a fancy dinner and a movie, but this cat just doesn't have the funds for it. Closest he could get would be the Little Daisy during daylight -- Miss M's always makes sure he's at least somewhat fed -- but he knows all too well that Ivy would leap at the chance to get him back for all the times he's teased her about Freckle. 
• (He's sent her off on a few wild goose chases before to grab a bite with you, though. Pancakes can't be beat,  you know.) 
• But loving Rocky, you know that money isn't everything. Every moment spent with him is memorable. Many of your date nights are just the two of you hanging out together, whether it be driving around or completing a run for the Lackadaisy -- any moment spent together is so damn good that it's hard to call it anything but a date. Your friends don't quite get it, but that's alright. 
• For your first ever date though… he tried pretty damn hard. 
• He hopped the fence of some richman (it was Sedgewick, although he'll never admit to it) to steal some flowers for you, tying them together in orange and blue ribbons. You still have their petals saved, pressed into books and stored in mahogany boxes along with all of the letters he's ever written to you. 
• The rest of the day is spent in each other's company, driving, talking, and occasionally stopping to dance in the streets of Saint Louis. You can't say you were much of a dancer before meeting him, but he has an infectious energy about him. 
• He eventually convinces you to let him sneak you into a movie -- he refuses to let you spend a dime on him, even if you're well-off. You can't tell if he likes the thrill of sneaking in, or if it's out of some chivalrous obligation. Likely both. 
• All in all, the night is one of the most magical you've ever had. No price tags for rose colored glasses, or awkward lapses in silence. Just the two of you, taking every moment as it comes by. 
• He insists on driving you home that night, just to make sure you get in safe, still thrumming with excitement. Neither of you really want the night to end, but alas. 
• (It's not like the two of you don't see each other daily.) 
• (He short-circuits when you press a kiss to his cheek before darting out of the car. His voice cracks a little when he says he'll see you tomorrow, hands slipping off the center console when he leans out to shout. You can't wait to see him again.) 

Chapter Text

• Unsurprisingly, it can be a little  hard to get to know Zib. Sarcastic, blunt, and usually under the influence, Zib isn't exactly the most approachable member of the Lackadaisy crew. That doesn't mean he isn't friendly, not by any means. In fact, he's one of the most level-headed, caring people in the bunch. He's just learned to hide it a bit. Tender hearts often go sour in this business. A bit of courage and effort goes  a long way with Zib. 
• Although if you're part of the crew, there's a decent enough chance he'll warm up to you on his own, too. If Mitzi thinks you're good enough to add to the family, then he won't question it too much. Although he can't help but wonder what it is you do, considering your skittish demeanor. It's part of what draws him closer -- part of him likes the mystery. But truthfully, the other part of him mistakes your nervousness for naivety, and there's a quiet voice within him that doesn't want that kindness to go out. It's a shitty life they run -- you should be able to keep your light. 
• When Zib cares for you, it's obvious, yet subtle to outsiders. He keeps an eye on you in the bar, stays close to you when walking down the streets. He's also more lax with his affections, leaning on you a bit more, both physically and emotionally. But you know he's invested when he really starts to speak. Not quips, not sardonic interjections or jokes, but actually talking to you. He's a deep thinker, and not just because of the booze. He's well-read, and deeply intelligent. If you can get  him to talk about his favorite books, or his music, or even philosophy… it should be taken as a point of pride. 
• Actually falling in love with Zib is a gradual process, though. One of those romances where you wake up, and suddenly you realize you've been married for the past 7 years. 
• He doesn't believe in hard-and-fast traditions like his parents did, but his quiet attempts to grow closer really stand out considering how well you know him at this point. He leaves little room for worry or question, and yet, it rarely feels overwhelming. He's casual, yet straightforward. And damn if it doesn't make your heart flutter. 
• The brush of a hand, a pointed glance during a slow set, honeyed words spoken effortlessly yet earnestly… If he didn't have a warrant out for his arrest, he'd be the type to serenade you from your balcony. Maybe he would have, had you met when you were younger. 
• (Some nights, when he's lain up in bed in a drunken stupor, he imagines that exact scenario. He'd be lying if he said it didn't make him soft.) 
• Despite what some may think, Zib is a very devout romantic. If he had the funds, he'd love to treat you to a night out, like all the wild records sing of. Good food and good music were two of the things that kept Zib going for a long time, even if only one of those things are still within his means. But, as a self-proclaimed nomad, his greatest wish would be to travel the world with you. There's so much to see and experience out there, away from dreary St. Louis. But it's only half as good when you're alone -- it's so much sweeter with someone by your side. 
• Funnily enough, he's one of the best possible partners of the Lackadaisy bunch for a nervous partner. He's straightforward, rarely sugarcoating things or telling white lies. As such… there's not much to worry about with him. You won't have to worry if he's telling the truth, if he thinks you're too quiet or too loud or strange. If he has a thought, he'll say it. He's honest like that. 
• If he's ever too blunt with you though, he picks up on it quickly. He's a master of reading body language, and he knows how to apologize properly. He's very sweet when it comes down to it. Genuine. 
• He's also not above navigating you away from anxiety-inducing situations, when need be. Again, he's fantastic with body language, and he knows how to lie his way out of an event or gathering. People generally don't question how many smoke breaks he's taken per hour. 
• He can't fix everything for you -- he knows that. But you'll never have to worry about whether or not he loves you. He might not say those exact three words on the daily, but there's never a moment of doubt within you. He'll make sure of it. 

Chapter Text

• Kissing Calvin is like stepping into the ocean for the first time. A brief moment of trepidation, followed by nothing but excitement and, oddly enough, tranquility. The perfect balance that leaves you wanting more, and more, and more. 
• Calvin is a naturally nervous man -- plagued by perpetual shyness from an early age, he often has to work himself up to do… much of anything, really. Dating you has emboldened him just a fraction, although the outside world is oblivious to this.
• This is all to say that it's very rare that he'll initiate a kiss on his own. Not for lack of wanting, mind you -- he just struggles to make that last leap. But you pick up on his signs pretty quickly, nowadays. 
• His eyes bounce to you more often, tail swishing nervously. His eyes will dart to your lips, but he brings them back up so quickly that it makes his desires far too obvious. It's such a rapid motion -- sparked by want, fueled by the anxiety of getting caught -- that it draws more attention to it than if he let his eyes linger. It's cute. He's still not sure how you always seem to figure him out, but you're not going to tell him your secrets any time soon. 
• His kisses are… warm. Soft. They feel like home. Every kiss with him feels like your first, in the sense that it always seems to carry that same unspoken weight of "I love you." Sure, many of your kisses happen simply to wrap yourselves in the presence -- the experience -- of one another… and yet, they always feel meaningful. 
• Maybe it's the way that he always seems to linger when you pull apart, or maybe it's the way he looks at you afterwards, or maybe it's the way he always seems to be caught breathless. Maybe it's just him. 
• As he gets more comfortable in your relationship he loves to hold you more -- cupping your face tenderly, or loosely holding onto your arm. His hands don't roam too much once they settle, but he always drags his thumb gently across the skin. 
• He often finds himself leaning back in once you pull apart, shaky breath fanning over your lips for a second that feels like a lifetime before the distance is closed once again. He loves you a lot -- let him be selfish, just this once. 
• Very sad when he doesn't get his "good morning" kiss. It's such a crucial part of his routine, and his day just feels off without it. It's the one time he'll actually speak up for affection… even if his "speaking up" is just him giving you the most adorable, disgruntled pout. Did you forget something? I think you might have forgotten something. He gets this bashful little smile when you figure it out. 
• There's only two times where his kisses aren't soft. 
• When there's been a good firefight, and when there's been a bad firefight. 
• The adrenaline from the former has him dragging you in for once, hands gripping anywhere they can, as he steals your breath away. It's so distant from the Calvin you've come to know, and it's fucking exhilarating. Your lips meet once, then twice, thrice… he hardly gives you a moment to breathe, not that you're complaining. He has the faintest bits of laughter spilling from his lips when he pulls away, but it's not long before you're pulling him back in. He'll be embarrassed about it later, but for now, he's content to enjoy the moment. 
• The latter however… Once he knows you're okay and safe he's pulling you in for one long, borderline bruising, kiss. He has to know you're okay. He has to know you're here. He clings to you, like you'd disappear if he didn't hold you tight enough. He gets a little more lax with his affections after moments like these. You never know when life might intervene, and he can't stand the idea of missing out on even a moment of your affections. And in this line of business… He doesn't want to think about it. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The halls are cold as you pad through the winding maze, kept warm only by the steaming teacup in your hand. Despite the immaculate condition Mordecai keeps his home in, it's damn-near impossible to keep the chill out when Winter rolls around. You pause in front of Mordecai's door, listening intently. The faint light trickling through the cracks in the door seems to be the only sign of life tonight, though.

