Chapter Text
Hound thinks he’s a simple man, and simple men like simple things.
What do simple men like? A roof over their head, warm food on the table, a nice bed to sleep on, maybe some money on the side for the occasional splurge. Very simple things. Very easily achievable things.
Unfortunately, Hound is not a simple man. Well, he is if you’d ignore the part where he’s an ex-soldier and detective. Other than that he’s very simple.
Just like the way he takes care of his targets. He’s standing over some son of a bitch he doesn’t know. Something about trafficking, probably stepped on a couple of toes if the bounty on his head was this high.
The guy’s barely struggling anymore, a twitch of a finger – maybe. It was a quick stab and twist in the neck, then the poor bastard flopped over with barely anything but a gurgle. See? Very simple.
There’s some blood in his hands, if the drying, clingy feeling is anything to go by.
That’s fine.
What matters is he’s going to that little pub by the corner of his street, the one with the kid working as the cashier, have a warm meal, go home, and have a happy one and a half months of peace before he gets antsy at doing nothing and goes looking for another neck to stab.
Leaving the scene will be relatively easy, since getting out of a six floor building is practically nothing. This one may as well be a speck of dust compared to his higher paying bounties.
Not that many guards patrolling the outside, a sleeping target, not even a dog to guard him, and their building isn’t even in the more densely populated spots of this city. Really, he’s questioning why anyone would offer such a large sum of money for some guy who doesn’t even lock the doors of his office.
In the end, the mission’s done. His client can feel scammed all they want, he did his job. He’s not some financial advisor. Forty grand is forty grand. He’s going to buy himself a nice machete.
Then he hears something.
It’s very faint, if he hadn’t honed his senses from all those years in the military, he could’ve missed it.
He’s still holding his kukri, with the blood dried all over the handle. It’s tacky, sticky. There’s a dagger he feels for that’s hidden under his sleeve as he turns from the body to the door.
And it’s –
It’s a man. Wearing one of the gaudiest shit he’s ever seen, with the shittiest looking grin too. Lip curled and showing off that one singular, golden tooth he’s got that matches the rest of his outfit. Got a tiny pair of shades that Hound’s pretty sure serves no actual purpose. To top it all off, he’s leaning on the door with some fuckass top hat with a head lamp.
And a mole.
There’s a fucking mole on his shoulder.
Hound may have made a face.
Then immediately falls into stance. There’s a witness and he hasn’t left the building. Right. Two bodies wasn’t exactly his plan, but it’s better safe than someone leaking his identity after successfully being a faceless name for years.
But top hat doesn’t even look fazed. He smirks even, making Hound feel like he’s overreacting somehow, like he shouldn’t be on edge that an absolute stranger managed to sneak up on him. “Good job,” is what the guy says.
Hound makes another face. The man chuckles.
Good job? What’s he supposed to do? ‘Thank you I worked really hard on killing that guy’? or ‘Don’t mention it, I was just doing my job’? Are you supposed to say ‘good job’ to a guy who so obviously just killed a man? Is this a rich people thing?
Well - he assumes the fucker’s rich. There’s gold and silver bedazzled all over his outfit. He’s even clacking his golden - fucking golden - claws like its a fidget toy. A constant tak tak tak filling the air while Hound just. Hound stares .
For all that Hound can shit talk strangers, this time he just nods dumbly. “Sure,” he says, so lamely, because he’s a hitman and not a salesperson. Why is this guy, covered in gold and silver and a gaudy little brooch, waltzing into a dead man’s office?
While he’s questioning how this guy and his mole is barely fazed with the body in front of them or the killer that’s also in the same area, top hat starts walking. Top hat starts walking towards him.
It’s more of a saunter. Slow, lazy steps as he stares down Hound. It’s like he owns this shitty building and the shitty guards. He must’ve, cause his smile matches everything else here. Top hat steps on the drying pool of blood on the ground, on the body’s left hand, and Hound hears a crunch that he shouldn’t wince at.
“Take one more step and I’ll kill you.” He says, and this time points his kukri at the stranger. “I’ll kill you even if you don’t, actually. You can choose either taking one more step and I stab your face, or turn around and I go for your nape.”
Top hat smiles at him, with teeth, a full set of sharp pearly whites and a single gold tooth. “If ya do, ya won’t get your pay.” he quips, then takes not one step forward, but a whole bunch till Hound has to crane his neck up at the difference in height.
“It’s an honour to meet ya, Hound.” he practically purrs, clearly too happy at the fact that Hound is looking up at him. “Finally got a chance to meet ya all up close n’ personal. Been a big fan of ya n’ all ya works for years now.”
Hound stares, and stares more. He’s not a talker, and this guy decided that when he’s finally all up close and personal to a hitman is when he’ll start talking like he’s in a bar on a normal Tuesday night.
