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If there was one thing Elliot Builder almost never, ever got, it was a day off work. Those were reserved for the holiday season, and if he ever did take off work it was for a birthday or a friend’s wedding or some other important event. He liked working. If a coworker at Builder Brothers came up to him while closing and desperately begged for him to take their shift the following afternoon, there was an almost certain chance he would shrug and say yes.
That was before he’d met Mafioso. And he’d never met anyone before who, when he woke up to his various work alarms in the morning, made him want to just skip a day. He’d held onto his normally hectic schedule, but then he’d rush home and try to fall asleep as fast as possible—which was never an issue, given how exhausted the pizza place left him most days—and find Mafioso as fast as possible.
The only downsides? He was so tired he usually just fell back into regular sleep after a little while, and if he actually had energy to spend time actively with his boyfriend, then he still had to contend with the fact that it was also evening in the dreamsphere and more likely than not, Mafioso was tired.
They didn’t get to see each other much when the both of them were fresh for the day. Slowly, it’d been grating on his nerves. He held a very prestigious shift attendance record at Builder Brothers, and for the first time in years he was considering breaking it.
So when the opportunity dropped itself in his lap, and in such a way that his record would remain unblemished, he leapt at it. Now, he found himself at the base floor of the Great Center mall with all the unbridled excitement of an average young adult who, for once, wasn’t at work.
He smiled around at the deserted floor with flickering fluorescents and marched toward the escalator, an energy in his body and a pep in his step. It carried him up to the second floor and then the third, where the first challenge of the day awaited.
The thing was, Elliot had never taken on the mall’s towering ten floors on his own. He normally had Mafioso’s expertise to use as a crutch, and anytime his inelegant pie-hiking was particularly egregious, he just scrambled up Mafioso’s pies before they fell off instead. He was on his own this time.
Looking up at the first hurdle—a sign for a boba shop that probably wasn’t in business anymore, from what Elliot had seen—he felt some of that excitement slip ever so slightly away. Nervously, he pulled out a pie. He was man enough to admit he was not good at pie-hiking. But, for his own sake, he hoped maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as he remembered.
It took him twenty minutes to get to the fourth floor. Said twenty minutes were filled with desperate attempts to balance atop the sign, failed staircases up the side to get up there in the first place, and several tumbles when the bridge of pies he’d thrown to the next floor simply wasn’t structurally sound enough.
Sweating and pissed off, he wiped crust off his fingers as he finally, triumphantly, stood on the fourth floor. He felt a rush of excitement soar through his chest knowing he’d passed the first hurdle, but it only deflated when he looked up at the snowflake tapestries he was to climb next. The smile fell off his face. God damnit.
He ended up forgoing pie-hiking the whole way up, instead clinging to the edge of the tapestry and slowly inching his way up, terrified every second that his weight would be too much and the whole thing would fall. He almost slipped off once at the very top and very hastily threw a pie as a handhold to drag himself over the fifth floor railing.
He heaved excitedly and pumped his fist, not watching his feet as he pranced toward the drink statue in the center of the floor. Halfway over, his foot collided into something soft and—
He pinwheeled his arms to stay upright and looked down to see a bunny hopping away from him, ears angled back and chittering in offense. He sucked in a breath, suddenly feeling intensely apologetic. “Yikes, geez, I’m so sorry, little guy. I didn’t see you there. Are you okay? Sorry I kicked you…”
The bunny did not care to respond, only moved farther away with beady dark eyes peering at Elliot from the side. He felt mildly foolish and continued on toward the drink statue, a newfound happiness in his heart that this mall was as empty as a desert and nobody was around to watch him blunder about and talk to bunnies.
When he came up to the pet store, he took a brief detour to go in and look at the animals for sale, steering clear of the cats. This store, usually at least occupied by the bunny lady at the register, was also vacant. Elliot paid it no mind. He spent a minute waggling his fingers at the mice in one of the tanks and then left.
As he walked out, he spotted a bunny nibbling on some fake grass by the entrance—the same one from earlier. He blinked at it curiously before moving on.