You'd be lying if you said today wasn't a hard one. It seems like one too many things went wrong on today's run -- guns jamming, crowd panics, the usual. All small grievances in the grand scheme of things, albeit annoying ones. You've learned to look past the inherent danger in these little slip-ups -- to worry is to suffer twice, after all. But that's not what threw you off your game.

No, the issue was that you hadn't expected Asa's target of the week to have kids… and neither did the rest of your quartet. The argument on what to do with him lasted for longer than it should have -- it's not the first time Marigold's made you weigh your safety with your morality, but you've never had to do it like this. You shake your head, clearing your thoughts. It all worked out as it was meant to. 

You knock quietly on the door, calling his name. One beat passes, and then another. 

Silence. 

Anxiety brews quietly in your gut -- it's not particularly unusual for him to get absorbed into his work, but tonight feels different. You recall the lingering chill that surrounded Mordecai, long after the four of you split ways.

Taking a deep breath, you open the door, walking inside. 

Mordecai sits at his desk, bathed in the light of the lamp. His paperwork sits discarded, with a red marker sitting in the middle of his desk. It's such a bright object, so different from the rest of his office that it stands out like a bleeding wound in the wood. His eyes are closed, ears folded back with a furrow in his brow. If he's noticed you enter, he doesn't comment. Instead he rubs the bridge of his nose, before tracing harshly along the path of his pale white brows and landing at the creases of his lids. 

You pad over quietly, just loud enough to be heard. "Do you want to talk about it?" 

He sighs. "Not…" he pauses, pulling his hand away from his face. He opens his eyes, but they remain locked on the desk -- or more accurately, the pen. "Not particularly." 

"That's alright."  You hum quietly, taking a breath and placing the mug on the table. You turn, striding across the room to sit on the couch in his office. You pull a book from your bag, opening it to where you left off before casting another look at Mordecai. It's only then that his eyes move, glancing at the cup, and then at you. He blinks owlishly.

"Earl Grey," You smile, "Four minutes, and not a moment longer." 

For a moment you think you see his own lips perk up, too. But more than that, his shoulders drop some of their tension. He picks it up gingerly, raising it to his mouth before casting a look over the rim. 

"Thank you," he murmurs, taking a sip. 

"Of course."  

The silence is comforting, simply coexisting in the presence of one another. In the few short years you've known him, he's never been one to talk about his past. Although, you can't blame him for such a thing. It'd be dangerous in this line of work, after all. But you know him well enough to know that the quiet company is both more than he expects, and exactly what he needs in moments like these. You can't know what part of today hurt him this much, but you can be there when he needs you. The minutes tick by peacefully before he speaks up again. 

He clears his throat, drawing your attention back unto him. 

"Would you leave, if you could?" His voice is low, but steady. Unwavering. And yet it carries a weight with it, hinting at some deeper meaning beyond. You can surmise that part of it is about Marigold, but the other half...

"Beyond a doubt." 

You're not sure what compels you to say it, so confidently at that. It'd mean certain death if you left, and you know it. Whether it be at the hands of Asa himself, or from the retaliatory action from other gangs… it wouldn't be a wise decision. But when the words come out, you know that you've never meant anything more. 

He huffs quietly to himself, pulling his eyes away from yours. He picks up the marker and places it in a drawer before pulling his abandoned papers back into his workspace. "Good," he says. "It's good to have an open mind." 

You might not know everything that's led up to Mordecai being here, and you're sure that you'll likely never know much of his past. But you can be here in the present, and you'll be damned if you're not gonna be in his future, too.

Chapter Text

Sedgewick likes to believe he has an appropriate work-life balance. He doesn't, mind you, but a man can dream. He tries his best to disentangle himself a little from the business after-hours, bless his heart, but it's hard when you do what you love… even if the logistics of the business can be frustrating. But he can say one thing with confidence: When he shuts the office door, he's more than a businessman. Papers fall from his hands to be replaced by a half-filled glass of scotch, and "Sedgewick Sable" is exchanged for "love" and "dear." 

That's all to say that when he hears " Sedgewick Alastair Sable " fall from your lips, he's about ready to fall to your feet. He can practically feel his parents nudging his leg from under the table to correct his posture, or grab the right fork. ( Dinner forks are on the inside, Sedgewick Sable, salad forks on the outside .) He's not sure what he did wrong, and as much as he tries to play it cool… he's about ready to crumble. 

"Yes, darling?" He laughs nervously, straightening his posture. His hands move forward to adjust his tie before realizing that he's yet to put it on for the day, and instead come to rest behind his back.

It's best not to laugh at his sigh of relief when you ask him where the coffee tin is. Poor man is a little too gullible for his own good… but that's not to say he doesn't catch on. He presses a kiss to your jawline when he moves past you, punctuating it with a gentle nip. 

"You think you're quite the fox, huh?" 

You grin -- the double meaning isn't lost on you, and you squeeze his arm tenderly. "Not quite sure what you're talking about, dear." 

Chapter Text

Rocky's no stranger to the word "weak."  Teased in his youth for his wiry physique, Rocky Rickaby was a lanky boy who grew into a lanky man. But that word doesn't bother him as much as it used to -- he does find himself to be rather weak, after all. He's weak for sunny days, weak for pancakes with too much syrup, and most of all, he's weak for you.

For the first time in what seems like forever, the city is quiet. A pair of half-burnt candles cast flickering shadows on the wall, dancing in time with the soft crackle and pop of the phonograph. Part of you knows you should take the record off -- it's been a while since you've heard it sing --  yet, you can't find it within yourself to disentangle yourself from Rocky's embrace. You drag your fingertips along his spine methodically, coaxing a shiver from your lover. You chuckle quietly to yourself, eyes crinkling in amusement. You'd be called a liar if you told anyone about this moment -- how calm he's capable of being when locked in your hold. 

You'll admit, even this is rare -- it's not often that you catch him so still. Even when locked in your arms, he's usually talking up a storm, eager hands flexing around your frame with the unbridled joy of finally having you to himself. But not tonight. 

His hand wanders blindly up your arm, locking itself around your shoulder to pull you closer to him. His other arm then winds around your waist, firmly locking you into his embrace. He pushes his head further into your chest, sighing contentedly -- as though you weren't already a pillow before. It's like he can't be close enough, but you're not one to complain. 

