Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

✨ Requests Info

Feel free to leave requests for me to work on!

📝 Rules:

• Preferably SFW — anything is welcome except smut.
• No proships.
• Strictly pizzadebt. Other ships are fine — I’ll try to familiarize myself first.
• Romantic or platonic dynamics are both welcome!
• Any tone is okay — angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, crack, etc.
• Leave a comment on this chapter (or message me through Tumblr) for a chance to have your idea written.
• I reserve the right to decline any requests that don’t fit my style or comfort zone.

Chapter Text

It had been a while since Mafioso first met Elliot.

It happened on a night his goons ordered a stack of pizzas to celebrate a big mission. Elliot showed up at the hideout, smiling brightly as he handed over the boxes, the steam of fresh dough and melted cheese mixing with gunpowder and cigar smoke. Mafioso remembered thinking—it felt warm. He hadn’t known what warmth felt like in years.

That night marked the beginning of something strange.

Mafioso started small: casual glances whenever Elliot rode past on his delivery bike, pretending not to look. But over time, those quick glimpses weren’t enough. He found himself lingering outside the pizzeria more often during his “off hours,” occasionally walking in, ordering a medium pepperoni, and tipping a ridiculous $20 just to see Elliot’s grin.

Other times, he didn’t buy anything at all. Just sat among the customers in disguise—fedora pulled low—and watched.

Soon, his goons began to notice. Mafioso wasn't attending meetings. He skipped three raid briefings in a row. And worst of all: he was smiling in public.

It was then they held a secret meeting to discuss the occurrence.

But this time, it wasn't the goons who called it.

It was Mafioso.

They all gathered in the dim backroom of their hideout, expecting another mission, another target, maybe a new turf war brewing.

But instead, Mafioso stood at the head of the table, his voice low but oddly hesitant.

"I need... advice."

The room fell silent. Even Contractee stopped mid-sip of his juice box.

Mafioso cleared his throat, eyes hidden under the shadow of his hat. “There’s this… pizza boy. Elliot.”

Soldier raised an eyebrow. Caporegime leaned in.

“I don’t know how to talk to him,” Mafioso confessed, like it was the most dangerous secret he’d ever admitted. “And I want to.”

The silence cracked. Then:

“He’s got a crush!” Caporegime declared, grinning wide.

“I KNEW IT,” Contractee shouted, almost dropping his board.

Consigliere immediately grabbed a pen. “What’s the objective? Friendly conversation? Subtle flirtation? A full-blown confession?”

Mafioso nodded once. “Just… something. I need help getting him to notice me. Properly. Not as a customer. Not as a… crime lord.”

Caporegime, the underboss, exhaled slowly and gave a half-smile. “Then it’s settled. Operation: Planned Encounter begins now.”

And so it began.

The sun dipped lazily over the park, casting long gold shadows across the quiet pathway. Elliot, balancing a heavy thermal bag against his hip, looked down at the receipt for the fiftieth time.

"Bench near the fountain. Four pizzas. Big tippers, apparently," he muttered.

He reached the bench and began unzipping the bag. The boxes shifted—just a little too easily. Before he could stop it, the topmost one slipped out of his hands and hit the ground with a muted thud.

“Aw, come on!” he yelped, crouching fast to salvage the contents.

Slices of pepperoni and cheese were tragically scattered on the pavement.

Then came a shadow. And a voice, low and smooth.

“Looks like those pizzas tried to make a run for it.”

Elliot looked up. A tall man in a dark coat and fedora had knelt beside him, already helping collect the ruined slices. His gloved hands moved gently, like he didn’t want to offend the pizza.

Elliot blinked. “Wait—aren’t you the guy who always tips twenty bucks for a medium?”

Mafioso paused. “...Perhaps.”

Elliot laughed, and it broke the tension like warm bread.

“I owe you a replacement,” Elliot sighed, looking at the mess. “Though, uh, this one might be cursed.”

“No need,” Mafioso said. “But maybe... you’d allow me to make it up to you. Coffee? Just around the corner. My treat.”

Elliot looked at him—at the strange, handsome man with unreadable eyes who always wore black and somehow smelled faintly of smoke and cinnamon.

"...Sure," Elliot said, surprising himself. “Just let me text the shop.”

From across the street, buried behind a trash can, Contractee nearly exploded.

“HE SAID YES!” he whisper-shouted into his walkie-talkie.

“Calm down,” Soldier hissed. “We’re still in stealth mode.”

Caporegime adjusted his binoculars and nodded approvingly. “Mission success.”

Consigliere quietly jotted into his clipboard:
Mission Log – Operation: Planned Encounter.
Status: Initiated.
Outcome: Hopeful.

Back at the bench, Mafioso offered Elliot a napkin for his saucy hands.

Their fingers touched. Brief. Electric. A little awkward.

Neither said anything.

But both of them smiled.

Chapter Text

After Eunoia’s schedule packed them with endless meetings—making deals with rival gangs, securing control over three sectors, and managing supply routes—she finally gave Mafioso’s team a break.

And not just a break.

A bonus.

That night, she handed out thick envelopes and said, with her usual calm smile, “You’ve earned it. No business tonight. Go eat something disgusting and greasy. That’s an order.”

It was the best thing they’d heard in days.

Now, the team was sprawled across their safehouse, dim lights on, jazz playing from a cheap speaker. A rare atmosphere of peace.

Contractee was the most excited, dramatically flopping onto the couch like he’d just survived a war. “Do you hear that? That’s the sound of freedom.”

Caporegime was already scrolling through his phone, muttering, “How many pies we getting?”

“Five. No—seven,” Consigliere said, leaning over his shoulder. “Get variety. Supreme, meat lover’s, maybe something for the lactose intolerant among us.”

“Who’s lactose intolerant?”

“We’re all lactose intolerant. We just don’t care.”

They started listing orders out loud:

"One pepperoni.”
“One Hawaiian.”
“Make that two pepperonis.”
“Someone better add garlic breadsticks—"
“And dessert pizza!”
“Don’t forget plain cheese for the boss, he doesn’t like chaos on his food.”
“Put it under ‘M.’ Just M.”
“Special instruction: ‘send someone cute.’”

Contractee snorted at that last one, but no one deleted it.

Meanwhile, Soldier stood by the window with Mafioso, both nursing mugs of tea instead of beer—because Eunoia hated hangovers.

“I didn’t think she’d go this soft on us,” Soldier said, glancing at the others. “But I guess she’s always had a soft spot for the crew.”

Mafioso gave a small nod. “She’s kind. In her own terrifying way.”

“Bonus was nice. Still not used to getting paid for this.”

Mafioso chuckled softly. “Neither am I.”

Then came the sound of footsteps outside. A scooter stopping.

A knock at the door.

Contractee sat bolt upright. “PIZZA’S HERE.”

The knock came again. Three firm taps. Polite, but not shy.

Caporegime went to answer, but Mafioso raised a gloved hand. “I’ve got it.”

The others shared a glance.

“Oh, he never answers the door,” Contractee whispered to Consigliere.

“I’m documenting this,” Consigliere murmured, already pulling out a small notebook.

Mafioso stepped through the living room and opened the door.

And there he was.

Elliot.

Helmet in hand, red uniform slightly wrinkled, thermal bag slung over one shoulder. His cheeks were flushed from the ride, a few strands of hair stuck to his forehead. But his smile—bright, easy, warm—hit Mafioso in the chest like a thrown brick made of sunlight.

“Hi!” Elliot said cheerfully. “Got a stack of pizzas for... M?”

Mafioso stared for half a second too long. Then remembered how words worked.

“Yes. That’s... me.”

Elliot grinned, handing over the boxes. “Hope you’re hungry. This is like... half the menu.”

Mafioso took them carefully, as if the boxes were fragile or holy.

Inside, the goons were peeking like children at a puppet show.

"He’s so cute,” Contractee whispered.
“Boss is short-circuiting.”
“He hasn’t blinked once.”
“Do you think this is what romance looks like?”

Elliot adjusted his bag, oblivious. “Oh! Also, someone requested a ‘cute delivery guy’? That’s, uh, bold. But I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Mafioso blinked. Once. Slowly. “I did not write that.”

“Sure,” Elliot teased, playful. “Total mystery, huh?”

There was a pause.

Then, Mafioso—voice quieter than usual—said, “You delivered it well.”

Elliot blinked. “Wait. Was that a... line?”

Mafioso looked like he briefly regretted being born. “...Possibly.”

Elliot laughed. It was soft and real and it filled the entryway like sunlight.

“Well,” he said, “I’ve got more deliveries, but… enjoy the pizza, Mr. M.”

Mafioso nodded slowly. “Thank you. Elliot.”

The name tasted good on his tongue.

As Elliot walked off down the stairs, Mafioso shut the door gently, still holding the boxes like they were precious.

He turned around to find his entire crew waiting.

Silent.

Grinning.

Then:

"YOU LIKE HIM,” Contractee shouted.
“He winked at you!”
“Boss, you actually flirted.”
“Do we plan another order tomorrow?”
“Same time? Same guy?”

Mafioso only sighed and walked to the kitchen, setting the boxes down.

But there was the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

He opened the top box—pepperoni, plain—and stared for a moment.

Scrawled inside the lid in black marker was a little note:

"Hope your night off is a good one :) -E”

Mafioso’s hand hovered over the words.

It was.

It really was.

The very next night, Mafioso stood in the center of the hideout, arms crossed, silent.

“We need to order again,” he said.

Six untouched pizza boxes still sat on the counter from last night.

Caporegime blinked. “Sir… we still have leftovers.”

Mafioso didn’t move. “We need a fresh one. Same place.”

Consigliere raised a brow. “Same delivery boy?”

There was a long pause.

“…Yes.”

And that was that.

No one questioned it. Not really. They all knew what this was.

That evening’s order was just barely believable: a plain cheese, a pepperoni, garlic breadsticks, and a special request scribbled in the online form—“Please draw a bunny on the box.”

“Subtle,” Consigliere said, pleased. “Fluffy imagery is emotionally disarming.”

Contractee made sparkly eyes at Mafioso. “Can you draw the bunny? It’ll feel more personal.”

Mafioso didn’t answer, but later that night, the bunny sketch on the inside of the lid was undeniably his. Slightly crooked. A little stiff. But real.

Elliot knocked on the door wearing the same warm smile that Mafioso had memorized too well. “Back again already, huh?” he teased. “You guys got a bunny phase or something?”

Mafioso stared at the box. “It’s for branding.”

Elliot snorted. “Well, your mascot’s got charm.”

Mafioso didn’t say it, but he was already planning the next order.

The following night, Contractee insisted they try something more symbolic.

“A heart-shaped pizza,” he said, with the confidence of a man who’d just discovered fire. “It’s bold. It’s romantic. It’s carbohydrates with intention.”

“I’m not ordering a heart-shaped pizza,” Mafioso said.

They ordered it anyway.

It arrived hot, fragrant, and unmistakably shaped like a heart. Elliot blinked at it before handing it over.

“You know, this looks kinda romantic.”

Mafioso glanced down at the box, then back up. “Coincidence.”

“Right,” Elliot said, lips twitching. “Weird shape. Happens all the time.”

On the third night, someone suggested pineapple.

“It’s controversial. A conversation starter,” Soldier said.

“We’ll ask for his opinion in the instructions box,” Consigliere added, scribbling fast.

They ordered a half-pineapple pizza with the note: “Please include your personal thoughts on pineapple pizza.”

Elliot arrived with the usual smile and a sticky note slapped on the lid.

“It’s fine, I guess? Why is this a test?”

Mafioso read it twice. “He’s onto us.”

“He’s not running,” Contractee said brightly. “That’s what matters.”

The fourth night brought poetry.

Specifically, a request for Elliot to write a haiku on the box.

“Nothing says we’re emotionally available like group-authored poetry,” Consigliere claimed.

They even included the first line to help him: “Pizza arrives hot”

Elliot delivered the box with a raised brow and a wry smile.

Inside the lid was a sharpie-scrawled haiku:

"Pizza arrives hot

Your guys are suspiciously

In love with pizza."

Mafioso stared at the words.

“You wrote this?”

Elliot tilted his head. “Maybe. Maybe someone helped. Guess you’ll have to keep ordering to find out.”

He left with a wink.

Mafioso stood there in the doorway long after it shut.

Back inside, the goons were already celebrating like they’d won a turf war.

It had been a week of suspiciously consistent orders.

Same building. Same customer. Same "M." Always the same guy opening the door with that calm, unreadable face and those strange, thoughtful eyes. The tips were generous. The instructions were weird. The energy was... weirdly sweet.

Elliot wasn’t stupid.

He’d delivered to mafia safehouses before. You pick things up. The body language. The guards. The faint trace of smoke and secrecy. But none of them ever ordered heart-shaped pizzas. Or asked for bunny drawings. Or requested pineapple reviews.

Or looked at him like that.

So, on the seventh day, Elliot decided it was his turn.

He walked into the pizzeria during a lull in deliveries, leaned over the counter, and said to his manager, “Hey, if that guy from the alley apartment orders again, can I take it?”

“Sure,” the manager said, barely looking up. “He tips like he’s laundering bills anyway.”

Perfect.

Elliot scribbled something on the inside of a blank box, then loaded up a single, custom-made pizza. It was ridiculous: half mushroom, half plain, extra cheese, with three mozzarella sticks shoved in the corner.

The note inside the lid read:

“You’ve ordered seven pizzas in a row.
If this is about me, let’s skip to dessert.
Saturday night. I get off at nine.
Text me—number’s under the breadsticks.”

He knocked like usual.

Mafioso opened the door.

Elliot didn’t say a word. Just smiled, handed the box over, and walked away.

Mafioso stood in the doorway longer than usual, staring down at the box.

The mozzarella sticks shifted slightly as he opened it.

He read the message once.

Then again.

Then he picked up the phone.

Back at the hideout, Contractee was eating cereal out of a measuring cup when Mafioso walked in holding the box like it was the Ark of the Covenant.

“Boss?” Soldier asked.

“…He made the first move,” Mafioso said quietly.

Consigliere dropped his pen. “He WHAT.”

“Under the breadsticks,” Mafioso added, holding up a tiny napkin with a phone number scribbled in sharpie.

Contractee immediately started screaming.

Caporegime calmly popped open a bottle of sparkling water. “Gentlemen. Phase Two begins now.”

Mafioso stared at the box again.

Saturday.

Nine.

He’d be there.

Saturday night came too fast.

Too slow, too.

Mafioso had stared at his phone like it was an active grenade all week. He’d sent one text. Just one.

“I will be there. I promise.”

Elliot replied eight hours later with a smiley face and “Cool. :) I like Italian.”

Now Mafioso stood in front of a restaurant that was probably too expensive, wearing his second-nicest coat. Black, pressed, no bloodstains. Contractee had lint-rolled it three times.

He was early. Obviously.

At exactly 9:01, Elliot arrived—no helmet this time, just a red jacket and that same smile that kept showing up in his thoughts like an unpaid bill.

“You showed,” Elliot said, breathless from the short walk. “I was worried you’d ghost.”

“I don’t disappear,” Mafioso said. “Not when I’ve been invited.”

Elliot snorted. “Smooth.”

“Unintentional.”

“Still counts.”

The waiter led them to a small table by the window. Mafioso held Elliot’s chair without thinking. Elliot noticed—but didn’t comment.

Yet.

Meanwhile… two tables over:

Caporegime was pretending to read a wine list upside-down. Soldier wore sunglasses indoors and sipped water with exaggerated nonchalance. Consigliere had a fake mustache. Contractee was in a child’s booster seat. No one questioned it.

“They’re sitting,” Soldier whispered.

“No kidding,” Caporegime muttered. “Can we just let the boss have one date without surveillance?”

“Absolutely not,” Consigliere replied, taking notes. “We’re monitoring chemistry.”

Back at the table, Elliot had his elbows on the table, eyes twinkling.

“So... is this the part where I ask what you do for a living, or should we keep lying to each other and pretend you're in real estate?”

Mafioso stiffened for half a second, then smiled—just barely.

“I could say I work in logistics.”

“You could.”

“But you'd know it’s a lie.”

“I would.”

They stared at each other. Elliot sipped his water. Mafioso didn’t look away.

“I don’t mind,” Elliot added, softer now. “I’ve seen worse. Probably delivered to worse.”

Mafioso tilted his head. “And yet, you agreed to dinner.”

Elliot shrugged. “You tip well.”

Mafioso huffed a small laugh. “That’s all it takes?”

“No. The bunny drawing helped.”

Dinner went better than expected. Mafioso found himself answering questions instead of dodging them. Elliot talked about the pizzeria, how he started delivering to pay for community college, and how much he hated anchovies.

“I judged your entire crew that day you ordered four anchovy pizzas.”

“Soldier’s fault.”

“I figured. He seems chaotic.”

“They all are.”

“I like them already.”

Dessert came—some kind of expensive gelato with burnt sugar on top. Elliot poked it with a spoon.

“So... do I get to see you again, or are you gonna vanish like a fedora-clad dream?”

Mafioso blinked. “You want to see me again?”

Elliot leaned in, chin in hand.

“I requested a bunny. You drew it. I wrote a haiku. You kept ordering. Yeah. I think I do.”

Mafioso hesitated—then smiled. Really smiled. Slow. Genuine.

“I’d like that.”

From across the room, Contractee exploded into a coughing fit from holding in a scream.

Mafioso’s eye twitched.

“They’re here, aren’t they?”

Elliot turned slightly. Four idiots at a table were now pretending to be a family of tourists.

“Oh yeah. They’ve been here since the breadsticks.”

“I’m going to fire all of them.”

“No, you’re not.”

“…No,” Mafioso admitted. “I’m not.”

Elliot laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s kind of adorable.”

“Don’t tell them that.”

“I won’t.” He paused. “Unless they order pizza again.”

Chapter Text

It was just past 12 a.m. when the squeaking began.

Elliot blinked awake, his forehead tacky with sweat and stuck to Mafioso’s chest, the fabric warm and familiar. He groaned, rubbing at his eyes, barely upright, his limbs heavy with the weight of the long shift he barely survived at the pizzeria.

But the cries didn’t stop—they only grew louder. Shrill. Panicked. Familiar.

Tiny, high-pitched baby squeaks.

“...They’re out again,” he mumbled into the dark, voice slurred with sleep. “I locked the gate. I swear I locked it this time…”

Beside him, Mafioso stirred, hair a tousled mess, one eye squinting open as he grumbled, “I’ll check it. You sleep. You just got home.”

But Elliot was already kicking off the blanket, dragging himself upright like a zombie, his crumpled red uniform shirt stained with marinara, and his apron still half-tied around his waist. “Nah. They probably smelled me and decided it was feeding time.”

Mafioso sighed, following behind, silently amused, barefoot and yawning, running a hand through his tangled hair.

The moment they opened the nursery door, the sound hit them full force—chaotic little squeals bouncing off the pastel walls.

And there they were.

Three of the babies—Caramel, Vanilla, and Brownie—were out of their tiny bunny enclosure, hopping frantic circles on the soft cloud-patterned rug, eyes wide and noses twitching like tiny drumbeats. Caramel kept tripping over her own ears, and Vanilla was trying to climb Elliot’s sock. Brownie just let out a dramatic squeak every few seconds like a tiny fuzzy siren.

The other four were curled together in a sleepy lump inside the enclosure, looking far too peaceful to be related to these three.

Elliot crouched down slowly, rubbing his eyes. “Oh noooo. Guys. Guys. You’re supposed to be babies, not criminal masterminds.”

He scooped them up gently, cradling all three against his chest. Caramel bit his collar.

“You smell like mozzarella,” Mafioso said from the doorway, smirking.

“You smell like a liar,” Elliot replied, already sinking down onto the big floor cushion in the center of the room. The second his butt hit the cushion, the babies stopped squeaking.

“I’ll warm up their milk,” Mafioso said, already heading toward the kitchen. “Try not to fall asleep on them.”

“No promises,” Elliot muttered, but his arms tightened gently around the babies anyway.

The nursery was quiet again, save for the soft hum of the nightlight and the rhythmic thump of Caramel’s foot against his chest. He shifted to sit cross-legged, letting Vanilla crawl up his arm while Brownie tucked herself into the curve of his lap. Elliot leaned his head back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut, the warmth of three squirmy babies lulling him into something dangerously close to sleep.

By the time Mafioso returned, holding a tray with three warmed-up mini bottles, the scene had shifted entirely.

Elliot had dozed off, head tilted, mouth parted in the softest little snore. Two of the babies—Brownie and Vanilla—were halfway under his shirt, their tiny tails sticking out as they sleepily snuggled into his stomach. Caramel had escaped again and was now dramatically wrestling with Elliot’s untied shoelace like it owed her money.

Mafioso stood in the doorway for a second, taking in the chaos.

“Well,” he whispered with a grin, kneeling carefully beside them, “they’re evolving.”

Elliot blinked awake, bleary. “Mmmnn... Did I fall asleep?”

“You did. They made you into a mattress.”

Elliot groaned softly but didn’t move. “...They didn’t even need bottles, huh?”

“Two of them didn’t. You’re the buffet now,” Mafioso replied, gently reaching to pick up Caramel and offering her the smallest bottle. She latched instantly, paws gripping his fingers like they were handles.

Elliot sighed and leaned sideways, cheek resting against Mafioso’s shoulder. “They better be grateful. I missed my chance to sleep off my pizza shift cramps.”

“I’ll make sure they put you in their will,” Mafioso said. He moved his hand to Elliot’s waist and pulled him fully into his lap, steadying the two babies still hidden under Elliot’s shirt.

And then he was stuck.

One arm around a half-asleep Elliot. One hand holding Caramel and her bottle. Two bunnies under a shirt, twitching and content. Four more still in the enclosure, now starting to wake and make soft murmur-squeaks of their own.

“...You’re on your own if they riot,” Elliot murmured. “I’ve done my part.”

“I’ll negotiate peace treaties,” Mafioso said softly, resting his chin against Elliot’s curls.

Minutes passed like that. Then an hour. Then two.

Mafioso stayed in that spot the whole time. Feeding, shushing, adjusting bottle angles. Rubbing Elliot’s back with small circles. At one point, Caramel crawled into Elliot’s hoodie pocket and fell asleep there.

Eventually, the other four babies stirred too. Mafioso reached for their bottles, rotating duties between sleepy snuggles and sleepy scolding (“No, Brownie, you may not bite your sister’s ear mid-bottle. Respect bedtime.”)

By the time the first gold hint of morning touched the curtains, the nursery was warm and quiet. All seven babies were asleep in a fluffy mound on Elliot’s lap. Elliot himself was knocked out, soft breath brushing Mafioso’s collarbone.

Mafioso sighed contentedly, brushing a crumb of hay off Elliot’s cheek.

