Work Text:
You could say a lot of shit about sinners, but at least the ones that came into Blitzø's office were usually kind of... Interesting. Passionate, angry, pent up with all their personal drama that was way more entertaining that anything you could find on television these days. It was one of the reasons Blitzø loved his job so much. Being paid to listen to gossip. And then being paid to be the final shoe that dropped on all of it was just like an extra cherry on top of the sundae that was Blitzø gleefully inserting himself into other people's problems. It was always a fun time.
So it was with much dismay that he now faced a client so boring he could barely keep his eyes open. The guy's voice was a level of monotone that could probably stop time if it tried hard enough. If Blitzø found himself getting distracted and glancing down at his phone, sue him. You'd lose the court battle. This meeting could have been considered cruel and unusual torture. Also he'd lost the thread of the story long ago and not only did he not think he could pick it up again, he didn't care.
Sinstagram was open already. He'd posted a selfie moments before disaster, chronicling a happier time - a more optimistic Blitzø who thought his day was going to be as fun and murder filled as all the ones before it. Too bothered to find something else to mindlessly look at while his client droned on, he flicked his thumb through his feed, browsing. He was paying about as much attention to the pictures scrolling by as he was rambling across the desk from him, until something made him pause.
“I'm sorry,” the client said in a clipped voice (the most emotion he'd shown in, holy shit had it really been twenty minutes??). “Am I interrupting something?”
“Kinda,” Blitzø said snarkily.
There was some aggravated huffing and then the squeak of the chair as the client rose to his feet. “Well, maybe I'll take my business somewhere else-”
“First of all, dumbass, I'd like to see you try. I'm running a one of a kind business here,” Blitzø shot back, rolling his eyes and setting his phone face down on his desk. He didn't lock it. He wasn't done processing what he'd seen. “But also, you can get your panties out of a twist because we'll kill your gold digger husband-”
“Wife,” the client corrected, teeth gritted.
“Whatever. Just give me the address and we'll have it done in like an hour.”
The client angrily scribbled something on a notepad sitting in front of him. “Discreetly. Remember, the neighbors are-”
“Sure! Yeah! I said whatever! Go away now!”
There was a lot of grumbling and cursing and way more interesting language than he'd used the whole time he'd sat at Blitzø's desk as the sinner took his leave. Blitzø just huffed and picked up his phone again, squinting against the bright screen.
It was Stolas in bed which was not an uncommon sight, but he kind of looked like shit. He was usually so well put together and... Regal. Even in his casual sinstagram posts. In the picture he'd just posted he looked tired. There were bags under his half-lidded lower eyes and his upper eyes were a bit crossed, like he was dazed or dizzy. There were feathers all over the pillow, like he hadn't moved from his bed all day. And really who voluntarily posted a public image of themselves looking so pathetic? “Attention whore,” Blitzø muttered, trying to squash down a very ugly feeling in his gut that he did not want to give any extra attention to. He scrolled to the caption. Feeling rather under the weather today.🤒 #sicklife
Blitzø closed his phone, shoved it in his coat pocket and stood from his desk. Okay so Stolas was sick. So what? Wasn't his business. His business was, in fact, doing the opposite of making people feel better. He was about to go turn at least one human into an obituary, he was the last person Stolas needed right now.
“M&M, gear up! We've got a job!” he shouted through the door of his office before turning to grab the book out of the safe he kept it in behind his desk. Routine. Normal. Just another day for I.M.P.
Except the thing is, who was taking care of Stolas while he was sick? Probably his staff, that was a dumb question. His bitch wife wasn't crying at his bedside, that was for sure. But he had people who worked for him that were paid explicitly to take care of things like this. Stolas was rich. Worst case scenario, he could probably just pay the virus to leave. That's what Blitzø would do if he lived in a palace and had things like butlers and salad plates.
“Sir, I need you to focus on your aim right now,” Moxxie said in a thin tone. “You're currently pointing your gun at an alarm panel. That's the opposite of what we need to happen.”
“Shut your fucking mouth, Moxxie, I know what I'm doing,” Blitzø snapped before realigning his shot. There was a young blonde lady sitting on a very nice couch watching TV. She was alone. Blitzø was pretty sure she was the mark. And if she wasn't, oh well.
“Is something bothering you, B?” Millie asked. She was supposed to be keeping watch of the front of the grossly enormous mansion, but leaned back to give him a worried glance.
“I'm fine, why do you ask?”
“Well, for one, we've been sitting here for nearly five minutes with a clean shot and you haven't done anything,” Moxxie said, crossing his arms and sitting back to glare at Blitzø. Judgemental prick. “You keep spacing out.”