"Comfortable?" You ask, peering down at him. His eyes -- or at least, what you can see of them at this angle -- are closed peacefully. His ears twitch at your voice, lips upturning near instantly. 

He hums, voice reverberating against your chest. "Very."

You count his breaths as he draws intricate little designs against your shoulder. It's slow and methodical, lulling you closer and closer to the edge of sleep. You feel yourself drifting, coaxed into bliss by the warmth of his body enveloping you. Further and further you fall until-- 

"You know," he slurs, jolting you back to reality, "My aunt doesn't know what she's talking about. Why would I ever go to the Vatican?" 

You pause, letting his words hang in the air. And when he doesn't follow up, you laugh to yourself. "What?" 

He opens his eyes slowly, gazing up at you. "She always said I should go. Thought all the art might help me find God, and what-have-you." He grins, cheekily. "But why would I do that? I have my own little piece of Heaven right here." 

Chapter Text

Deafening raindrops turn into quiet pitter patters as you descend the long, spiraling staircase into the speakeasy. Comforting and familiar walls lift your spirits from the dreary outside world, caked in gloomy clouds and ever-growing smog. You wipe your boots on the doormat as you reach the bottom of the stairs, frowning a little when you notice just how far the mud splashed up the leather. 

What a shame -- you'll have to clean them off when you get home tonight. Lord knows how your coworkers love to gossip, and with how calm things have been lately, they're just itching for something to discuss. Like how the head doctor has mud on their evening boots… after a heavy rain. How scandalous. 

You're pulled from your thoughts by the gentle voice of the doorman, peering over at you with a hint of concern -- Horatio, you think his name was? Sweet boy. 

"Is everything alright, Doctor?"

You tear your eyes away from your shoes, smiling kindly. 

"Of course," you chirp, "Just a bit of mud. Do be careful when you head out tonight. That suit looks nice on you, I'm sure you wouldn't want it getting dirty." 

He straightens his posture at the compliment, adjusting his cufflinks with an endearing -- if not a little overenthusiastic -- nod. Content, you smooth out your outfit and move forward once again. You stride through the door, flashing your pin for formality's sake, and slink into the main room with a neatly contained excitement of your own. 

Red satin curtains line the wall, contrasting beautifully with the natural grey stone -- the Lackadaisy speakeasy has a unique atmosphere, and despite having seen it no less than a hundred times, it never ceases to light a twinge of admiration within you. You weave between the towering stone pillars, letting your eyes rake across the room as you pad towards the bar. But… something is missing. Or, more aptly, some one . 

The barstool squeaks in protest when you plop down at the bar, brows furrowed. Although before you're allowed to stew in your disappointment, a drink is placed in front of you. You look up, meeting eyes with the tall cat in front of you. Victor Vasko, resident bartender, for lack of a better word. He glowers down at you, although you know him well enough by now -- it's hard to be intimidated when you know his scowl is all but carved into his face. 

You're also acutely aware that you're one of the last benefactors of St. Louis' finest speakeasy. 

You slide a ten across the bar -- more than enough to cover drinks for the night, if not everyone else's too -- before swirling the drink in your glass. The amber liquid dances just shy of the rim before settling back down against the ice -- it's liquid gold in these parts, and they call it that for more reasons than one. You don't miss the subtle widening of Victor's eyes as he pockets the money and moves to the other end of the bar, presumably to clean -- or more aptly, shatter -- a handful of glasses. 

Sweetness cascades over your tongue when you raise the glass to your lips -- it's a far cry from the common coffin varnish. That is to say, it's a luxury reserved only for new patrons… and those with deep pockets. You smile to yourself, savoring the taste. It's not the greatest drink in the world. Even a priest could tell you that. It's bitter, and burns in a way that tells you that its creator would really prefer to put the "fire" in firewater over anything else… and yet you couldn't fathom going anywhere else. It's not like you're aiming to get drunk here, anyways. 

"So," Zib drawls, lumbering onto the bar stool next to you, "What's a man gotta do to get a drink around here?" 

You huff a laugh into the glass, rolling your eyes. "Sorry, I only buy drinks for pretty boys."  

He leans forward onto the bartop, leaning his head on his arms and gazing at you. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils lazily tracking your glass as you raise it to your lips. It's hard to tell if he's just tired, or if he's already gotten a headstart on drinking tonight. You'd put money on the "all of the above" option, if you could. 

"I can bat my eyelashes if you want," he says.
"Jesus Christ, shut up," you laugh, swatting at him but waving down Victor nonetheless. He stomps over, rolling his one visible eye, but acquiesces and pours him a drink at your soft smile. It's clearly a cheaper alcohol, but Zib doesn't seem to mind. He seems to prefer it, if anything. He takes a strong drink, sighing at the burn. He pulls himself up from his crossed arms, leaning back with a groan.

"Thank God, I don't know enough violin to pull anything else off. Or Shakespeare."

"Hey!" You sputter, kicking his leg beneath the countertop, "What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Nothing, nothing." He hums, pausing. Sips. Tilts the glass. "Just that you seem to have a favorite here, no shame in that. Other than the fact that you've chosen the strangest man in all of St. Louis to set your sights on." 

"Excuse me, for one, I don't play favorites. And two, he is-- he isn't…" Swirling the liquid around in your own glass, you furrow your brow. When nothing comes to mind you take a sip of your own, thinking. 

You know well enough that your protests are just for show at this point. It's become a near-daily point of banter between the two of you, considering how obvious you are in your affections. Many moons have come and gone since Wick showed you the Lackadaisy, but unlike the astral body, your interest in Rocky Rickaby has never waned. 

It's hard to remember what kickstarted your affections for him -- maybe it was his natural lyricism, or perhaps his flair for theatrics. Maybe it was his unwavering spirit, or his penchant for getting into trouble. If you asked Wick, you're sure he'd tell you that you were simply attracted to the danger he brings with him, but he's never seen the way his eyes sparkle when he's excited. He's never seen the way he glows when he's truly happy -- not like you do, anyways. Maybe it was a combination of all of those things and more. What you do know is that…

"He's got his own charm. He's different, yes, but I like different. But again," you say, looking at him over the rim of your glass, "I don't play favorites."  

Zib chuckles, shaking his head, but says nothing. You wait one breath, then two. 

Silence. 

You scoff, muttering to yourself. "Set my sights on… You make it sound like I'm picking out a dog at the pound." 

He grins, and you sense that you've fallen directly into his trap. Damn it. 

"He'd bark if you asked him to."

"Oh, you reprobate," you exclaim, laugh tinging the edges of your words. You swat at him once again, this time making contact. You'd like to say he choked on his drink, or sputtered at your attack, but this has become such a song and dance that really, you'd be more surprised if he didn't expect it. "You're incorrigible, you know." 

"Just being honest," he says. 

You shake your head, sipping lazily at your glass before slipping back into easy conversation. It's nice to simply chat the hours away with him -- despite his dour outward demeanor, he's quite good at keeping a conversation going. His taste in literature doesn't hurt much, either, nor does your own affability towards his own theatrics. For as much shit as he gives Rocky, he isn't all too much better in the drama department. 

You weren't always treated so casually -- the memory of Mitzi all but batting Zib and Rocky away from you still brings a smile to your face. Hell, you're sure if Mitzi heard the dreary remarks falling from Zib now, she'd pick up the broomstick again… if only for her own sanity. But once it became clear that you'd sunk your claws into their best -- and up until recently, only -- rumrunner, the air changed. 