The room smelled like warm milk, bunny fur, and faint tomato sauce.

And for once, there was no mafia, no pizza deliveries, no bad days.

Just this: a tired pizza worker, his mafia boyfriend, and seven tiny, sleepy reasons to stay up a little longer.

Chapter Text

The door creaked open just past midnight.

Mafioso stepped into the safehouse, coat dusted with rain, gloves still cold from the night air. He was tired, sore, and smelled faintly of gunpowder and motorcycle grease. His fedora was slightly tilted from where someone had tried to knock it off earlier. They failed, obviously. No one ever really beat him.

He shut the door behind him and exhaled.

Then, from the hallway—light footsteps.

“Rough night, honeybun?”

Mafioso didn’t even need to look.

Elliot leaned against the wall, arms crossed, wearing one of Mafioso’s oversized shirts and nothing else but socks and smugness.

Mafioso’s ears—fluffy, gray, twitching—popped out of his hair like guilty little flags. He froze.

Elliot sauntered up, lifted a hand, and gently scratched behind one of the ears.

Mafioso immediately melted like butter on a hot plate.

“Thought so,” Elliot said, smiling as Mafioso leaned into the touch, posture uncoiling like a slinky.

“I collected,” Mafioso mumbled into his shoulder. “Handled it. They won’t forget again.”

“I’m sure they won’t,” Elliot cooed, stroking both ears now. “Especially if they saw this side of you.”

Mafioso blushed so hard his nose twitched. “Only you. You know that.”

“Mmhm,” Elliot said, clearly not letting him off the hook. “Let’s get you out of these scary clothes, Mr. Intimidating.”

Mafioso didn’t resist as Elliot unbuttoned his coat, hung it up, pulled off his gloves. He stood there obediently, still a little dazed from the ear rubs.

Meanwhile, from the living room vent…

“Dude. DUDE.”

Contractee was flat on his stomach, watching through a gap in the door.

Soldier was beside him, whispering into a walkie-talkie. “Consigliere. You seeing this?”

“Affirmative,” Consigliere replied. “He’s literally purring. This is not a drill.”

“Boss is… submissive.”

“Oh my god,” Caporegime said from the couch, clutching a throw pillow. “He’s the little spoon.”

Back in the bedroom, Mafioso had officially been scooped into Elliot’s arms and dropped onto the bed. His ears were flicking gently, his face buried in Elliot’s chest, legs half-curled like a flopped bunny.

“You look exhausted,” Elliot murmured. “Poor baby.”

Mafioso made a soft sound that was definitely not intimidating. “You’re teasing.”

“Just a little.” He kissed the top of Mafioso’s head. “You’re still the scariest guy in the city.”

“Mm.”

“With the softest ears I’ve ever touched.”

Mafioso let out a tiny gasp when Elliot kissed the base of one ear. Then another. Then again.

He tried to hide his face, but Elliot caught his chin and tilted it up.

“You deserve all the kisses,” Elliot whispered, brushing one against his lips. “All the scratches. All the rest.”

Mafioso finally cracked and let out a sound that could only be described as a dreamy whimper.

“You’re the worst,” he whispered.

“And you love me.”

“I do,” he admitted, eyes fluttering shut.

Back in the vents, the goons had fallen into full-blown chaos.

“He just SAID IT,” Contractee whispered. “He SAID ‘I do.’”

“Someone record this,” Caporegime begged.

“We already are,” Soldier muttered. “Operation Bunnyboss is a go.”

Mafioso was completely gone.

Face buried in Elliot’s chest, ears twitching gently every now and then, breath rising and falling slow and warm. One arm loosely draped around Elliot’s waist. The other one just kind of... dangling there, paw-like. His whole body had gone boneless. Little pink paw pads on his hands had peeked out when Elliot gently tugged off his gloves earlier. The strongest mafia leader in the city had literally curled into a bunny loaf on Elliot’s lap and passed out after five ear kisses.

Elliot smiled down at him, brushed a finger along one soft ear, then leaned down to kiss the top of Mafioso’s head again.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he whispered. “You’re also lucky your crew doesn’t know how much of a marshmallow you actually are.”

CREEEAAAK.

Elliot’s eyes narrowed.

There was a suspicious shadow moving outside the cracked bedroom door.

A faint shuffle. A whisper. The unmistakable sound of someone stepping right into a trash can.

“—ow—Contractee, move—”

“You stepped on my sock!”

“Shhh! I’m recording audio—!”

Elliot gently slipped out from under Mafioso, who let out a soft hmmng noise in his sleep, nuzzling into Elliot’s pillow like a spoiled cat. Elliot carefully adjusted the blanket over his shoulders.

Then, with the quiet speed of a man whose life depended on not waking up the most dangerous bunny alive, he tiptoed to the door—

—and flung it open.

“CAUGHT.”

Four grown mafia goons screamed like children.

Soldier tripped backward. Caporegime ducked behind a plant. Contractee actually went limp and pretended to be dead. Consigliere dropped his notepad.

Elliot stood in the doorway in a rumpled oversized shirt, arms crossed, eyes blazing with amused judgment.

“Are you kidding me?” he hissed. “Were you spying on him?!”

“W-we were making sure he was safe!” Soldier yelped.

“Yeah!” Contractee chimed in from the floor. “He’s never that relaxed! He could be poisoned! Or in a trance!”

“He purred,” Consigliere muttered. “You don’t understand. I saw him purr. I need to rethink my entire worldview.”

Elliot sighed and rubbed his face. “You guys are impossible.”

“He’s asleep right now?” Caporegime asked quietly.

“Yes. In a bunny pile. With his stupid little ears twitching. And you’re ruining it.”

They all froze.

Elliot leaned in close.

“If you wake him up, I’m telling him everything. Every single one of your code names. Every failed prank. Every time you called him ‘fluffy’ in the group chat.”

Contractee gasped. “You WOULDN’T—”

“Try me.”

They all scattered like rats under a flashlight.

Elliot closed the door with a satisfied click, turned back around—

And found Mafioso still asleep, one ear flipped inside out, clutching the pillow with his entire soul.

Elliot crawled back into bed, wrapped his arms around him again, and whispered against his hair.

“Don’t worry. You’re still terrifying.”

Mafioso let out a small sigh and smiled in his sleep.

Chapter Text

It was late — so late the clock didn’t even bother counting anymore.

Elliot and Mafioso were asleep on the living room couch, wrapped in an oversized quilt. Mafioso had his arms around Elliot’s waist, face pressed into his neck, and for once he looked peaceful. Not like a mafia boss. Just a guy. A guy who was warm, tired, and in love.

Then came the knock.

Soft. Hesitant.

“Boss…?”

Elliot cracked one eye open, groaning. “...Did you forget to lock the door?”

Mafioso grunted, not moving. “No. That’s one of mine.”

The door creaked open.

Standing there were Contractee, Caporegime, and Consigliere — all in oversized sleep shirts, looking like the world’s saddest little mafia ducklings.

Contractee clutched a plush toy by one floppy ear. “We had nightmares.”

“Multiple,” Caporegime clarified, staring at the floor.

“I couldn’t go back to sleep,” Consigliere added. “My mind was… spiraling.”

Mafioso blinked slowly, then tilted his head against the back of the couch.

“You’re grown men.”

“Yeah,” Elliot said with a smile, nudging Mafioso’s side, “and they came to you. That’s saying something.”

Mafioso stared at them, his face unreadable in the dark.

Then he sighed. “Come here.”

He shifted the blanket back wordlessly, and just like that, the three shuffled over — no hesitation. Contractee immediately sat beside Elliot and curled into his side. Caporegime dropped onto the floor in front of Mafioso, back against his legs. Consigliere settled on the other side of the couch, head leaning on Mafioso’s shoulder like it was a completely normal thing to do.

“You good?” Mafioso asked, voice low.

Three sleepy nods.

Contractee yawned. “You’re warm.”

“I’m 90% blood and fury,” Mafioso muttered, adjusting the blanket around them. “But sure. Warm.”

Elliot rested his chin against Mafioso’s arm. “You’re kind of good at this.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“I’ll shout it from the rooftops.”

Caporegime chuckled quietly. “I knew you weren’t just violence in a coat.”

Mafioso said nothing.

But his hand slowly moved to pat Caporegime’s head. Gently. Once.

That was enough.

They all drifted off, breathing slowly syncing in a messy, tangled heap of limbs and quiet dreams.

Elliot didn’t even bother teasing him again. He just whispered, “Love you,” and Mafioso hummed something soft in reply, not quite words.

Outside, the world kept turning. Inside, every monster had been chased away — by warmth, by trust, and by a boss who had a lot more love in him than anyone was supposed to know.

Sunlight peeked through the blinds. Quiet. Peaceful.

On the couch and floor, there lay a mafia boss, a pizza boy, and three grown men who were supposed to be terrifying enforcers of a criminal empire — all asleep in a pile.

Mafioso had Elliot in his arms, one cheek smushed into his hair. Caporegime was curled up at his side, snoring faintly. Contractee lay draped across Elliot's legs like a warm cat, clutching his ragged plush bunny. Consigliere had somehow half-fallen off the couch and was still holding onto the boss's coat sleeve like a child clutching a security blanket.

Everyone was asleep.

Soft. Peaceful. A war crime of adorableness.

And then the front door opened.

Soldier stepped in.

Coffee in one hand. Keys in the other. Whistling.

He paused.

Blink.

His sunglasses slid halfway down his nose.

"...What the actual hell."

Silence.

He stood there for a long time, trying to process what he was seeing. These were his coworkers. His crew. His ride-or-dies. The boss — THE BOSS — was supposed to be a heartless, cold-blooded force of fear and strategy.

Not... this.

Not a cuddle pile. Not being the little spoon.

He set the coffee down harder than necessary. None of them even twitched.

“Bro,” he said loudly. “BRO. We’ve known each other since we got assigned under Eunoia. You made me burn down a warehouse in silence. You’ve iced people for looking at you funny.”

No one stirred.

“You made me drink gun-cleaning solution one time because you didn’t trust the tap water!”

Still no movement.

Soldier flopped on the armrest with a long, dramatic sigh. “You get bunny-dog-piled one time and suddenly you’re sweet dreams mafioso? This is betrayal.”

Caporegime snorted in his sleep and rolled over onto Soldier’s leg.

“OH MY GOD—GET OFF ME—”

That finally did it.

Mafioso cracked one eye open. “…You’re loud.”

Elliot yawned and blinked blearily. “Mornin’, Soldier.”

“I’m literally going to start a union,” Soldier hissed.

Contractee sat up, pillow lines on his cheek. “We had nightmares.”

“Why do you get nightmares and I get an emotional breakdown watching you all snuggle like orphan kittens?!”

Mafioso just stared at him. Then pulled Elliot closer again like he was a personal plush toy.

“Because,” he said, barely audible, “you weren’t sad enough.”

Soldier stood in stunned silence.

“…I’m gonna go lie down and cry,” he mumbled, turning toward the door.

Consigliere murmured in his sleep, “Put on more coffee.”

Soldier flipped him off without looking back.

Chapter Text

The pizzeria had finally closed for the night, the neon sign buzzing off behind them as Elliot and Mafioso stepped into the cool air. The streets were quiet, lit by golden lamplight and the soft rustle of leaves. Elliot yawned, stretching until his shoulders popped.

“We survived another Saturday rush,” he groaned. “I swear if one more guy asks for pineapple—”

“Next time, let me handle it,” Mafioso muttered, tucking his gloved hands into his coat. “Pineapple is... a crime.”

Elliot snorted. “You say that about a lot of things.”

They wandered in silence for a bit, shoes scuffing the sidewalk. It had become a habit—these late-night walks after work, just the two of them, winding down. Mafioso's trench coat swayed gently as he walked, his presence quiet but protective.

Then they heard it.

Squeak.

Elliot paused. “Did you hear that?”

Mafioso stopped, tilting his head.

Squeak-squeak.

From behind a bench nearby.

They glanced at each other before approaching cautiously. Elliot knelt down, peeking behind the bench—and froze.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “Maf. Look.”

There, tucked into a rain-damp cardboard box, were four tiny, shivering bunny babies. Their fur was patchy, their ears too big for their heads, and one of them tried to hop but only managed to roll into its sibling.

“They’re—” Elliot's voice caught. “They’re just babies.”

Mafioso looked around, scanning the street. No movement. No one nearby. His expression hardened. “Someone dumped them.”

“They’ll freeze out here.” Elliot was already pulling off his jacket. “We have to take them. We can’t just leave them.”

Mafioso stared for a moment. Then wordlessly shrugged off his coat and knelt beside him. He scooped up the box with one arm and gently, carefully, helped nudge the tiniest bunny into the folds of fabric.

Elliot blinked at him.

“You’re not even arguing.”

“I already know I’ve lost,” Mafioso said dryly, but the way he tucked the bunnies in—gentle as ever—betrayed him.

One of the bunnies let out a sleepy little snort and nestled into the crook of his arm.

“…That one’s yours now,” Elliot whispered.

Mafioso didn’t answer.

But he didn’t put it down either.

They snuck in like criminals—which, ironically, Mafioso actually was.

Elliot held the front door open with one foot while balancing two bundled bunnies in his arms. Mafioso followed, box in hand, trench coat draped over it like a soft fortress. The apartment lights were low, the hum of the fridge the only sound.

The moment the door shut, Elliot exhaled.

“We just adopted four children,” he said.

Mafioso set the box down gently on the rug. “This was not part of the plan.”

“They’re cold and tiny and their ears are too big. Look at this one—he has no idea how to hop yet!” Elliot held up a trembling little puffball, who gave a heroic, lopsided flop onto his shoulder. “See? Born for cuddles.”

Mafioso knelt beside the box and pulled back the coat carefully. The bunnies blinked up at him, eyes shiny like wet jellybeans. One yawned. It was so small it looked like it took all its strength.

Mafioso stared.

"...We can’t keep all of them," he muttered.

Elliot was already setting up a towel nest in the laundry basket. “No, but we can foster them until we find them good homes. Responsible. Mature. Normal people.”

One bunny climbed up his pant leg and sat there like a king.

Mafioso raised an eyebrow. “Like you?”

“I make a mean salad and have perfect attendance at my job. I am the pinnacle of bunny parenting.”

“Do salads even go with rabbits?”

Elliot paused. “…Actually yeah, they love lettuce.”

He crouched next to Mafioso and looked down at the four tiny blobs. “What do we do now?”

Mafioso rubbed his temples. “We don’t let the boys find out.”

At that moment, a bunny sneezed.

And Mafioso… flinched.

Elliot covered his mouth to hide the giggle. “You're scared of a sneeze?”

“That wasn’t a sneeze. That was the sound of responsibility.”

Mafioso sat on the couch in a vain attempt to look casual. One bunny was curled up in his lap like a particularly judgmental marshmallow. Elliot was in the kitchen, stress-cutting celery into rabbit-friendly bits. The laundry basket—now a deluxe bunny suite with blankets and a warm water bottle—was tucked beside the heater.

All was quiet.

Until—

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

“Boss? You home?” Caporegime’s voice, muffled through the door.

Mafioso flinched. “No,” he called back, way too fast.

Too late. The door creaked open, because Caporegime had a spare key and no shame. Contractee and Consigliere followed close behind, all talking at once.

“Hey Boss, Eunoia wanted—whoa.”

The apartment froze.

Caporegime’s eyes landed on the bunny in Mafioso’s lap.

Contractee gasped and immediately dropped to his knees. “IS THAT A BABY???”

Mafioso opened his mouth to lie, but the bunny chose that exact moment to sneeze.

“Boss…” Consigliere’s voice was serious. “Have you been hiding bunnies from us?”

“No,” Mafioso said.

Contractee pointed at the towel nest. “That one has a sweater.”

“…I made it,” Elliot muttered from the kitchen. “For morale.”

Caporegime walked straight over, scooped up the roundest bunny, and inspected it like a gem dealer. “This one’s got spunk. Name’s mine now. I’m calling him Tiny Rage.”

The bunny kicked him in the thumb.

“Yep. That’s mine.”

Consigliere pulled out his clipboard, flipping to a blank sheet. “We’re going to need a chart. Temperament ratings. Feeding logs. Code names.”

Contractee had already settled on the floor with two bunnies climbing into his hoodie. “Boss, we can help! We’re basically uncles!”

“I don’t need help,” Mafioso insisted, as a bunny crawled halfway into his sleeve. “…Get out.”

“You love them,” Elliot teased.

“I fear them.”

“Same thing,” Contractee said through a mouthful of bunny fur.

Within fifteen minutes, the living room had transformed from a quiet recovery zone into a makeshift bunny daycare.

Contractee was on the floor with a bunny clutched to his chest like a newborn. He’d taken off his hoodie and made a tiny nest in it, then zipped it back up with just the head poking out.

“This one’s mine,” he announced. “He’s small, loud, and refuses to nap. I relate deeply.”

“That’s not how this works,” Mafioso tried, weakly.

“Yes it is,” Contractee countered. “His name is Jellybean.”

Elliot, who had given up on resisting, just passed him a baby carrot. “Congrats on fatherhood.”

Caporegime was sitting cross-legged nearby, sternly trying to teach his bunny to box with cotton swabs. “He’s got potential. Real fight in him.”

The bunny licked his finger.

“…Okay fine he’s my soft little man.”

“You named him Tiny Rage five minutes ago.”

Capo beamed. “And I stand by it.”

Consigliere had selected the fluffiest one and was already drawing up a feeding schedule, complete with nap times, enrichment activities, and a contingency plan in case the bunny developed allergies.

“This one likes staring at walls and chewing fabric. She’s a visionary,” he said proudly. “Name: Duchess Von Wiggle.”

Mafioso watched from the couch, a bunny still curled up under his coat like it paid rent.

“I said we’re fostering,” he muttered.

Elliot leaned down, kissing his forehead. “And you’re doing great, sweetie.”

Soldier, still MIA, was likely the only hope of restoring order.

Until then...

They were a five-man crime family—with four bunnies, a clipboard, and an alarming lack of adult supervision.

The front door creaked open.

Soldier didn’t knock. He never knocked. He stepped inside, adjusted his gloves, and paused—because what he saw looked less like a mafia safehouse and more like a daycare sponsored by a petting zoo.

There were bunnies.
Everywhere.

One peeked out from inside Contractee’s hoodie, nestled like a baby kangaroo. Another was perched proudly on Caporegime’s shoulder. A third sat in a cardboard fort with a flag made from a napkin and a toothpick, where Consigliere was giving it a lecture about scheduled nap cycles.

And the last?

The last bunny was asleep on Mafioso’s lap, curled up neatly like it belonged there.

Soldier’s expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes flickered.

“I was gone for four hours,” he said flatly.

“We got ambushed,” Elliot replied, unfazed, feeding a baby carrot to Capo’s shoulder bunny. “By ears.”

Caporegime turned dramatically. “This is Tiny Rage. He punched a salad.”

Consigliere waved his clipboard. “I’ve already organized mealtime rotations and potty spot assignments.”

Contractee grinned. “Mine’s named Jellybean. He loves crime documentaries.”

Soldier took one long step forward and stared down at the bunny on Mafioso’s lap.

They stared back at each other.

Mafioso gave a long-suffering sigh and looked up at him.

“…Take it,” he said.

Without a word, Soldier reached out. The bunny, half-asleep, allowed itself to be scooped up into his arms.

“I’ll name it Civetta,” he muttered. “It doesn’t make noise.”

“You named it already!” Contractee beamed. “You're emotionally invested!”

“I’m planning for stealth,” Soldier grumbled, gently tucking the bunny into his coat.

Mafioso closed his eyes. “This is a hostage situation.”

Elliot kissed his temple. “You're just mad yours was the cutest.”

“I didn’t pick it.”

“You held it for twenty minutes.”

“I was trying to warm my tea.”

“You were petting it.”

Soldier gave Mafioso a rare, almost respectful glance. “It picked you first.”

And Mafioso, for once, had no reply.

The meeting room at HQ was supposed to be a place of seriousness. Of deals made in low voices. Of maps, markers, mission logs, and crime.

But today?

It was absolutely ruined.

Tiny Rage was chewing on the corner of a blueprint like it owed him money.

Jellybean was chasing a pencil across the floor, smacking into chair legs and occasionally getting tangled in the rug.

Duchess Von Wiggle had taken over Consigliere's chair, clipboard and all, looking quite proud of her promotion.

And Civetta was curled up in Soldier's lap, completely still-like a judgmental little bread loaf, blinking slowly at the chaos.

Mafioso stood at the front of the room, arms crossed, face unreadable.

“This was supposed to be a strategy meeting.”

Contractee was lying on the floor in a starfish position, giggling as his bunny hopped across his stomach.

“Technically,” said Caporegime, “we are strategizing. Duchess just declared war on the coffee table.”

“I have lost all authority,” Mafioso muttered.

“Not true,” Soldier said, calmly brushing bunny fur off his lapel. “Civetta respects you. She just doesn’t take orders.”

Before Mafioso could reply, the door slid open with a pleasant chime.

In walked Eunoia.

Her long coat fluttered slightly as she stepped inside, and everyone snapped to attention—except for the bunnies, who were too busy causing mayhem to notice their android boss’s presence.

Eunoia blinked once.

Then bent down.

And picked up the nearest bunny.

“You are not authorized,” Mafioso said dryly, “to encourage this.”

Eunoia smiled, petting the bunny like it was the most important operation file of the year. “Incorrect. I am the one who gave you the pizza night that led to these events. You may consider this... a chain of command.”

She paused thoughtfully. “Effective immediately, bunny expenses will be added to payroll.”

Contractee exploded. “WE GET A BUNNY ALLOWANCE?!”

“Yes,” Eunoia said. “You will need it. Tiny Rage appears to have eaten most of the blueprints.”

Mafioso slowly dragged a hand down his face.

Contractee grinned, stretching. “So, boss. Should we call this Operation: Hop and Order?”

“Get out.”

“Hop and Order: Special Bunits.”

“I said OUT.”

But he didn’t actually kick them out.

Because as the room slowly dissolved into more bunny chaos, more laughter, and Eunoia calmly drawing up expense forms with a rabbit on her shoulder...

Mafioso just stood there.

Deadpan.

Surrounded.

Defeated.

And maybe-just maybe-smiling.

Chapter Text

Elliot and Contractee had been told—explicitly told—not to touch anything.

The rest of the mafia had left early that morning for a risky mission. Mafioso, Soldier, Caporegime, and Consigliere had gone radio silent with serious expressions and deadly weapons, leaving behind only two things:

1. A locked conference room.

2. A warning.

"Don't cause any problems. Don't touch the gear. Don't leave HQ."

But they hadn’t said anything about fighting each other with couch cushions.

