Work Text:
It was a quiet day at work. Peaceful, with a steady flow of customers that knew not to make a fuss. There wasn't a single rowdy drunk who couldn't pay up or itching for a fight.
He really should've known better than to expect it to continue.
The bell rang, announcing the arrival of yet another customer. Deon didn't look up from what he was doing; it was probably just another poor soul who wanted to get drunk out of their mind before going home at two in the morning, and return back to their horrible life as soon as they woke up.
Mindlessly cleaning the glass he held, Deon scanned the counter for any customer in need of yet another, very strong cup of beer or wine—hell, maybe someone even wanted water—but his attention was snatched away by someone sitting down. The person who'd just walked in.
Plastering on a smile, Deon turned to face the newcomer. "Hello, esteemed customer," he said, keeping his tone friendly. "What can I get you started with?"
As he spoke, he took in the sight before him, and came up with one conclusion: this customer was rich. Very rich.
The man sitting before him wore clothes that, even at a passing glance, looked more expensive than any average worker's salary could afford. He wore a gray top that went up to his neck, tight and showing off his figure, and black pants. To top it all off, he wore a black overcoat, and a clearly valuable watch mostly hidden by the sleeve of his coat. Deon was sure that if he looked, his shoes would be shiny and well-kept.
Not only that, but he was attractive. The clothes he wore were designed to compliment his body, Deon was sure.
But the most noticeable thing about him was his eyes. The pupil in the center was a clear black, matching the black around the yellow iris that should've been white.
Deon immediately thought of it to be contact lenses. People would buy anything nowadays; he'd seen weirder.
He kept smiling anyway. He kept his eyes trained on the man's face, and not at the watch that shined every time the customer's arm moved at just the right angle.
"Hm," the man said thoughtfully to the question Deon had forgotten he'd asked. "I'd like a margarita, please."
Deon nodded. "Coming right up." He started to turn away, throwing the towel in his hands over his shoulder, but the man's voice stopped him.
"And," the man began, smiling slyly, "I was wondering if I could buy you a drink?"
He froze, his mouth hanging open, before it was moving on its own. "Bartenders can't drink while on shift."
It was an excuse, obviously. And it was true; he couldn't exactly drink while working. Especially since he was a lightweight.
The man showed the slightest bit of disappointment, and Deon's thoughts wandered back to the watch that shined so brightly, looking like it could be sold for a pretty penny; how the day had been so slow, and thought that after the long day he had, he deserved a little treat, and continued before he could think twice. "But I'd love to keep you company. Since you seem so lonely."
The man blinked, before chuckling, smiling as he did. Deon ignored how it caused his heart to stutter. Turning away to hide the barest of smiles cracking his lips, Deon got to work on making the margarita. He could feel the man's eyes on him as he worked, and he was still watching when Deon returned, sliding the glass over.
"Your margarita. Hope you like it." Deon crossed his arms, and briefly looked around for any customer in need of help. Thankfully, there weren't any.
The man grabbed the drink, and smiled sweetly at Deon. "Was it made with love?" In response, Deon sputtered, and the man laughed, loud and amused. The watch glinted in the light as the man raised the glass to his lips, taking the tiniest of sips before setting it down.
Deon watched silently, before putting his elbows on the counter separating him from the customer, who stared at him with a question in his eyes.
He slowly slid his gloved hand across the counter, noting how the man's gaze trailed after it, and grabbed his hand, wrapping his own around it gently, with his fingers stopping just below the watch. He kept his eyes on the man, who returned his gaze.
"With all of the love I could ever give," Deon whispered, his touch tightening subtly—but he was sure the man could feel it.
It was silent, the noise of the people around them, drunk and out of their minds, fading into the background. As if a spell had been cast on them. Deon adjusted his grip, watching the jewel wrapped around the man's wrist in the corner of his eye.
"What's your name?" the man asked, his voice barely breathless to the point that if Deon wasn't looking for it, he wouldn't have noticed.
"Emir," he said, inching closer, keeping the man's eyes on him as his fingers played with the man's hand. "And yours?"
His fingers hadn't even twitched upward before the man spoke—and not with an answer to his question.
"Have you watched the news yet?" he asked, and Deon tilted his head at the strange, abrupt, and frankly pathetic topic change.
"No," Deon said. "Why?"
The man hummed, and his hand shifted, flipping over to hold Deon's. His fingers moved back and forth against his glove, pressing gently. His mind shook slightly from the change in conversation and positions. "No reason," he said. "I just assumed you would've been interested in knowing about the heist that took place a few hours ago. At the museum. Someone stole a painting. A rather expensive one, too."
"I've heard about it, I think." Deon smiled, leaning forward slightly. A weird conversation topic, but maybe the man was nervous. He could let it slide.
"Have you now," the man said absently. His fingers were still pressing against Deon's skin. "You see, there's one thing I find interesting is the police's report of the heist." His fingers trailed higher, almost near his wrist. "They say the thief got injured while he was escaping."
"Oh," Deon said, his free hand curling up on the counter. "Really?"
"Yes," the man replied. "Apparently, a bullet grazed him. It managed to slice through his wrist, moments before he jumped out of the window and disappeared." He shook his head slightly. "There wasn't a single drop of blood for the police to use as evidence. A pity."
The man's searching fingers finally paused at his wrist, and pressed. Directly on the wound on Deon's wrist.
"They also suspect that the thief was the infamous 'Demon Arut,'" he whispered, leaning in to speak directly into Deon's ear. "What do you think about that, Emir?"
The man's smile was missing any of the honey Deon had seen before. This time, it showed off his teeth, and his eyes had turned into silts.
Deon didn't waste a second, pulling out the knife hidden in his sleeve and placing it against the man's chest. He leaned in as the man had done, hiding the weapon from being seen. To anyone else, they would be seen like a loving couple.