You don't have to guess why -- everyone's been plenty clear about it.

'If Rocky hasn't driven you away yet, there's not much anyone else can do to scare you off.'

You cast a look over your shoulder every now and again, glancing at the door, aflutter with anticipation. It's impossible to hear the rain this far down into the cave system, although it's unlikely that the rain has let up at all considering the torrential downpour you weathered just a few short hours ago. You nervously bite at your lips, forcing your head back into the conversation. 

It's just the storm holding him up , you tell yourself. 

You vaguely realize that somewhere along the way your simple affection and interest has bloomed into something more all-consuming, and you can only hope that Zib doesn't catch your sudden fluster. Best to file that thought away for later. 

---

It's half past midnight when Rocky waltzes through those towering wooden doors, caked damn-near head to toe in mud. His suit seems to have taken the brunt of it, although the drying flakes embedded in his fur and the single symmetrical pair of clean streaks along his lapel tell a story all on their own. He clasps two bottles in his hands, mysteriously absent of any dirt or grime. 

Calvin is hot on his heels too, pupils pinpointed with what you assume are the remnants of adrenaline. He too comes through the door with bottles of what you presume is liquor, although he certainly has an… abundance compared to Rocky. Because for Rocky's two, Calvin anxiously clutches no less than eight bottles to his chest. He practically waddles through the door, more out of fear than exertion. He, however, is almost entirely clean of grime… save for his pant legs, which are all but drenched. 

Once Calvin is past the doorway Ivy comes skipping through too, hands wrapped around her own pair of bottles. Her wardrobe seems to be in slightly worse condition than Calvin's. Mud dapples her sweater, and the twigs tangled in her fur so abundant that you could probably call her a fire risk. But she seems joyful nonetheless as prances past Calvin and falls in line right behind Rocky in his march towards the bar. You realize in the back of your mind that she's chatting happily with Calvin behind her, although the words turn to water in your mind as you gaze at Rocky. If he's noticed you yet, he gives no indication. His tail, slicked thin with muck, flicks happily behind him. Small drops of mud hit the stone floor, causing Calvin to flinch back and clutch the bottles tighter to his chest. There must be a story there, you think to yourself. 

You huff out a laugh -- partially out of amusement, and partially out of relief. You'll have to ask for the story of tonight's escapade later on. 

"Praise be to the rain, protector of your ever faithful moonlight servants," Rocky finally reaches the other end of the bar, placing the bottles down with a thunk. He spins, his back towards you as he casts a hand in the air with a flourish. The smile that stretches across your face is painfully lovesick, if the way Zib nudges you gives you any indication, but you pay him no mind as you lean forward to watch the show. 

"For such modern ventures, we need no stream to wrench forth our gold from the Earth, dearest raindrops. Rather, it is you, oh dearest clouds who bring us such prosperity, such joy. It is--"  he spins back towards you, locking eyes. He stiffens, blinking owlishly. A moment passes before his eyes sparkle in that perfect way you've come to adore, fangs peeking beneath his lips as his expression changes into a grin, and then a beam. 

"You," he moves across the floor towards you, stretching his arms out for a moment before realizing his state of dress and letting his arms fall back at his sides. His tongue darts between his lips, practically buzzing with excitement as he pads towards you. 

(You briefly catch the shocked looks of his, quite literal, partners in crime. Eyes wide, the two look at each other inquisitively, then at him, then back at one another. Clearly they're shocked at his willingness to drop his monologue, and the feeling is mutual. It makes the smile stretch further across your face, and you realize that if he hadn't silently retracted the offer, you would have accepted the hug, velvet be damned.)

You spin your stool to face him, pushing your drink to the side with a wave in his direction. And it should be illegal for anyone to be so damn cute, because the way he lights up -- at your acknowledgement? At your excitement to see him? -- sends a hot flush through your cheeks that has you melting from the inside out. Up close you realize that despite (somewhat) clearing himself of mud, he wasn't able to keep entirely dry from the rain. Water drips down his nose, and you fight back the obnoxiously domestic thought of drying his fur for him. Tender looks and loving touches, of hands carding through fur… It's soon replaced by the vision of him toweling off himself , and Christ , something so mundane shouldn't be so damn attractive. That too, you tuck away for later. 

He stops at your feet, eyes crinkled with mirth. 

"I didn't think you'd still be here," he says, leaning against the bar countertop. Although he quickly notices the muddy stain he's left, and while he does pull back to attempt to clean it… it's not like there's much clean real-estate left on his suit to wipe with. You giggle -- honest to god, giggle -- at his antics, and just like that his attention is pulled back to you. He leans back against the countertop, resting his face against his hand. It squishes his cheek with a boyish charm, ears flicking towards your voice. It's cute. He's cute. 

"Well, I wouldn't want to miss my favorite…"  Heat rises to your face at your own use of the word 'favorite.' Zib will never let you live this one down. 

"...Musician." 

Said cat snickers behind you, and oh yeah , you really aren't living this one down. It takes a lot of willpower not to shove him off the barstool then and there. But Rocky simply waves his free hand at him before turning it upwards, fingers splayed. It's clear that he's attempting to be casual in his body language, but the energy in his voice and barely hidden beam ousts his joy at your praise. 

"Pay him no heed, dearest muse. Now, what form of entertainment would you desire tonight? Pick a key, any key! Through spoken word or melodic strings--"

Any other night you'd be enraptured with his rambling, but tonight you seem to get lost in his words. Your eyes rake across his face, taking in the little details that make him, him. You're only a little ashamed at the way your eyes keep darting to his lips while he speaks -- truthfully, you're more embarrassed at the longing it sparks within you. Maybe you should have taken the time to unpack this earlier, but alas. You force your eyes upwards, taking in how his own bright blue ones shine with excitement, before letting them fall once again.

And Rocky is nothing if not unique. The bridge of his nose tells stories beyond your imagination -- no matter how many times he tries to tell you their stories. They all just seem too wild to be true -- littered with little dots and lines that you could connect like constellations, they convey decades worth of life. A knife trick accident here, a wire snap there… allegedly, a horde of bees created many of the smaller dots. An experiment from youth gone wrong, he said, but you can't imagine he'd do anything different if presented with the opportunity again. Your lips upturn at the thought, and let your eyes roam to his cheeks: his fur bounces with every word he speaks, but even still, you can see little uneven patches. A thin line here and there, not quite reaching skin; a patch that's just a fraction shorter than the rest; all from recent incidents that simply came a little too close. But on his left cheek there's something new, something that you've never seen before.

There's one last streak of mud on his face that, clearly, he had missed. You're so focused on the mark that you hardly even feel yourself move to grab your handkerchief. 

"--But in an art such as this, moderation is for the weak. If you'll give me just five minutes I'll have--" 

He stills at your gentle touch, halting his speech for the second time tonight. His fur is softer than you expected, despite its dampness from the rain outside. You tilt his head upwards by just a fraction, your thumb and index gently holding his chin in place. Stricken with a sudden wave of adoration, you drag your thumb experimentally across what you can reach. The movement is so painfully fond and oh, so close -- just millimeters away from his lips. It's a gentle action that lasts no more than a second -- hell, maybe you didn't even realize you were doing it -- but it feels like a lifetime to him. He thought he'd get used to the lightheadedness that you always seem to inflict upon him, but he couldn't be more wrong. And before he has any time to recover, you're dabbing at his cheek with a silken cloth. 