“Okay,” he says, again very lamely, but clearly top hat doesn’t mind, grinning a lot more than he should. This is the guy who paid him forty grand to kill a nobody? Honestly he’s starting to believe that this would’ve made more sense if top hat was just some petty rich guy.
Top hat’s still looking at him, still smiling and from the corner of his eye, he sees the man clacking the golden claws on his hands. Alright, so this guy just has too much money to spare. He’s desperately trying to make the bounty make sense in his head.
“Pretty,”
The moment the golden claws make a move to his face, Hound swings. He swings fast and quick. He aims to slash into both of the man’s eyes, but his wrist gets caught just shy of the fucker’s temple.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Top hat waves a claw at him, like he’s scolding a child instead of a murderer that was about to blind him in both eyes. “Can’t I appreciate a pup when I see one?”
“Excuse me?” He growls, brows furrowing and maybe forty grand isn’t even that great anyway. He’d rather kill this son of a bitch, sell his shitty outfit and tooth, then buy himself a really good dinner.
But the fucker is blind to hostility, because all he does is coo at Hound while he catches the other hand with the concealed blade.
It was supposed to go low and stab him in the gut, but instead top hat yanks the blade off and tosses it to some corner of the room, grabbing the hand again just to run his claws over the knuckles and why the fuck can’t he pull out of this guy’s grip. Jesus, it’s like he's trying to yank his hands out of solid steel .
Fucking Christ. What the fuck.
He must’ve voiced out some of his choice words, because top hat smirks down at him. “I did say I was a fan,” then he sighs, “Can’t a man catch a break? I just wanna admire ya. Didn’t know the Hound was this cute.”
“I don’t care. Who the fuck are you?”
“Why should I?”
“If you know my name, shouldn’t I know yours?”
“It’s Mole,” and Hound’s entire being drops.
He stares straight at top hat, hoping he’s just making a really shitty excuse right now to try and feel him up and get away scot-free. Top hat smirks at him. The wide, shit-eating grin he had earlier calmed and settled for something more like lazy confidence.
No way.
No fucking way.
Hound thinks he’s a simple man, but simple men don’t end up in a scenario where they’re currently stuck with, say, oh, one of the big shots of the Underground.
Mole is a big name to just randomly drop in a conversation. That’s like dropping the client’s wife that they’ve never mentioned to you, then next thing you know you’re blacklisted then shot dead on a random Thursday night.
These guys are big, they’re big big. Hound is not one to dabble around with this type of drama and look for the nearest boot to lick, but Mole’s one of the few big shots whose even got a good chunk of the authorities wrapped around his finger. A lot of people would do anything to get on this guy’s good side even if it doesn’t guarantee absolute safety. He’s rich, he’s greedy, he’s exactly like a mole who’d sell out people on his side if it means he gets the upper hand.
Maybe he should’ve ditched this mission from the start.
“I mean,” the guy drawls, pulling Hound out of his thoughts. The claws running along the hitman’s knuckles moved up to his wrist, circling the pulse there almost tenderly. “Who’d ya think has been givin’ ya all these missions, puppy? Been makin’ sure no one steals it from ya too.”
When Hound makes no move to pull away, he pushes further, leaning closer till the hitman’s back bumps into the office table.
“Ain’t I a sweetheart?”
Then it’s all the scent of gunpowder, smoke and money . It’s all just the smell of vices and greed and sin and it makes his nose twitch and his head spin. There’s even the scent of cologne, the expensive stuff he knows would eat a year and a half of his rent.
Bastard. With a hiss, he stomps on the ugly, shiny shoes too close to his own, and shoves the fancy suit jacket away. The shock gives him the window to yank his hands out of the stupid iron grip.
“What do you want?” he snarls, readjusting his grip on his kukri and points it right below the stupid brooch. “And I’m not some pup . Stop calling me that.” he adds as he pushes the blade just a bit harder, but not enough to kill.
He’s not stupid, stabbing the Mole out of all people would be a death sentence. As much as he’d like that with how this guy’s been irking him, he’d rather not walk out with a target on his back.
Mole probably knows that. Of course he would, because he doesn’t even step back to alleviate the pressure. He’s all smirks and chuckles and flutters his eyes at him like Hound just told him the sweetest thing a man could say.
“Isn’t it obvious, pup?”
In a blink, the man grabs his wrist holding the kukri again. The grip isn’t crushing, but it isn’t gentle either. It’s something in the middle with how he pushes the knife away from his brooch.
“I wanna have you,”
Hound blinks at him. Once. Twice. And when it's obvious that it isn’t a joke, he growls again. “I am not some thing to fucking have. ”
But Mole tuts at him – bull shit he does, because this time he drops his kukri in a messy clang and swings with his other arm. Quick, hard, straight into that motherfucker’s cheek .