Approaching the wall that would lead him to the next floor, he was promptly stumped. The wall that covered the ladder, fragile as it was, wasn’t weak enough for him to just punch through. Usually Mafioso dealt with it using some fancy hammer, but Elliot had no such utility.
He hesitated, looking around the floor for some other implement to break the wall with, and almost went to investigate the pet store for something when his eyes caught on one of the large vases to the side. He looked back at the fragile wall and felt a stupid idea enter his head. He looked back at the vase. He glanced at the bunny that had now followed him out of the pet store and smiled. Only one way to find out.
As would become clear a few moments later, a big empty vase was absolutely strong enough to tear through a wall when thrown.
Elliot whooped and shook the soil off his hands, hoping nobody would mind the conspicuous pile of dirt in the corner. It wasn’t like there was anything growing in it anyway. He gave the bunny a thumbs up where it was sitting a few feet away, just staring. “Impressive, right?”
No response. Oh well.
The ornament pie-hiking was the worst part of the trip, even when he had Mafioso with him. He was still pretty pleased with his vase wall-smash and he was going to try and preserve that joy for as long as possible, if only to hold onto during the immense struggle that was sure to plague him for at least another twenty minutes trying to get past these floors.
It ended up taking him around forty.
Finally, arms shaking, he clambered over the last ledge and rolled onto his back, heaving for air. He stared up at the ceiling above him and then shut his eyes, thunking his head on the cold tile floor beneath him while he caught his breath.
I’m just gonna take a minute, he thought with a grimace, peeking through his eyelashes toward the meat shop. Empty as always. No sane customer would ever climb this high up unless they were mafia. Or, he thought with a sly, giddy smile, the mafia’s boyfriend.
He gave himself another ten seconds to breathe and then sat up, wiping some of the sweat off his forehead as well as some of the hair out of his eyes. Lately, he’d been wearing his uniform and cap so often he hadn’t even noticed how long his hair had gotten, but without them, it’d become painstakingly clear in the past hour or so that he was in desperate need for a trim.
He stood and dug in his pockets for a loose hair tie and couldn’t help but feel a smidge of disappointment when none appeared. With how often he carried them around for Mia, he’d have thought he would have at least something.
He walked over to the entrance of Satriale’s, a renewed energy rising in his chest now that he was just a room or two away. He couldn’t wait to see the stunned look on Mafioso’s face when he strolled in. He should’ve tried to bring a pizza box with him—it might’ve taken longer to drag up, but with how much the mafia tended to enjoy pizza from Builder Brothers, it probably would’ve made for a better surprise.
Doing a brief scan of the vacant interior, he hummed, self-satisfied, and reached inconspicuously for the button to the right of the door, when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. He glanced down at the bunny, now trailing after him through the doorway. He spared a second to be bewildered.
“How the hell did you get up here,” he said blandly, putting his hands on his hips and staring cluelessly at the bunny. It ignored him. Figures. He thought for a moment, then. Actually…
He leaned down and swept the bunny into his arms to, surprisingly, little protest. He smiled at it as it started sniffing distractedly at his sleeve.
“Knew you were cool, little guy,” he whispered, turning and heading toward the counter and the curtain beside it.
Pulling the curtain aside, he peered into the dark hallway and felt a welling of excitement in his chest. He didn’t hear any noise from inside but that wasn’t too much of a concern. Maybe Mafioso was just doing paperwork or something. He scratched gently behind the bunny’s ears and murmured, “Let’s go say hi, huh?”
Elliot strode forward, letting the curtain sway back into place behind him as the light from the meat store dissolved away before brightening again, the pale fluorescents of the hideout chasing away the shadows. Before even reaching the doorway, he could already see the main hall of the hideout—empty.
The small smile grew on his face. He emerged from the hallway and shouted, “Hi Mafioso!”
At first, nothing. Then, a sudden cacophony of shuffling and footsteps from one of the rooms on the side, and Elliot took a few steps toward it excitedly before two men tumbled out of the doorway with—oh.
