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As it turns out, it's pretty cold underground. Well, it's no more colder than the streets of St. Louis in early February when your coat's seen better days (or better decades) so Rocky only notes the slight chill absently as he follows his new band leader through the tunnels of the Lackadaisy.
"From the hatch in garage, the path through can be a little tricky," the angular cat drawls past the cigarette between his lips. "Especially for a newbie like you. I tend to just follow the left wall until I bump into something familiar. Works like, seven out of times out of ten."
Rocky nodded along in interest, one hand swinging his violin case and the other dragging along the limestone cavern wall. "Clever, clever. But! What if we were to be heading in the opposite direction? Is the Left Wall of Ariadne method the way to go in that situation, sir?"
Dorian Zibowski eyed his new violinist over his shoulder with a questioning eyebrow and shrugged. "You'll figure it out, kid."
The Left Wall of Ariadne proves effective this time as Zib lead him to a set of heavy double doors. Rocky's eyes widened to take in the sight before him: a vast ballroom-sized venue dotted with lounge chairs and tables, with a pool table on one side of the room and a fully-stocked bar on the other. The pièce de résistance was the stage at the end of the room. Framed by velvety red curtains was a raised platform of polished, shining wood beneath idly sitting instruments ranging from a lightweight trumpet to a grand piano. Rocky's eyes sparkled like the squeaky clean floors of the stage as he took in the sight. He was gonna play here ?
"Sweet syrup symphonies!" he gasped, clutching his violin case tighter. "This is leagues above playing for the ducks in Tower Grove!"
"Yup, it's real great," muttered Zib, smoke spilling from his lips as he spoke. Rocky couldn't understand the band leader's nonchalance in the face of the absolute decadence surrounding them. Then again, this Zib character seemed the cynical type, anyway. "Anyway, the band's off doing. . . stuff. Somewhere. You'll meet them later. As of the rest of the Lackadaisy crew, you'll meet them as the night goes on. You met Mitzi and Mr. May already. . ."
Zib's words tune out of Rocky's ears as he busies himself to bask in the grandeur of the space. In his excitement, he failed to notice that there was a smattering of people milling about the otherwise empty gin joint. Co-workers he was soon to meet bustled here and there, straightening tables and furniture, sweeping the dance floor, and wiping down the bar.
At the other end of the room, another door opened to reveal a smartly dressed gentleman carrying a cane in one hand. Rocky immediately perked up at the sight of Mr. Atlas May. The man who only hours ago strolled by with his charming wife on his arm and offered Rocky a job, never mind the fact that Rocky was dressed in a patchwork coat and pigeon feathers, busking in front of a municipal building whose staff were surely close to chasing him off for "disturbing the peace" or something.
He was about to call out a hello when Atlas was followed into the speakeasy by a pair of men, both dour-looking and intimidating in their own right. There was a tall and broad man bearing an eyepatch like some kind of henchman from a movie thriller but somehow scarier. His fur was russet colored and thick, making him look even bigger and more imposing. The man looked like he'd seen his fair share of brawls and emerged victorious from everyone of them.
Rocky knew what speakeasies were before he took up Mr. May's offer. He knew this illegal business required some. . . force and "clean up" to protect the business and keep feds from sniffing around as well as fending off rival gangs. That's what this business was, really, a gang. And Rocky was now a part of that gang. In a small way, sure, but seeing physical proof of the more violent part of this line of work was a grim reminder of what he's gotten himself into.
But it beat busking on street corners to afford another night at the cheapest, most rundown motel in the city.
Rocky was brought out of his train of thought as the second man came into view behind the broad man. The lean, dark figure standing in contrast to the warmly lit room caught Rocky's eye and he watched the stranger step in line beside Mr. May where the older man was sat at the bar. He admired the sleek tuxedo patterned fur from afar where he could just make out a pair of stern jade eyes behind rounded spectacles.