The mole on the man’s shoulder jumps in shock and shuffles to some corner of the room, he doesn’t really care. What matters is that he has two of his hands free, and if Mole has a gun on him then Hound’s going to make sure the son of a bitch walks out with at least a smashed nose and like, four broken ribs.
“Oh,” is all Mole says when he recovers, then he turns to the side to spit some blood in his mouth. Good.
Serves him right. Son of a bitch.
“Right, ya probably haven’t been trained that well.” Is all he says, then he’s pulling out a gun.
It’s as gaudy as the rest of his outfit, and Hound for a moment genuinely thinks that it’s a ruse because of it. But then Mole starts loading the barrel of it right in front of him like he expects the hitman to just watch him.
He does.
“Ya didn’t let me finish my sentence,” He scolds, airy and disappointed, clicking his tongue like an upset owner. The gun clicks its safety off, and he doesn’t point it at Hound immediately, but he does keep it in Hound’s sights as he speaks.
“Now I don’t go ‘round scarin’ off opportunities, but not everyday do they punch me in the face, yeah?” he says, and it’s a stark contrast from all his purring earlier. It’s flat, a deadpan that morphs back to that gleeful tone when the hitman meets his gaze. “I think we can still kiss it better though, like right here.” and he pats his cheek.
Hound clicks his tongue.
Mole ignores that and pushes on. “Now, when I said I wanna have ya, before ya so rudely cut me off.” He gives him a look, like he’s shaming him for ever entertaining the thought of punching him. “I wanna have ya as my bodyguard.”
“And why should I agree?”
The man grins at him, full set of teeth again. It’s like Hound just told him a really bad joke. “Oh puppy, I’ve got this whole place surrounded.” And he’s back to cooing when he sees Hound visibly put his arms down.
He really is in a shitty spot.
Punching him was worth it though.
“Especially with that lil’ stunt you did? Very cute, but now I’m really not lettin’ ya go.” Mole huffs, and the gun’s still in his hand. “If ya wanna show that ‘cha really, really sorry, ya can take up my offer and I don’t shoot ya in between those pretty lil’ eyes of yours, then feed ya to the dogs down the street.”
Man. He really shouldn’t have taken this job.
“Shoot me.”
“Mmh?”
“I’d rather die,” Hound spits out enough venom to kill a normal man. Mole thrives in it. “So what? Oh, you’ve got men ready to shoot me. I’m so intimidated. I’m going to say yes just to stay alive.” He rolls his eyes, “Give me a break.” and he’s got half a mind to move away from the office table, but Mole stops him with an arm.
The man sighs, “Ya takin’ me for a liar?”
“I punched you.”
“That ya did, yeah.” And Mole instinctively runs his tongue through his teeth, as if checking if there’s any blood he hasn’t spat out yet.
He eyes the gun in the man’s hand. The shiny gold accents wink at him almost mockingly as he glances back at Mole. “You’re gonna shoot me once you’ve bought my loyalty. You’re gonna send me on a suicide mission. You’re going to get me killed on purpose for this.” Then he goes the other way that’s not blocked by this son of a bitch.
Mole stops him with his other arm too. The gun’s barrel presses right up his side.
“Oooh, ya really makin’ this all complicated ‘n ya head, huh puppy?” He’s all happy again and shit. Wow he really should’ve stabbed him when he had the chance. Dying be damned, at least this fucker’s going down with him. “What am I supposed to do with ya? You’re all scared n’ shit. It’s kinda cute.”
He looks everywhere but this motherfucker in front of him. It doesn’t help that Mole towers over him, even if it’s barely anything. Hound would still be craning his head up at him, and he’s not going to be doing that for this guy at all.
He settles for the blood that’s dried on the floor behind Mole’s boots. It’s soaked into the floor, seeped into the wood, and whoever’s gonna clean that isn’t going to be happy at all.
“C’mon, look at me.”
Golden claws slowly trail up his sleeve, and when he makes no move to fight against it, Mole grabs him by the chin. “Up, up. Look at me when I talk to ya, c’mon.”
He does, albeit begrudgingly, and he purposely does it as slow as possible. This motherfucker may have him pinned both literally and literally , but he still has some sort of dignity.
When Hound finally meets his eyes, Mole rubs his cheek with a claw, like a reward. “Aww, good boy.” He ignores how that makes him feel, and rolls his eyes so hard that Mole laughs. “Now remember when I said I was a big fan of ya?”
“I was serious ya know,” He whispers, almost like a secret. “I was serious when I said I’ve been makin’ sure ya been the one gettin’ all my missions too.” he adds, and the claw trails up, up to the badly stitched cut under his eye. “I know talent when I see one, n’ I ain’t lettin’ some puppy like you waste it all on jus’ killin’ some whoever whatever fuckass nobody when ya coulda been workin’ for someone like me. ”
What, so this guy’s just been hoping that the same faceless mercenary would keep taking his missions for years, then one day decides “I should go see the guy who's perfectly capable of killing highly protected people like me!”