Two shotgun barrels stared him down. The smile vanished from his face as he instead stared back, frozen. There was a brief lapse of silence before both he and the mafia glaring at him moved.
“How the hell did you get in here?” One of them demanded, shoving his gun closer into Elliot’s space even as Elliot began to back up, the other following just behind.
“Look, I—Is this a bad time? Jeez, I’m sorry, I was looking for Mafioso!” Elliot scrambled to reply, looking wildly between the two mafia, heartbeat picking up. Both men narrowed their eyes. Shit. Not good.
“Put up your damn hands before I shoot them off you,” the closer of the two growled, gesturing with his gun.
Elliot nodded vigorously, “Okay, okay, sorry, hang on…” He awkwardly leaned down to gently deposit the bunny in his arms, unbothered as it was by the circumstances, onto the ground and then quickly stood with his palms up in a placating manner. “Seriously, I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll just leave and be out of your hair.”
“Fraser, this guy says he wants to see bossman,” the second of the two muttered to his companion. He turned his attention toward Elliot. “How do you know that man?”
“I swear, I don’t mean any harm. Swear on my honor. Please please let me leave, I’m sorry, I’ll just go—”
The first mafia gunner shoved forward, and Elliot tripped over his feet trying to get away and landed ungracefully on the floor. The gun hovered an inch from his nose. “Answer the question, punk.”
“I—I’m his partner! You, uhh, know all the Builder Brothers’ you guys order all the time? I work there! Promise!”
The second man snorted under his mask, eyes scrunching at the corners. “Cheap. Boss doesn’t do partners. Now, you’re gonna ‘fess up whoever sent you here and this’ll all go smooth as can be.”
Elliot shook his head back and forth frantically. “Nobody! I’m not with anyone!”
The first gunner—Fraser, he presumed—moved the barrel of his weapon slowly up and pressed it against Elliot’s forehead, the cold metal flush to his skin. His heartbeat jackrabbited in his chest and he tried valiantly to keep his breathing under control, utterly failing in the attempt. Fraser glared another moment before murmuring over his shoulder, “Get the cuffs and some rope. We’re tying this guy up.”
While the other gunner retreated to one of the side rooms, Elliot watched fearfully as Fraser’s gaze locked back on him. His eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that made it clear he was smiling. “So, Builder Brothers, huh? You fancy yourself some kind of souped up sleepwalker? Cut the shit, punk. When you see the big boss, you’re gonna wish you were his partner.”
Elliot watched the second gunner return and felt an ugly dread pool in his chest, breaths coming out in shallow puffs. This was supposed to be a good day.
A handful of minutes later he found himself in a shadowed corner, hands cuffed behind his back and tied firmly to the front of a lousy red punching bag. The width of the bag stretched his arms to an uncomfortable degree, and he knew his muscles would be screaming at him in no time at all. The second gunner pulled tight the last bit of rope and kicked the chair Elliot had been standing on aside. At the loss of his only support, he inhaled sharply, the punching bag turning lazily to the left from the force, legs dangling below him but out of reach of the floor.
Fraser halted it before it could spin fully in a circle and centered it with a light push, evidently grinning at his and his compatriot’s handiwork from the curve of his eyes. Elliot’s frayed nerves were ever so slightly calmed now that he wasn’t being held at gunpoint, but it was hardly an improvement. Across the room, the bunny he’d brought up with him had been tossed haphazardly into a gated off section of the room filled to the brim with firearms and other such weapons. How quaint.
Fraser stepped back and gave Elliot a onceover. “Alright. One more try before I call the big bad boss. Generous, right? What do you work for, huh? Fissure? Someone put you up to this?” He snickered. “I’m sure we’ll understand.”
Elliot tightened his jaw even as he felt hopeless. “No one! I—You know what? Yeah, okay! Get him over here. I came to see him anyway! You’re doing me a favor, actually.”
Fraser laughed again, like it was some stupid joke. “Dimes, this guy thinks he’s tough. Suit yourself. Get the man on the line.”