And so, twenty minutes in, the base's lounge room had been converted into a full-scale wrestling arena.

“You cheater! You used the good pillow!” Contractee yelled as Elliot ducked behind a beanbag for cover.

Elliot grinned. “It’s not cheating if there’s no rules!”

“There are rules! I made them up just now!”

Contractee launched himself after Elliot—who shrieked and darted out the room, flailing toward the hallway.

The chase was glorious.

It was also short-lived.

Because in their dramatic, laughter-fueled scramble through HQ, they both hit the stairs.

Contractee tripped on the first step trying to catch Elliot's hoodie. Elliot twisted to help him—but the momentum just slammed them both down in a tangle of limbs and pain.

CRASH.

Then silence.

“…Ow.”

“…I think my leg is broken,” Contractee groaned.

Elliot wheezed. “I think my soul is broken. Also my arm.”

And then came her.

Footsteps sharp as clicks on tile. The automatic doors whooshing open. The room temperature dropping by ten degrees.

Eunoia.

She stared down at them—two crumpled idiots at the base of the stairs, one clutching a crooked arm, the other blinking away tears with a foot that was most definitely not pointing the right direction.

“…Explain,” she said coolly.

They tried.

They failed.

She activated Scary Boss Mode™ with no mercy.

“You disobeyed direct orders. You engaged in physical combat inside HQ. You compromised mission protocol and injured yourselves on a staircase—”

“But we were—” Contractee whimpered.

“ON. A. STAIRCASE.”

They were grounded for three weeks.

No outside contact, no sweets, no TV, no mafia base paintball tournaments. Contractee’s dramatics didn’t earn pity this time. Even Elliot’s big-eyed pout couldn’t reduce the fury of a disappointed android mother figure.

And when the others returned from the mission—bruised, bloody, victorious—they expected a calm base.

What they found instead were two blanket-wrapped disasters on the lounge floor.

Contractee had fallen asleep with his casted leg propped on a stool, hoodie five sizes too big and sleeves covering his hands. Elliot lay beside him on the couch, arm tucked in a sling, cheeks still pink with dried tears. A crumpled tissue rested near his fingers, both of them fast asleep in their own little blanket nests—quiet, soft, and absolutely grounded.

Quiet.

Defeated.

Pitiful.

Soldier blinked. “What happened here?”

Eunoia emerged from the shadows, arms crossed. “Disobedience. Gravity. Regret.”

Caporegime smirked. “Wait. Did you scold them?”

“They’ll never recover,” Consigliere muttered.

Mafioso stood at the foot of the stairs, staring down at the wreckage of his boyfriend and youngest mafia companion.

“…Did they fall together?” he asked.

“They were fighting,” Eunoia said without inflection.

Mafioso sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I leave for six hours.”

“They’re lucky I still believe in healing through strict discipline and steamed vegetables.”

“Wait. You took their sweets privileges?” Capo whispered, horrified.

Contractee stirred in his blanket cocoon, face scrunched in a sleepy pout. “She took my cinnamon bun…” he mumbled faintly in his sleep.

Beside him, Elliot shifted under his blanket, voice barely a whisper. “And my strawberry milk…”

They didn’t wake. Just curled deeper into their nests, softly sulking even in dreams.

Eunoia adjusted her jacket like a war general. “Good.”

Later that night, the base was quiet.

Elliot lay on the couch, arm snug in its sling, cheeks still puffed from crying. His blanket was tucked up to his chin, and his hair was messier than usual, thanks to the dramatic fall and equally dramatic meltdown.

Mafioso knelt beside him with a warm bowl of miso soup.

“You don’t even like this,” he said softly, placing it on the table.

“I know,” Elliot mumbled. “But it feels like care.”

Mafioso reached over and gently brushed Elliot’s bangs aside. “How did this happen again?”

“…We were bonding.”

Mafioso gave him the look.

“We were fighting with pillows and it got a little… passionate.”

“Mm. And where did the stairs come in?”

“Gravity got passionate too.”

Mafioso let out a low sigh and sat beside him, careful not to jostle him. “You could’ve broken your neck.”

“I broke my arm. Let’s not be dramatic.”

“That’s my job.”

Elliot chuckled tiredly and let himself flop over, resting his head in Mafioso’s lap. “Are you mad?”

“…No.”

Elliot peeked up at him.

“I’m furious, but not mad.”

That earned a sleepy giggle. Mafioso absentmindedly traced his fingers along Elliot’s good arm, soothing him back into calm. “I’ll ask Eunoia to reduce the grounding by a day if you promise not to throw yourself off stairs again.”

Elliot smiled, closing his eyes. “You really love me.”

“…Unfortunately.”

---

Meanwhile…

In another room of the base, Contractee had rolled himself into a corner with his foot in a cast and a blanket dramatically wrapped around his shoulders like he was dying of heartbreak. He was scribbling in a spiral notebook labeled “My Betrayal By Stairs: A Tragedy in Three Acts”.

A quiet knock at the door.

No answer.

Then it opened anyway.

Soldier stepped in, unreadable as ever, holding something behind his back.

“…What,” Contractee grumbled.

“I heard you broke your leg.”

“I heard stairs are evil incarnate,” Contractee replied.

Silence.

Then Soldier walked over and… handed him a bag.

Contractee blinked and pulled it open.

Inside: a single cinnamon bun.

Contractee’s eyes filled with tears.

“You broke protocol to give me this?”

Soldier turned to leave. “You’re annoying when you’re dramatic.”

“You love me,” Contractee whispered, voice trembling.

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you implied it!”

No response.

Just the door quietly shutting behind him.

Contractee stared at the cinnamon bun.

“…I forgive you, stairs. For now.”

Chapter Text

Mafioso had seen him again.

Twice this week. No—three times if you counted the incident with the plastic bag flying into the alley. The one where Mafioso had pretended to be examining graffiti while Elliot, face red from biking too fast, had casually walked past on the opposite sidewalk.

He was always just… there. Red hat, soft cheeks, shirt a little flour-dusted from his shift. Mafioso would not call it stalking. No. He was “observing.” For intel. For curiosity. For—

Well, whatever the reason, it wasn’t weird.

Not like how he thought it was weird when he found half a boot print in the mulch under the laurel tree outside his estate wall.

Or how the security team caught a figure on the cameras last Tuesday, crouched near the bushes for four hours with a thermos and what appeared to be… knitting needles?

(“Knitting, sir?” Consigliere had asked, adjusting his tablet. Mafioso had only grunted, pretending not to care while staring at the paused footage of a hunched figure in a red shirt.)

Elliot would never call it stalking.

He was just curious about the guy. The guy who never smiled, wore all black, and occasionally showed up with a crow on his shoulder. The one who’d asked for “extra red sauce” once and left a $50 tip for a $12 pizza. He had questions.

Like, why did his coat move like it had its own mind?

Why did a group of silent men in trench coats open doors for him?

And why did seeing him glance over his shoulder make Elliot feel like he was on fire?

So yeah. Sometimes he followed him. In his free time. Just to make sure he wasn’t imagining things.

Just to confirm that the guy wasn’t actually a vampire.

(He wasn’t. Elliot watched him eat a whole mozzarella stick once. Vampires couldn’t do that, right?)

Their schedules never lined up.

Elliot was a day-stalker. Mafioso preferred the night.

They both left gifts they claimed weren’t gifts. A cold soda left on the wall (Elliot). A strange carved rabbit figurine that appeared in his bicycle basket (Mafioso).

Elliot almost thought it might’ve been love.

Mafioso nearly killed a man for sitting on his alley bench. (“It’s public,” Soldier had said. “So is my rage,” Mafioso replied.)

The gang started noticing.

“He’s been smiling,” said Caporegime, suspicious.

“Not smiling. Smirking,” corrected Consigliere.

“He was humming,” Contractee whispered, horrified. “While wiping blood off a knife.”

“Maybe he’s in love,” Soldier said flatly, and everyone stared.

The meeting happened in a tree.

Both of them—on a rare aligned day off—had decided to get bold. Track each other to the same park. Climb the same oak tree (it had good coverage, wide limbs, and was perfect for spying).

They climbed at the same time. Froze halfway. Stared.

“…Oh,” Elliot said.

“…What are you doing here?” Mafioso said at the exact same time.

They paused again.

Neither moved. They were both halfway up the same branch.

“...Spying,” Elliot admitted first, face red.

“Stalking,” Mafioso corrected, deadpan. “It’s different.”

“Oh my god.”

“Were you following me?” Mafioso said, eyes narrowing.

“Were you following me?!” Elliot accused, jabbing a finger at him.

They looked at each other.

They looked at each other.

And then, quietly, almost tender:

“…I’ve seen you at the bakery across from your pizzeria. You like cinnamon rolls.”

Elliot blinked. “I’ve seen you sit on the same bench outside the florist. You talk to the crow there.”

“She’s my associate.”

“You have a crow associate?”

“I’m not the one climbing a tree in khaki shorts, pizza boy.”

“I’m not the one with binoculars and three photos of my pet bunny!”

“I like your bunny.”

Silence. Wind in the leaves. Two idiots in a tree, tangled in branches and feelings.

Elliot reached out. “Do you wanna go get… not-stalked donuts? Together?”

Mafioso stared. Then—just barely—smiled.

Back at HQ, the mafialings noticed the change.

“He’s brushing his hair,” Contractee whispered.

“I saw him wearing cologne.” said Caporegime.

“He answered a text within three minutes,” added Consigliere.

Soldier, deadpan as ever, held up a photo of Mafioso very obviously being kissed on the cheek by a certain pizza boy. “They met in a tree. I have footage.”

The teasing did not stop for weeks.

But Mafioso didn’t seem to care.

He had Elliot’s number in his phone, Elliot’s photo in his wallet, and Elliot’s bunny-shaped cookies in a tin in his coat.

And as for Elliot—well, he’d taken to biking past HQ daily just to catch a glimpse of the crow.

(Stalking? Maybe. But this time, with consent.)

Chapter Text

1. Soldier (Oldest)

Real Name: Markus

Birthday: January 19

Age: 27

Codename Origin: The first. Mafioso’s right hand before anyone else joined. Reliable, brutal when needed—but always controlled. A soldier in every sense.

Backstory: Markus grew up in a war-torn district where children either disappeared or became weapons. By the time the mafia found him, he'd already survived hell. He doesn't talk about it—but there are whispers of a lost sibling, a last promise. Markus never let himself hope for anything… until Mafioso gave him a reason to stand still.

Personality: Emotionally unreadable. Stoic and quiet, but terrifyingly capable. Reads the room better than anyone. May look cold, but his loyalty runs deeper than blood.

Bonds:

• Deepest trust lies with Mafioso.

• Silently watches over Contractee.

• Mutual respect with Caporegime.

• The entire gang sees him as the immovable pillar no one dares to lean on—yet always do.

Fighting Style:

• Defensive Tank. Absorbs hits, blocks blows for others. Low, grounded stances. One arm can lift Contractee like a sack of flour.

• Uses a crowbar with precision, not brutality. Calm, efficient swings.

Weakness:

• Slower in fast-paced battles. Can be overwhelmed by speed or long-range attacks.

• Emotionally detached. Hesitates when things get personal.

Stress/Guilt Reaction:

• Silently withdraws. Starts cleaning weapons more than usual. Sleeps less, stands watch longer.

• Only shows concern through actions: checking in, fixing broken gear, cooking too much food.

Biggest Fear: Losing his family again. Especially if it’s on his watch. Won’t say it, but he’d die before letting that happen.

Fun Facts:

• Has a weird talent for sewing. Once fixed Contractee’s hoodie during a mission by hand, complete with little star patches.

• Doesn’t blink in photos. Every group pic looks like he’s haunting it.

2. Caporegime (Second Oldest)

Real Name: Viktor

Birthday: August 5

Age: 25

Codename Origin: The muscle commander. Leads squads into chaos and gets them back out. Every strike is calculated. Every order, clean.

Backstory: Viktor grew up in the gutters, fists up from day one. Life taught him that power keeps you breathing—and silence gets you killed. The mafia offered him more than survival; it gave him a name worth saying. Now, he protects it with everything he’s got.

Personality: Blunt. Proud. Tactical. He’s the type to lead from the front and fight with honor. Appears tough, but knows the value of a calm voice when others break.

Bonds:

• Mutual trust with Soldier—they’ve had each other’s backs for years.

• Operates seamlessly with Consigliere despite frequent headbutting.

• Tries to parent Contractee through sheer intimidation. Fails.

• Loyal to Mafioso, but not afraid to challenge orders when needed.

Fighting Style:

• Aggressive Grappler. Charges headfirst, grabs enemies, and slams them into walls or floors. Uses a baton like a brawler’s extension—fast, close, overwhelming.

• Has military-style takedowns. A one-man wrecking crew when angry.

Weakness:

• Doesn’t plan ahead. Acts on instinct. If isolated from the team, he’s easy to bait or trick.

• Overexerts himself quickly.

Stress/Guilt Reaction:

• Paces like a caged animal. Trains harder. Yells more. Very physical—throws things when no one is looking.

• May snap orders under pressure but apologizes later with a gruff pat on the back.

Biggest Fear: Being useless in a situation where he should’ve protected someone—especially the younger ones.

Fun Facts:

• Scares people without meaning to. Once made a child cry at a grocery store by staring too hard at the cereal.

• Wears sunglasses indoors, at night, and once underwater. When asked why, said: “It’s part of the brand.”

3. Consigliere (Third in Age)

Real Name: Kieran

Birthday: November 12

Age: 22

Codename Origin: The mind behind the curtain. He doesn’t need to raise his voice—his words cut deeper.

Backstory: Born into prestige. Groomed for academia or politics. But Kieran chose the mafia. Whether it was rebellion, disappointment, or something worse, no one knows. He never talks about his family, but his obsession with precision hints at the chaos he escaped. He found peace in Mafioso’s organized madness.

Personality: Cynical. Brilliant. Unapologetically blunt. He’s the guy with three backup plans and two alibis before you finish your sentence. Needs control like others need air.

Bonds:

• Acts as a mentor to Contractee, despite claiming he’s “too annoying.”

• Constantly in a passive-aggressive chess match with Caporegime.

• Secretly intimidated by Soldier, but respects his presence.

• He’s loyal to Mafioso—but views him more like a shared thesis topic than a person.

Fighting Style:

• Precision Duelist. He fights smart, not hard. Dodges, analyzes enemy patterns, waits for the perfect strike. Uses a thin sword like a fencer or tactician.

• Aims for pressure points or disabling moves.

Weakness:

• Overthinks. If his plan breaks down, he freezes.

• Not built for raw strength or long fights. Relies on backup.

Stress/Guilt Reaction:

• Blames himself first. Shuts down emotionally and gets snappier. Retreats into research, files, or writing new contingency plans.

• Won’t admit he’s upset—but leaves long-winded apologies disguised as “logistics reports.”

Biggest Fear: Making the wrong call and getting someone hurt. Especially if it's Contractee, since he looks out for him.

Fun Facts:

• Hates loud sounds—but wears noise-canceling earplugs in one ear only, so he can still monitor the gang.

• Color-codes everyone’s mission files. Gets irrationally upset if someone uses the wrong highlighter.

4. Contractee (Youngest)

Real Name: Nicolas

Birthday: May 13

Age: 19

Codename Origin: Contractee was saved from the edge by Soldier and Mafioso. He chose to stay—not out of duty, but gratitude. His name marks not a contract on paper, but a promise he made to protect the ones who pulled him back.

Backstory: The streets raised him. Foster homes couldn’t keep him. Crime became a language before he ever learned love. He acts like he’s fine—laughing, joking, pulling pranks—but deep down, he’s still looking for somewhere safe. Mafioso and Soldier gave him a place. No questions asked. Just one condition: someday, a favor will be called in.

Personality: Chaotic, clingy, clever. Always cracking jokes, even when he’s falling apart. Underestimated constantly. Emotionally honest in ways the others aren't.

Bonds:

• Sees Mafioso as the coolest uncle alive.

• Soldier is his silent father figure, even if he pretends not to care.

• Constantly pestering Caporegime.

• Genuinely looks up to Consigliere, even if he draws funny pictures of him daily.

• The heart of the group. Hurts louder. Heals slower.

Fighting Style:

• Evasive Trickster. Runs circles around opponents. Uses gadgets, props, sleight-of-hand. His plank might seem silly—until he throws it like a boomerang or hides a blade inside.

• Can climb and hide like a wild animal. Does well in chaotic environments.

Weakness:

• Gets cocky. Underestimates enemies. Lacks endurance—can’t take many hits.

• Panic-prone when alone.

Stress/Guilt Reaction:

• Spirals fast. Tries to joke through it, but it cracks. Hides in rooms, under desks, or climbs places no one expects.

• Needs someone to physically calm him—like Soldier holding his hoodie sleeve or Consigliere grounding him with logic.

Biggest Fear: Being abandoned or replaced. He jokes about it, but it terrifies him. Mafioso’s promise is what keeps him grounded.

Fun Facts:

• Sleeps with a stuffed bunny named “Colonel Crunch.” No one is allowed to touch him except Soldier.

• Tried to train a raccoon once. Named it “Vice President.” Soldier quietly relocated it.

Chapter Text

The clock on the dashboard blinked 3:01 PM as Elliot pulled the massive, slightly-too-long, very suspicious-looking van into the school’s parking lot. The thing was shaped like a loaf of bread with windows, and it rumbled like it had opinions. Still, it got the job done.

Inside, seven back seats awaited seven bunny kids.

He adjusted the mirror and blew a breath into his bangs. “Okay. Time to pick up the herd.”

The school bell rang, and like an adorable stampede, his children poured out the building’s front doors. Their ears bounced. Their little backpacks bounced. Someone was already waving their homework in the air like a flag.

“DAD!!” came the chorus.

Elliot opened the side door and caught the first hug like a pro. “Hey, hey, careful! You’re gonna knock me into another dimension.” He staggered dramatically as they piled in, chattering and squabbling and laughing all at once.

They had a system—assigned seats, buckles clipped by height, ears tucked for safety. Elliot checked each one off in his head like clockwork. He was good at this now.

But just as he was climbing into the driver’s seat again, a soft voice from behind tugged at his sleeve.

It was the youngest—a little brown-furred bunny with long ears that dragged when they were tired. They clutched their lunchbox close.

“Daddy?” they said, voice nearly lost under all the noise. “Can I… um. Can I talk to you and Papa later? Just us?”

Elliot turned, heart already bracing. He crouched beside them, hands on their little shoulders.

“Of course, sweet bean,” he said, quietly. “You okay?”

The child nodded, but didn’t look up. “Mhm.”

Elliot offered a small smile. “Alright. Later, then. We’ll talk.”

The child gave a shy nod and slid into their seat beside their siblings, who were currently debating whether carrots or gummies would win in a battle.

Elliot climbed back in, turned the key, and tried not to frown too hard as the van rattled to life. Something was wrong. He didn’t know what yet—but he knew he and Mafioso would fix it.

They always did.

The van barely rolled into the driveway before the side doors burst open and the bunny swarm tumbled out.

“Last one inside does the dishes!” shouted one of the middle kids, already halfway to the porch.

“That’s not fair, your legs are longer!” shouted another, tripping over their backpack.

Elliot stepped out and stretched his back with a groan. The day’s pizza grease still clung to his sleeves, and he hadn't even taken off his apron. The house rang with thumping paws, squeaky door hinges, and someone loudly announcing they had to pee “or else.”

He barely had time to set down his keys when the door creaked again.

Mafioso stepped in, trench coat dusted with wind and the scent of distant fire. His fedora was tilted slightly, and his tie was still perfectly knotted despite what must’ve been a long day collecting debts, avoiding bullets, or both.

“Welcome back, dear,” Elliot said, brushing past him for a quick forehead kiss. “Still in one piece?”

“Barely,” Mafioso muttered, then looked up as a chorus of voices screamed, “PAPA!!”

Within seconds, he was tackled by at least four bunnies. He staggered under their weight, letting out a surprised laugh as they climbed him like a very fancy, very deadly jungle gym.

“Okay, okay—one at a time,” he said, petting their ears and returning every hug, “Let your father breathe.”

Once the chaos settled and snacks had been passed out, Elliot gave Mafioso a look—a small, serious one. Mafioso raised an eyebrow.

Elliot nodded discreetly toward the quiet child. They were curled up on the edge of the couch, watching the others with a faraway look, lunchbox still clutched in both hands.

Mafioso understood immediately.

He stood, gave Elliot’s hand a gentle squeeze, and said loudly, “Alright, everyone! Time to wind down. Brush your teeth, check your ears for lint, no excuses.”

There were grumbles, of course. One dramatic collapse. But the other kids knew when to give space. Mafioso had that voice—a velvet sort of authority. Slowly, they filtered out, leaving the kitchen quiet but for the soft hum of the fridge.

Elliot pulled out a chair and guided the little one to sit between them. They clambered up wordlessly, clutching the edge of the table like it might disappear.

Mafioso bent slightly to meet their gaze. “You said you wanted to talk to us, sweetheart.”

There was a pause.

Then—

“They… they made fun of me,” the child whispered, trembling. “At recess. They said my ears were weird. That I looked too… too much like a rabbit. They said I wasn’t normal.”

Elliot’s heart cracked. The child wiped at their nose with a sleeve.

“They said I should keep my ears down. That people like me aren’t supposed to be at their school.”

The silence was thick. Too thick.

Mafioso’s gloved hand curled into a fist on the table.

Elliot reached over without even looking and gently laid a hand on it.

“Don’t,” he murmured.

Mafioso let out a tight breath through his nose. “I want names.”

“No names tonight,” Elliot whispered, eyes on their child. “Right now, we listen.”

The little bunny sniffled, finally letting go of their lunchbox, and reached for Elliot’s hand instead. He took it immediately.

“We’re here, baby,” he said softly. “Thank you for telling us.”

Mafioso knelt beside the chair, smoothing a hand gently over their ear, his voice lower now.

“No one—no one—gets to make you feel less for who you are.”

The little bunny sniffled again, tears still slipping down their furred cheeks, and leaned into Mafioso’s hand. He cupped their face so gently it was almost reverent, thumb brushing under their eye.

“I used to get made fun of too, you know,” Elliot murmured from the other side, voice hushed like it was just for the three of them. “Not for my ears, but… for being soft. For crying too much. For being weird.”

The child blinked at him, small and surprised. “Really?”

“Really. People say dumb things when they don’t understand someone special,” Elliot said with a smile. “And you, sweet bean? You’re very special.”

“I second that,” Mafioso added, giving their forehead a kiss. “And I won’t pretend it doesn’t make me mad. I want to storm that school and scare every kid who looked at you wrong.”

“Mafioso.”

“I won’t,” he amended with a sigh. “But I want to.”