"Mr. Zibowski?" Rocky asked, cutting Zib off mid-sentence. Zib wasn't offended. He'd actually started listing off brands of liquor when he realized Rocky had zoned out, waiting for the kid to notice. "Who's that guy with Mr. May? The shorter one."
Zib tilted his hat up just enough to squint at the bar with unobstructed vision before letting it fall back over his eyes. "Mordecai? For your sake kid, you'll keep your distance from that guy. He's not as fond of poetry as you've shown me you are–– several times––and he'll blow your head off before you can finish a stanza. Actually, I remember this one time he broke some poor schmuck's finger for slinging an arm around his shoulder. Leslie didn't last long here after that. And then there was that time he threatened someone at knifepoint for scuffing up his shoes. . ."
Rocky had stopped listening again. He was too busy admiring Mordecai's features, angular and sharp like a knife's edge.
In his years of train-hopping and hitchhiking, Rocky had met many people, beautiful people whose visage held space in his mind for long after he'd departed. As he traced the straight line of Mordecai's shoulders with his eyes and hoped this job lasted him longer than a couple of months, Rocky knew this man would be one of those beautiful people he'd never forget.
As if he could feel the weight of Rocky's gaze on him, Mordecai's shoulders tensed with a flick of his right ear, and with a swift turn of his head those stern eyes were suddenly pinning Rocky in place. Rocky flinched in surprise, instinctively reaching for the hat on his head to hide behind like a shield.
Rocky quickly found that hats don't make great hiding spots as he could still glimpse Mordecai sizing him up from across the room. At a loss for what to do with the sudden attention, Rocky raised his hand to wave sheepishly at the other man.
Mordecai didn't reciprocate the friendly gesture. Those intense eyes merely glared at Rocky before the man returned his attention to Atlas and the other man.
Relief and disappointment both washed over Rocky with Mordecai's eyes off him.
Oh, right. Mr. Zibowski was saying something , Rocky remembered.
Turning his attention back to the band leader, Rocky was met with Zib's unimpressed face, hand propped on one hip in an impatient stance. Rocky got the feeling that Zib had witnessed that entire exchange, and he wondered if this awkward interaction would ruin his already strained first impression.
With a heavy sigh, Zib smacked Rocky lightly on his back, turning on his heel toward the stage. "I warned you, but hey, it's your funeral." He took a drag of his dwindling cigarette as he slinked up the stairs on one side of the stage. "You better at least give me a good performance before you piss off Mordecai Heller enough for him to kill you."
Mordecai Heller . Maybe he was forming a bias rather quickly, but that sounded like such an elegant name befitting an equally elegant man.
"Kid! You coming or what?"
"Sorry, Mr. Zibowski! I'm right behind ya!"
Rocky thought it would behoove him to just focus on doing his best for his first performance here. He'd focus on rehearsal and not some sudden infatuation on a man who he only knew the same of. He was not gonna let himself get distracted.
Rocky was distracted.
If he didn't have most of the songs in this set memorized by heart already, he would have definitely blown his shot of staying in the band at the first sight of a white-tipped black tail at the edge of his vision. Honestly he was rather impressed with how his fingers still danced with grace and precision over the neck of his violin without a so much as a stutter despite how often his gaze wandered to their audience.
Rocky had never been to a gin joint before. He had never partaken in the "devil's juice" as his aunt called it, but he had no plans to anyway lest he miss out on witnessing the splendor of the Lackadaisy in full swing. The cavernous room was lit with a warm glow by light fixtures that dotted the rocky walls. The dance floor was a sea of shimmering dresses and sharp suits, twirling and sashaying to the beat. Amongst the hundreds of bodies dancing in front of the stage and those having a calm drink at the bar or the tables, Rocky always manages to spot Mordecai.
It was becoming a problem. Every time Rocky so much as caught a glint of the tuxedo cat's glasses, his head would try and turn in that direction but he was able to quickly catch himself and refocus on playing.