And for all your observations tonight, you end up missing the way his breath catches in his throat. You miss the way he leans into you by just a fraction, how his eyes widen at your softness; how they take to memorizing every contour of your face in awe; how he melts in your hold, like he's never been held with such kindness before. He doesn't think he has. 

And that's nothing to say of all the things you can't see -- how his heart leaps into his chest, pounding so hard he's half sure you can see it through his shirt; how he prays for the world to stop just as it is now, so that he could enjoy this for just a few more seconds. How he's so sure that he's dreaming, but far too joyful to even consider pinching himself awake. 

He's so enraptured with your touch that he hardly even processes your movements. It's only once you lean in -- close, so damn close, so easy to close the gap -- to get a better look at the spot that he finds his voice again. 

"Oh, you don't have to, it's--" he curses himself for stumbling, for being so breathless in your presence, considering your previous praise for his eloquence. He doesn't know why you keep coming back here, why you keep entertaining him as you do, but he's not going to complain. He swallows, counting to five before starting again with renewed, albeit artificial, confidence. "I'm sure that lovely, lovely silk piece cost you quite the pretty penny." 

And this time, it's your turn to blink owlishly. You look at the cloth, then back at him, before laughing softly. And just like that you're leaning back in, once again coaxing the mire from his face. It's silent between the two of you for just a moment, so quiet that you damn near forget where you are. And in a moment of courage, you up his face in full. You feel his jaw clench beneath your hand, emboldening you to push just a bit further. You catch his eye, smiling softly. 

"You know money doesn't mean a thing to me, Rocky," you murmur, just loud enough for the two of you to hear. 

A million words are left silently humming in the gap between you, a million words you hope he can pick up on in your silence. 'Not when it's you,' you think to yourself. 'I'd give up every penny for just another second with you.' 

There's a glimmer in your eyes that can only be described as fond, and he basks in it before you turn back to your task. This time, he doesn't stop you. 

Chapter Text

• Working under Asa Sweet has its benefits. Seemingly endless stores of money, eternal room and board, and most importantly, all the midnight lovers he could ever want. All at the price of a bit of bootlegged liquor, and the occasional firefight. 
• This kind of life isn't for everyone, but it's certainly made for Wes. And you're inclined to agree with him. The adrenaline of a job well-done tastes even better than the liquor you're rewarded with at the end of the day -- maybe that's why the two of you get along so well. He can appreciate someone who can actually do their job, and do it well. No offense to Fish, of course, but it's nice to have someone… competent. And nice to look at, to boot. 
• What? He's not blind -- He knows a pretty face when he sees one.  
• If you weren't tangled in this life like he was, he might have tried to shoot his shot at a quick fling. But alas, working together complicates that And it's not exactly wise to play with someone when they've always got a loaded gun. He's not stupid, either. So, coworkers it is. Friends, if he's drunk enough to say it out loud. 
• The two of you are a deadly duo in the field. In the car it's all easy banter, a playful back-and-forth of teasing and sarcastic quips… but when you're truly working? Fish says it's scary how easily the two of you operate on the same wavelength, and you can't blame him. As a team you're able to coax deals and information from unsuspecting lips with ease; and on the rare occasion things go wrong… well, there's rarely any time to even worry. You've made it a game to see who can draw their weapon the fastest when shit hits the fan, and you're not very keen on losing.  And boy, does he like a challenge. 
• Wes isn't a romantic. He thinks he is -- he thinks he's the suavest cat this side of the Mississippi. But he isn't. In truth, he is painfully inexperienced in the realm of romance, outside of one night stands. So when he's suddenly clenching his jaw whenever you pull that syrupy, borderline seductive voice on clients to get your way, of course he misattributes his feelings to lust. Because what else would it be? 
• Except it doesn't get better, and no amount of liquor can soothe the tightness in his throat when he looks at you. 
• No amount of bloodshed can quell his rapidly growing thoughts of domesticity. 
• And there's not a single force on earth strong enough to pry the softness from his gaze. 
• He hates that you're such a weak spot for him. He's always enjoyed being in your company, but now he finds himself hanging onto every word, every syllable. every breath.  
• It's a bit of an awkward game of hot and cold while he tries to figure out what he wants. The most Wes really knows about romance is what he gleaned from when Fish drug him out to see Romeo and Juliet, and Lord knows how that panned out. You know him well enough to let him sort through… whatever it is he's going through. 
• (You do pick up on the fact that there's a bit more intent when he smacks Fish for the "weasel" comments, though. Fish's poorly hidden laughter doesn't escape your ears either.)
• But as time goes on, he settles back into his normal routine with you. Maybe his words get a bit more honeyed. Maybe he gets a bit more sarcastic, so he can feel you swat at him. Maybe he starts winning your quick draw games more often, and maybe he's formed a habit of stepping in front of you when things go south. You can't know for sure -- he dodges every attempt at questioning. 
• If he shows up at your doorstep someday, with roses from your front yard… just know that he's trying. 

Chapter Text

It started with “thank you.”

He had murmured it politely as you pulled him to his feet, just like he would for anyone else. But when he met your eyes, something was different. Freckle had never seen you smile at him like that before — it was a subtle change, and easy to chalk up to his own overthinking. But then it kept happening — this, that, these, those — some words coming from him just made you smile a little softer, a little more fondly.

He never had the nerve to ask you about it, but that doesn’t mean Rocky didn’t.

“I like his voice,” you had said, “His accent is cute.”

It’s a part of himself that he had never really enjoyed. The faint Irish brogue that he’d adopted from his mother was always a point of bullying at school, and then a point of issue when applying for work. It’s tamer than it was in his youth, but not without work on his own part.

He would have flustered at any comment from you, but this one? This one really seemed to hit home.

He’s shy by nature, and he’s never been much of a talker. But maybe, just maybe, he starts talking a little bit more around you. Maybe he starts using those awkward little words a bit more — throw, through, call, small — just to see your reaction again. And over time they start to feel less awkward, less strange on his tongue.

But there’s one word that always feels natural, that he’ll find almost any excuse to say.

Your name.

Chapter Text

How do you cuddle with Mordecai Heller? Simple. You don’t.

Well, that isn’t entirely true. But it’s what you tell everyone — he has a reputation to uphold, after all. And it’s much easier than defining what “cuddling” means for the two of you.

Like with many aspects of your relationship with Mordecai, cuddling came little by little. He’s not keen on touch, even in the best of scenarios. Most days, being touched just feels like a million concentrated pinpricks. It’s almost painful sometimes, the way unwanted hands sear into his skin and imprint themselves on his nerves. Not to mention all the germs people have. Eugh.

You knew he was touch averse long before you ever started dating — you’ve seen the way he leans away from others when they go in for hugs, or the way he grimaces during pat-downs on jobs. It’s such an intrinsic part of him that you never expected it to change, and you’re okay with that.

But sometimes, he surprises you.

There’s little gestures that he does (after a considerable amount of self-talk, not that he’d ever tell you that) that truly make your heart melt.

Working up to sleeping in the same bed was an adventure all on its own. It’s quite the milestone of trust for him, with a weight that’s just a stone’s throw away from an outright proposal. This man has spent most of his life in the center of danger’s crosshairs, so to trust you enough to let down his walls… well, you get the idea.

He always falls asleep after you do. He sleeps on his side, facing the door, with a foot of space between you — no more, no less. He counts your breaths as you drift into sleep, and memorizes the way your body heat seeps through into his own. He commits your very presence to memory, and it quickly becomes difficult— no, impossible — to sleep when you’re not by his side. He likes to say it’s because his routine is broken, but you both know that’s a lie.