Elliot reached across and squeezed his wrist, half warning, half grateful. Mafioso’s eyes softened again.

The child rubbed at their eyes with the sleeve of their sweater. “I just… I don’t wanna go back.”

“I know,” Elliot said, pulling them into his lap and tucking their ears gently behind their head. “But we’ll make it easier. We’ll talk to your teacher, okay? And you don’t have to go alone. We’ll always be here.”

Mafioso pulled a chair closer and leaned in, his coat rustling as he brushed their ears with his gloved knuckles. “You have six siblings who’d go to war for you,” he said. “And two parents who already did. You’re not alone, little moon.”

There was a long, sniffly silence. Then:

“…Can I have melon bread?”

Elliot blinked. Then grinned. “Of course you can. You’re getting the big one. The one with the icing on top.”

“And the sugar dust,” Mafioso added, nodding solemnly. “The most elite melon bread.”

“Can I get two?”

“Three.” Elliot declared. “Because you were brave enough to tell us the truth.”

“Four,” Mafioso said, “if you want to bribe your siblings into ear-checking duty tonight.”

The bunny laughed — a soft, hiccupy little thing — and melted against Elliot’s chest.

The kitchen lights were low now. Most of the bunny kids had been herded upstairs—seven little whirlwinds reduced to sleepy footsteps and quiet thumps overhead. Only the youngest was still up, curled beneath a blanket on the couch with their ears tucked shyly into their hoodie.

Mafioso was pacing.

He didn’t look angry anymore, not exactly. But Elliot knew that look: the tight jaw, the way he tugged his gloves on and off like he was preparing for a monologue.

“Maf,” Elliot warned softly, stirring a cup of tea.

“I’m not mad,” Mafioso said, adjusting his tie. “I’m just… historically passionate.”

“Oh boy.”

Mafioso turned, arms folding behind his back. His coat swayed like a cape.

“Back when I was your age,” he began—already too dramatic—“we were proud of our ears. Our tails. Our twitchy noses. We didn’t hide them, we didn’t fold them down to be ‘less noticeable.’ We walked into rooms, and people noticed.”

The child blinked up from their blanket, eyes still a little red from crying.

“My ears were even longer than yours,” Mafioso said, crouching beside them. “Sharp. One bent a little to the left—see?” He pulled off his hat to reveal it, and the child leaned in, curious. “Kids said it looked like a broken antenna. You know what I did?”

“What?”

“I told them it picked up danger.”

The bunny laughed, a surprised little squeak.

“Exactly,” Mafioso said, pleased. “You don’t need to change anything about yourself to fit someone else’s idea of ‘normal.’ You’re not too much. You’re perfect. You come from a long line of proud, sharp-eared, strong-willed rabbits.”

He stood again and struck a thoughtful pose.

“My mother used to say our ears were for listening through lies,” he added with a smug grin. “And she was right.”

Elliot finally walked over, mug in hand, and ruffled Mafioso’s hair with a snort. “Is that why you always tilt your head when people talk too long?”

“I'm calculating,” Mafioso replied.

“You're dramatic.”

“And correct.”

Elliot sat beside the child, who was now smiling for the first time all evening.

Mafioso crouched again, this time more gentle. “You’re not alone, moonbeam. You don’t have to hide. You have us who thinks you’re the coolest rabbit in the world.”

“And you have cool ears,” the child whispered. “Even if they’re bent.”

“Especially because they’re bent,” Mafioso said proudly.

The child laughed again—and this time, it stayed in their cheeks, soft and real.

The next day, Elliot kept his promise.

After breakfast (cereal, toast, and one emergency pancake due to a syrup-related tantrum), he walked the youngest to school himself. Not in the van this time—just a gentle walk, hand in hand, with a little lunchbox swinging between them.

He spoke to the teacher. Calm, clear, but firm.

And while Elliot didn’t threaten anyone directly, his voice had the quiet tone of someone who’d seen things. The kind of tone that made principals nod fast and take notes. When he left, he held the door open for three separate staff members who all looked vaguely afraid of him, despite the cartoon bunny sticker on his apron.

Back home, Mafioso was preparing something far more serious.

He was fluffing pillows.

“Storytime tonight,” he told all seven bunny kids, sweeping into the living room with a theatrical flair. “Special one. And no interruptions unless you’re actively on fire.”

The kids gathered like moths to a warm lamp, bundled in blankets and oversized pajamas. Mafioso waited until they’d all settled, then adjusted his coat, sat in the center of the room like a stage, and cleared his throat.

Elliot sat off to the side, watching fondly.

“Tonight,” Mafioso began, “I will tell you the story of Nonna Velia.”

The youngest perked up instantly. “That’s your grandma, right?”

“Yes,” Mafioso said, proud. “And she was a rabbit jeweler who lived in a tiny village built into the cliffside. Her ears were longer than mine. She braided them with red thread and sapphire beads.”

He paused for effect.

“They said her hands could cut diamonds just by knowing where the heart of the stone lived.”

The kids gasped.

“She wasn’t rich. Not in money. But people came from kingdoms away just to buy her work. Because she only made one ring per season. No two ever alike. Some said they granted wishes. Others said they whispered truths when worn.”

“Did they?” one of the middle kids asked.

Mafioso tilted his head. “No one ever lied while wearing a Velia ring. Not once. That’s all I’ll say.”

Elliot tried to hide his smile in his tea.

“One day,” Mafioso continued, “when war was rising across the land, two leaders came to her doorstep. One with anger in his heart, the other with fear in his eyes. They begged her for weapons. Tools. Something powerful.”

“But she didn’t make weapons,” whispered the youngest.

“Exactly,” Mafioso said, gently tapping their nose. “She made one thing. A ring of carved ruby, etched with the symbol of listening—long ears, pointed toward the stars. She placed it between them and said, ‘I will make only this. If you use it to hear each other, you may live. If you use it to rule, it will break.’”

The room was completely silent now.

“They argued. They fought. But they took the ring. And the next day, they signed a treaty. Not because of her magic—but because she gave them something neither had before: a symbol of stillness. Of peace.”

Mafioso looked around at the wide-eyed faces of his children.

“Your blood is full of strength, but also of art. Of patience. Of listening.” He looked to the youngest. “You don’t need to shout to be powerful. You just need to know who you are.”

Elliot finally spoke up. “And if anyone forgets that... we’ll remind them.”

The child smiled—soft, real, and unafraid.

Mafioso leaned back, hat slipping slightly over his eyes as the kids began curling up against him, one by one.

The youngest yawned. “Did she ever make earrings?”

“Only for lovers,” Mafioso murmured, already half asleep.

Elliot leaned over, brushing a kiss to his temple. “You’re a sap.”

“A proud, rabbit-blooded sap.”

By the time the story ended, seven bunny children were dozing in a haphazard nest of blankets, pillows, and limbs. Two had fallen asleep curled against Mafioso’s coat. One had drooled slightly into his sleeve. Another had claimed Elliot’s socked foot as a pillow.

The living room looked like a bunny den exploded—quiet, peaceful, and just a little bit chaotic.

Mafioso had stopped talking ten minutes ago, his voice trailing off mid-sentence about rubies. Now, he was fully slouched against the back of the couch, arms around two kids, head tilted to the side, hat slipping down over one eye.

Elliot returned from the kitchen, tea mug now empty, and paused in the doorway.

He took it all in—the soft breathing, the little twitching ears, the way Mafioso’s hand was still resting protectively on one tiny back.

He smiled.

Then, tiptoeing past the foot nest, Elliot knelt beside Mafioso and gently fixed his hat. “You’re such a softie,” he whispered.

Mafioso mumbled something in his sleep—something like *“traitors get carrot rations cut”—*and leaned into the couch, completely unaware.

Elliot stood again, stretching, and turned to leave—

Only to feel a small tug at his pant leg.

The youngest bunny, still barely awake, blinked up at him with a squint.

“Daddy,” they mumbled, “you forgot your spot.”

Elliot’s heart clenched.

He didn’t even respond. Just smiled, kicked off his slippers, and crawled into the pile—wedging himself gently between a tangle of limbs, fluff, and warm sleepy breaths. One bunny curled into his side immediately.

A second later, Mafioso stirred just enough to wrap an arm over Elliot’s waist without even opening his eyes.

“Better,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Elliot murmured. “Much better.”

The room fell quiet again. Seven little bodies, two tired dads, one giant sleepy nest.

Outside, the world could do whatever it wanted.

But inside this house, everything was soft.

Everything was safe.

Chapter Text

Mafioso did not get sick.

He made other people sick. He walked through smoke and fire and twenty-degree rain without flinching. He stared down rival gangs, tax fraud, and illegal anchovy deals without blinking.

But today?

Today, Mafioso was dying.

Or at least, that’s what he claimed.

“Elliot,” he croaked from the bed, voice raspy and low. “If I pass…don’t let the goons touch my coat. They’ll ruin the lining.”

“You’re not dying,” Elliot said for the fourth time, carefully placing a bowl of soup on the nightstand. “You have a fever. And you’re being—what’s the word—a menace.”

Mafioso blinked slowly from under the thick blanket burrito he’d wrapped himself in. His fluffy ears twitched once, then flopped over his forehead like two miserable flags of surrender.

“I can see the light,” he whispered.

“That’s the ceiling fan.”

“It’s…blinking at me.”

Elliot sighed, crouched beside the bed, and gently pressed the back of his hand to Mafioso’s forehead. It was burning. Worse than earlier.

“Yeah, no. You’re absolutely cooked.”

“I’m… well done,” Mafioso slurred, blinking hard. “Serve me with a side of mashed potatoes.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“You make sense,” Mafioso muttered. “You’re like… warm logic. You smell like garlic bread.”

Elliot’s face flushed. “That’s because I brought garlic bread,” he mumbled.

“…Knew it.”

Mafioso smiled dopily, and then immediately tried to sit up. He got about halfway before the dizziness hit, and he collapsed dramatically back into the pillows with a long, miserable groan.

“I tried,” he rasped.

“You stood up for half a second.”

“...And what a second it was.”

Elliot couldn’t help but laugh, even as he sat down beside him with a cool washcloth. Mafioso’s forehead was damp with sweat, hair sticking to his temples. Carefully, Elliot dabbed the cloth along the edges of his hairline, brushing the warm skin with soft, slow movements.

“You’re not allowed to die,” Elliot murmured.

“Wasn’t planning to. But I might evaporate.”

“You’re not steam.”

“Steam… of crime…”

“Okay, now you’re just making stuff up.”

Mafioso didn’t argue. His eyes had slipped closed again, lashes resting against flushed cheeks. He looked almost peaceful now, except for the soft wrinkle in his brow.

“Hurts,” he whispered.

“I know,” Elliot said, voice gentler now. “You’ll feel better soon.”

He dipped the washcloth into the cold water again, wrung it out, and replaced it on Mafioso’s forehead.

The older man let out a quiet sigh and melted into the pillow. His fingers twitched slightly—reaching for something. Elliot took his hand without thinking.

It was warm. Too warm.

But Mafioso gripped his fingers weakly, like he’d been looking for them in his sleep.

“You’re so soft,” he mumbled.

Elliot blinked. “What?”

“Your hands. You’re soft. Like a bun… ny…”

“Like a bunny?”

“No. I’m the bunny,” Mafioso slurred. “You’re the pillow. Warm. Good.”

Then he was out.

Elliot stayed there for a moment, holding his hand, heart thudding a little too loudly in his chest.

“I’m your pillow, huh?” he whispered, brushing Mafioso’s hair back. “Okay. I can do that.”

He sat beside him for the next hour, feeding him water in small sips when he stirred, wiping sweat from his temples, whispering encouragements.

At one point, Mafioso stirred and mumbled, “Love you… bread boy…”

Elliot choked.

“I’m not gonna count that,” he told him. “But if you say it again when you’re not hallucinating… I might just believe you.”

Mafioso, still asleep, smiled faintly.

And Elliot didn’t leave his side.

---

Mafioso woke up to the smell of warm broth and something buttery.

His eyes opened slowly—then closed again because the light was evil and so was the ceiling. His body felt like it had been rolled over by a truck made of cotton. Everything hurt. But softly.

He blinked again.

The room was blurry, but familiar.

So was the silhouette next to him.

“…Elliot?” he rasped.

A rustle. “Hey,” came a quiet voice. “Back with us?”

Mafioso’s mouth was dry. He swallowed and instantly regretted it. “No.”

Elliot smiled faintly and sat down on the bed again, placing a cool hand against his cheek. “That’s okay. You don’t have to be.”

Mafioso blinked at him, pupils still not fully focusing. “You’re still here.”

“Where else would I go?”

“…The headquarters,” Mafioso murmured. “The city… the moon…”

“Not interested,” Elliot said, gently brushing his hair away from his face. “The moon doesn’t need pizza. You do.”

Mafioso tried to scoff but it came out as a wheeze. “You’re funny.”

“You’re delirious.”

“Deliriously handsome,” he slurred, eyes slipping shut again.

Elliot laughed under his breath. “There it is.”

Mafioso shifted beneath the blanket, pulling it up to his chin with one gloved hand. The glove was inside out. He didn’t care. He looked up at Elliot with bleary eyes and added softly, “You smell safe.”

“That’s because you drooled on me earlier,” Elliot replied gently.

“Oh.” A pause. “Sorry.”

“It was cute.”

Another pause. Then: “Did I confess my undying love?”

“Yes.”

“Damn.”

“It was very sweet. You called me your garlic bread angel.”

“Damn,” Mafioso repeated, eyes fluttering shut again. “That’s gonna haunt me.”

Elliot watched him for a moment, his heart soft and aching. Mafioso’s breaths were slower now. More even. The fever was still there, but fading. His brow was less furrowed. His hand twitched once, then reached again.

Elliot laced their fingers without hesitation.

“You can keep haunting me if it means I get to hear more stuff like that,” he whispered.

Mafioso didn’t answer.

He was already asleep again, a faint smile on his lips.

It started, like most disasters, with Contractee getting bored.

“Truth or Dare,” he said, lying upside-down across the conference table, head dangling off the edge like a chandelier made of trouble. “I’m losing brain cells just sitting here.”

“You never had them to begin with,” Consigliere muttered without looking up from his clipboard.

“I vote dare,” Contractee said anyway.

“We haven’t even started,” Caporegime groaned.

Soldier, who was sitting in the corner sipping tea with sunglasses on indoors, finally sighed. “If we’re doing this, I’m documenting it. As blackmail.”

Contractee grinned. “Deal. Who’s first?”

No one moved.

Then Consigliere put down his clipboard with a sigh that could only be described as academically disappointed.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll go first.”

Caporegime blinked. “You serious?”

“I’m statistically overdue for letting loose.”

Contractee gasped. “HE SAID THE THING. HE’S LETTING LOOSE.”

Consigliere rolled his eyes. “Caporegime. Truth or dare?”

“…Dare.”

A pause.

“I dare you to call Eunoia and tell her you lost the company credit card in a claw machine.”

Dead silence.

Soldier choked on his tea.

“You are diabolical,” Contractee whispered in awe.

Caporegime gave him a flat look. “You want me to prank call our terrifying robot boss?”

Consigliere smiled slightly. “Loosening up.”

Caporegime sighed, pulled out his phone, and dialed.

—

Somewhere in a dim office, Eunoia blinked as her phone buzzed.

“Hello.”

“…I need to report a finance issue,” Caporegime said. “The card is… um. Stuck.”

“…In what,” Eunoia said, entirely monotone.

“…A claw machine.”

A beat of silence.

“I see.”

Then she hung up.

Caporegime turned around slowly. “She’s going to kill me.”

Contractee immediately started clapping.

—

They went around the circle, and it only got worse:

Soldier chose truth and was asked: “Have you ever smiled for real?”

He said, “Yes.”

Everyone screamed.

Contractee got dared to text Elliot “Do you think love is real or just a fever symptom” with no context.

“He’ll think it’s about Mafioso,” Capo muttered.

“Good,” Contractee beamed.

Consigliere was dared to take off his coat and reveal the “I LOVE SPREADSHEETS” t-shirt underneath.

“It was a gift,” he muttered.

“From yourself,” Soldier said.

Caporegime had to do five jumping jacks while shouting “I fear no man but I do fear Tiny Rage,” in reference to his bunny.

Contractee, again: “Dare me to do something criminal.”

“No.”

“Cowards.”

---

Eventually, they ran out of snacks and inhibition.

Caporegime slumped against the couch. “This is the stupidest night we’ve had without boss supervision.”

Contractee was curled up in a hoodie nest, munching dry cereal from a measuring cup. “And the best.”

Consigliere added one final note to his clipboard.

Mafia morale report:

Boss sick.

Soldier smiled.

Capo prank-called god.

No one cried yet.

10/10. Recommend fever-induced chaos.

Soldier stretched. “What time is it?”

“Almost midnight,” Caporegime muttered. “Should we check on the boss?”

Contractee perked up. “Or Elliot?”

“Why not both?” Soldier deadpanned. “Let’s bring them garlic bread.”

---

And somewhere, in a quiet apartment, Mafioso sneezed in his sleep, rolled over into Elliot’s arm, and murmured something about "bunny tax returns."

The chaos was still waiting for him when he got better.

Chapter Text

The rain hit the windows like static, but neither of them looked outside.

Elliot stood in the middle of the apartment, arms crossed tight against his chest. Mafioso loomed by the kitchen counter, half in shadow, trench coat draped over the chair like a ghost. The heater hummed. It felt too hot, but Elliot was shaking.

“You could’ve told me,” Elliot said, voice tight. “About the deal. About the warehouse job. About—any of it.”

Mafioso didn’t answer. His jaw was clenched, gloved hands braced on the counter like he was holding himself back from exploding.

“I’m not asking for much,” Elliot continued, breath quickening. “I don’t care about mafia things. I care about you. You being out until 3 a.m. bleeding and not even texting—that’s not just business.”

“I didn’t want you involved,” Mafioso said at last, voice low and sharp. “I was protecting you.”

“I didn’t ask for protection,” Elliot snapped. “I asked for honesty.”

“It’s not that simple,” Mafioso growled. “You don’t know what it’s like out there. What I have to do to keep everything from falling apart.”

“And what, I’m just supposed to sit here and guess whether or not you’re coming home?”

Mafioso looked away.

That was the answer.

Elliot’s breath hitched. “I’m not your pet. I’m not just some warm body to curl up with when you’re tired. I’m supposed to be—” his voice cracked. “—your partner.”

A silence settled. Tense. Heavy. Final.

When Mafioso didn’t speak, Elliot let out a quiet, bitter laugh and turned away.

“Forget it,” he said. “I’m going for a walk.”

“It’s raining.”

“Good. Maybe it’ll shut me up.”

He grabbed his jacket—thin, not enough for the cold—and left before Mafioso could say another word.

The door clicked shut.
The rain got louder.
And Mafioso stood there, still gripping the counter, like the whole room might shatter if he let go.

The door had been shut for ten minutes.

Mafioso still hadn’t moved.

The only sound in the apartment was the soft, steady knock of rain against the windows and the echo of Elliot’s last words. He replayed them like a broken record—I’m supposed to be your partner.

He let go of the counter. His hands were shaking.

He didn’t mean to be cold. He just didn’t know how to be warm when everything he touched was dangerous. He’d tried to keep Elliot out of it—to protect him by building walls.

Now he was gone. Out in the rain. Alone.

And Mafioso… had let him go.

He walked to the door, stood in front of it like Elliot might suddenly walk back in.

He didn’t.

A beat later, he noticed the hook by the entrance.

The red jacket was gone. The thin one.

Not the hoodie Elliot wore when he was really mad. Not the puffer coat Mafioso had bought him last winter. Just that light, cheap, windbreaker thing. In this weather?

Mafioso swore under his breath and ran a hand through his hair, ears twitching wildly.

“He’s going to get sick,” he muttered, pacing now.

He checked his phone. No texts. No location ping. No stupid Contractee emoji spam. Just nothing.

Ten more minutes passed.

Then twenty.

Then thirty.

And Mafioso was already halfway into his coat before he realized what he was doing.

The city was cold, but the rain was colder.

Elliot’s jacket clung to him like wet paper, and the hood kept falling down no matter how many times he yanked it up. His shoes were soaked through. His socks squelched.

He didn’t know where he was going. Just away. Away from the apartment. Away from the look on Mafioso’s face when he couldn’t even say anything.

The streets were empty, shining with puddles and neon reflections. The pizza place was dark—closed hours ago. He passed it without looking.

His hands were shoved deep in his pockets. His nose stung. His throat burned in that stupid way that meant don’t cry now, please not now, but it didn’t listen.

“Why did I even say all that,” he muttered to no one. “Like I matter. Like I’m anything more than a stupid comfort object he picked up and forgot to put down.”

A car passed. Water splashed. Elliot flinched, kept walking.

He stopped in an alley behind an old corner store, not knowing why. He leaned against the brick wall and slid down until he was sitting in the wet. Let the rain fall. Let the ache spread.

Then—

Something soft bumped his boot.

He looked down.

A small, soaked bunny plush sat in the gutter beside him. Its ears were floppy. One button eye was missing. It looked… forgotten.

“Same,” Elliot whispered.

He reached down and picked it up, cradling it like it might fall apart.

And then—just for a second—it glowed.

A soft, pale light pulsed from its chest, just enough to light Elliot’s fingers. Then it faded.

“…Huh?” he whispered.

The plush was warm now. Comforting.

He hugged it close without meaning to.

And slowly, a strange tingling crept up the back of his neck. He rubbed his ears. They felt weird. Fuzzy.

His nose twitched.

Something shifted behind him. He glanced over his shoulder—and saw the faintest outline of a little, wet, bunny tail.

“What the actual—”

But he was too cold. Too tired. Too heartbroken to panic properly.

So he sat there, clutching the plush, tears quietly mixing with rain.

Until a familiar voice shouted from the street:

“ELLIOT?!”

Elliot froze.

He wiped at his eyes quickly, but it didn’t matter. His face was already soaked. His voice caught in his throat.

The footsteps came fast—boots on wet pavement. The sharp turn of someone running, not walking. Then—

“Elliot—there you are.”

Mafioso was in front of him. Out of breath, trench coat heavy with rain, ears twitching under his dripping hat. His gloves were off. He must’ve yanked them off in a hurry.

He looked furious. But not at Elliot.

At himself.

“You—you left,” Mafioso said, kneeling down like he wasn’t kneeling in dirty water. “In the rain. With that jacket. Do you know how cold it is?”

“I know,” Elliot said softly.

Mafioso stared at him, then froze.

His eyes landed on the plush in Elliot’s lap.

Then—slowly—on the soft bunny ears now drooping from Elliot’s hair.

“…Are those real?” he whispered.

Elliot flushed. His ears twitched in betrayal. “I don’t know,” he snapped weakly. “I touched this stupid plush and now I’m—this.”