The second gunner, apparently Dimes, fished a flip phone out of the inside of his jacket and dialed a number. It rang twice before being picked up.
From only a few feet away, Elliot’s eyes drilled into the tiny device, and as soon as a crackly voice sounded even the faintest amount from the phone’s janky speakers, he opened his mouth. “Mafi—”
The butt of Fraser’s shotgun slammed squarely into Elliot’s chest, spinning the punching bag, and he gasped out and heaved wildly for breath, winded and pained.
“Yeah, keep it shut,” Fraser muttered even as Elliot’s torso shuddered, fighting to get air back in his lungs.
“Yeah, Boss? This is Dimes,” Meanwhile, the call had continued unhindered. “Yeah, still. Hey, you aren’t busy, are you? We got something you might wanna take a look at.”
Mafioso’s unintelligible response was quick. As Elliot spun back briefly to see Dimes again, he was also seemingly smiling. “Nope. Looks like we got another sleepwalker. They’re getting real savvy… Yes, of course. I trust you’d like to sort this out yourself.”
Fraser walked closer to Dimes and gestured for the phone, all but yanking it out of Dimes’ hands when it was offered. He pressed it to his ear and held eye contact with Elliot even as he spun back around, unable to see the rest of the room. “Hey, Boss. Fraser. Just a heads up: this guy’s asking after you. Real slick. Might wanna throw on some of that charm.”
Elliot’s eyes stung and he tried to call out again, hoping maybe something would be heard over the phone, but he heard the brief mutterings of a farewell and the click as the phone snapped shut. His breath rasped out of his throat, still off-kilter. He wheezed. “You’re—You’re really ruining my day.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” Fraser snarked. “You’ve really made ours. Say, got any family? Any numbers you wanna call? Quite frankly, you might not walk out of this room alive, son.”
“Nobody just sneaks in here on a whim,” Dimes added ruefully. “Better cough up your informant before we stop asking nicely. Makes it easier on yourself. You don’t look like you’ll last long.”
“I’m telling you,” Elliot said desperately, tone scratchy. The spinning of the punching bag was slower and he could keep looking at them for a good while. “Nobody told me. I’ve never even been to Fissure. I’m not working with anyone. Please.”
Fraser threw up his hands, turning to his companion. “See, I’m getting real sick of this. Are we good to—? You know what, this isn’t gonna work.”
He walked closer to Elliot, eye level just slightly below his. “Telling you, if we want results—” He threw his fist into the punching bag just a hair away from Elliot’s side, and he jerked back to avoid it, eyes widening. “—then there are easier ways to get them. This back and forth shit gets on my nerves. My wife always says, Oh, Tom, you always got to cut the small talk, don’t you? Yeah. I do. I hate small talk.”
Dimes shifted his weight, regarding Fraser carefully. “I’m not cleaning up any mess you make. That’s on you. Do what you want.”
“This would probably be easier with brass knuckles.” He punched the punching bag again, this time clipping Elliot’s ribs. He hissed in a breath and tensed up, kicking his feet to try and move away.
“I’m telling the truth!” He squeezed his eyes shut. “What’s wrong with you people? You’re gonna seriously regret this whole thing in, like, twenty minutes when Mafioso gets here. You—”
The next punch found its way crashing almost gracefully against Elliot’s face. He choked on his words and cried out in pain, stars bursting behind his eyelids before they snapped open to watch Fraser’s fist return to his side, knuckles smeared red. “That ain’t gonna cut it. Try again.”
Elliot blinked rapidly to fight off a wave of pain-induced tears and coughed through the blood now gushing down his throat and chin from his nose. He couldn’t even check to see if it was broken because of these stupid cuffs and stupid bindings but he didn’t remember hearing a crack but he also doesn’t remember if he was even paying attention.
He spat some of the blood out of his mouth, tongue soaked in the nasty coppery taste of it, and tried to look the two gunners in the eyes.