This is your first day! Rocky chided himself mentally during a rest between songs. You can't mess this up before the first day even ends!
Halfway into the night, the band was allowed a short break before they were to finish the rest of the set. As most of the band left the stage and made a beeline to the bar, Rocky stepped away to fetch his violin case. The night was going pretty well, if he did say so himself. If he could keep up this momentum, he was sure to secure himself a place in this establishment. A less than legal establishment, to be sure––but hey, if it meant he didn't have to busk on street corners for his next meal then what did he care?
As he ran rosin along his bowstring, Rocky looked up in time to catch Atlas May waving toward the stage from the center table in the lounge area. Rocky looked behind himself, thinking Atlas was trying to get Zib's or one of the other band members' attention but he found no one there. Rocky turned back around and pointed uncertainly at himself. He watched Atlas chuckle in what Rocky hoped was amusement, and the man nodded.
At his table seated on his right side was the beautiful Mrs. Mitzi May, making idle chatter with another woman sat at their table. Perhaps the wife of one of Atlas's business partners, Rocky thought. He also saw the tall, russet-furred man from earlier that day approach Mr. May's table as if he'd also been called over. He wore a displeased frown, as if he'd been called upon while he was in the middle of a task that he would much rather be doing.
Rocky didn't know what Mr. May could possibly want from him but he wasn't going to keep his new boss waiting.
Slipping off the stage was the easy part, navigating through a dance floor full of tipsy patrons was less so.
"Excuse me, coming through. Pardon me, sir. Excuse me." Rocky weaved through the mass of bodies with relative ease, only bumping elbows here and there and stepping on one guy's shoe.
Partway through the crowd, Rocky glimpsed a glint of light reflecting off of glasses once again. There was Mordecai, striding into place at Mr. May's left side like a guard poised at attention. It may have been his imagination, but the lights of the Lackadaisy seemed to encase the dark-furred man, haloing him in golden light.
Attention affixed to Mordecai and nothing else, Rocky didn't see the woman holding a tray of drinks crossing his path until the tray smashed into his chest and cold liquor seeped into his fur through his shirt.
"Oh God!" Rocky yelped, both at bumping into the woman and at the sudden shock of cold. "Oh raspberries, I'm so sorry! I'm, uh, I'm gonna go––sorry again!" He could hear the woman growl out a curse as he made a quick escape, weaving through people at a quicker pace.
Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! Rocky scolded himself as he pushed onward, grimacing at what he just did. Mordecai probably saw you make a mess of yourself–– Rocky chanced a glance at Mr. May's table to see the disapproving downturn of Mordecai’s mouth–– HE SAW. God, you've already embarassed yourself in front of the guy and you haven't even properly met him!
Rocky's mental self-berating takes him all the way to the Mays' table where Atlas wordlessly hands him a napkin which Rocky takes with a strained laugh and a grateful nod.
"Rocky, honey," Mitzi lowered her cigarette to give Rocky a proper once-over now that he was closer, "you alright there?"
"Just a little traffic accident, Mrs. M," Rocky assured, plastering a toothy grin on his face. "I've been through worse." He dabbed at the large wet patches on his shirt under the scrutinizing gaze of the tall stranger and Mordecai, and he tried not to sweat lest he dampen his shirt even more.
"You sure know how to make an entrance, son," Atlas told him, a hint of mirth in his expression that relaxed Rocky slightly. "I called you over to introduce you to two of my most valuable men. And friends, of course. You'll be seeing a lot of them from now on. They're quite integral to our fine establishment."
Atlas gestured to the broad, russet-furred man just behind him. "This here's Viktor Vasko; rum-runner, muscle, and occasional mechanic," he explains.
Discarding the napkin on the table, Rocky eagerly extended a hand to Viktor, hoping that if he just barreled on they could all move past the whole tray and drink fiasco. "Well hey there, Viktor. Pleasure to meet ya!"