Mafioso didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even smirk.

He reached out, gently, and brushed one of the ears back with his fingertips. His face softened instantly.

“…It suits you,” he said.

Elliot blinked up at him. “I storm out in the middle of a fight, I cry in the rain, I somehow grow ears, and your response is ‘it suits you’?”

“Yes.”

Elliot choked on a wet laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re adorable.”

“Shut up.”

Mafioso smiled faintly. “Not until you come home.”

He stood, then reached down and held out a hand.

Elliot hesitated only a moment—then took it.

Mafioso pulled him up slowly, one arm wrapping around his back as Elliot leaned into him. He was freezing. Mafioso immediately shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around them both.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“I’ve been out here for an hour,” Elliot muttered.

“That’s on me,” Mafioso said quietly. “I should’ve—stopped you. Or at least said something.”

“I just wanted to be included,” Elliot whispered. “Like I mattered. Like I wasn’t just some distraction from your real life.”

Mafioso pressed their foreheads together, rain still falling around them.

“You’re not a distraction,” he said. “You’re the only part of my life that feels real.”

Elliot swallowed hard. His ears twitched against Mafioso’s hat.

“…You’re just saying that because I have fuzzy ears now.”

“That’s not entirely why.”

“Stop talking.”

But he didn’t let go.

And Mafioso didn’t pull away.

They stood there for a long moment, wrapped in each other and the scent of rain, garlic bread, and something faintly magical.

Then Mafioso whispered, “Let’s go home, bunny boy.”

The next morning, Elliot woke up with a fuzzy blanket, a sore throat, and the distant realization that something was very, very wrong.

His ears were still there.

He blinked at the soft tips peeking into his vision, gave them a cautious flick, and groaned. “Still a bunny,” he muttered, voice cracked and stuffy.

From the kitchen, a voice called: “Still adorable.”

Elliot pulled the blanket over his face. “I will sneeze on you.”

Mafioso poked his head in through the doorway, holding a mug. “Tempting.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You love it.” He crossed the room and crouched beside the bed, his trench coat replaced with a soft sweater, still black but somehow comfy mafia-coded. He held out the mug.

“Chamomile with honey,” he said. “For my sick little snow rabbit.”

“I’m going to throw this mug at you.”

“You’ll miss,” Mafioso said smugly, then added softly, “You look cozy.”

Elliot narrowed his eyes, cheeks flushing. “You’re flirting with me while I’m sick and mutated.”

“Bunny ears. Not mutated.”

“Mutated.”

Mafioso laughed, then leaned in and kissed the top of one warm, twitchy ear. Elliot froze.

“That was illegal,” he whispered.

“I’m a criminal,” Mafioso said proudly.

Before Elliot could think of a response, the front door opened with a bang.

“WE BROUGHT SUPPLIES!” Contractee shouted, bursting in like a human siren, holding a grocery bag above his head. “And possibly crimes!”

Caporegime followed, sunglasses fogged from the cold. Consigliere had soup in a thermos. Soldier was muttering, “We knocked. No one answered.”

Mafioso stood up like a storm cloud in a sweater. “You let yourselves in.”

“You gave us a key for emergencies,” Soldier said flatly.

“Elliot’s sick,” Contractee chirped, skipping to the couch. “That’s technically an emergency.”

“I’m fine,” Elliot croaked from the blankets, ears flopping pitifully.

Consigliere made a note. “Voice: 3/10. Still recovering. Bunny features intact.”

Soldier stared. “...Did he catch it from you?”

“I don’t know,” Mafioso muttered, rubbing his temples.

“We brought soup,” Caporegime said, stepping forward.

He promptly tripped over Contractee’s foot.

The thermos launched through the air like a missile.

And landed directly on the carpet.

With a wet splat.

The silence was immediate.

Mafioso slowly turned to them. His expression unreadable.

Contractee whispered, “Oh no he’s in murder mode.”

Caporegime held up his hands. “I can clean—”

“No,” Mafioso said flatly. “All of you. Out.”

“But—”

“Out.”

Contractee grabbed a roll of tissues from the bag and threw it to Elliot like it was a lifeline. “Feel better! Also your ears are really cute!”

Then they all ran.

Soldier didn’t. He just calmly stood, took one long sip of tea, and walked out without a word.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Silence.

Mafioso stood over the soup stain like it personally offended his bloodline.

Elliot wheezed a laugh into the blanket. “You didn’t have to kick them out.”

“They spilled soup. On the carpet.”

“You love me.”

“I do. But I don’t love soup stains.”

He turned back to Elliot and sat down beside him again, fingers reaching up to gently pet behind one soft ear.

Elliot melted into the touch with a sigh.

“Still think I’m mutated?” Mafioso asked, voice low.

Elliot groaned. “Still think you’re smug.”

“Mm.” Mafioso leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Sick bunny boyfriend privileges.”

With the door shut and the noise gone, the apartment fell into soft, rainy silence again.

Mafioso stood for a moment, still facing the front door like he could vaporize the soup stain through sheer fury. But then Elliot coughed weakly behind him—just once, muffled—and the storm in Mafioso’s shoulders melted away.

He turned, walked back to the couch, and knelt in front of Elliot like the rest of the world had stopped existing.

“Let’s get you back to bed.”

Elliot didn’t argue.

Mafioso scooped him up carefully, lifting him like he weighed nothing, trench coat still draped over his arms from earlier. Elliot’s ears drooped against his shoulder as he leaned into the warmth.

“I could’ve walked,” he mumbled, voice raw.

“I know,” Mafioso murmured, “but I wanted to do this.”

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the overcast sky through the curtains. Mafioso laid him down gently, adjusting the blanket over his chest, tucking it in with slow precision.

Then he sat beside him, pulled a damp cloth from the bowl on the nightstand, and began brushing it across Elliot’s forehead.

Elliot blinked slowly, too tired to fight the affection now.

“…You’re really good at this,” he murmured.

“I’ve had practice,” Mafioso said quietly.

“Who else have you taken care of like this?”

“No one.”

Elliot opened his eyes just enough to look at him.

Mafioso smiled softly and brushed a thumb behind one of Elliot’s ears, scratching gently. “I mean it. You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to stay for.”

Elliot’s cheeks flushed, his ears twitching with shy little flops.

“You can stop talking now,” he whispered.

“I could.”

“But you won’t?”

“Not a chance,” Mafioso said, reaching for the tea again. “You haven’t even heard my plan for dinner.”

“I can’t eat anything.”

“Soup 2.0. I make it. No mafialing interference. Carpet-friendly.”

Elliot groaned and pulled the blanket over his head again.

Mafioso chuckled, then leaned down to press another kiss to his forehead—lingering this time. Soft. Steady. Safe.

“You’re warm,” Mafioso murmured. “But I’ll stay until you’re better.”

A small voice under the blanket: “...You’re not leaving?”

“Not even if the world ends.”

Elliot peeked out with droopy eyes and finally, finally smiled.

Chapter Text

The call came halfway through his shift, and Elliot already knew he was going to disappoint someone.

“Elliot,” his manager barked, holding out another ticket. “Double order. Out in five.”

“I—” Elliot hesitated, hand halfway to his phone. “I have plans.”

“Congratulations. So does everyone else.”

Elliot took the bag.

---

By the time he made it home, his limbs felt like stone. His shirt clung to him with the faint damp of late-night drizzle, and his hair curled at the ends from sweat and rain. The apartment lights were low. The table was still set for two.

Mafioso looked up from the couch as Elliot stepped in, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

“I’m sorry,” Elliot said softly. “They wouldn’t let me leave. I tried. I really did.”

Mafioso was still wearing the collared shirt Elliot loved. Black. Buttoned halfway up. His sleeves were rolled, his hair perfect. He’d waited.

“I know,” Mafioso said, just as quiet.

Elliot dropped his keys into the bowl and sat on the edge of the couch, pulling his cap off like it weighed too much. “I wanted to take you out tonight. You even ironed your sleeves.”

“I can un-iron them.”

“That’s not how sleeves work,” Elliot mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Mafioso watched him for a moment, then gently moved beside him. “Do you want to stay up? We can still do something.”

Elliot shook his head. “My brain’s fried. I think if I try to have a conversation, I’ll cry about parmesan cheese.”

Mafioso’s lips curved slightly. “Not your worst breakdown.”

Elliot let out a weak laugh, then leaned into his side, forehead pressing against Mafioso’s shoulder like a sigh. “I just wanted tonight to be special.”

“It still is,” Mafioso said, resting a hand on the back of Elliot’s head. “You’re here. That’s enough.”

Elliot didn’t answer, but he didn’t move either. His breathing slowed. The tension in his shoulders eased. He was asleep within minutes, curled up beside the one person who never asked him to be more than he already was.

Mafioso pulled the blanket over them both and watched the candles on the table flicker out.

---

Elliot didn’t even stir when the phone buzzed just after 5 a.m.

Mafioso answered it in the kitchen, voice low, tension already setting into his jaw before the call ended.

“Understood,” he said, and hung up.

Back in the living room, the candle stubs on the table had long since burned out. The room smelled faintly of wax, garlic, and the worn warmth of comfort.

Elliot was curled on the couch, one hand still clinging lightly to the edge of Mafioso’s sweater like even in sleep he didn’t want him to go.

Mafioso moved carefully.

He lifted Elliot’s fingers just enough to slip free, then tucked a blanket up to his chin. He knelt beside the couch for a moment longer, watching the rise and fall of Elliot’s chest, the soft parting of his lips. There was flour dust on his cheek from earlier, smudged faintly where he’d rubbed his face.

Mafioso brushed a thumb along the edge of his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, even though Elliot couldn’t hear him. “Just one more thing. Then I’m yours again.”

He pressed a kiss to Elliot’s temple, quiet and steady, then rose to his feet.

By the time the door clicked shut behind him, the sun still hadn’t risen. And Elliot was alone on the couch, fast asleep, dreaming of a night that had almost been perfect.

---

The first thing Elliot noticed was the cold.

Not the kind from weather, or blankets slipping off, but the kind that came from absence—someone who was there isn’t anymore.

He opened his eyes slowly, blinking blearily at the gray morning light filtering in through the window. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

He sat up on the couch, the blanket sliding off his shoulders. The living room was exactly how they’d left it the night before—candles melted down, plates untouched, two mugs never filled.

Only one person still in the room.

Elliot rubbed at his eyes, then looked over to the coat rack. Mafioso’s coat was gone.

So was the man who always said he’d stay.

He stood up, wincing slightly at the stiffness in his back, and shuffled into the kitchen. No note. No message on the counter. Just silence and the faint, lingering smell of cologne and burnt wax.

He didn’t feel mad. Not exactly.

Just… a little small. A little forgotten.

He leaned on the counter, staring at the unused mugs, and whispered, “You could’ve said goodbye.”

But even as he said it, he knew why Mafioso didn’t.

He was trying not to wake him. Trying to be gentle. Trying not to make Elliot feel guilty.

It still hurt.

Elliot sighed, turned on the electric kettle, and stared at the counter like it might hand him a solution.

It didn’t.

So instead, he said to no one in particular:
“I’ll make something for him. Something that’ll still be here when he gets back.”

And that was how the cookie idea began.

---

Elliot stood barefoot in the kitchen by noon, sleeves rolled up, flour smudged across one cheek, and “bunny sugar cookie recipe (soft)” pulled up on his cracked phone screen.

He had slept in. Woken up in the quiet. And decided… today would be different.

He couldn’t give Mafioso a candlelit dinner. He couldn’t always be awake or available. But he could give him this.

Cookies.

He grabbed the bunny-shaped cookie cutter from the bottom of a drawer. (It was Mafioso’s, actually. He said it came in a novelty set—Elliot knew he bought it himself.) The sugar dough was soft and a little lumpy, but he shaped them carefully, one by one, placing them gently on the tray.

Ears straight. Tail round. Perfect.

“Okay,” Elliot whispered to the tray. “Let’s be cute and not burn.”

The kitchen filled with the scent of sugar and vanilla.

While the cookies cooled, Elliot quietly cleaned the apartment—folded blankets, fluffed pillows, wiped down the table. He swept the floors. Then dug into the craft drawer and made a tiny paper banner. It said:

“Sorry About Last Night <3”

in gluey handwriting, with little doodled bunnies between the words.

He left the cookies on a plate by the couch, decorated the table, and even set up two mugs for tea. All he had to do was light the candles later and—

The door didn’t open.

Evening passed.

Night fell.

And still… Mafioso didn’t come home.

Elliot sat by the window with the lights off, watching the quiet street below, cold tea in one hand.

He told himself it was fine. That things come up.

But when the first bunny cookie crumbled in his fingers, he felt something inside him crack with it.

---

The door creaked open just after 9 a.m.

Elliot had barely slept. He’d curled up on the couch sometime around three, half under a blanket, half under the weight of his own thoughts. The cookies were cold. The tea had long since gone bitter. The banner still hung above the table like a quiet joke.

He blinked groggily at the sound of the lock turning.

“Boss, I’m serious. I think the guy was hiding the documents in the fish tank. Who even does that?”

Caporegime’s voice hit first—loud, casual, invading.

“Can I eat this?” Contractee’s voice followed, closer, more dangerous.

Then came Mafioso, stepping in like a storm that had burned itself out overnight. His hair was windblown. His coat was wrinkled. He looked like he hadn’t slept either.

Behind him trailed the full mafialing crew.

Consigliere walked in slowly, clipboard under one arm, already grimacing at the glitter-covered banner. Soldier hovered near the door, exhausted from the emergency mission.

And Elliot, still sitting on the couch, blinked at them—slowly, silently, like maybe if he didn’t move, the whole scene would reset.

“Don’t eat that,” he said, voice hoarse.

But Contractee was already chewing on a bunny cookie, eyes wide with delight. “Mmf—'s good.”

Mafioso turned toward him in alarm, but before he could say anything—

Caporegime wandered toward the table. “What is this? Did a preschool explode in here?”

“It’s a handmade banner,” Soldier said dryly. “Don’t touch it.”

“Looks like a school project gone wrong,” Capo muttered, tugging at one of the strings.

Elliot stared. His fingers gripped the edge of the blanket.

“I made that.”

Capo looked up.

Elliot stood slowly, quietly. “I stayed up. I baked. I cleaned. I made that.”

The mafialings finally froze.

Mafioso stepped forward. “Elliot—”

“I thought if I did one thing right, it’d matter.”

The words came fast now, shaky and sharp. Elliot didn’t even know where they were coming from.

“You were gone all night. You didn’t text. You didn’t call. You didn’t even say hi when you walked in. And I—” his voice cracked. “I thought maybe if the apartment was clean, and the cookies were cute, and the tea was ready—maybe you’d know I cared.”

Mafioso moved again, reaching out.

Elliot took a step back.

“But I always feel like I’m too late. Like I can’t catch up to the rest of your life. I mess up one date and now you’re walking in with your whole gang like nothing happened, like—like this didn’t mean anything to me.”

Contractee whispered, “Oh.”

Caporegime put the cookie down. Very slowly.

Elliot’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “I couldn’t even do something nice for you without ruining it.”

He looked around the room—at the crumbs, at the wrinkled banner, at the bunnies that weren’t even symmetrical.

And finally, he cried.

Quietly, bitterly, shoulders shaking, hands curling into fists.

Mafioso’s expression shifted instantly—gone was the tired boss, the distant leader. All that was left was someone who had let down the one person who mattered most.

He turned to the others, voice low and dangerous.

“Out.”

Soldier didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the back of Contractee’s hoodie. “Let’s go.”

“But I just—!”

“Now.”

Consigliere was already guiding Capo by the elbow. “Let’s debrief at the safehouse.”

Caporegime gave Elliot one last look, eyes oddly regretful, then followed.

The door shut behind them.

And Mafioso crossed the room in three strides, pulling Elliot gently into his arms.

Elliot didn’t resist.

He just sobbed into his chest, muffled and small.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Mafioso murmured, voice thick. “I did.”

Elliot shook his head. “I couldn’t even stay awake for one night.”

Mafioso kissed his temple. “You work all day, every day. And you still come home to me.”

“I just wanted to make you happy.”

“You do,” Mafioso whispered. “More than anything.”

He held him tighter.

And this time, Elliot didn’t pull away.

---

Elliot didn’t stop crying.

Even with the mafialings gone, even with the apartment quiet again, even with Mafioso’s arms around him—he couldn’t stop. The tears came hard and hot and endless, like every held-in moment had cracked open all at once.

He clung to Mafioso’s shirt, sobbing into his chest, face pressed into the soft black fabric like it might swallow the sound.

Mafioso didn’t ask him to calm down. He didn’t try to hush him, or talk him out of it. He just held him tighter, one arm around Elliot’s back, the other cradling his head like it was something sacred.

“I’m sorry,” Elliot choked out again, not even sure what he was apologizing for anymore.

Mafioso pressed a kiss to the top of his hair. “You don’t have to be.”

Elliot shook his head, another sob catching in his throat. “I ruined everything.”

“You didn’t ruin a thing,” Mafioso murmured.

His lips brushed Elliot’s forehead, then the corner of his temple. Then his cheek. Each one careful. Steady. A silent message repeated over and over: I’m here. I see you. I love you.

“You were tired,” Mafioso said softly. “You worked hard. You still came home to me. You made cookies and a banner and tried your best and I was too far away to see how much it meant.”

Elliot didn’t answer, just curled in closer. Mafioso shifted them gently onto the couch, pulling the blanket over Elliot’s shoulders and wrapping both arms around him like a shield.

“You make me happy,” he whispered into Elliot’s ear. “Even when you’re sad. Even when you cancel. Even when you fall asleep before we can eat. You make everything feel like home.”

Elliot sobbed harder. “I’m not enough—”

“You’re everything.”

Mafioso’s voice cracked just slightly. Just enough.

“I love how you try. I love how you care. I love the way your cookies look like anxious rabbits. I love the way you press your forehead into my shoulder when you’re tired. I love every part of you, Elliot. Even the parts you think are a mess.”

Elliot’s breath hitched.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you needed me,” Mafioso said. “But I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Elliot finally looked up at him, face blotchy, eyes red, nose running.

“You look awful,” Mafioso whispered with a crooked smile. “I still love you.”

Elliot laughed through a sniffle, barely. Just enough.

Then curled back in and whispered, “Hold me tighter.”

So Mafioso did.

And for the first time since the cookies burned, since the night was missed, since the banner was wrinkled—

Elliot felt safe again.

Bonus:

Elliot was curled up on the couch again, blanket wrapped around him burrito-style, cheeks still a little pink and puffy. He was quietly sipping tea when there was a knock on the door.

Then another.

Then a third knock that was clearly just someone slapping the door with their palm.

Mafioso looked up from his chair in the corner. Slowly. Silently. Dangerously.

Elliot blinked. “I didn’t order pizza.”

The door opened anyway.

“HELLO,” Contractee said, sliding in sideways like a raccoon on ice. “I AM FILLED WITH REGRET.”

“Don’t open like that,” Caporegime hissed, following behind him and holding what looked like a… misshapen bunny plush made of pipe cleaners and duct tape. “We talked about tone.”

“Yeah, and I chose repentant chaos,” Contractee said.

Elliot didn’t say anything. Just sipped his tea.

Mafioso didn’t move. Still staring.

Caporegime nudged Contractee forward. “Say it.”

Contractee dropped to his knees in front of the couch. “I am deeply sorry for consuming the bunny cookie of love.”

“It was labeled with a heart!” Caporegime added, kneeling next to him. “We’re fools. Disgraces. We have dishonored sugar.”

Mafioso’s gaze sharpened.

“And for... questioning the artistic merit of your banner,” Caporegime added quickly, bowing his head like he was on trial.

“And for calling it a preschool art project,” Contractee whispered.

Mafioso crossed one leg over the other in slow, deliberate silence.

Caporegime elbowed Contractee. “Give him the thing.”

“Oh, right.” Contractee pulled something from his hoodie: a tupperware container filled with poorly frosted, burnt-around-the-edges cookies. “We attempted to recreate your sacred snacks as an offering.”

“They’re shaped like stars,” Elliot said.

“They were supposed to be bunnies,” Contractee whispered.

“We lost the cookie cutter in the garbage disposal,” Caporegime added solemnly.

Mafioso stood.

Both mafialings immediately flinched.

“We’re sorry,” they chorused. “So sorry. Never again. Banner art is real art. Cookies are sacred. Love is eternal. Goodbye—!”

They shoved the container into Elliot’s lap and bolted out the door.

It shut behind them with a soft click.

Elliot stared at the misshapen cookies. Then at Mafioso, who was already walking over with slow, measured steps.

He sat beside him, leaned into his side.

“They made you apology cookies.”

“They look cursed.”

“They look like frogs,” Elliot agreed.

“Frog cookies of guilt.”

They both snorted quietly.

Mafioso kissed his temple again, softer this time. “You okay?”

Elliot nodded. “Yeah. Still tired. But okay.”

Mafioso put an arm around his shoulders and rested his chin lightly on Elliot’s head.

They both stared at the cookies in silence.

“…Wanna eat them out of spite?” Elliot asked.

“Only if we burn the worst one first.”

Chapter Text

The lunch rush was brutal.

Elliot wiped his forehead with his sleeve as he hustled behind the counter, slinging pizzas, ringing up customers, and praying the oven wouldn't explode again. The heat was unbearable, his binder too tight, and his voice was scratchy from yelling orders over the kitchen noise.

He didn’t notice the first one.

“Thanks, ma’am!” one of the customers said cheerfully as they grabbed their box.

Elliot smiled out of habit. Didn’t even process it until they were gone.

Then another:

“Excuse me, miss? I asked for no olives—”

“Oh—sorry, I’ll fix that,” Elliot said, his voice slipping higher. He hated the way it sounded.

It happened again.

“Is the lady behind the counter the cashier?”

“Yeah, she’s right there.”

Elliot’s hands started shaking. Just a little. No one noticed.

He kept working. He always did. Smile, nod, breathe, move on.

But it kept coming. Over and over.

“Miss, you forgot the dipping sauce.”

“Ma’am, is this vegetarian?”

“Oh—she was super nice.”

He was trying. His name tag said Elliot. His voice was low enough today. His hair was short. He wore the same stupid red visor every day to keep from overthinking. But none of it mattered.

None of them saw him.

He ducked into the back when it finally got quiet.

Closed the supply closet door. Slid down to the floor.

Pulled his knees up to his chest and shoved his face into his arms.

He wasn’t crying. Not really.

Just breathing too fast. Feeling too much.

What’s the point? he thought bitterly. Why do I even try?

He didn’t text anyone. Not even Mafioso.

He just sat there.

The hum of the fridge. The clatter of dishes outside. The dull ache in his chest.