“Nothing is wrong you nosey bitches. I was just uh, trying to think of ways we could bring in extra clients this week. Since, ya know, Stolas is sick so he probably won't need the book back for a while, we could really capitalize on it.” Fuck yeah, Blitzø was a genius.
Millie and Moxxie gave each other one of those aggravating psychic couple looks that made Blitzø want to turn the gun around and use it on himself. He refrained this time. “Prince Stolas is sick?” Millie asked.
“I guess,” Blitzø said, waving them off. “That's what he said on sinstagram anyway.”
“Do you... want to go visit him?” Moxxie asked carefully.
“Pft, no. Fuck no. Absolutely not. I don't want to catch whatever bird flu he's spreading around. I don't have time for that.” There was a pause as Millie and Moxxie continued their dumb silent conversation and Blitzø had an epiphany. “But maybe we could send him something, you know. Like a... Care package."
“A care package?” Moxxie repeated, voice deadpan.
“Aw, glad to see your ears are still working Mox, yes a care package. It's not weird, don't give me that look. It'll be from I.M.P. As a thank you for letting us use his fancy book all the time.” Blitzø took one hand off the trigger and snapped his fingers, feeling excitement bristle up his back. His spines twitch involuntarily, but he was certain it was barely noticeable. “This is a great idea, god I am such a genius I even astound myself sometimes. But what can we put in there, like what do you give a man who has all the money in Hell?”
“Sir, can we refocus on the target please?” Moxxie asked. He pinched the spot between his eyes like he was getting a headache. Blitzø ignored him. He looked through the scope and started aiming around the interior of the house, using it more like binoculars than a tool to aim and fire bullets.
“Good idea, maybe these rich assholes have something we can steal. Got any good ideas on what we should be looking for?”
“I'm not going to aid you in theft, sir! We're already doing a murder, is that not enough for you?”
“Hmm, so, what you're saying is you're going to be no help. One day you'll pull that stick out of your ass, Moxxie, I believe in you. What about you Mills? What would you put in a care package?”
Millie frowned and crossed her arms. All attempts to pretend like she was still guarding the front of the house were gone now, much like Blitzø's intention to kill the target. Good, at least someone was being useful in the situation that really mattered here. “Well, I know what I would put in a care package if it was for an imp but I don't know much about princes. I wouldn't want to offend him.”
“Guys, we've been over this, you don't need to be scared of Stolas, okay? He's just a tall harmless horndog and I'm like 90% certain he would never touch a hair on either of your heads. It's me he wants.” The last sentence was said with a heavier level of gravity than the others before it.
“Exactly,” Moxxie said. “He's your problem. We'd like to keep it that way. Now would you please put this poor woman out of her misery so we can-”
Before Moxxie could finish his sentence, the sound of a car door slamming and accompanying voices could be heard from around the front of the house. Millie bristled, peeking around the corner. “Oh shit!” she hissed. “Those must be the neighbors!”
There were two people approaching the front door of the mansion, both smartly dressed and one carrying some sort of dish covered in tin foil. “I just don't see what the fuss is, Nancy. She has staff to cook for her.”
“Her husband just died, Doug! She probably dismissed all her staff. It's courteous to bring over food and.. I want to see how she's doing.” There was definitely a gardener around the other side of the house and at least three maids inside eternally cleaning the place from top to bottom, but whatever. Blitzø fumbled to get his rifle back into position. They were running out of time.
The neighbors, moseying old rich folk that they were, were just a hair faster than Blitzø. The doorbell rang, the target rolled her head back and out of Blitzø's aim to yell “Can someone get that please?” rather bitchily into the void of her giant house. Blitzø cursed under his breath and re-aimed. He had almost fired that shot. He would've hit the wall behind her and the whole thing would've been fucked up. He's never done that before, of course. He's a pro.
“Sir!” Moxxie hissed under his breath urgently.
“Shut. Up.” Blitzø gritted back, steadying his hand. A maid came down the stairs to the doors and a beam of light stretched from the foyer into the sitting room just as the target's brains painted the back wall. The Immediate Murder Professionals were out through that escape portal faster than the visiting nosey neighbors they had been warned about could inhale to scream.
“Great!” Moxxie hollered when they were back in the safety, or at least relative safety, of Hell. “That went just great! The client asked for discreteness and we blew a woman's brains out right in front of everyone! We didn't even get to hide the body or plant a gun to make it look self-inflicted! We could get in big trouble for this if-”
“Moxxie, if I have to tell you to shut up one more time today, I swear.” Blitzø didn't finish the threat. Sometimes it was better to keep Moxxie guessing. He set the rifle back on the rack where it belonged and scooped up an empty cardboard box from near the trash bin. He started hunting around the room, swiping a pile of paperclips off of Loona's desk as he passed. She didn't seem to care. Or notice.