Viktor regarded him with a scowl, but he eventually took Rocky's offered hand. And proceeded to crush it.
Rocky yelped, an undignified sound competing for Rocky's Most Embarrassing Moment of the Night. He yanked his hand away and shook it, as if he would shake off the pain.
"Wow!" Rocky laughed nervously, cradling his poor crushed hand to his chest. "That's, uh, that's quite a grip you got there, huh? Y'know, I-I knew a professional strongman some years back and his handshake was barely a squeeze compared to yours!"
Mitzi turned in her seat to frown at Viktor. "Viktor, I thought we agreed that you would be nice?"
The strong, older cat merely shrugged. When he spoke, his voice was a low, accented grumble. “Not my fault boy's hand is veak."
"Alright, alright," Atlas cuts in. "Moving on. This young man here is efficient in cleaning up messes in more than one sense. He's practically single-handedly run the financial side of both the cafe and the Lackadaisy for the last five years. Mordecai Heller."
For the second time that day, those stern green eyes landed on Rocky and pinned him in place. A thrilling shiver ran through Rocky right under his skin and it was all he could do not to collapse into a dazed heap on the floor under the weight of that gaze.
"Pleasure to meet you, Mordecai," Rocky greeted with only a slight shake in his voice––as a result of Mordecai's stunning visage or from the pain of his still aching hand, he couldn't be sure. "Sorry I didn't introduce myself earlier."
"You mean when you were ogling at me?" deadpanned Mordecai.
Rocky barked out a sudden, anxious laugh. He had really hoped he had been far away enough that Mordecai wouldn't have recognized him from that afternoon.
Oh well.
"Yeah!" Rocky said, a little too loudly. "That! Sorry about that––um, I'm Rocky."
He extended his hand to the tuxedo cat, but Mordecai merely looked down his nose at the damp fur of his hand and the sleeve stained dark with liquor.
"I'll have to decline," said Mordecai, "on account of my aversion to sticky fur, and whatever else is no doubt on your hands."
Rocky deflated in disappointment, but he quickly covered it up with a grin. "That's alright! I mean, I'm pretty sure Mr. Vasko broke my hand anyway so––"
"If the introductions are over, I'll be returning to my work now." But he’d turned away from Rocky, instead addressing Atlas over Rocky's shoulder.
At Atlas's nod, Mordecai muttered a half-hearted goodnight to no one in particular before turning on his heel and disappearing into the crowd.
With drooping ears, Rocky watched Mordecai’s retreating back until he was out of sight. He didn't even catch Viktor excusing himself to the bar with as little fanfare as Mordecai had.
A firm hand fell on Rocky's shoulder and he saw Atlas standing beside him and smiling in reassurance.
"They're a prickly pair to be sure, son, but don't mind them," Atlas told him. "They'll get used to you. Eventually."
Mordecai's immediate disregard of him made Rocky doubt Atlas's certainty. Then again, if Mordecai had worked closely with Atlas for five years and running, maybe his employer's confidence was warranted.
"HEY KID!" Rocky whipped around to see Zib standing at the end of the stage, hands cupped over his mouth to be heard over the sea of patrons. "YOU'RE BACK ON THE CLOCK. GET ON STAGE."
"Oh––OKAY! BE RIGHT THERE!" Rocky fixes a smile onto his face and nods to Atlas. "Thanks again for everything, Mr. May. I'm sure I'll win over Mordecai eventually. A-and Viktor too, of course. I'm off!" He tipped his hat to Atlas and his wife before traipsing away and weaving through dancers with much more care this time around.
He's not fully reassured that Mordecai will come around on him like Atlas claims, but Rocky Rickaby is nothing if not persistent.
It had been one day since his spontaneous employment, and Rocky quickly found there wasn't much to do outside of rehearsal. He was inclined to put quotation marks around the word rehearsal since it mostly consisted of Zib handing him a stack of sheet music to learn before the next day the Lackadaisy was to open. The band did run through a few songs as a group before Zib called it a day and the other band members decided to start a game of poker on the stage floor.