His fur is soft — that’s the first thing you think to yourself when Mordecai brushes his tail against your own one night. You hold your breath, waiting for him to pull back, like it was some sort of mistake… but he doesn’t. There’s no hiss, no flinch or startle… just peace. Calm. Your lips pull back in a soft smile as you bask in the moment, enjoying every second that you’re connected. You dare not say anything, afraid that if you did he’d overthink the moment, or shrink back from the intensity of his emotions. But he never pulls away, not until the sun is shining through your curtains and begging the two of you to rise.

From then on, that too becomes part of your shared routine.

And little by little, it grows.

It starts as a brush… and then intertwining. Then he does it while you read together in bed… and then on the couch.

When it’s you, touch can be… pleasant. It’s an unusual feeling, foreign, but not a bad one.

Little incidences like that slowly become more and more frequent. More openly devout in their meaning, their intensity. He never thought he’d feel this safe with anyone ever again, and it’s almost scary how deep his love runs for you.

Some days are better than others, of course. It’s never your fault, never. Sometimes he truly just cannot handle the sensation of it all. You like to joke with him a little when he puts his hands up as a ward.

Can’t have you getting too soft on me, you jest, I know, I’m addictive.

And of course he sputters, because he is not getting soft (yet another lie) but at the end of the day, he knows you won’t push him. He trusts you.

But you can always count on that last step of your routine. Every night at 10:30pm his tail wraps around yours, like clockwork. Stress melts into weightless peace in an instant, with the world as little more than a memory outside of the walls of your shared apartment. Some lovers parade their joy around in the streets under the light of day, thriving in the attention that their unity provides. But you and Mordecai belong to the night, wrapped up in quiet, intimate eternity. And you wouldn’t change a thing.

Chapter Text

Names get around easy in the underground — it’s important to know the key players of every operation, lest you get mixed up in the wrong business. But some names are more infamous than others. First for their proficiency, then for their brutality. And some names, such as that of one Nicodeme Savoy, carry a weight that few would care to invoke by speaking it outloud. But that doesn’t mean people don’t make their own assumptions, or gossip in the dark.

“He’s some sort of sadist,” they say, “Brawling type, wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of his wrath.”

And for most points, Nico isn’t too keen on refuting them. There’s a part of him that enjoys the aire of mystery, of fear, that surrounds him. Plus, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like the adrenaline of a good fight, or the rewarding catharsis of blood on his knuckles when he inevitably wins. But that isn’t the only thing that he likes.

They never talk about his love of spicy food, or a well-made Old Fashioned. They certainly never talk about how he likes to dance, or watch the fireflies flicker over the water at night. And nobody would ever be caught dead talking about how much he likes you.

The slow rise and fall of your shoulders is subtle, hardly even visible in the rear view mirror with the dim moonlight that filters through the windows, and yet it’s nothing if not captivating. Your parted lips and relaxed form burn themselves into his memory as his eyes bounce back and forth between your reflection and the road ahead.

You were exhausted, to say the least. All three of you were, really — your last target had necessitated a chase by foot, and while the three of you normally wouldn’t mind such a thing, the man had given you a, quite literal, run for your money.

His last minute backup hadn’t been expected, either.

And thus, what should have been an hour long joyride soon turned into a day long hunt — he’s sure that if Mordecai had been here he would have called off the operation, or suggested some new angle of attack. He scoffs to himself internally — sure, it would have saved them some time if it worked out, but where’s the fun in that? All work and no play, he is. Hard to imagine he's survived this long without blurring the lines, but hey, who is he to judge?

Nico glances at you again, nestled into the side of the car. Your arms twist around yourself comfortingly as you curl into the plush of your jacket, and you’d somehow managed to twist yourself to outstretch your legs across the bench. (Which would have never happened either, if Mordecai had been here. So again, he counts his absence tonight as a win.Leblanc will have to forgive him, for that.)

You seem peaceful — peaceful in a way that, with your gun now long discarded and forgotten — that it’s easy to forget how your hands were stained with blood just hours ago. How easily you danced through his deadly game, laughter ringing out in the abandoned warehouse you’d all ended up in. How easily you meshed with the two of them — the infamous Savoy twins — like you had always belonged.

His lips turn upward ever so slightly, and looks back at the road again. He’d never forget any of that, though.

“When are you going to tell them, hm?” Seraphine murmurs lowly in their home language, French Creole rolling smoothly off her tongue.

“What, about the chicken?” He responds, “Believe me, they already know. Been hounding me about it ever since it went missing, that one.”

She grins, “Mmm, poor thing. All the work they do, and they still find it in them to care for the little ones.” She looks over at him, this time more pointedly. “They’ve got a real big heart. Might even have space for you.”

He hums, mulling her words over as the trees pass them by. Somewhere along the way he slows down, taking care to steer clear of the potholes in the corners of the road. He doesn’t think about how he’d usually take them head-on, or how he’d ordinarily be speeding down the dusty roads. What he does think about, is you. How you had woven yourself into their lives so wholly, and with such ease.

He remembers how warm your hand felt in his as he taught you to dance, and the radiance of your smile as you finally found your rhythm. The plushness of your lips tempted him deeply that night, as they have every night since. It would be so easy to just bend down and close that gap, but for the first time in his life, he can’t seem to take that final step. Never before has a moment of temptation transformed into months of longing, but he isn’t complaining — far from it, actually. The newness of it all doesn’t scare him, and he’s proud to say that he doesn’t seem to scare you in the midst of it all, either.

Flashes of your official welcome into the congregation bless him for a moment at the thought; how you requested that he be the one to do it; how you smiled at him all the while; how you fisted his shirt in your hand during the worst of it… he’s proud to say that he doesn’t scare you. He’s proud to say that you trust him so deeply. And at the end of it all, when knife met table and bandage met skin, you pressed your forehead to his, thanking him. He thought he had known temptation before, but then your tongue darted between your lips as you pulled him to his feet to resume the night’s festivities, and oh, Maitre Carrefour give him strength-

Serafine’s voice brings him from his thoughts.

“They’re one of us, Nicodeme.”

He chuckles to himself, lips perking up once again. “Yeah, yeah they are.”

And when the sunlight filters through the curtains of the Maribel, you realize you don’t remember clambering out of the car, or pulling the your blankets over yourself — all you’re left with is the faint memory of floating and the fading, but familiar, scent of the lakeside.

Chapter Text

How many nights have you spent, twirling hand in hand on the bridges of cranes? How many nights have you spent singing yourselves hoarse on the highest rooftops of St. Louis? How many kisses have the two of you shared, tinged with a laughter that only the two of you will ever truly understand?

Before you fell in love with Rocky, you were still you. Perfect and whole, all on your own. But when you linked hands with him, felt your hearts beating in sync, you felt an innate change within yourself. Maybe it’s because for the first time, you actually felt seen. Maybe it’s just what being in love is actually like. Maybe that’s what it means, to find your soulmate. You’re not quite sure, and you don’t really care to find out.

What you do know is that with Rocky, you feel alive. And when the two of you ping pong off one another in conversation, and you see the eyes of your friends (and in some cases, enemies) roll, you’ll smile to yourself. Because nobody else can say with as much certainty as you, that they’ve found their other half.

You drag him in by the tie, lips connecting in a hazy moment of passion. The smoke in the field has yet to clear, and the sparks in your fur have only just died out, but that only makes the moment more electric. He cups your face, unable to stop the smile that claws its way into your kiss — but you can’t blame him: You’re doing the same, after all.