“What are you doing?” Moxxie asked, clearly not heeding the warning he had just been dealt.
“What does it look like, dipshit?” Blitzø brandished the box with one hand and pointed at it with the other. “Care package.”
“Is that-” Moxxie took a deep breath, pinched that bridge between his eyes again and said, “Is that really the priority right now? Shouldn't we call the client and break the news?”
“Oh what a great idea! You handle it. I'm going into my office. If you need me, tough shit.” He locked the door behind him. It was about time he got some peace and quiet so he could brainstorm.
The first thing he grabbed after setting the box on his desk was the biggest sharpie he could find. He wrote 'To: Stolas' and then 'IMP' in big letters on the front of the box. Because this was still a care package from the company, even if M&M weren't going to help. It wasn't from just Blitzø. It was a formal acknowledgement that they were unhappy when their business partner was unwell or something like that. So that they could maintain good relations and keep using the book. Nothing more than that. In fact, he circled IMP with the marker, just to emphasize it.
That important detail dealt with, Blitzø tilted the box and peaked inside. The loose paperclips rattled against the bottom of the cardboard. He nodded and decided to keep them in there. Birds like shiny things right? Yeah, it was fine. But they were, at best, just filler. He needed something with more weight to it.
Blitzø didn't get sick very often which worked out great because when he did, no one really cared. No one sat by his bedside and spoon fed him soup or made sure he took medicine. At least, not in a very long time. Which was fair. He dealt with illness the same way he dealt with every other problem he's ever had: pretend it wasn't happening and move on. Worked great for him, but it also meant that he was at a loss for what to give a person who actually took care of their body and tried to heal when they were sick. He would just have to wing it.
He opened the drawer to his desk, shuffling through all the super cool stuff he kept in there (too cool to be appreciated while sick) and finally stumbled upon one a dvd of the best thing humans ever made. Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron. This was his work copy. There wasn't a dvd player at work, but he had a copy of Spirit in pretty much every room he regularly spent time in, in case of emergencies. Well, this was as good an emergency as ever. Spirit was, among many things, a great 'comfort movie'. He could replace the work copy. Into the care package it went, nestled in a bed of paper clips.
Blitzø spent the rest of his day tearing his office apart looking for anything else he could send to Stolas. He considered one of the lemons from the little tree he kept in the corner but those lemons were explicitly NOT for whores so he left them in tact. There was nothing else. It was time to take the search elsewhere. He fired off a reply to Stolas's original post and headed into the meeting room to announce that I.M.P. was closing early (a motion Moxxie didn't even fight him on - something about getting the hell out of dodge before the client showed up to submit his angry yelp review in person).
After dropping off M&M and speeding back home, Blitzø was on the search again. Any other home would be filled with things to help someone get through a cold. His, not so much. But it had to be more fruitful than the office. Of course, now it was starting to get dark and Stolas was expecting something because Blitzø had replied to his post. What a dumb idea that had been. The clock was ticking.
Loona went straight to her room and shut the door, and normally he would pester her about, well anything he could think of, but this time he was grateful. Because he was stealing some of the candles she had around the apartment for the box. Stolas was the kind of guy who always had like 10 or 20 candles going at any given moment in whichever room he was in, so he had plenty already. But if there was one thing Blitzø knew about candle people it's that they always needed more candles.
One roll of toilet paper later and Blitzø was once again at a dead end. Maybe Millie was right about the gap between what imps and Goetia needed when they were sick. Most of the stuff he had in his apartment just seemed… wrong. Too specific to Blitzø as a person. Except for Spirit, because that was a perfect movie that everyone would love, it was like a catch-all recommendation - but he already had a copy of that in the box. He needed at least one more halfway decent thing that anyone, regardless of status or heritage, could use when they were sick. Because four items was a half assed care package, but five was a professional business transaction.
Blitzø found himself in the kitchen and frowned. He didn't really want to include anything perishable and everything he had in the fridge was pretty much perished anyway. But it was true that everyone had to eat. Just something to show that I.M.P. had considered that if he ate he might feel better and they wanted to encourage that behavior should suffice. Blitzø went to the silverware drawer and grabbed the first fork he found (maybe the only clean fork in the whole apartment) and tossed it into the care package. Perfect. He wrote a little note (once again emphasizing that this package was from I.M.P. and NOT Just Blitzø) and snapped a picture for sinstagram. Time for delivery.