Rocky had been offered to join the game, but he had lost enough money in the past to know he was no good at cards and declined with a smile. Maybe the Little Daisy Cafe upstairs could use another set of helping hands?
Mrs. May did not forget the champagne incident last night, to Rocky's continued embarrassment, and decided that he wouldn't be a "good fit" as a waiter. He was pretty sure she phrased it in a much nicer way than she meant it. His declaration of "I could cook! Or, well, I could learn!" was met a strained smile and an admission that she'd heard a couple of the stories he'd shared with the band earlier about some of his mishaps involving open flames from previous jobs. Jobs that was promptly let go of soon after.
And so he settled for sitting at the bar and getting to know the young lady behind the counter and seemingly the only other employee of the cafe. Miss Ivy Pepper seemed to have as much to say as he did and he was glad to have a willing conversation partner for once. She was happy to tell him all about the goings ons of the Lackadaisy and the sort of "jobs" her godfather Mr. May went on. Her favorite topic was all the young rumrunners who came and mysteriously went from the Lackadaisy. She lamented how they always seemed to have to move on to the next town whenever she thought their flirtations were going somewhere.
"It's so weird," she said, idly wiping down the bar and ignoring the patron at one of the booths asking for more coffee, "they were always so trembly and sweaty the last time I saw any of them. Like they were afraid of breaking up with me. Me ! The sweetest, most understanding person in the world !" She punctured this statement by slamming the rag down on the countertop with such indignant ferocity that the cutlery and dish ware on the bartop shook.
Rocky made a quick grab to keep the syrup dispenser from falling over. "Quite a mystery, Miss Pepper," he chuckled nervously. With the syrup already in hand, he decided his pancakes were looking a little too dry again and tipped the dispenser downward.
"Why don't you ask Viktor, honey?" Mrs. May sauntered back from topping off the poor coffee-thirsty patron, coffee pot in her dainty hands. "I hear he likes to get to know your little suitors personally," she said with a conspiratorial lift to her manicured brows.
Ivy's ears perked up in alert. "Viktor? Why would he––OH MY GOD if he's been scaring boys away from me again I am telling Atlas on him I swear ––uh, don't you think that's enough syrup, Rocky?"
Rocky hummed in question as continued to circle the syrup dispenser over his stack of pancakes. "Oh, no, Miss Pepper! You can never have too much syrup! Why, that's like saying you could have too much sun!"
"You can," quipped Mrs. May from her place at the stove, "I believe t's called heatstroke, honey."
"Alright, bad example," Rocky acquiesced, "but I've always had a hearty helping of syrup on my flapjacks since I was a toddler and I've never had a syrup stroke."
Ivy raised a skeptical brow at him and leaned over the counter on crossed arms. "Sure, but you must've had cavities or something right?"
"Nope!" Rocky puffed his chest out proudly, and grinned toothily at her. "These chompers are next to perfect and as white as a precious pearl."
"Mhm," Ivy hummed, unimpressed. "Bet ya you can't chug that whole syrup dispenser."
Laughing excitedly, Rocky grasped the dispenser in hand once more. "Challenge accepted, Miss Pepper!"
To the sound of Ivy's chanting––"Chug! Chug! Chug!"––and Mrs. May's disapproving sigh, Rocky poured that sweet maple ambrosia down his gullet like his life depended on it.
As the last dregs of the dispenser poured into his mouth, a subtle shiver ran up Rocky's spine that compelled him to look to his left where he saw Mordecai standing a few feet away, watching him with alarmed fascination.
Dispenser still held over his head and mouth still wide open, Rocky's throat spasmed at Mordecai's sudden appearance and soon he was coughing up syrup all over the counter and himself.
This scenario was getting too familiar.