He stayed hidden until someone knocked on the door and asked if he was taking a nap. He forced a laugh. Said yeah.

Then went back to work.

Smile, nod, breathe. Move on.

But he wasn’t fine.

Not even close.

---

The misgendering wasn’t new. Neither was the ache afterward.

But this time, it stacked. Like cold, wet pizza boxes on top of each other, soggy and heavy. And Mafioso—well, he’d picked the wrong time to care.

“You okay?” Mafioso asked gently, standing near the counter. “You looked kinda—”

“I said I’m fine.”

Elliot’s voice cracked. “Can you just—stop hovering?! I don’t need you to act like I’m about to shatter every time some idiot uses the wrong word!”

Mafioso froze.

The apartment went quiet, save for the bubbling of soup on the stove.

Elliot regretted it immediately. His shoulders curled in. “I didn’t mean—”

His throat tightened. “I didn’t mean to yell. I just… I just feel like I’m constantly fighting to be seen. I wake up and try to look right, sound right, walk right. And then someone calls me ‘miss’ or gives me that look and it’s like…”

He swallowed. “Like none of it matters.”

Mafioso stepped forward.

“You don’t have to do all that for me,” he said. Quiet. Steady. “I already see you. And I don’t care if your voice cracks, or if your shirt hides everything, or if people are too stupid to see what’s in front of them.”

Elliot's face crumpled. Mafioso caught him before he collapsed.

“Even if you yell at me,” Mafioso added, arms wrapping tight around him, “you’re still my guy. Okay?”

Elliot didn’t speak. He just held on.

---

The next day, Mafioso showed up at Elliot’s door with a plastic bag. He looked awkward. Too tall for the hallway. Clearly nervous.

“I got you something,” he said, voice low.

Elliot blinked. “What is it?”

Mafioso opened the bag with a very serious expression… and pulled out the dumbest thing Elliot had ever seen.

It was a bright blue snapback with “BOY MODE: ACTIVATED” embroidered across the front in bold white letters. The tag was still on.

Elliot stared at it.

Then he burst out laughing. Not just a chuckle—full-on, ugly laugh.

Mafioso looked alarmed. “Do you hate it?!”

“No—no, I love it,” Elliot wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. “It’s the stupidest hat I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah, well,” Mafioso muttered, ears red. “It was either that or a mug that said ‘he/himbo.’”

Elliot laughed harder. “You’re such a dork.”

Mafioso smirked. “You’re wearing the hat.”

“I am not—”

But Elliot was already reaching for it.

Chapter Text

Elliot sat stiffly in the waiting lounge of what was definitely not a regular office building. He hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath until the silence around him was broken by the familiar thud-thud of someone jogging down the marble corridor.

“Hey, newbie!” Contractee popped into view, his trench coat way too big and dragging along the floor. “You look nervous. You want a drink?”

Elliot blinked. “Uh…”

Contractee had already shoved a tumbler into his hands. It was warm. “Made it myself. Chocolatey. Sweet. Very me. You're welcome.”

Elliot eyed the drink. "...Thanks?"

He took a sip.

He regretted it instantly.

It was watery. So watery. Like someone had taken hot water and whispered “cocoa” over it. Then dumped an entire bag of sugar in, except not enough to mask the weird soapy aftertaste burning the back of his throat.

Elliot coughed, eyes watering. “Wha– what is in this?!”

Contractee looked proud. “Two tablespoons of sugar!”

“That’s it?!”

“…Maybe some leftover soap. I did wash it this morning. Or last week.”

Elliot gagged.

Contractee grinned wider. “Don’t die. Mafioso’s finally letting you near the hallway. You’ve almost passed level one.”

Elliot handed the tumbler back, stomach already bubbling. “I think I just unlocked dysentery.”

---

Later that evening, Mafioso found Elliot curled up on the couch, a little pale and hunched over. He didn’t say anything at first—just stood there, arms crossed, fedora shadowing his unreadable expression.

“…Contractee?” he asked.

Elliot groaned faintly. “Tried to kill me. With sugar and soap.”

Mafioso’s lips twitched—maybe a smirk, maybe concern. Hard to tell.

“I warned you not to accept anything from him,” he muttered, kneeling beside the couch and pressing a cool hand to Elliot’s forehead. “Especially not drinks. He doesn’t even taste test for poisons. Just vibes.”

“I was trying to be polite,” Elliot murmured, then added, “I thought he was normal.”

“That’s your first mistake.”

Mafioso sighed and stood again, retrieving a clean glass of water from the kitchen. “Drink this. I’ll tell Eunoia to keep him on leash next time.”

“…You guys actually leash him?”

There was a pause.

“…Metaphorically.”

---

From that moment on, Elliot learned two things:

1. Never drink from Contractee’s tumbler.

2. If Mafioso brings you water himself… he probably likes you a little.

Even if he’ll never admit it.

Yet.

Chapter Text

The room is dim and quiet, bathed in the golden glow of a single lamp. The sheets are soft and a little messy—one blanket half-kicked down, pillows uneven from the way they’d shifted earlier while laughing about something neither of them remembers now.

Elliot lies on his side, facing Mafioso, tucked beneath his chin like he belongs there.

Mafioso’s arm is draped around his waist, fingers splayed against the small of Elliot’s back, holding him like he’s afraid of waking up alone. His other hand rests lightly in Elliot’s hair, stroking absentmindedly, like a habit he never wants to break.

They’ve been kissing for minutes now. Or maybe hours. Neither of them is keeping time.

It’s not rushed. It’s slow—achingly so. Mafioso kisses Elliot like there’s no one else on Earth. His lips press against Elliot’s again and again, warm and searching, like a language only they know. Sometimes it’s just a brush, soft and still. Other times it lingers, mouths parting slightly, breath mingling in the hush between kisses.

Elliot’s hand trails gently up Mafioso’s chest, resting over his heartbeat. “You always get so serious when we’re like this,” he whispers, eyes half-lidded.

“I’m not used to being allowed to feel this much,” Mafioso murmurs into his skin, kissing the curve of his cheek, then his jaw. “You make me greedy for it.”

Elliot shifts closer, legs tangling with his, hoodie riding up just enough to feel the warmth of Mafioso’s hand against his skin. “You don’t have to hold back.”

“I’m not,” Mafioso says, voice low and steady. “I’m holding on.”

And he proves it—with another kiss, deeper now, one hand pulling Elliot impossibly closer, the other threading through his hair as if anchoring him to the moment.

They stay like that for a long time—wrapped around each other, hearts pressed together, kissing between soft murmurs and long silences. The kind of silence that only happens when nothing is missing.

Eventually, Mafioso’s eyes grow heavy, kisses slowing, his breath evening out. Elliot doesn’t mind. He stays right there, head on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of someone who once swore he didn’t know how to love.

But now, his arms are full of it.

Time feels syrupy slow. Like the world outside their bed has paused to give them this moment.

They aren’t kissing now—just holding.

Mafioso has both arms wrapped around Elliot, one draped over his waist, the other resting between his shoulder blades, fingers moving in the gentlest patterns. His touch is reverent, slow, like he’s trying to memorize Elliot’s shape through layers of warmth and sleep. Every dip in his spine. Every twitch of his breathing. Every fragile heartbeat under his skin.

Elliot doesn’t speak. He just watches him.

Then, softly, he lifts a hand and cradles Mafioso’s face in his palm.

It makes Mafioso freeze—just for a second. Like he wasn’t ready for how tender that would feel.

Elliot’s thumb strokes along his cheek, eyes full of something quiet and deep, like he’s staring at the stars and still surprised they exist. “Hi,” he whispers, like it's the only word that matters.

Mafioso huffs a breath—almost a laugh, but softer. His brows draw together, overwhelmed. “You’re ridiculous,” he says hoarsely.

“You’re beautiful,” Elliot replies, simple and true.

Mafioso leans into his hand. His eyes flutter shut for just a second before opening again, locking with Elliot’s. Neither of them looks away.

No words. Just this stillness. Just the shared breath and warmth of being known.

And in that silence, Mafioso’s hands keep moving—slow strokes down Elliot’s back, fingers slipping over the curve of his waist, gentle and careful and endlessly patient. Like he wants to know every inch, not for desire, but because it matters. Because Elliot matters.

Elliot shifts a little closer, so their foreheads touch again.

“You okay?” he whispers.

Mafioso nods. Then, after a beat, says quietly: “I don’t want to let go.”

“You don’t have to.”

So he doesn’t. They just stay there, heart to heart, staring, memorizing, holding. And for the first time in a long time, neither of them is afraid of being seen.

The air in the room grows still. Quieter than quiet. Like even the rain outside knows not to interrupt.

Mafioso’s touch slows, his hands resting finally at Elliot’s back and hip, like he’s settled into the shape of him—like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

Elliot’s thumb traces one last arc across Mafioso’s cheek before slipping his hand down to hold him by the jaw, fingers curled sweetly behind his ear. Mafioso leans into it again, letting out the softest breath.

Then Elliot shifts, nuzzles his face into the crook of Mafioso’s neck, and closes his eyes.

Mafioso presses his lips to Elliot’s forehead in return. Just once. Just barely.

And they stay like that—entwined and quiet, breaths syncing up slowly, bodies molded into one another beneath the sheets. Mafioso’s heart beats steady beneath Elliot’s hand, and Elliot’s nose scrunches when Mafioso’s coat collar tickles him, but neither moves. Not anymore.

Sleep takes them gently.

Elliot first, lips parting in a slow exhale as he melts fully into Mafioso’s chest. Mafioso watches him for a few more seconds—eyes soft, mouth just barely smiling, like he’s never seen anything more precious than this moment.

He brushes Elliot’s hair back one last time.

“I love you,” he whispers, so quiet it doesn’t even need an answer.

And then, wrapped around each other like puzzle pieces finally in place, they drift into sleep. Safe. Warm. Loved.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

Just them.

Chapter Text

Contractee was lounging upside-down on the couch, boots hanging off the backrest and his hat barely clinging to his forehead. He was mid-ramble about “psychic turbulence” when a warm mug was suddenly thrust under his nose.

“What’s this?” he asked, blinking at the steam.

Elliot stood over him with the mug in both hands, determined. “Hot chocolate. The real kind. You’re drinking it.”

Contractee narrowed his eyes, flipping upright dramatically. “This isn’t a trap, is it?”

“No,” Elliot said, sweetly. Too sweetly. “But if it was, you'd deserve it.”

Contractee squinted harder, suspicious. Then took the mug.

He sniffed it. Sipped.

Paused.

Then immediately gagged.

“Oh god. Ew. Disgusting,” he said, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. “Where’s the—ugh—soap? The subtle hint of dish sponge? It’s so… smooth. Balanced. Comforting. Is that vanilla?”

“Yes.” Elliot crossed his arms, smug. “I used actual cocoa powder. Milk. Simmered it. You know—cooked, like a functioning adult.”

“Betrayal,” Contractee muttered into the mug, already sipping again.

“You like it,” Elliot said flatly.

“I hate it.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m physically incapable of frowning right now,” he sniffed. “This is the worst thing you’ve ever done to me.”

Elliot beamed. “I hope it haunts you forever.”

Contractee took another sip. Louder this time. Then, quieter: “Can I have more?”

“No. You made me drink soap.”

“Forgiveness is part of the cocoa journey, Elliot.”

Mafioso walked in just in time to catch Contractee slurping dramatically, eyes sparkling like a kid on a sugar rush. He stared. Then looked at Elliot.

“You poisoned him?”

Elliot grinned proudly. “With actual taste.”

Mafioso raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “…You’re dangerous.”

Contractee, now curled protectively around the mug, let out a blissful sigh. “Don’t care. I’m never drinking my own again.”

Later, Elliot finds a note taped to his door in awful handwriting:

“Teach me the Cocoa Arts - C”

Below it, a little doodle of a very smug Elliot in a chef’s hat.

Chapter Text

The lock clicked open with barely a sound.

Eunoia slid the door inward, just wide enough for one person. A cool breeze slipped inside from the alleyway, brushing the hem of her pale jacket. She turned slightly, eyes sharp beneath her soft blue hair.

“Come in,” she whispered. “Quickly.”

Nashatra stepped in without hesitation, ducking slightly beneath the low doorframe. Her white skirt shifted with her movement, neat against the dim, brushed-concrete floor of the hallway. The heavy click of the lock returned behind her. No one would know she’d ever entered.

“I still don’t like using this entrance,” Nash said quietly, voice more commentary than complaint.

Eunoia smiled faintly. “That’s why it works.”

The hallway was long and narrow — intentionally undecorated. It branched only once, toward a locked armory room Nash had already memorized on her last visit. Her low pigtails swayed slightly as she scanned the shadows, but her expression never changed. Eyes like still water. Footsteps light, careful. Always prepared.

“Was anyone watching the alley?” Eunoia asked.

“No one. I circled twice,” Nash replied. “Though you need a new lock. That one sticks.”

Eunoia hummed in agreement and motioned her forward. “I’ll have someone fix it tomorrow.”

They moved through the hush of the back corridor, each step soundless but deliberate. Past the old elevator shaft, past the reinforced door labeled AUTHORIZED ONLY, until they reached the polished wood stairs that led to the upper floors.

Eunoia paused with one hand on the rail and looked back.

“Thanks for coming,” she said, a little softer this time. “I know it’s late.”

“I thought it was urgent,” Nash replied.

“It is.”

Eunoia started climbing. Nash followed.

“The assignment we talked about — the one in Marigold District — someone backed out. You’re the only person I trust for the reroute,” she continued quietly. “But there’s more to it than what I could send over text. Layers. Things I need to show you myself.”

“You should’ve just sent coordinates,” Nash muttered.

“I didn’t want to risk anyone else reading it. I wanted to look you in the eye.”

Eunoia glanced back with a flicker of fondness in her gaze. “You know. For once.”

Nash didn’t answer, but the faintest shift in her lips suggested a smirk. Only barely.

They reached the second floor. It was quieter here — distant from the lower hallways where soldiers often lingered. Nash’s coat shifted slightly as she reached into her pocket, more out of habit than suspicion.

“I’m taking you to my room,” Eunoia added lightly. “No bugs. No cameras. Just us.”

Nash blinked. “Isn’t that more suspicious?”

Eunoia shrugged. “Maybe. But only if someone sees you.”

“...Someone won’t,” Nash said calmly.

A breath of silence passed.

Then—

A faint sound. A rustle. A zipper.

Nash halted mid-step.

Her head turned.

Eunoia noticed the stillness instantly and went quiet too.

“…What is it?” she whispered.

Nash’s voice was low. “There’s someone else here.”

Eunoia’s eyes narrowed. In a single, fluid movement, her hand slipped to the seam of her jacket — fingers closing around the familiar, cold handle of her hidden blade.

She tilted her head toward the hall ahead, voice suddenly distant. “...No one’s supposed to be home tonight.”

“Then someone’s lying,” Nash said.

They didn’t speak after that. Not a word.

Only the whisper of their footsteps, and the sound of distant packing, waiting to be discovered.

---

They moved like ghosts through the hall.

The second floor of Eunoia’s home was mostly quiet, trimmed in white and chrome, the walls too pristine for suspicion. No dust. No creaks. Just the hush of luxury and careful order.

But still—

A sound again. Soft. Unmistakable.

A zipper.

Then: paper rustling. A drawer opening. The crumple of folded cloth being stuffed into a bag.

Nash slowed her steps, lowering herself slightly as she approached the junction in the hall. Her brown trench coat barely shifted, still as the air itself. She touched the wall with two fingers, assessing the vibrations like muscle memory. No voices.

Eunoia was just behind her, blade ready, lips tight.

“Nobody else had the codes,” Eunoia said under her breath. “I would know.”

“You said the building was cleared,” Nash replied just as softly.

“It was. Only five guards outside. Everyone else is off-mission.”

Nash gave her a glance. “Then either someone broke in—”

“—or one of mine has a death wish,” Eunoia finished.

They moved in tandem now. Around the corner. Down the narrower guest wing, where only trusted allies or visitors stayed for brief periods. The noise came from the second room on the right — the door half-closed, light spilling faintly into the hallway.

And then—

A small, soft snurf noise.

Both women froze.

Nash narrowed her eyes. “...Was that a sneeze?”

“No,” Eunoia murmured. “That was a rabbit.”

They exchanged a sharp, loaded look.

Nash gave a short nod, and without a word more, stepped forward and—

SLAM.

She kicked the door open.

Eunoia’s blade was drawn in a flash, held steady, elegant, deadly.

But instead of an intruder or an enemy—

They found Elliot.

Mid-kneel, beside an open suitcase, holding a bundled-up hoodie.

A small, fat white rabbit was curled beside him on the floor, blinking sleepily from where it lay nestled atop a pair of rolled-up socks. The gubby’s silly face was scrunched slightly from the commotion. It stuck its tongue out.

Elliot looked up in absolute shock.

“...Hi?”

Eunoia’s blade did not lower.

Nash’s eyes narrowed into little slits of cold calculation.

“You,” Eunoia said, each word like ice cracking on glass. “Why. Are you. In my house.”

---

They stood in the doorway for one long, unbearable second.

Eunoia with her blade drawn. Nashatra perfectly still behind her, not even blinking.

Elliot slowly raised both hands, like someone caught reaching into the fridge at 3 a.m.

“Okay,” he said carefully, “so… you’re probably wondering why I’m in your house. Which is fair. Totally fair. I—uh—I would be wondering too—”

Snurf.

The gubby made another sound — a sleepy, nasal little puff. It had turned onto its side now, revealing its ridiculously round belly, one floppy ear flung dramatically over its face like it had simply had enough of today.

Elliot glanced at it, then back to the women. “He lives here too. He’s—uh. He’s harmless.”

The gubby slowly stretched one stubby leg and kicked over a sock. Then it sneezed.

Nash didn’t move. Her eyes flicked from Elliot to the rabbit, to the suitcase, and back.

Eunoia lowered her weapon just slightly, but not enough to be called kind. Her voice was low and deadly smooth.

“I will ask one more time. What. Are you doing. In. My. House.”

Elliot gulped.

“Packing?” he said, with the kind of upward lilt that hoped maybe the truth would save him.

The gubby tried to sit up. It didn’t succeed, so it flopped forward and laid across Elliot’s half-folded shirt instead. Its silly, blank face looked directly at Nash, completely unbothered.

“Also—um—gubby needs his window seat,” Elliot added. “For the plane. It calms him down.”

There was a moment of pure, deafening silence.

Then, from somewhere in the back — muffled through the bathroom door — came the sound of running water shutting off.

Elliot turned his head suddenly, desperate. “MAFIOSO??”
His voice cracked a little. “Mafioso, babe? Can you—uh. Can you come out here real fast?”

He turned back to Eunoia, smiling nervously.

“He—he knows I’m here. I’m not like… trespassing. Not really. Technically.”

The gubby rolled onto its back. One leg twitched. It let out a tiny “hff.”

Nash stared at it. Then at Elliot.

Then took a small, deliberate step forward.

Elliot flinched. “PLEASE DON’T HURT ME.”

---

The silence was so sharp, even Gubby blinked.

Eunoia’s voice sliced through it like a wire.
“Out. Now.”

Elliot looked scandalized. “Wh—what? You—me? Out? But—but I live here! Kind of!”

Nash didn’t say a word, but her hand twitched slightly near her coat — a motion that could mean adjusting her scarf or throwing a knife. Impossible to tell.

Eunoia stepped forward slowly. “Your name isn’t on my roster. You are not cleared. This is my house. Why are you packing my guest linens?”

“I—I thought they were just towels!” Elliot stammered, standing hastily and holding his hands up. “They’re so soft! I didn’t know they were—your special towels—”

From the floor, Gubby gave a half-hearted thump of his foot. He had been nudged slightly off the hoodie during the scramble, and he clearly didn’t appreciate it.

“Gubby, it’s okay,” Elliot muttered quickly, still holding his hands up. “She’s just confused.”

“I am not confused,” Eunoia said icily. “You’re trespassing.”

“I’m—uh—pre-checked?” Elliot offered.

“By who?”

“…Mafioso?”
His voice rose hopefully.

The bathroom door creaked open.

Out stepped Mafioso, towel around his neck, hair damp, blinking like someone who had been peacefully existing in a world where things were not currently on fire.

“Why are you yelling?” he asked.

Elliot whipped around. “You didn’t tell her?!”

Mafioso blinked slowly. “Tell who what?”

Eunoia raised her blade again—only slightly—but it was enough to make him go still.

“Oh,” Mafioso said. “Oh.”

“You didn’t tell your boss I was staying over?” Elliot asked, voice climbing. “You didn’t tell her we were going to Cuba?! I was folding your socks!”

“I—I was going to—eventually—”

Eunoia’s voice was cold enough to snap stone in half. “You were leaving the country. With a civilian. Without informing me.”

“I’m not a civilian,” Elliot cut in quickly. “I can make seven kinds of pasta from scratch. And I taught Gubby to high-five.”
He turned toward Mafioso again, softer now. “You said we were official.”

“We are!” Mafioso insisted, palms up. “I was just… I was nervous!”

Everyone stopped.

“…Nervous,” Eunoia echoed.

Mafioso nodded once, very seriously. “I was waiting for the right time. Like, when she wasn’t holding a knife.”

He gestured to her blade, now glinting in the hallway light.

Gubby snuffled, unimpressed.

Elliot looked hurt, more than anything. “You didn’t even mention me once?”

“I meant to!” Mafioso said. “I just—every time I tried, she’d be in the middle of planning an operation or—kicking someone off a balcony or—”

Eunoia’s face did not change. “I would have approved it. If you asked.”

“…Really?” Mafioso said.

“No,” Nash replied flatly. Then added, “But at least you wouldn’t be bleeding.”

That was the moment the tension cracked—

Because Nash, very softly, began to laugh.

Just a snort at first. Then a little huff through her nose. Then a quiet chuckle that surprised even herself.

Elliot blinked. “Wait… are you laughing?”

“She’s laughing,” Mafioso whispered.

Nash didn’t answer. She was biting her lip and trying not to, but it was too late.

“You folded socks,” she muttered, shaking her head. “This idiot folded socks to go on a mission he didn’t clear.”

Eunoia’s blade lowered with a sigh.

“This time,” she said, “you’re off with a warning.”

Elliot’s eyes widened with relief.

“Next time, Mafioso,” Eunoia continued, voice deadly calm, “I expect you to clear any changes to your domestic life with me first. Including your rabbit.”

“Gubby,” Elliot said softly. “His name is Gubby.”

Gubby, at that moment, flopped directly onto Mafioso’s boot and went to sleep.

Mafioso gave Eunoia the smallest nod. “Understood.”

Eunoia nodded back and turned to go, her coat whispering behind her as she stepped past the doorway.