His breath whistled as it passed through his lungs. This was going to be a long twenty minutes.
—
Mafioso lowered the phone from his ear, scowling faintly at the device before slipping it back into his pocket. It wasn’t just that he’d been interrupted on a nice, quiet walk, but the news itself was troubling. Another sleepwalker was not ideal. That Valencia lady already had her nose poking all over the Dreamsphere. The fuss was unwanted.
Sighing, he straightened and dusted the grit off his pants, peering down the length of the cave. The dimness of the cavern was entirely offset by the glimmering jewels jutting from the walls, a soft mosaic glow painting them in watercolor. This place was a wonder, and he was still in disbelief that the rumor he’d come all the way out here for wasn’t just a rumor.
Pink Swamp was unfamiliar to him in almost every regard. He couldn’t stop drinking in all of its beauty. He knew Elliot would be fascinated.
All of this would have to wait, though. He slipped silently out from where he’d come, postponing his admiration for the enchanting pink trees for later. The bridges brought him quietly back to the main valley, footsteps softened by damp wood. Above his head, the Pixie chirped as it bounced against the rocky cliff face.
He was hardly in 12th House for a minute before striding onto the glass catwalks of Lower Ten-Mou and falling into a rhythm so familiar it was almost automatic. The red lights flickered on after he punched in the breaker code and in the next moment he was swinging himself onto one of the buildings to emerge in the dusty pantry of Upper Ten-Mou’s kitchen.
The building was devoid of life as he passed through, save for a lone pie on the stovetop. Eunoia was, per usual, at her shop when he walked outside, and he gave her a curt nod before walking toward the side of the crater where the ladder was propped up.
Clambering over it with practiced ease brought him in front of the tall pine which he also scaled without issue, trying to hurry his pace along. He trusted his guys, but it wouldn’t do if he were to leave them waiting. They could get antsy.
One mysterious crystal later and he was sweeping back down toward the kitchen. Eunoia raised her hand in greeting as he walked past and he reciprocated briefly as he nudged the door open and ducked back inside. 12th House was waiting when he resurfaced in Lower Ten-Mou. It was no time at all until he was standing in the cold emptiness of Dying Mall, already scaling the escalator.
He made quick work of the lower floors; he could probably pie-hike up the center sign on the third floor in his sleep, and the snowflake banners along the railings were only a slight annoyance. Up the arch, past the drink statue. It was no trouble for him.
Leopa waved as he passed in front of her store, ears twitching behind her. Mafioso paused on his way over to the ladder behind the wall and took a moment to poke his head in, his own ears flicking up under his hat.
“Greetings,” he nodded at her. “Have you seen any dreamwalkers come up lately? I’ve been told there’s a newcomer.”
Leopa leaned against the register, head propped up on her hand. There was a thud as one of the psycharpax bumped against the wall of its tank across the room, and she spared it a brief look before returning her attention to Mafioso. “Well, I just got off my lunch a bit ago, and I haven’t seen anyone, so I must’ve missed them. Big deal, huh?”
Mafioso tipped his head. “Yes. You could say that. Thank you anyway, miss.”
He pulled out of the doorway, pivoting toward the fragile wall and pulling his hammer out of the inside of his coat, glancing over at the large ornaments hanging from the floors above. Big deal.
When he arrived a short time later, Mafioso regarded Satriale’s with caution. Nobody was here; wouldn’t Fraser have made a call to at least get another lookout? He put off his slight grievances and pressed the hidden button on his way through the entrance, slowly approaching the curtain.
As he got closer, he pulled himself together, gathering his image. His spine straightened. He fixed the tilt of his fedora, adjusted his coat. His gait ambled forward, a perfect cocktail of just enough laziness and dignified confidence to intimidate. He just loved his entrances.
His ear twitched. No distinguishable noise from inside. With a scowl, he set forward down the hall, brushing the curtain aside to glide through the darkness, undetectable but for the decisive click of his shoes on the tile.