"Mord–– hack–– Mordecai! H-hey there! Hack! What––brings you here?" Rocky powered through nearly choking on syrup to lean against the bar nonchalantly, or at least the attempt was there. By the disgruntled look Mordecai was giving him, it wasn't working.
"I came to collect some receipts for the cafe's finances from Mitzi," Mordecai explained, squinting at the sticky mess that was now dripping onto the floor, lips pulled tight in a disgusted grimace. "I'll, uh, wait outside for those, Mitzi." Turning on his heel, Mordecai slipped back through the door to The Little Daisy.
Rocky watched Mordecai stand just in front of the long windows of the establishment, pointedly facing away from the inside. With a long suffering sigh, Rocky deflated like a punctured balloon in his barstool. How did he manage to embarrass himself in front of Mordecai again ? It hadn't even been a full day since the last time!
"Gee," Ivy leaned over the counter, carefully avoiding the splashes of syrup on its surface, to eye the rigid silhouette of the tuxedo cat outside. "I've never seen Mordecai enter a building and leave it so fast before. Then again, he hates messes."
Messes like me , thought Rocky, crumpling in on himself even further and groaning miserably.
"Speaking of messes," interjected Mrs. May as she rounded the counter, a stack of papers in her hands, "you better clean this up before the lunch rush starts. And refill the dispenser." She deftly maneuvered across the sticky patches on the floor en route to the door. "Better yet, just get a new dispenser."
The bell chimed with her departure. Rocky never thought the bell that tolled for his demise would sound so light and cheery.
"Mordecai's like that with everyone, don't worry about it too much." Rocky lifted his head from its slump to see Ivy running water over a rag at the kitchen sink. "I was like ten when I first met him and he could not stand being in the same room as a rambunctious child. I think he's kinda afraid of kids, the masters of messes that are. Sometimes I think he's still afraid of me ." She giggled, wringing water out of the rag. "So yeah. Don't take it personal."
"You don't understand, Miss Pepper!" bemoaned Rocky, bolting upright in his stool with despaired conviction. "This is the second time I've made a literal mess of myself in front of Mr. Heller! How am I supposed to get him to like me if I'm the thing he hates so much?!"
"Mordecai Heller hates a lot of things, Rocky." Ivy pursed her lips to the side of her mouth, regarding him. "Why exactly do you need him of all people to like you?"
"Because––um. . ." Rocky didn't have a good answer to that.
Why did he care so much what Mordecai Heller thought of him? Of course he wanted to get along with his coworkers (which didn't happen too often now that he thought of it) but why Mordecai specifically? Was Rocky just so enraptured by his mysterious beauty and the dangerous air about him that he simply needed to know more?
Something like that he supposes.
"Because I like a challenge!" Rocky grinned at her and hoped she didn't ask any further questions.
Ivy didn't seem particularly convinced, but she only shrugged and threw the wet rag in her hands at Rocky. His face caught it.
"Mordecai likes to have tea in the morning while he works," Ivy explained as she dug around inside a drawer for another cleaning rag. "If you help me clean up the mess that you made," she pointed an accusatory finger at him that he shrunk away from, "then I'll help you make the tea he likes and you can take it upstairs to him."
Rocky straightened his seat, his tail swishing behind him in excitement. "Really? Oh Miss Pepper, you're a gem!"
She giggled at the compliment, waving her hand coyly. "I am, aren't I? Now get cleaning, Rickaby." Her eyes flitted up and down his form and she frowned. "But you should probably clean yourself up first. The flies are starting to circle."
After scrubbing syrup off the floor and out of his fur, Rocky was armed with a tray laden with a mug of Earl Gray and a plate of biscuits half an hour later. Ivy had sent him off with directions to Mordecai's office upstairs and a mutter he thinks sounded a lot like "he's gonna get eaten alive," but he could've misheard it. Maybe it was more of a wish for good luck!