Nash was still smirking faintly.

As she passed Elliot, she didn’t say anything.

But Gubby let out a happy snuffle.

---

The door clicked shut behind them with a soft snick, sealing Elliot, Mafioso, and Gubby inside.

For a moment, there was only the sound of quiet footsteps down the hallway.

Eunoia exhaled slowly through her nose, blade now tucked away beneath her sleeve. Her heels tapped softly against the tile as she walked, her expression unreadable.

Nash followed behind her, brown derby hat tilted just slightly. The corner of her mouth still held the ghost of a smirk.

“You find this funny?” Eunoia asked without turning her head.

“I didn’t say anything,” Nash replied, perfectly even.

“You laughed.”

“It was the socks,” Nash said. “He folded them like it was a military rollout. Even squared the corners.”

Eunoia hummed, then glanced over her shoulder. “And?”

Nash met her eyes. “He’s stupid. But harmless.”

“I don’t like surprises in my house.”

“I know,” Nash said. “You froze when he said Cuba.”

Eunoia stopped walking at the top of the stairs. For a long moment, she didn’t speak.

Then she turned, facing Nash fully now, voice quiet but certain. “You’re still taking the Marigold District assignment. If you want it.”

Nash’s white eyes flicked to the side, calculating. “Will he be there?”

“No. He’s going to Cuba,” Eunoia said wryly.

“Then I’ll do it.”

Another beat passed between them.

Then Eunoia stepped closer — barely half a foot between them. She adjusted the edge of Nash’s scarf with precise fingers, her voice softer now.

“Thank you for not stabbing him.”

“I came close,” Nash replied.

“I know.”

Their eyes locked. The air quieted.

And with a brief shift forward, Nash leaned in and gave her a soft kiss on the lips — quick, barely longer than a blink, but warm in the stillness.

Eunoia didn’t move for a moment. Then, just barely, she smiled.

“You’re staying the night?”

“I’ll take the guest room,” Nash said, then added after a pause, “The unoccupied one.”

Eunoia huffed a quiet breath of amusement, walking past her.

“Next time,” she said as she went, “come through the front door.”

Nash lingered in the hallway alone for just a moment more.

She adjusted her gloves. Fixed her hat. Then turned and followed the only person she ever listened to.

Down the hall, in the guest room, Gubby let out a mighty little sneeze.

Chapter Text

It was well past midnight in the base, and most of the lights were off—except for the meeting room, where something far more dangerous than any assassination plot was brewing.

Mafioso paced in sharp, agitated silence, hands behind his back, black trench coat rustling with each turn. His usually composed face was visibly tense, jaw set, eyes flicking to the small velvet box sitting on the table like it might explode.

“Well,” said Contractee, sprawled upside down across three chairs, “if you stare at it any harder, it might start proposing you.”

Mafioso shot him a glare. “Do you want to be benched again.”

Contractee only grinned, pulling his coat up to his mouth dramatically. “You’re nervous. This is so cute. Look at our little murder man about to confess his undying lo—ACK.”

Caporegime had bonked him on the head with a clipboard.

“You’re not helping,” Caporegime muttered, sitting down with practiced calm. “Just say it straight. You’ve already got the ring. You love him, right?”

Mafioso's fingers twitched. “Obviously.”

“Then what’s the hesitation?” asked Consigliere, pushing up his glasses. “Statistically, Elliot is seventy-three percent likely to say yes. Ninety-six percent if you wear that shirt he likes.”

Mafioso rubbed his temple. “I don’t care about percentages. I care about not ruining it.”

Soldier, standing silently by the doorway, stepped forward and gently set down a rolled-up plan: a rooftop overlooking the city skyline, with exit points, backup lighting, and one suspiciously marked sniper perch labeled “No.” He handed Mafioso a silver pen and nodded. “This one.”

Mafioso opened it. His brows lifted—sunset timing, fairy lights, Elliot’s favorite view. There was even a box labeled 'backup ring in case of fumbling'.

Contractee was bouncing now. “Do you want me to distract Elliot while you sneak off? I could fake an emergency. Or set something on fire!”

“No fires,” Soldier said flatly.

“No distractions,” Caporegime added. “Mafioso needs to do this face-to-face.”

Consigliere tapped on a sleek little black notebook. “Also, I’ve been curating proposal speeches if you'd like options. One opens with a quote from Shrek 2, the other is mafia-themed.”

“I’m not saying ‘You’re the only one I’d let wear my spare gloves,’” Mafioso deadpanned.

The door slid open suddenly.

“Aw, look at all of you!” Eunoia beamed as she walked in, holding a tray with cups of tea. “Planning love again, huh?”

Mafioso narrowed his eyes. “You knew?”

Eunoia giggled. “Honey, I made your appointment calendar. Of course I knew.”

She set the tea down in front of him gently, then ruffled his hair before he could dodge.

“My little killer’s proposing.”

“I’m not little,” he grumbled under his breath.

“You are to me.” She smiled, then glanced around. “Everything set?”

Everyone nodded. Mafioso sat down at last, staring down at the ring box one more time.

“…You think he’ll say yes?” he asked quietly.

Silence, then:

“He’d marry you even if you didn’t ask,” Soldier said simply.

Mafioso closed the box with a soft click.

“Then tomorrow,” he said, voice steady, “I ask.”

---

The rooftop was nearly perfect.

Soldier had handled the logistics with surgical precision: soft fairy lights lined the railings, the sun was low in the sky, casting everything in a warm orange hue. Even the city’s usual hum felt quieter, like it knew something important was about to happen.

Too bad Contractee had already messed it up.

“CONTRACTEE,” Mafioso snapped, shielding his eyes as a cloud of glitter settled all over his coat. “Why did you activate the confetti cannon?!”

“It was a test run!” Contractee cried, arms out like a magician. “Besides, you look sparkly now. Elliot’s going to faint.”

“I’m going to faint,” Mafioso muttered darkly, brushing at his sleeves, which now shimmered like a disco ball. “I’m proposing, not walking onto a musical stage.”

Caporegime leaned against a railing, arms crossed. “You’re the one who agreed to let Contractee prep the decorations.”

“I didn’t agree, I got blackmailed with childhood photos.”

“Oh, those were good photos,” Consigliere commented from behind a clipboard. “Very expressive. Particularly the one with the spaghetti on your head.”

Mafioso pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to breathe.

He could do this. He’d rehearsed for weeks. He had the ring. He had the plan. Elliot was just downstairs, probably still being delayed by Eunoia who’d insisted on “one last quality check” of his pizza place uniform.

He checked his pocket. Box? Still there. Speech? Half-memorized. Sanity? …Tenuous.

Soldier approached, silent as ever, holding something rectangular wrapped in black velvet.

“The ring box,” he said simply. “No glitter. No surprises.”

Mafioso took it, nodding. “Thanks.”

Soldier hesitated a second longer, then added, “You don’t need the speech.”

Mafioso blinked.

“Just look at him. Say it like you mean it.”

Then he walked off, taking his spot in the shadows again like a stage manager on standby.

Caporegime gave a small nod of approval. “Go time.”

“Wait—wait I’m not—” Mafioso began, but too late.

Eunoia’s voice crackled softly through the rooftop comms. “He’s on his way up. Smile, darling.”

Contractee began playing a dramatic love ballad from his phone.

Consigliere groaned. “Please don’t serenade them.”

“Too late. Already made a playlist!”

Mafioso stood dead still, heart thudding, as footsteps echoed up the stairwell. His hand went to his pocket. He straightened his tie. Everything slowed.

And then—Elliot appeared.

He was a little out of breath, holding a little box of pastries in one hand, cheeks rosy from the wind.

“Hey,” he said, bright and a little confused. “You… wanted to meet me up here?”

Mafioso could only nod.

This was it.

He reached for his pocket.

Then Elliot smiled—nervously—and shifted the box of pastries under one arm.

And in one shocking, world-stopping motion—

Elliot dropped to one knee.

Mafioso froze.

“Wha—”

Elliot opened a small ring box, inside of which sat a thin, slightly lopsided silver band. A tiny bunny charm dangled from it.

His voice shook. “Mafioso. I know this might be sudden, but—” he swallowed— “I love you. You’ve ruined my life in the best way possible. And I want to spend the rest of it ruining yours back. Will you marry me?”

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Even Contractee stopped mid-song.

Mafioso just stood there, utterly stunned, still holding the ring he was going to give Elliot.

“…what,” he whispered.

Elliot looked up at him, eyes glossy, voice trembling.

“I—I didn’t mean to steal your moment, I just—” He let out a quiet, shaky laugh, then pressed forward, heart exposed. “We’ve been through everything together. Hell and back. Every day with you feels like I’m still discovering what love is.”

He swallowed, clutching the little ring box tighter.

“You don’t always say it. But you hold my hand when I’m afraid. You kiss my forehead when you think I’m asleep. You carry my weight like it’s nothing—like I’m nothing to carry.”
He gave a nervous laugh, but it cracked halfway. “You made me soup when I was sick and you fixed the oven I blew up and you never even got mad—you just smiled like you knew I’d always come home to you.”

Then, softer:
“I just—I didn’t want to wait anymore. I want to call you mine in every way. Forever. If you’ll let me.”

He looked like he might break apart waiting for the answer.

And then—

Mafioso reached into his coat pocket, hand shaking slightly.

He slowly knelt down in front of Elliot, pulled out his own ring box, and opened it.

Inside was a sleek, black band with a red gem. Cool. Elegant. Dramatic.

They stared at each other.

“You were gonna propose,” Elliot realized, wide-eyed.

“I was,” Mafioso replied, almost dazed. “This was my plan.”

Contractee, somewhere behind them, burst into tears. “DOUBLE PROPOSAL!!!”

---

The world stood still.

Two men, both kneeling, both holding out rings. One box handmade, the other perfectly sleek. One trembling hand, one wide-eyed stare. A moment suspended in golden light and rooftop wind.

Mafioso’s voice was hushed, almost reverent.

“…You beat me to it.”

Elliot blinked, still frozen. “Wait—you were really gonna…?”

Mafioso gave the smallest nod, lips parting to say more, but nothing came out.

Instead, he held out his own box more steadily now, revealing the simple, elegant ring he’d spent months agonizing over. Not too flashy, but expensive enough to feel worthy. Sleek black with a hint of red—like the ribbon Elliot sometimes tied around his wrist.

“I had a whole plan,” Mafioso finally said, voice soft and raw. “Lights. Rooftop. A speech I wrote and rewrote twenty-three times.”

He huffed a breath, somewhere between exasperated and utterly in love. “I rehearsed it every night. Soldier heard me say your name in my sleep.”

Elliot let out a soft, tearful laugh. “You talk in your sleep?”

“Only about you,” Mafioso murmured.

They both stared at each other, rings between them, hearts in their hands.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Elliot whispered. “I was so scared you'd think it was stupid, or too fast—”

Mafioso shook his head instantly, fiercely. “No. It’s not. You’re not.”

He swallowed thickly. “I’ve wanted to ask you since the day you fell asleep in my car with your head on my shoulder and called it the best nap of your life.”

“…That was a good nap,” Elliot said, eyes shining.

“Yeah.” Mafioso smiled.

Around them, the silence burst—quietly at first.

Caporegime smirked and muttered, “Called it.”

Contractee let out a loud sniffle and whisper-shouted, “They’re both down on one knee. This is so cinematic.”

Consigliere, unusually affected, dabbed at his eye with a clean microfiber cloth. Soldier simply raised a hand and pressed a button—fairy lights flared softly, framing them in gold.

Mafioso looked at Elliot. Really looked.

Eyes full of love. Cheeks still pink. Hair messy from rushing here. Hands trembling with hope.

“Elliot,” he said, voice low, rich, and steady now. “Will you marry me?”

Elliot laughed through his tears, finally breaking, finally falling forward to wrap his arms around Mafioso’s neck.

“Only if you’ll marry me.”

They kissed then—messy, breathless, ring boxes still clutched awkwardly between them.

---

Their kiss lasted long—neither of them wanting to pull away, both clinging to the other like it would make the moment last forever.

When they finally parted, it was slow. Careful. Like a secret being let go.

A thin string of saliva lingered between them, catching the warm rooftop light. Neither of them moved to wipe it away.

They just stared, dazed and breathless, faces flushed with everything unspoken and everything already known.

Mafioso’s lips were slightly parted, his chest rising and falling as if he’d just sprinted through a storm.

Elliot was blinking fast, cheeks as red as his shirt, smiling so wide it hurt. “You—you kiss like you’re trying to kill me,” he whispered.

Mafioso let out a quiet laugh, forehead resting gently against Elliot’s. “I kiss like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.”

Their hands were still shaking, still holding the rings. But the weight was gone now. There was only the glow between them. Years of chaos, care, aching devotion—and now this.

The moment they both asked.

The moment they both said yes.

---

They didn’t move for a while. Still kneeling, still holding each other.

The city around them kept glowing, soft and distant. The fairy lights shimmered, and their rings—now placed on each other’s fingers—reflected it like little promises sealed in metal.

Then, slowly, reality crept back in. In the form of a loud, uncontrollable sniffle.

“Oh my gosh,” Contractee wailed from behind a stack of potted plants. “They’re married now. They’re so married. This is the best day of my life.”

Elliot pulled back just enough to blink toward the chaos. “Wait—were you watching?”

Caporegime rolled his eyes. “We organized this. Of course we were watching.”

“Technically,” Consigliere added, adjusting his tie, “you’re not married yet. You’re engaged. Though we can expedite the paperwork—”

“Not now,” Mafioso muttered, finally standing and pulling Elliot up with him, still refusing to let go of his hand.

“I knew you’d say yes,” Elliot whispered. “I knew it. But I was still shaking like an idiot.”

Mafioso pressed a kiss to his temple, low and careful. “You’re my idiot. Forever.”

And that was when the second confetti cannon went off.

“CONTRACTEE!” Soldier barked.

“It was a victory blast!” Contractee yelled, caught mid-leap with glitter flying everywhere. “You can’t get mad during a victory blast!”

Soldier grabbed the empty cannon and crushed it in one hand.

Elliot laughed so hard he nearly collapsed again, grabbing Mafioso’s coat to steady himself. Mafioso didn’t mind. He was too busy watching Elliot’s smile like it was a miracle he got to keep.

“I should be mad you beat me to the proposal,” Mafioso muttered, voice low.

“But you’re not,” Elliot teased, grinning.

“I am,” he insisted, but kissed him again anyway.

Just a short one. Still breathless.

Caporegime walked past with a tablet already open. “Now that you’re engaged, you’ll need to pick venues. There’s a bulletproof chapel downtown I can rent out.”

“I get to be the flower girl!” Contractee shouted, spinning in circles. “I’ve already started bedazzling a vest!”

Consigliere handed them a crisp folder labeled: ‘Mafia Wedding Protocol – Partners of Made Men Edition.’

Elliot just gaped. “You people had this ready?!”

Mafioso sighed. “I told you. This was the plan.”

And yet… it had turned out so much better.

No speech, no perfect moment.

Just two idiots on a rooftop, proposing at the same time.

And now?

Now they were saying yes to everything.

---

Eventually, the chaos faded.

Contractee was dragged away mid-cartwheel by Caporegime, who insisted glitter had a clean-up fee. Consigliere retreated to his tablet to revise “Mafia Wedding Protocol” section headings. Soldier nodded once at Mafioso before disappearing into the dark like he always did—no words, just silent approval.

And now, finally, the rooftop was quiet again.

The wind was soft. The city below glimmered, unaware that something important had just changed forever.

Elliot sat down against the railing, tugging Mafioso gently with him.

They sat close, shoulders brushing. Elliot’s hand was resting on Mafioso’s thigh, thumb idly tracing the edge of his coat. Their rings caught the light—Elliot’s sleek black band with the red gem, Mafioso’s slightly crooked silver one with the bunny charm.

Perfect.

In every way that mattered.

“…Can I be honest?” Elliot murmured, his voice softer than it had been all night.

Mafioso turned to him, already watching. “You always can.”

Elliot smiled, small but real. “I thought I’d ruin it. That if I asked first, I’d take something from you.”

Mafioso stared at him for a long moment.

Then, gently, “You gave me everything.”

Elliot swallowed. His eyes were glassy again, but he didn’t look away. “You’ve loved me so quietly all this time. You never made me feel like I had to earn it. I just… had it. All of it. That’s why I wanted to be the one to ask.”

“I know,” Mafioso said softly.

He reached out, fingers slipping into Elliot’s hair, tugging gently until their foreheads met.

“You’ve always given first,” he whispered. “This time, I wanted to give back. But I don’t care if we proposed at the same time, or if you beat me to it.”

He smiled, just a little.

“You’re mine now. That’s what matters.”

Elliot’s breath hitched.

Then, grinning through the warmth in his chest, he tilted his head and kissed him again. Soft. Familiar. Forever.

They stayed there a while, just the two of them. No more speeches. No more glitter. Just silence, and stars, and the weight of love that had grown slow, strong, and undeniable over time.

The world didn’t need to know what they promised each other up there.

They already knew.

Chapter Text

The pizza oven let out a high-pitched whine as the timer blared for the third time in under a minute. The bell above the door jingled. Again. Somewhere behind him, someone dropped a tray, and someone else shouted, “Order up!”

Elliot flinched.

His hands, covered in flour and sauce, fumbled with the pizza cutter. He tried to focus—cut on the lines, slice it even, smile at the customer. His heartbeat was in his ears. The lights were so bright today. Someone had turned the music up—some awful pop remix with too much bass and layered vocals echoing through the small kitchen like voices inside his skull.

A coworker brushed past him roughly.

“Elliot, that’s the wrong box!”

“I—I know,” he said too quickly, reaching for the right one. His hands trembled. The pizza slipped half-out of the box and tilted sideways.

He didn’t even look up. He just breathed, shaky and shallow, as heat pressed against his back from the oven, the timer screamed again, and the front counter bell dinged like a taunt.

Then someone else snapped from the front, “We’re still waiting on table six! Where’s the garlic bread?!”

“I’m—I’m working on it,” Elliot said, but it came out brittle, a whisper trying to shout. He turned to grab the tray from the warmer and smacked his elbow into the open oven handle behind him.

A clang. More pain. More noise.

And then someone else barked, “Jesus, Elliot, get it together—”

That’s when it cracked.

Elliot dropped the tray. The garlic bread hit the floor with a sad flop. He stared at it, breath frozen in his chest, ears ringing with noise that wasn’t even real anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, louder this time, but it didn’t sound like himself. His hands were numb.

He took off his apron and let it crumple to the floor.

Someone called after him—maybe his name, maybe a curse—but he was already out the door. The bell above it gave a final cheerful jingle that made his stomach turn.

The sun outside felt too bright. Too sharp. Like it was judging him.

He didn’t go straight home. He just walked. Let the city blur past. His legs moved on their own.

---

The apartment door creaked open with a tired groan.

Elliot stepped inside, moving like a shadow—no sound except for the quiet click of the door closing behind him. His shoes scuffed the floor as he toed them off, but he didn’t bother lining them up like he usually did.

The living room was dim, the only light coming from a single desk lamp in the corner. Mafioso sat at the small table, still in his black coat and gloves, a neat stack of folders beside him. He was reading over one of them, pen in hand, glasses balanced low on his nose. The soft scratch of pen to paper was the only sound in the room.

He glanced up.

His expression didn’t change. Not at first. But his eyes flicked over Elliot—messy hair, red-rimmed eyes, flour still on his sleeves, posture like something had snapped and hadn't reset.

Elliot looked back at him for half a second. Then away.

“I’m gonna…” he mumbled, voice rough. “Can I just not today?”

Mafioso blinked once. Set the pen down.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t rise from the chair. Didn’t push.

Elliot nodded, like that silence was an answer. Then turned and walked toward the bedroom.

The floor was cool under his socks. The hallway felt too long. But Mafioso hadn’t followed. That was good. That was safe.

Just for tonight, he couldn’t be “fine” for anyone.

He passed the coat rack and paused. His hand drifted out, fingers brushing over Mafioso’s long coat—soft from years of use, heavier than it looked, and faintly smelling like cologne and old cigarettes.

He took it off the hook.

And carried it with him into the dark.

---

The bedroom was cool and dim, curtains already half-drawn from that morning. Elliot didn’t turn on the light.

He didn’t need to see.

He dropped Mafioso’s coat on the bed first, then climbed up after it, not even bothering to change. His limbs were stiff, movements sluggish like he was underwater. With a small, tired exhale, he pulled the coat over his head and curled into himself—knees tucked, shoulders hunched, like the world was still pressing down and he was trying to shrink until it passed.

The coat was too big. It swallowed him whole.

Good.

The fabric was thick and heavy, and it dragged across his skin like fog. Familiar. It smelled like Mafioso, like something safe—smoke, clean wool, warmth. The weight made his chest ache in a good way, and his breath finally slowed.

Outside the room, there were faint sounds—pages turning, a chair sliding, footsteps on the floor.

He barely registered the soft knock at the doorframe.

Then Mafioso’s voice, low and careful:
“Can I come in?”

Elliot didn’t answer.

A beat passed.

Then the door creaked open, and slow footsteps crossed the room. The bed dipped as Mafioso sat on the edge, saying nothing.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then a shift of weight.

A gloved hand settled gently on top of the coat—right between Elliot’s shoulder blades. Not pressing, just resting there, warm and steady.

It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t even a question. It was just presence.

Elliot let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It stuttered on the way out.

“…Rough day?” Mafioso asked quietly, voice barely audible through the layers.

Under the coat, Elliot shifted slightly, cheek pressed to the mattress. His voice came out small and hoarse.

“Don’t wanna be a person right now.”

Mafioso didn’t move.

“…Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll be here until you do.”

The silence that followed was soft—not empty, but full of permission.

Mafioso didn’t press for more. He didn’t ask what happened or try to drag Elliot out of the coat. He just let his hand rest there, the leather warm from his skin underneath. It was a small weight. Enough to say I’m real. I’m here.

Minutes passed. Maybe five. Maybe ten. Time stopped tracking.

Elliot’s fingers relaxed slightly around the edge of the coat. His shoulders, still tight, twitched with a sharp breath. Not a sob—but a warning of one, sitting heavy behind his ribs. He didn’t move. Didn’t want to move.

Mafioso stood up without a word.

For one terrible moment, Elliot thought he was leaving.

But then he heard quiet footsteps—then the soft click of a drawer opening.

The hallway light disappeared as Mafioso shut the door. The city sounds muffled with the curtains drawn tighter. There was a shuffle of cloth. The small glow from Elliot’s phone screen was tucked away, flipped face-down and slipped into a drawer like it didn’t deserve to buzz tonight.

Elliot peeked from under the coat, just barely.