There was a rustling as he reached the end of the hall and his ears perked slightly, seeking the noise. The main hall was empty when he entered and then a head poked around the corner of one of the doorways on the side. Dimes blinked and then stepped out of the room fully, shotgun held in relaxed hands. He seemingly brightened, difficult as it was to tell under that mask.
“Boss,” he greeted politely. “Just inside. Sorry for the trouble.”
“Not a problem.” Mafioso rumbled, already shuffling past the gunner. He smoothed his face of any slight expression. “I can handle this.”
He walked into the room, glancing to the right before his gaze landed on the punching bag, spun toward the wall and secured around with rope, in the corner with Fraser as its diligent guard. He almost snorted. What a terrible place for an interrogation. Maybe the humiliation would help move things along.
“Fra—”
“Is that Mafioso?”
The meek voice sounded from the punching bag, muffled by distance and direction and what sounded like a nasty cold. Fraser looked over at the punching bag in disdain before shoving it to spin it, but Mafioso had frozen. A dawning horror settled over his skin as he realized who exactly was tied to that punching bag.
Elliot’s wet eyes met his, face smeared in his own blood, and Mafioso felt something snap.
“What is the meaning of this?” Mafioso shouted at Fraser as he stormed past, ears flat against his head as he immediately started slashing the bindings to useless thread. Fraser quailed, shocked.
“Sir, what do you—”
“Key. Now.” Mafioso demanded and held his hand out. The second he felt it dropped in his palm he snatched it back and hastily turned the punching bag around to undo the cuffs around Elliot’s wrists. When the last rope fell, he held out a hand to steady Elliot as the man dropped the short distance to the floor on unsteady legs.
“Elliot? How badly are you hurt? What did they do? I am so sorry.” Mafioso anxiously scanned over his partner’s body, searching desperately for other red marks or cuts. His gaze kept darting back to the ugly mottled blood crusting the front of his face down his chin.
Elliot wheezed, pushing Mafioso’s fretting hands away. “Hey hon. I—Just a bit scuffed up.”
“Just a bit and you’re covered in blood. Do you have rope burn anywhere? I hope you weren’t tied up too long. Heavens, this is just—”
“Boss, could you explain what’s going on? Dimes and I were just—” Fraser’s hand scarcely brushed Mafioso’s sleeve.
Mafioso spun and slapped the hand away viciously. “Don’t. You wait here.”
Elliot hissed and Mafioso’s attention returned to him instantly, watching him lightly touch his nose and scrunch up his face in pain. “God, I hope that’s not broken,” he muttered.
“Let me see,” Mafioso softly implored. Elliot let him bring his hands over to gently prod at his face, just enough to tell the structure. “It seems fine. It looks worse than it is. How in hell did this happen, dear?”
“I just wanted to stop by.” Elliot glanced behind Mafioso, eyes briefly finding Fraser and Dimes before darting back to Mafioso’s. He said uneasily, “Guess who got off work today…?”
“You should have called me, I would’ve come,” Mafioso lifted up Elliot’s wrist to little resistance, searching the skin for friction marks. Elliot huffed, the sound a touch pained.
“The idea was to surprise you.”
Distractedly, Mafioso nudged up Elliot’s chin—to lazy compliance, the man evidently not too bothered—and looked for any hand-shaped splotches of red. He moved to prod at his shirt but hesitated. “Is it just your nose, are you bleeding anywhere else? Head injury?”
Elliot finally sighed and removed Mafioso’s fretting hands again. “Did the surprise work?”
Mafioso relented, if slightly gingerly. “...Yes.”
Elliot snorted. “Good. But I’m fine. Seriously.”
“You’re honest?”
“Very.”
“You are absolutely sure that you will be alright?”
“Gosh, Mafioso, if it was really so bad I might’ve just woken up.”
Mafioso felt a relief snake through his limbs and flush out some of the raw panic. He put his hands on Elliot’s shoulders and pressed their foreheads briefly together. “I am so sorry about this. Please excuse me for just a moment.”