It took him longer than it should have to climb the stairs, trying to be extra careful not to spill a drop or a crumb of his precious cargo. There would be no way to recover if he managed to spill hot tea on himself. Or worse, on Mordecai .
Rocky shuddered at the very thought. He could kiss any chance of camaraderie with Mordecai if he allowed that to happen.
Straightening up and holding the tray with a sure grip, Rocky knocked a rhythm onto the smooth wood of Mordecai's office door.
Behind the door, Rocky heard the soft footfalls of fancy shoes on carpet and he bit his lip in excited anticipation. The door opened to reveal Mordecai, face neutral with a slight annoyed furrow to his white brows. At the sight of his unexpected visitor, his brows furrowed even further and his jade eyes narrowed in confused irritation. His ears pinned back against his scalp.
"Oh. . ." he said, keeping the door open only enough to allow a generous enough gap for Rocky to see his face. "It's you. Mr. . . Roark Rickaby, was it?"
Rocky wilted a little at the use of his full first name––God, he hated how it sounded––but he brushed past it to grin in what he hoped was a disarming manner. "Good morning, Mr Heller! And Rocky's just fine, by the way. Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot last night. And this morning."
"Believe me," Mordecai interjected, "my opinion of most people is indifference at best. Last night and today was barely made a difference on what I think of you, if that's what you've come here for. If that's all, you can leave now."
"Wait!" Rocky cried suddenly, startling Mordecai enough to keep him from shutting the door in his face. Rocky cleared his throat awkwardly and hefted the tray in his hands up into Mordecai's line of sight. "I brought you tea?"
Mordecai's narrowed eyes relaxed the slightest as he seemed to notice the tray for the first time. His ears flitted forward in interest. "Tea," he repeated. Rocky thought he sounded just a little puzzled.
Nevertheless, Rocky instantly brightened. "Yessir! Miss Pepper downstairs tells me you like a sip of tea while you work in the morning and I, uh, noticed you didn't have the chance to get one earlier. Because I spit up syrup everywhere."
"Yes. I remember that." Mordecai's tone indicated that he would much rather not remember that.
"Heh. Well. I thought, since it was my fault, that I would take the time to bring your tea up for you!"
Rocky motioned the tray closer to Mordecai, who eyed the tray and its contents with distrust.
"It's not just a mug of hot syrup is it?" he asked in all seriousness. Rocky didn't know whether to take it as sarcasm or not. "I bore witness to your, ah, unique tastes earlier, so forgive me if I'm a tad hesitant."
"Oh no, no!" Rocky chuckled, remembering to balance the tray in a steady grip through his laughter. "Just good ol' Earl Grey here! But! I often sweeten my morning coffee with syrup, if you can believe that––"
"I can."
"––and if you want, we can try it with your tea next time! I tell ya, the taste is transcendent ––"
"No. Thank you for the tea."
In one quick, graceful movement, Mordecai took the tray from Rocky's hands and shut the door in his face with the toe of his shoe and Rocky was left in the empty hallway, alone once again. He stood there even as Mordecai's soft footsteps disappeared further in to the room, dumbstruck. Slowly, a smile spread across his face and he quietly pumped his fist in air in celebration.
Mordecai took the tea! He said thank you !
That was more than Rocky could have ever hoped for from this interaction. He owed Ivy so much more than scrubbing syrup off floor tiles and leather seats for this little miracle!
Rocky rode his high long into the night that evening, playing his fiddle onstage with more vigor and grandiose flair than the night before. When his eyes inevitably found Mordecai that night, standing at his post by Atlas' side, Rocky wasn't met with an annoyed sneer. Instead the tuxedo cat's face was more relaxed than Rocky remembered seeing him the night before. When Mordecai met his eyes through the crowd, he nodded in acknowledgement and Rocky nearly tripped over his own feet on stage.
And thus began Rocky's long and fruitful journey to befriend Mordecai Heller.