You’re only broken apart by the angered screams of your bootlegging rivals down below, and even then, you can hardly get enough of him. You tug him by the hand through the underbrush and towards the car, grinning all the while — a mirror image of your lover.

Chapter Text

Roark “Rocky” Rickaby

Rocky’s world has been on the verge of collapse for… well, almost as long as he can remember really. And you know what they say — at the end of everything, hold onto anything. Your presence in his life has been, arguably, the number one thing keeping him afloat in the dark waves that have been rolling through his life since death struck his home.

But even before that, you were like his other half — a partner in crime, if you will! Anyone looking in would see the two of you as part of some sort of circus act, with how easily you meshed together.

You were practically attached at the hip — hardly ever found without the other, the two of you did just about everything together.

Playing pranks on the neighbors before running down the street, hand in hand.

Dancing between each other, tails interlocking and then fanning back out to the side, you possessed a shared grace that only came with the deepest of friendships.

Finishing each others’ sentences, no matter how complex, with hardly even a glance toward the other, things just came naturally. His mother always said the two of you would get married someday, with how easily things seem to come to the two of you — he agreed, but on the condition that he’d get to play all the music. You agreed too, so long as you got to sing.

Of course, things changed when the Red Death came.

Just as you shared all things, you shared his grief, too. He still remembers how you ran after his train heading off towards St. Louis, trying to commit his face to memory. He kept every letter you sent, and waited dutifully by the door every Christmas morning for you to keep your own promise to visit.

(You always kept your promises. Always. He supposes your own parents must have seen how close the two of you were, knew it would have killed you to keep you away.)

But most of all, he remembers how magical it was to sweep you back into his arms, when you joined him on the run at the age of 16.

He’s not sure when things changed — he doesn’t think they ever really did, actually. There’s always been a deep love between you — you just didn’t have the words to describe it, yet. And so when your lips met under the starry sky one night on a warm Summer night, for the first time since childhood, neither of you pulled away. No stammering words, or flustered shakes. It was just as things were always meant to be.

Calvin “Freckle” Allen McMurray

Calvin was never the most social kid. Talking to people can be intimidating, and really, he does better when he can think out some responses first… which doesn’t really happen, in a conversation. And so, he’s always been pretty happy to just stay inside and read. Maybe meander out to the field to watch a game or two in peace.

But you? You’re an exception.

Nina praises God every day that you’re in his life. She’s always been so worried for the boy, concerned that he’s not getting enough sunshine. The last thing she wants is for her son to become a shut-in, and with how shy he is, she thought it was an impossibility. But you, shining you, seem to have brightened up his life a bit.

He still remembers the day that you moved into the neighborhood, how insistent your parents were on having the two of you meet. He stood behind his mother’s leg, peering out anxiously. You weren’t much better off in that department, clearly nervous. But once the two of you were shoved together? Things just… flowed. And sure, it took little Calvin a minute to open up, but once he did? He’d wait by the door every day for you to come over, legs swinging over the side of the chair with a new book clutched to his chest.

You’re a perfect duo together — you two love spending time inside together, but you always manage to drag him out for a little adventure on the streets at some point during the day.

And well, you can’t help but coax him into a bit of secret mischief every now and again. He says he’s a good kid who never breaks the rules, and he’ll say it until his very last breath… but the giddy laugh he gives out says otherwise, even if he does clamp his hands over his mouth right after.

You became a bit of a bodyguard for Freckle once Rocky moved in with them — you still participated in the group shenanigans of course, but it was nice to have someone to run to when he couldn’t run away from one of Rocky’s new experiments.

He still remembers how you begged his mom to take the three of you to the amusement park up the road for his 12th birthday, how you saved every penny you got from your chores to pay for it all. How you managed to get her to agree he still has no idea, but its one of his favorite memories. Rocky had to be carried home, crashed out from the sugar high, but Freckle? He was still teeming with adrenaline. You made sure to drag him to the brand-new Ferris Wheel, knowing his secret penchant for thrills, and once he got up to the very top, he never wanted to come down. Not just because of the adrenaline rush that comes with seeing the whole world at once for the first time, but because of how close the two of you were.

He hadn’t felt shy around you in years, but for some reason, your body heat seeping into him made his breath catch in his throat and his face hot. And it was addicting.

From then on, he was just the slightest bit different around you. Not in a bad way, mind you — but still, noticeable. He perks up a bit more when you speak, jumps a bit more when you reach out to him, leans into your touch when you connect.

He vehemently denies any feelings when Nina starts prodding him about it, of course.

His confession is more accidental than anything else.

He’s had plenty of admirers in highschool, all of whom have tried to confess their adoration in different ways. But by far the most popular was through letter. Flustered faces and twitching ears as they hand over pink envelopes, only to be left unopened in his bedside drawer.

You had asked once, kicked back on his bed as he put away yet another perfumed letter, why he never responded to any of them. They’re pretty, they’re nice… so why not give it a shot?

He didn’t know how to explain that it wasn’t that he didn’t want to date, it’s that he didn’t want to date them.

And slowly, all the pieces in your shared mind clicked together. And when you interlocked your hands — an action you had done a million times before — it felt… different. Things had always felt natural, but this time, it felt right.

You don’t know who leaned in first — as with all things in your lives, it was probably yet another shared action. What you do know is that you had many, many years to make up for.

Ivy Pepper

Ivy has never quite meshed with her peers — she gets along with them great, but they’ve never been exactly what she’s looking for. Too prim, too proper, too afraid of getting mussed up. She wants adventure! She wants fun!

And you? You’re fun.

As she got older and older, her parents just seemed to have less and less time for her. And yes, it kind of crushed her. But you’re her home away from home — her best friend in the world, the person who is there for her when noone else is. Her dad hardly knows a thing about her, but nowadays it seems like you know everything there is to know about her.

When she was little she’d wait by the door for your parents to bring you by, bouncing eagerly on the balls of her feet. But once you got older? She’d be running off in the early hours of the morning to your meeting spot out on the corner… or scaling your house to shimmy through your bedroom window. There was never any need, of course — she just liked the rush that came with doing something she technically shouldn’t. And she really liked the stifled giggles that would fall from your lips when you gripped her hands to pull her through the opening.

You’re a couple of sweet little con artists, taking the phrase “partners in crime” to new heights. Ivy, the doll-faced sweetheart, and you, the instigator. You make a great team together, but honestly, it’s more about the fun than it is the nickles and dimes you earn.

Whenever her favorite songs come on the record player, you always have your hand extended to her before she even has to ask.

Ivy has had plenty of boyfriends in the past, but none of them have ever felt like the romance books that she reads in her spare time. The closest she’s ever felt to that is… with you.

She remembers one night, when she shimmied through your window for the millionth time, just laying on your bed together. Giggling with each other on the duvet, shushing one another in hushed whispers, and illuminated only by candlelight. The light glimmered, highlighting your features, and she was struck with the urge to reach out, to touch, to hold and be held, and God, she just never wanted the night to end. She knew then that this was what all the books had been writing about, this exact feeling. And as your giggles died down, she couldn’t help but reach out to you, touching fingertips. Contact, in the name of “comparing hand sizes,” unity upheld in the candlelight.

After that night, things are a bit different. She’s flirted with so many people before, but you? You’re… different. She’s just as bold, mind you, but her smile when you fluster or respond back is more giddy than you’ve ever seen her before.

She plays coy, but you’re practically her other half — you know all of her tricks.

So when she leans into your space one night, hands placed just shy of your crossed legs, asking to kiss you, just to know what it’s like? You know exactly what she’s getting at — know that this is so much more than just an experiment between friends.