Elliot opened his mouth slightly to say something, perplexed, but Mafioso just straightened and turned around to face his lackeys with a smooth flourish. His persona slipped back on fluidly, sans the expression of boiling rage on full display on his face.
Fraser took a small step behind Dimes. Dimes stared at his boss with wide eyes, standing upright and still. Even before Mafioso said a word, they looked chastised. Good.
“What in blazes do you two think you’re doing?” Mafioso stepped closer, towering over the two in his fury. “You should have provided me with more information on the situation over the phone. Your misconduct is disgusting.”
“You mean that—He wasn’t lying? He’s actually your…?” Fraser sent a worried glance toward Elliot behind Mafioso and gulped.
Mafioso fumed. “He is not a threat to us in the slightest. He is not, under any circumstance, to be harmed. You’ve both done a repulsive job. Eunoia and I will be discussing what to do with you at length.”
The lines around Dimes’ eyes tightened, and he swallowed before attempting to say anything. “Sir, if I may, we were unaware of the true nature of the situation and only saw an intruder. It is my belief that we acted accordingly.”
Mafioso stared at Dimes silently, just long enough for him to start squirming. “Don’t gamble your pathetic excuses. Where was your decorum? Procedure? Intruders are to be taken seriously, yes, I am glad you are aware of this! Why, then, was Satriale’s entirely undefended in the front? Such an intrusion warrants reinforcements, or at the very least, scouts! Surely, the threat of a new sleepwalker would have justified more caution, would you agree?”
Fraser opened his mouth. “I—”
“Shut it. Maybe I have not been strict enough in my responsibilities, or have not set the right example. I will correct this now. You should be providing me with every necessary, minute detail, and never should affairs such as these be treated so callously. I’ve never been more embarrassed at such a lack of—”
“Mafioso, please, that’s—Don’t chew them out that bad,” Elliot cut in weakly, slinking around the man’s side to lightly touch his hand. Mafioso halted in his tirade, looking between Elliot and the gunners, stunned into speechlessness for a moment.
He spluttered. “Elliot, this behavior should be reprimanded. Look how they hurt you, dear. This cannot be excused.”
Elliot leveled him with a flat look and then cast his attention over to the gunners, wincing. Mafioso followed his gaze and looked at the two a little closer. Both were pale-faced, eyes blown wide and skittering between the two as if they were awaiting death row. Mafioso frowned.
“They look pretty reprimanded,” Elliot mused tiredly. “Hey. You. Fraser. Are you going to shoot me if I walk in here again.”
“Of course not! I wouldn’t dream of it. Not at all. My sincerest apologies, sir. Something like this will never happen again, and you can be assured that you will be treated with the utmost… Apologies.” Dimes subtly dug his heel into the other man’s boot once he started rambling. Fraser took the hint and shut up.
Elliot’s face soured but he turned to look back at Mafioso. “See? Good. All cleared up. Yeah? Yeah.”
“I’d—It’d be uncouth of me to let this abuse go unpunished. They tied you to a punching bag! Can you not see how utterly ridiculous you sound?”
Elliot’s face darkened. “I’m ridiculous?”
Mafioso immediately reeled back. “No. I apologize, that was an overstep.”
Elliot’s face instantly brightened, and he laughed lightly, “Dude, no, relax, I wasn’t—Look, they’ve learned their lesson, I’m not tied up anymore, everything’s fine. Can we go? Maybe? Please?”
Mafioso gave the gunners another long look. Dimes still stood perfectly still, but it looked more like he was still bracing for something than just respectful posture, and Fraser was shifting uncomfortably on his feet. Mafioso narrowed his eyes and then sighed, tilting his head toward the doorway in a less than subtle sign of dismissal. The two gunners instantly fled the room, their footsteps fading quickly down the hallway into Satriale’s. The room was quiet for a moment.
“You know,” Elliot walked over to the other end of the room toward the gated ammunitions corner, crouching down by the trash bin by one of the doorways and tipping the can over just slightly. Mafioso watched blankly as he fished out a pair of keys and unlatched the door. “They kind of were just doing their jobs. I kind of panicked, so that probably didn’t help.”