“Insane.”
“Opportunist,” he purrs back, and Hound jumps when he digs his claw the slightest bit into the cut. “I’ll put a nice roof over ya head. I’ll pay ya handsomely.” He leans right into Hound’s ear to whisper the next one. “I’ll make sure no dickhead double-crosses ya ever again .”
That makes his breath hitch. “What are you – ”
“I’m a fan, Hound. I’m a big fan.” He says almost passionately, reverently. Hound can’t look at him head on anymore, but Mole forces his chin back whenever he tries to look away. “Hide all ya want puppy, I’ve got eyes everywhere , and I’ve been watchin’ ya for a long time.”
For once in his life, the hitman is speechless. He opens his mouth to quip something, anything, but no sound comes out and he shuts up. Mole is too pleased, too happy with the sight that he takes Hound’s silence as a green light to keep talking.
“Yer so cute,” he hums, twisting Hound’s face this way and that. “Ooooh, I knew ya’d be a nice lil’ looker. I’ve been payin’ ya so well these past years too.” He sighs, dreamy and warm like he’s talking to his lover he hasn’t seen in forever. “Workin’ for me ain’t gonna be no differen’ from ya usual, ‘cept of course for the fact that ya’d be followin’ me. Wouldn’t that be nice, puppy?”
Hound glares at him as hard as he can given his current situation. “What the fuck is wrong with you.” he doesn’t ask, he hisses. He knows there’s something definitely wrong with this guy. Sure big name and all, but god it’d be nice if he wasn’t some psycho.
But it’s not like he’s struggling to escape, or headbutt this guy so hard he breaks his nose. So really, who’s he to complain?
“I just want ya to be mine, puppy. I’ll even forgive ya for that lil’ lovetap ya did earlier.” he sings, and he’s pulling Hound closer by his chin.
Readjusting his grip to squish what little fat the hitman has on his cheeks, Mole brings him closer to his own face while he talks. “All ya gotta do is say ‘Yes, I’ll work for ya, sir’. Now ain’t that so easy?”
No it isn’t , not at all. The advantage of working as a mercenary is that you can hide when you want to. You can do whatever the fuck you want when you aren’t taking jobs. And they don’t have anything to connect you with if you just work for whoever has the money to buy your service.
But working under someone like Mole would limit him. He’s going to get tangled into some war he didn’t sign up for, like what happened between True Proof and Phyllis’ little misunderstanding that caused more than a handful of men on both sides.
He should know, he saw the aftermath. Heck, he dumped some targets there before the clean-up crew could arrive. Helps cover up his tracks easier when people think they just got caught in a big crossfire.
But then again, if Mole’s managed to get some guys to do a background check on him without Hound even realising, he can’t guarantee his own safety if he goes back to working solo again. Man, this is exactly why he fucking hates getting caught in this type of dumpsterfire.
Suddenly everyone’s got dirt on everyone, except him. Because Hound doesn’t talk to people even if it’d kill him. His ma was right, he really should learn how to talk to people.
Christ, this is so stupid.
But Mole is dumb, and he doesn’t see how the hitman’s currently having an intense debate in his head right now. He does, however, loosen his hold on Hound’s face. His claws trail from the scar, to the man’s cheek, then down to his adam's apple to his tie when Hound doesn’t speak.
The thin, pinprick of pain pulls him out of it, and he swallows after a minute.
“Okay,”
“Mmh?”
The claws rise back up, nicks his adam’s apple and grabs his chin. And Mole’s staring at him, forcing him to meet his eyes again because of course he would. There’s nothing but pitch black greed behind them, and Hound scowls.
“Can ya repeat that? Didn’t quite hear it.” he chuckles, then he’s staring down Hound again like it’s the only thing he ever learned doing. “A lil’ deaf here. Speak up a bit, can ya?” then his lip curls into a smile.
Son of a bitch.
He grumbles, “Yes, I’ll work for you.” Then he stops and diverts his gaze to the cabinet behind the man. The claws pull him back in with a quick snap.
Mole quirks a brow, eyes crinkling. He’s expecting something to follow.
Hound sighs. “Sir.”
And Mole fucking preens , like it’s a shot of ecstacy right up his spine and Hound feels more than hears the gun clatter on the ground. The man leans in so close that they’re practically sharing the same air.
The height never helped, in fact its fucking him over so bad right now. Hound’s taken down men twice his size and width, but this crazy son of a bitch waltzes in with all his fuckass glinting gold and shiny silver, his stupid cologne and those claws that make the hitman feel so small.
Hound isn’t a simple man, because simple men don’t go warm all over while being this close to a psycho.
“Good boy.”