Even if he didn't consider how much money it would cost, the mail system in Hell was a joke so naturally Blitzø had to deliver the care package himself. He picked up a brick near his apartment and drove to Stolas's. He wasn't going to enter the room with all the sick germs, but he could at least make sure the package made it to its final destination properly. This was official I.M.P. business. He couldn't half ass it. It had nothing to do with the fact that he might be able to glimpse Stolas, to see that he was still alive in there from a distance. Nothing at all.
There was a loud crash when the care package broke through the window of Stolas's balcony and a little hoot of surprise. Blitzø didn't stick around for a second longer. With an uncomfortable heat in his gut, he slammed his foot on the gas and tore out of Stolas's drive way again, speeding (not fleeing, never fleeing) into the night.
—Many Full Moons Later—
Blitzø slipped out of bed and grabbed the first article of clothing he could find, pulling it over his horns delicately. It hung low past his knees, so he picked at it to briefly observe that it was definitely not his shirt. He looked over his shoulder at the softly hooting, slumbering prince in the bed behind him and felt his stomach twist into little knots. Knots that maybe once, a long time ago, he would have shied away from, denied and vehemently repressed. Now he embraced them, let the tingly warm feeling shoot through his veins and wake up his mind. Stolas was his, and so was everything he owned. Including this stupid shirt that said 'Well Owl Be!' on it. But Blitzø did make an effort to find his own boxers, at least.
He trudged down the hall to the kitchen without a care in the world. Stolas's bitch ex-wife was long gone and the staff... Well a couple of them were still kind of warming up to the idea of Blitzø being around in the capacity that he was now, but they were getting used to it. Also he didn't really care what they thought, some of them were huge fucking prudes. There was only one other person in the palace that still sometimes caught him off guard, and of course that's who was standing in the kitchen pulling a jug of milk out of the fridge just as he entered. Just his luck. It was too early for this.
"Heeey, Octavia," Blitzø said, still not confident that that was the right name he should use for her or not. Was it too formal? Not formal enough? "Sleep well?"
"Oh, hey, you, uh, I guess?" Octavia stood up straight, hesitated, closed the fridge door an awkward length of time later and shuffled to the table without her cereal which she then had to backtrack for. She was just as spooked seeing him as he was seeing her apparently.
Blitzø stifled a sigh and went about finding something to drink. One day he would figure out how to talk to her, probably. Via was the same age Loona had been when he adopted her and he never felt weird around her. It was like all that parenting experience had just poof, vanished one day and he couldn't get it back for the life of him. The fact that he had literally wrecked the home Via lived in probably didn't help much either.
They shared the kitchen space in awkward silence while Blitzø made some coffee and toast. He reached for the silverware drawer to get a butter knife and paused. He'd spent a lot of nights here and knew his way around pretty well. This wasn't his first time using the kitchen on his own. And yet he had somehow never noticed that one of the forks was wrong. All of Stolas's silverware was from the same set. They all had matching ornate etchings of vines at the top and slotted together perfectly. But there was one fork, just a fork, that was different from the rest. It was dull, didn't fit into the stack neatly, and had a very plain fake silver handle. Blitzø recognized it immediately because it was just like all of his forks at home.
He lifted it out of the drawer, half in wonder, and Octavia cleared her throat from the breakfast nook across the room. "Oh you better be careful with that," she said in a dry tone. "That's Dad's favorite fork."
"His favorite fork?" Blitzø repeated, disbelieving. "No one has a favorite fork. That's weird."
Octavia kind of grinned at that and said, "Yeah, he's a pretty weird guy. But, I dunno, he's also very... passionate? He doesn't have a lot of stuff that he truly treasures, but the things he does have he takes very good care of. So, yeah, just be careful with the fork, okay?"
"Right," Blitzø agreed. Then added as an afterthought, "Thanks."
Overwhelmed with feelings all of a sudden, Blitzø revisited the fridge to locate eggs and some kind of meat. He threw everything into a pan and started frying. Octavia helped him find a little tray hidden in the back of a cabinet. And when he sat the fork lovingly off to the side of the plate he had made, she gave him a thumbs up. Blitzø's eyes shimmered. Was this... progress?
It had to be the ugliest breakfast anyone had ever made. The yolks were broken, the mice were burnt, the coffee had weird floating bits in it. But when Blitzø returned to the room and gently sat it on Stolas's lap before attacking him with a flurry of kisses, he acted like it was the best thing he'd ever eaten. Because whether it was a bad care package thrown through his window or a ruined breakfast in bed, Stolas treasured the things Blitzø did for him. And Blitzø would treasure Stolas, in sickness and in health, for as long as he was allowed.