“None of this was your fault, dear.” Mafioso walked over, watching Elliot warily until he spotted the small rabbit the man was picking up inside the fenced corner. “Is that yours? Why is it in there?”
“Beats me,” Elliot said. He scratched it behind the ears and then set it down on the ground outside the gate to roam. “They just threw him in there.”
Mafioso watched Elliot lock up the room and replace the keys. “How did you know those were there?”
“You might be a bit more mad with them, but, um,” Elliot stifled a laugh, bringing his hand to cover his mouth. “Those two totally just locked the bunny up in front of me. Got the keys, unlocked the door, locked it, put it back. I watched the whole thing.”
“You can’t be—Josafa above, these fools…” Mafioso dropped his face in his palms, pinching his nose in disdain. “These neonatal idiots are never guarding the hideout on their own again. It’s not just that they hurt you, but they’re horrible at interrogations, communications, and they’re stupid to boot. It…” He hunched slightly, embarrassed. “It makes us look bad.”
“I don’t think you look all that terrible,” Elliot hoarsely giggled. Mafioso reddened, but he continued before the other man could interject. “And anyway, it all turned out fine. So! Um. Are you free to maybe hang out a bit…?”
“I’m not… particularly busy,” Mafioso said awkwardly. “But foremost please allow me to clean your face, and would you like some water? I’ll—hm. Just give me a moment.”
He gave Elliot’s smiling face—and red bloodied teeth—another disconcerting glance before dashing up the hallway and retrieving a few wet cloths from the bathroom, a water bottle held in his other hand as he hurried back into the room a short minute later.
Gently pressing washcloths against the sickly red of Elliot’s chin, Mafioso watched the way the man’s face drew taut and tense and he winced. His hand brushed a bit too close to the swollen nose and Elliot twitched back, squeezing his eyes briefly shut. “Ow.”
Shame simmered in Mafioso’s core as he pulled the white cloth away, red having bloomed across its center as he’d cleaned. “Sorry,” he said softly, leaning back. “That’s most of it. It’s not so bad once the blood’s gone.”
“Just hurts a whole bunch,” Elliot muttered, then sighed. The tightness in his shoulders unwound and he sagged forward, leaning against Mafioso’s side. “I won’t lie to you, that whole thing was kind of really scary. Rationally, you know, it’s not like I’m in a lot of danger, but—Well, it still hurts.”
Mafioso frowned, then leaned forward to give the man a quick kiss on the head before he could doubt himself. “I know, love. I’m sorry.”
Elliot mumbled back an “It’s okay” against Mafioso’s sleeve. Suddenly, an idea flitted into Mafioso’s mind, and some of the tension drained out of him at the thought. “Maybe we could go somewhere to take your mind off it.”
Elliot stared at him, prompting him to elaborate. A small smile wormed its way onto Mafioso’s face.
“There is a dream with soda and sugar and games and other such things. An amusement park. If… you wanted to spend an evening together, maybe you might like it?”
He’d felt emboldened at first, but watching Elliot chew his lip in consideration had all of that bravado swirling down the drain. He really wasn’t the best at this whole relationship thing, was he? He opened his mouth to refute the statement, to say Oh, or we could set you up a nice bed and you could wake up comfortably because surely you’ll want to go home after all this, but Elliot cut in before he could get a word out.
“Yeah,” he smiled. “That sounds fun. I mean, I’m a bit tired, but if it’s not too much of a trip… I could go for a soda.”
“Clearly, it’s been a bit since you’ve indulged,” Mafioso gave the nasty nose wound another onceover. It was easy to tell when someone’s scale was tipped a bit too far in that direction. “A bit of Dionysus won’t hurt a thing.”
“I think I deserve it, after all of this.” Elliot sniffled and took a drink of his water. “Why not?”
“It’s called Tamura!, I think you’ll enjoy it.”
“If I get tired on the way back to 12th House I’m going to make you carry me.”
“Fair enough.”