If only.
"I would be careful what you say next," Deon hissed, the knife threatening to dig in deeper to the man's skin. A little bit more, and it would draw blood. The man's hand on his stilled, but that infuriating smile stayed.
Stupid, he thought. He had let his guard down, thinking that someone could be so naive. That this man would be another easy mark before he turned in for the night.
Stab him. One side of his brain ordered.
No, you're in public. Too risky. The other argued. Take him to some isolated place to finish the job. Perhaps in the employee's room.
He won't let us take him anywhere! Not when he knows who we are.
The man smiled, interrupting his internal debate on whether to kill him or not. "And I would advise you to let someone finish saying their piece before you pull a knife. Especially if they have a proposition for you."
The hand holding the knife twitched. "A proposition?"
He nodded. "Yes, a proposition. A job offer, if you will." Before Deon could say anything—like why the fuck would he say yes—he continued. "See, someone stole something from me a few weeks ago. A bracelet. One of my favorites. I would like you to steal it, and return it to me."
Of course.
"And why're you asking me?" Deon asked, despite already knowing the answer.
"Because you can't refuse me. If you do, I'll turn you into the authorities." The man looked up, as if he was thinking, before adding, "Though I'm sure you'll escape them. As you always have."
Deon glared, reminding the man of the knife so close to his heart by shifting his grip on the handle. "You would almost think that maybe you planned all of this."
The man chuckled. "Oh, no. I would never." His smile was a little too sharp for that to be believable. "I simply saw an opportunity and took it."
God, he wished so dearly to stab the man in his heart, but there were too many witnesses. Damn it—the man probably approached him like this on purpose, knowing that Deon couldn't do anything in public.
He grumbled curses under his breath. Just my luck.
"Fine," Deon said bitterly, pulling back his knife and sliding it back into its home in his sleeve. "Send me the details. I'll get you your precious bracelet."
The man hummed, giving Deon a sweet smile. "That would be lovely," he said, tapping his finger on the counter.
But he didn't leave. Or show any signs of getting up.
...What else did the man want? Deon's eyes twitched, and he turned away, making plans in his head.
First, he had to check the security footage, to make sure there was nothing on the cameras that could be traced to his identity. Next, he should also start packing his things, create another identity and move to a different country. His position here was already compromised; he would have to return in a few years, under a new name and a new appearance. Then—
Something warm grabbed his hand from behind. A hand, he realized, and the heat was seeping through the fabric of his gloves, and it was large enough to wrap around his wrist. The injured one, he noted; but it was carefully avoiding the wound.
When he looked behind him, he saw who it was, and he shouldn't have been surprised.
It was the man, and he smiled as he brought the hand closer to him, dragging Deon with it and causing him to stumble. He cradled Deon's injured hand with closed eyes, bringing it to his cheek. Deon narrowed his eyes as the man kissed it once, before rubbing his face against it. He opened his eyes, blinking at Deon. "I can't believe you're working when you should be resting, Emir. What a workaholic I have on my hands, hm?"
"I had a shift," Deon snapped, and tried to take his hand back, but the man's grip only tightened. "It would've raised too much suspicion if I ditched. Which I can't afford."
"Of course, of course. I agree," the man breathed, his voice slightly muffled by Deon's hand. "You're so smart, Emir." Then he looked up, something in his eyes that Deon couldn't name.
"Can I still get you that drink?" he asked, and Deon scoffed, the sound bordering on a laugh, and rolled his eyes at the grin he saw.
"As if."
"A pity," the man hummed. "I wasn't lying when I said that earlier, you know."
Deon twitched, before frowning. "Really?" The man let him escape his grasp this time as he pulled his hand away, far away from the man's warmth, and raised an eyebrow. His next words were drowning in sarcasm. "I'm sure you meant every word."
With that, he turned his back on the man and walked away. He made a few more beers when requested. He gave one particular drunk customer a full glass of wine, leaving her to drink his sorrows away. He grabbed the towel on his shoulder and started to clean any glass in sight.
And when Deon came back, needing to grab something from that part of the counter, the man was still there. He perked up when Deon looked at him. The fuck?
"So," the man started. "Will you ever do me the honor of telling me your real name? I know 'Emir' is one of the many aliases you use."
Deon stared, silent, and suddenly recalled all the things the man had said before; the teasing smiles and eyes on him, and the hand on his—all before the grand reveal. And the man was still here, despite his business all done.
All of these facts put together led him to one conclusion.
The man was interested.
...Huh.
He could work with that.
Turning to face the man again, Deon put a hand on the counter, flat against the wood, and stared down at the man.
With his other hand, he grabbed the man's jaw, and did the same as the man had done to his hand: he cradled it, keeping his grip soft and gentle.
The man stared at Deon with widened eyes, before closing them and leaning into his touch. Deon held back a smile at that.
Leaning in, he took joy in how the man's breath hitched. He stopped less than an inch away from the man, and spoke his next words with the same honey the man had used.
"Maybe another day, Cavert."
The man—Cavert, reigning self-appointed king of the supposed home of all criminals, the Underworld—opened his eyes, blinking confusedly, both at what Deon said and his sudden absence, before grinning. "How'd you know?"
Deon rolled his eyes, scoffing. "It's hard to find someone with eyes like yours."
He didn't mention how he didn't realize who Cavert was at first glance. Nor did he let go of Cavert's face.
Cavert seemed to take great joy from Deon's words, for some reason. He ignored it, and stared into the other's eyes, as Cavert did.
Deon would almost call it peaceful.
Of course, that meant Cavert just had to say something.
"So," Cavert said with a grin, "can I get your number?"
Oh, for fuck's sake—