And when your lips meet, you wonder why you ever labored through the song and dance before, when you could have had this the whole time.

Chapter Text

Mordecai Heller

There’s something to be admired about your persistence. He can’t think of anyone sane, who would follow him through the fires that you have. Who would follow him anywhere, really. He’s not sure why you stuck with him past the first five minutes of meeting on the playground, nevermind the rest of his life. And yet, you did. And he couldn’t be more grateful, loathe as he is to admit it.

He still remembers your little face, wandering up to him on the playground to ask what he was reading, and what it was about. But just how are you meant to summarize the history of an entire empire in a single sentence? If it was possible, he wouldn’t have had to have read the book in the first place! On and on he rambled, and really by now most other kids would have wandered away, but you? He hardly even realized when you clambered up onto the bench to sit next to him, nodding along thoughtfully. He was stunned when he realized you were still there at the end of his 5-minute long synopsis, so when you had follow-up questions? Consider him gobsmacked.

No matter what he tried, he just couldn’t seem to shake you after that fateful meeting.

Not through any of his mannerisms that would normally be offputting to others — if anything, his own “quirks” as his mother called him only made him more endearing to you.

It seems as though you were content to simply share space with him — you didn’t expect anything more than just… him. Drawing while he reads, or maybe picking up a book of your own. Even if your own taste was a bit more… indulgent than his own — what the point of reading such fanciful stories of fantasy and adventure are, he would never quite understand — it was still nice to simply share space, with no further expectations.

And you only stole his glasses once in a blue moon.

He found himself looking forward to your arrival every day, staring out the window eagerly to make sure you got in okay, despite the teasing from his sisters.

He couldn’t shake you when he started bookkeeping, even as his free time grew shorter. Even as he became more secretive.

And when he boarded that train at age 17, terrified and scared of everything to come, he couldn’t keep you from getting a ticket of your own. Packing up your own life to follow him… well, who knows where. Anywhere but home. You sat in silence together, all too aware of the gravity of your situation. His pencil snapped under the weight of his guilt, and you simply passed him one of your own, wordlessly.

He doesn’t understand you, and he doesn’t understand the feelings that start to bloom in his chest as he gets older. Why he gets so especially protective over you on runs, why he wants you to stay at home more than anyone else. Why he’s suddenly aware of the bite in some of his remarks, and why he feels the need to dampen them when speaking to you. When Mitzi chuckles about how cute the two of you are together, why he flusters as much as he does. Why part of him doesn’t want to refute the subtext in her words.

He’s too exhausted to pull himself up off the ground one night — germs, germs, germs, he’ll have to fully clean his suit when he gets home, horrible — back pressed against the wall beside you. Unharmed on both of your accounts, but exhausted nonetheless. He closes his eyes, resting for just a moment, when he feels your tail brush against his own… only when he opens his eyes, he realizes that it wasn’t you crossing that invisible line.

It was him.

He closes his eyes again, sighing. But he doesn’t move.

The bond you share together is deeper than the average friendship — its an immutable fact, both to the two of you and everyone around you. You don’t have the words to describe the extent of it just yet, but that’s okay — you have each other. And that’s what matters. And as he basks in the heat that seeps from you into him, he finds himself thankful for your persistence in all things Mordecai.

Serafine Savoy

All things happen for a reason. Fate is woven into every action, every breath, guided by a certain higher power. Every step she takes, every path she dodges, and every person she meets — it’s all been part of the plan laid out before her. Some decisions are more important than others, but you? You are the pinnacle of it all.

She still remembers your little face, illuminated by fireflies in the hot summer night. She clung loosely to Nico’s hand as they trounced in the fields, away from that place and evidently, you had the same plan. You couldn’t stand to stay there, living under the guidance of adults who couldn’t be bothered to really care about you. She stepped forward, reaching her hand out towards you, and the three of you linked. Inseparable from that point onwards.

It was never a question of if she would have survived without your presence in her life — you were simply always meant to be part of it, and she was always meant to be part of yours.

Little hands interlinked, wading through the bayou together — animals with gaping maws and razor-sharp teeth parting for you with reverence. Your little hands gathering herbs; her own gathering the carnivorous offerings left for the three of you. You two were always destined to meet… but that doesn’t mean she can’t be grateful for it all. Learning the way of the world with you is a long and arching memory she’ll cherish forever.

Although childhood wasn’t always so serious. Because as fondly as she looks upon those early days of learning and practice, she looks upon the innocence of your little games just as tenderly. Little feet falling against the ancient wood floors of your home, hands reaching out to tag her before sprinting back down the hall.

Tiny hands braiding water hyacinths into her hair, soaking up the one spot in the bayou that light shined through to.

Your shared teenage years are thought of just as fondly.

Your shared con games in the city — the spoils of which would be spent that same night, giggling and dancing through the streets. Hands interlinked as you spun around and around, giddy at the adrenaline rush of a game gone right.

There was never any particular moment where she realized she loved you. Part of her just always did. And you can’t say you didn’t feel the same. If you didn’t, then you wouldn’t have braided her hair so lovingly every night, wouldn’t have held her hand whenever you were near, wouldn’t have kissed her every time the sunshine illuminated her beautiful brown eyes. There was no need for stammering “I think”s or “I like”s — you always knew. And so when she pulls you to her chest, carding her hand through your hair before placing yet another kiss on your lips in the pale moonlight, things are simply the same as they ever were. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Nicodeme “Nico” Savoy

Thrashing arms and too-sharp canines digging into tender flesh — that’s how he remembers you as you thrashed in the arms of one of the orphanages’ staff members at just six years old. You refused to enter the line, indignant at the thought of being held in such a place. It was then that he knew he wanted to know you, but it wasn’t until those same staff members tried to separate him and Serafine that he knew how he would. He could hardly get out their plan to Serafine, with her yowls to let her stay with him, she can be a boy, just please let her stay, but he managed. And so when night fell, and the two filed out of their respective housing structures to meet on the street, he was nothing short of ecstatic to see you there, too.

He always liked that fire in you — not just the drive to survive, but to fight. And so when they arrived at their first real home in the bayou, finally safe from the world, finally able to relax… Well, can you blame him for pushing it a little?

Learning the ways of the world alongside you was an experience he would never forget. Wading through the murky waters, learning which animals were sent as offerings for the night’s dinner — hands caked in mud as the two of you took down that night’s meal.

Little hands playfully shoving him into the water, after he slicked a bit of mud into your fur.

He can’t say he didn’t get a kick out of the strength advantage he would gain in his older years — he never quite put down your shared wrestling habits, even as he got into his teen years. If anything, they only got worse when he realized the newfound difference. You never seemed to mind, though — despite it all, you’d still match him, movement for movement, never backing down.

That’s not to say it was all roughhousing, though. No — plenty of nights spent sitting on the moonlit docks say otherwise. Leaning your head against his shoulder as you watched the fish swim around and around, murmuring your thoughts into the shared space. His own arm coming to wrap around your shoulders, despite the humid heat, eager for any and all contact.

That move would become a staple, even as you ventured into the city. Pulling you to him in the streets, murmuring little jokes into your ear to make you laugh… shaking you a bit playfully when you try to keep a straight face, just to break that facade. A well-practiced song and dance between the two of you.

He’s not sure if there was ever a time where he didn’t love you. It was always there, it just took different forms, in the mouths of kittens too young to describe it yet. And so when you lie back on the hotel bed together, pressed chest to chest with the taste of bourbon lingering on his lips, it’s no surprise to either of you when you meet in the middle. It’s just been a long time coming, is all.