Mafioso moved with methodical calm. He pulled a pair of soft, loose clothes from the closet—Elliot’s favorites, the ones that didn’t have zippers or tags, the ones that just fit. Then he knelt beside the bed, gloves removed, and reached out gently.

“Arms,” he said softly.

Elliot hesitated. His eyes stung.

But he let himself be helped.

He pushed himself upright, arms sluggishly rising as Mafioso guided the sweater over his head. Then the pants. Every movement was slow, deliberate, like they were handling something fragile. Maybe they were.

No questions. No judgment.

Just the sound of fabric rustling and breath shared in the dim.

Once Elliot was changed, Mafioso tugged the coat back over him—like tucking in a child, or hiding a precious thing from the world. Then he slid into bed behind him and pulled the blanket up over both of them.

Elliot flinched when he felt arms circle around him—but only for a second.

Then he melted into them.

Mafioso didn’t speak. Just held him, one hand pressed gently to Elliot’s chest, steadying the rhythm.

The world outside faded.

Inside the coat, the dark, the quiet, and Mafioso’s steady breathing—it was enough.

It was safe.

---

The apartment, once buzzing with city echoes and the leftover weight of the day, had gone completely still.

Elliot lay bundled under the coat, wrapped now not just in thick fabric but in Mafioso himself—his arms steady, his chest a slow and grounding rhythm against Elliot’s back. The world hadn’t gone away, not really, but here in the dark, it had dimmed enough for Elliot to feel like he could breathe without flinching.

His body ached in small ways. That dull fatigue from being too alert for too long. His thoughts were blurry now, like they were underwater. But the coat and the arms around him gave his brain something else to focus on.

Something warm. Something that didn’t need anything from him.

Mafioso shifted slightly, just enough to pull the blanket higher. His voice, when he spoke, was barely above a whisper.

“Better?”

Elliot didn’t answer right away.

He swallowed, throat dry, and let the word roll around in his head like he was testing if it fit.

“…Lighter,” he said at last. “Not better. Just… not drowning.”

Mafioso hummed softly. Not in response—just in acknowledgment. It was a quiet little sound, low in his throat, like a lullaby that didn’t need lyrics.

“Mm,” Elliot murmured. “Do that again.”

Mafioso did. A little longer this time.

Elliot’s eyes drifted closed. His fingers, which had been curled tight against his chest, finally relaxed. He felt the last few scraps of tension melt from his shoulders as Mafioso’s hand moved slowly, rhythmically along his arm.

No noise. No light. No demands.

Just this.

Eventually, Elliot whispered into the dark: “Thank you.”

Mafioso leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently to the back of Elliot’s head.

“You don’t have to thank me for staying.”

Time passed, but neither of them tracked it.

The city beyond the windows kept moving—cars passed, people shouted, sirens wailed far off—but none of it reached the bed. Mafioso’s arms around Elliot were solid, anchoring, like the world had been peeled away layer by layer until only this space remained: dim, still, and quiet.

Elliot’s breathing had evened out, but he wasn’t asleep. He stayed nestled into Mafioso’s chest, the coat still draped like a barrier over them both, his fingers caught loosely in the fabric near his heart.

He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

Mafioso had always been a man of few words, and tonight, that was exactly what Elliot needed. No fixing. No expectations. Just presence.

The rhythm of Mafioso’s thumb against his arm was steady. Slow. And when it paused, just once, Elliot noticed—but Mafioso only adjusted his position slightly, tucked his chin on top of Elliot’s head, and resumed.

Elliot shifted, burrowing in closer, muffled voice barely audible.

“…Don’t let go.”

“I won’t.”

The promise was immediate. Heavy. Solid.

Not dramatic. Just true.

They stayed like that for a long time. Maybe Mafioso did start humming again. Maybe Elliot fell asleep partway through it, finally eased out of that high-alert state he’d been stuck in all day.

But even if he didn’t sleep—not fully—he rested. For the first time in hours, he rested.

The weight of the coat. The weight of the arms around him. The absence of words. The absence of pressure.

It was enough.

It was everything.

Chapter Text

my mom saw my wips and now she's grounding me in sorry I don't wanna get caught again I'm so sorry I'll make your requests next time I'm so sorry sorry soryeh

Chapter Text

Elliot was on shirt number four and sanity level zero.

“I look like I’m going to prom,” he muttered, yanking at his collar. “Do mafia bases have dress codes? Should I tuck this in? Do they care about tucking? Oh my god, they definitely care about tucking. They’ll shoot me if I don’t tuck—”

“They will not shoot you,” Mafioso said calmly, seated on the edge of Elliot’s bed like he hadn’t just survived three outfit changes and a full spiral.

Elliot groaned and flopped face-first into his laundry basket. “You say that but you also said ‘make sure your posture doesn’t imply weakness,’ and I think I just put on a shirt that says ‘please rob me.’”

“That shirt is black and clean,” Mafioso replied. “It is acceptable.”

“I need more than acceptable!”

Mafioso stood and walked over, adjusting Elliot’s collar with quiet precision. “You are already more than acceptable.”

Elliot peeked up at him through his hair. “You’re just saying that because you like me.”

“I am saying it because you are... warm. Kind. You make good pasta. You talk to animals. You are very hard to dislike.” Mafioso paused. “Even Caporegime said so. That is rare.”

That made Elliot blink. “Wait, really? He said that?”

“He said, ‘I guess he’s fine,’ which is a resounding endorsement.”

Elliot laughed—nervous, but genuine. “Oh my god. That’s like... a hug from him, right?”

“Nearly.”

The room fell quiet again as Elliot stared at himself in the mirror. His reflection stared back with a worried frown and collar still slightly askew.

“What if I mess this up?” he said quietly. “What if they think I’m just... some guy. Some pizza guy who isn’t good enough for you?”

Mafioso didn’t answer immediately. He just took Elliot’s hand, gloved fingers wrapping gently around his wrist.

“If they think that,” he said, soft but firm, “they will be wrong. And I will correct them.”

Elliot smiled, crooked and shaky. “With words, right?”

“...Mostly.”

He laughed again, the anxiety lightening just a little.

“Okay,” Elliot said, taking a breath. “Let’s go meet your terrifying found family.”

Mafioso tilted his head. “You are very brave.”

Elliot tugged on his sleeve and whispered, “Please don’t leave me alone with Contractee.”

---

The base opened up into a central room that looked part office, part lounge, part training zone. There were crates, couches, computers, a snack table, and a wall of glowing screens showing grainy camera feeds. All of it buzzing with quiet movement—and all of it manned by people in the same exact uniform.

White buttoned shirts. Black suit vests. Black ties. Every one of them looked like a chess piece.

Except... for the hats.

The first one Elliot saw was sitting backwards in a rolling chair, spinning slowly and eating chips straight out of the bag. His black cap was tilted dramatically off to the side, like he was wearing it just to say “I know it looks cool.”

He spotted Elliot, pointed a chip at him, and yelled:

“HEY! The civilian lives!”

“Contractee,” Mafioso warned.

“I’m just saying! You brought him here! That means he’s real! I owe Soldier fifty bucks!”

From across the room, Soldier lifted one hand in silent victory.

Contractee rolled his chair over and held out a neon sour candy. “Here. For surviving. Also if you eat this and don’t die, I’ll respect you.”

Elliot blinked. “Respect me for what? Tolerance to acid?”

“Exactly!”

Before he could respond, a second figure entered the room—confident, sunglasses on, sleeves rolled up despite the formal look. Caporegime.

“Civilian?” he asked flatly, then gave Elliot one long look up and down. “Hm. You’re shorter than I expected.”

Elliot opened his mouth to answer, but Caporegime turned toward Contractee and said, “You owe me fifty bucks.”

“WHAT—WHY DOES EVERYONE HAVE A BET ON ME??”

“You were a mystery character,” Contractee said, offended. “Like a rare card.”

Caporegime threw an arm around Elliot’s shoulder. “Relax. If you made it this far, you’re probably good.”

Then he poked Elliot’s stomach and added, “Unless you’re bugged. You aren’t bugged, right?”

Elliot’s soul temporarily evacuated his body.

“Capo,” Mafioso said sharply.

Caporegime raised both hands in peace. “Fine, fine. Just checking. Geez. Mr. Protective.”

Behind them, a calm voice cut in.

“He’s fine.”

Elliot turned and saw the third mafialing—slender frame, straight spine, neatly tied long black ribbon on his white top hat. Consigliere. Typing on a sleek tablet without even looking up. His voice was light but unreadable.

“Mafioso wouldn’t bring anyone here unless he’d already calculated the odds.”

“Odds of what?” Elliot asked nervously.

“Your survival. Compatibility. Long-term viability.”

“OH. Okay. Normal things.”

Consigliere did not respond. He simply kept typing.

Finally, the last one: sitting on a nearby crate, legs crossed, a black ushanka pulled low over his head, a black bandana slung around his neck like a loose mask. Soldier. Calm, quiet, and watching Elliot like one might watch a cat wander into a minefield.

He gave a small nod.

Elliot nodded back, slightly afraid and unsure why.

Mafioso’s voice lowered. “This is them.”

“Yep,” Elliot whispered. “I can tell.”

Contractee, now hanging off Caporegime’s shoulder, asked: “Do we get to interrogate him?”

“No,” Mafioso answered.

“What if it’s fun?”

“No.”

“What if I dress as a lawyer and hold a fake trial?”

“No.”

“Aw, c’mon—”

“Contractee,” Consigliere said, still not looking up, “If you stage another mock trial, I will override your supply card again.”

“…Understood.”

Caporegime, snickering: “He’s still mad about the soda rations.”

“I needed the raspberry kind.”

Soldier stood up, motioned to Caporegime, and they both walked toward a nearby control panel, wordlessly. Consigliere went back to scrolling. Contractee wandered off in search of gum.

Elliot stood in the middle of the room like he’d just stepped off a rollercoaster.

Mafioso turned to him. “You’re doing well.”

Elliot whispered, “Am I being hazed?”

Mafioso tilted his head. “Not yet.”

---

The long dinner table was set with almost military precision—white plates, polished silverware, and enough candles to make Elliot feel like he was about to sign a treaty, not eat spaghetti. Eunoia sat at the head like a serene porcelain statue, hands folded delicately over a cloth napkin. Her eyes flicked to Mafioso once, then to Elliot. She offered a polite smile.

“You’re our guest. Please enjoy.”

Elliot smiled too hard and too wide. “Thank you. You have a really nice—uh—facility.”

“It’s a house,” Contractee piped in, already halfway under the table, trying to balance a fork on his nose.

Soldier reached down and grabbed the back of his collar like a cat picking up a misbehaving kitten, dragging him back into his seat. “Sit like a human.”

Mafioso rubbed his temple with gloved fingers.

Caporegime leaned on the table, arms crossed, sunglasses still on even indoors. “So. You’re the pizza guy.”

“Uh. I mean, yeah. But—I do other stuff too! I bake. I’m—versatile.”

Contractee snorted juice out of his nose.

Elliot stared at his plate like it might save him. He nudged Mafioso’s knee under the table. “This is going fine, right?”

Mafioso, unblinking, said, “Yes.”

Then Eunoia, still looking calm and composed, said, “He took off his gloves when he saw you at the door.”

The entire table went silent.

Soldier blinked slowly. “He what.”

Consigliere put his fork down very carefully. “That explains the nervous wrist flexing. I thought he was injured.”

Mafioso closed his eyes.

Contractee gasped so loudly it echoed. “HE BARES SKIN FOR HIM???”

“I am literally going to vanish,” Mafioso muttered.

Elliot turned bright red and covered his face with his hands, groaning into them. “Oh my god.”

Caporegime smirked. “Next you’ll tell me he smiled.”

“Oh, he giggled,” Eunoia said with soft certainty. “In the hallway. He dropped his phone.”

Contractee slammed his face into his plate, sobbing from laughter.

Mafioso reached over calmly and upended Contractee’s water glass into his lap.

Contractee screamed.

Soldier didn't move. “That’s fair.”

Dinner was somehow both chaotic and quiet, tension ebbing and flowing like a tide made of secondhand embarrassment. Elliot tried to recover by complimenting the food—which no one had cooked except a third-party mafia chef named Vinny—and Caporegime used the opportunity to comment, “You’ve got guts coming here with a red hat.”

Elliot glanced at his iconic red hat. “...Is that a bad color here?”

Soldier finally spoke again. “It’s target practice red.”

Mafioso put a protective arm around Elliot's shoulder. “He's not a target.”

Eunoia, sipping her wine, murmured, “Not until he challenges Consigliere to a logic game.”

“I never agreed to—” Elliot started, but Consigliere had already pulled a folded logic puzzle from his vest pocket.

“You have five minutes.”

Elliot screamed inside.

---

They sat in the living room, Elliot curled awkwardly on a velvet chair while the mafialings lingered nearby, all of them still in their white suits, somehow looking like different flavors of a threat even when doing mundane things.

Mafioso perched beside Elliot, quietly pressing a hand to the small of his back. “That went fine.”

Elliot whispered, “They roasted you alive and now I’m on trial.”

“They like you,” Mafioso reassured. “They only mock people they don’t want to murder.”

“That’s… oddly sweet?”

“I can kill them if they embarrassed you.”

Elliot, trying not to laugh: “No, no. It’s fine. You—took off your gloves for me?”

Mafioso looked away.

Soldier, walking past with a tray of teacups: “He let you pat his head last week too.”

Contractee, from the couch: “He blushed so hard his ears turned pink.”

Mafioso: “I’m going to set this building on fire.”

Elliot, smiling so hard his face hurt, leaned into him. “It went fine.”

Chapter Text

The living room was a battlefield.

Not in the literal sense—though, with the way Elliot was flinging pillows off the couch and lint-rolling everything that resembled fabric, it felt like war.

“Do not wear the coat,” Elliot warned, pointing an accusatory finger at Mafioso, who stood in the hallway in his full usual attire: dark trench coat, black gloves, pressed slacks, and a look of eternal solemnity. “You’ll scare Mia.”

Mafioso blinked. “It’s my only coat.”

“You have five identical coats!”

Mafioso hesitated. “...Exactly.”

Elliot groaned and marched up to him, yanking the lapels of the coat like he was trying to shake the mafia out of him. “They’re going to think I’m dating a ghost. Or an assassin. Or worse—someone intimidating.”

Mafioso raised an eyebrow. “...I am intimidating.”

“Not to me, you’re not,” Elliot muttered, flustered. “You cry when you see bunny socks in the laundry.”

A beat.

Mafioso turned his face away. “They looked so cozy…”

Elliot sighed and let his hands fall. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’m just—nervous. This is a big deal. My dad’s kind of hard to read, and Mia’s skittish around strangers. I want today to go right. You mean a lot to me, you know?”

That made Mafioso pause. His posture softened. He took a slow breath.

“I’ve never… met someone’s family like this,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “I don’t know how to act.”

Elliot blinked at him. “You act like you. You don’t need to put on some weird version of yourself to impress them.”

Mafioso nodded slowly, but then muttered, “...Still bringing the less scary coat.”

Elliot smiled, relieved. “Thank you.”

Then Mafioso added, “And a bunny. In case of emergency.”

Elliot laughed. “You think my family has a bunny emergency protocol?”

“I do now.”

---

The door swung open with a cheerful creak.

“Elliot! You’re early—oh.”

Mr. Builder paused, eyes landing on Mafioso.

The mafia man stood straight as a board, coat neatly buttoned, fedora shadowing his eyes. Beside him, Elliot radiated the frantic energy of someone silently begging please don’t judge the murdercore fashion choice.

Mr. Builder, a large man with a proud black mustache and a well-worn yellow construction hat sitting slightly crooked on his head, took one long look… and smiled.

“Nice coat. I used to have one like that in the ‘80s. Come in, you two.”

Elliot blinked. “Wait—you’re not going to…?”

“What?” Mr. Builder waved them inside. “I’ve seen weirder. I was in a ska band once.”

Mafioso stepped in carefully, nodding with practiced politeness. “Thank you for having me, sir.”

“You can call me Builder,” he replied. “Or sir. Sir makes me feel powerful.”

Elliot let out a breath of relief as the door shut behind them.

From around the corner, tiny footsteps pattered—and then Mia peeked in. She froze like a rabbit catching sight of a predator. Her big eyes scanned Mafioso from the boots to the hat, and she immediately ducked behind the wall again.

“That’s Mia,” Elliot whispered. “She’s not scared of monsters, but she is scared of… you.”

“I get that a lot,” Mafioso said solemnly. His coat shifted subtly at the chest, and Elliot caught a glimpse of… fluff?

“You actually brought the bunny,” he whispered accusingly.

“In case of emergency,” Mafioso replied, deadpan.

Mia peeked again, suspicious but curious. Mafioso did not move—he stood eerily still, like he was guarding state secrets or preparing to recite poetry at gunpoint.

Mr. Builder wandered toward the kitchen. “Dinner’s in the oven. Mia, come say hi. He’s not gonna eat you.”

Mia hesitated.

Elliot leaned close to Mafioso’s ear. “...You might need to show her the bunny.”

Mafioso gave a tiny, reluctant sigh.

Then, with the solemnity of someone revealing a hidden dagger, he slowly unbuttoned the top half of his coat—and a tiny white bunny poked its head out.

Mia gasped.

The bunny blinked.

Mafioso did not blink.

Mia whispered, “Is that a real bunny?”

“It’s my emotional support employee,” Mafioso said.

She crept a little closer, eyes wide. “...What’s their name?”

Mafioso glanced at Elliot. “...Pending HR approval.”

Mia giggled.

From the kitchen, Builder called, “Told you he’s not so scary.”

Elliot rubbed his face in his hands. “I can’t believe this is working.”

Mafioso gently rebuttoned his coat. The bunny was tucked safely inside, just a little bump on his chest now.

He murmured, “I am prepared for all missions.”

---

After the bunny reveal, Mia had become Mafioso’s shadow.

She sat beside him on the couch with wide eyes, legs crossed, asking questions like a child detective. “Do you always wear gloves? Have you ever fought a dragon? Is Elliot your boyfriend? Do you really live in a house or is it just, like, a cave?”

Mafioso answered each question with the same flat tone:

“Yes.”

“Metaphorically.”

“We’re still in negotiations.”

“And I rent.”

Elliot was trying to pretend he wasn’t alive. He sat on the opposite end of the couch, red in the face, burying his expression in a throw pillow.

Mr. Builder, meanwhile, was fixing tea in the kitchen and occasionally calling out:

“Mia, no interrogating the guest.”

“You doing okay in there, son?”

“Do you want extra marshmallows, Mafioso?”

“Yes, please,” Mafioso called back politely.

Elliot made a strangled sound. “You’ve never asked for marshmallows before.”

Mafioso calmly replied, “I adapt.”

Mia pointed at his coat. “Is the bunny still in there?”

“Resting,” Mafioso said. “They’ve seen enough today.”

Mia nodded sagely. “Bunnies need naps too.”

She scooted closer and whispered conspiratorially, “Elliot used to have a pet worm named Smushy. He cried when it died.”

Elliot bolted upright. “MIA!”

“What?” she said, completely unbothered. “It was cute.”

Mafioso turned slowly to Elliot. “You never told me about Smushy.”

“Because it was a WORM and I was SIX and I loved him,” Elliot said, mortified.

“Love is love,” Mafioso replied, nodding solemnly.

Mia clapped. “You’re so cool.”

Elliot buried himself back in the pillow. “I’m not surviving this night.”

Mr. Builder walked in with three mugs balanced in his hands. “Alright, you weird little chaos trio. Tea’s up.”

He handed Mafioso his mug with extra marshmallows, then plopped down in the armchair. “So, Mafioso. You’ve met the whole gang. What do you think?”

Mafioso looked around the room. Elliot still hiding in a pillow. Mia leaning on his arm. Mr. Builder in construction chic.

He blinked once, then answered:

“Strangely comforting.”

The dinner table was a little mismatched: construction tools pushed aside for dishes, one leg a bit shorter than the others, but everything smelled warm and homemade.

Mia was already halfway through her second roll. Mafioso sat perfectly upright, politely using every utensil in the correct order. Elliot, meanwhile, looked like he wanted to sink into the mashed potatoes and disappear.

Mr. Builder poured himself some soup and launched into his favorite topic: embarrassing Elliot stories.

“You know, when he was five,” he began, eyes twinkling, “he thought wearing a cape gave him super strength. So he ran full-speed into a pile of cardboard boxes yelling, ‘Justice is here!’” He laughed heartily. “Knocked himself out cold.”

Mafioso turned his head toward Elliot, utterly delighted. “You had a cape phase?”

Elliot held his face in both hands. “Why do you remember everything?”

“I documented it,” Mr. Builder said proudly. “I have the cape in a drawer somewhere. Want me to get it?”

“No,” Elliot mumbled through his fingers.

Mia spoke up with her mouth full, “He also cried when he saw a squirrel once.”

“That was a scary squirrel,” Elliot protested. “It hissed at me.”

Mafioso, barely suppressing a smile, sipped his water. “Terrifying.”

Mr. Builder chuckled. “He was always a little dramatic, even back then. But he had the biggest heart. Always trying to make everyone smile, even if he had no idea what he was doing.”

Elliot peeked up, still red but quieter now.

“Still the same, really,” his dad added gently.

There was a pause. Not awkward—just warm.

Mafioso finally said, “I’m glad he turned out like that.”

Elliot stared at him, wide-eyed.

Mia shrugged. “I like you, trench coat guy.”

“Thank you, small builder.”

Mr. Builder leaned back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach like a king surveying his kingdom.

“Oh, and don’t even get me started on the spaghetti incident.”

“Dad,” Elliot warned, already grimacing.

But there was no stopping him.

“He was maybe ten. I told him not to bring food into his room—so what does he do? Sneaks an entire plate of spaghetti under his shirt like a smuggler. Tripped on the stairs. Boom. Sauce everywhere. He cried like he lost a comrade in battle.”

“I was mourning,” Elliot muttered.

Mia choked on a laugh. Mafioso was quietly shaking.

Mr. Builder continued, totally unbothered. “Then there was the ‘ghost’ in the attic.”

“Dad—”

“I installed a motion light up there, and he saw it flicker from the hallway. Next thing I know, he’s sprinting through the house with a broom yelling ‘I rebuke thee!’ at absolutely nothing.”

“I was protecting my family,” Elliot said, dead serious now.

“Oh, he was very brave,” his dad said, wiping a tear from laughing. “Even made a salt circle.”

“I still have that broom,” Mia added.

Mafioso turned to Elliot, eyes shining with joy. “You really were something.”

Elliot sank lower in his chair. “Why did I bring you here.”

Mr. Builder chuckled again, his tone softening. “But you know what? He was always someone you could count on. Even if he was ridiculous half the time.”

He smiled at Mafioso, calm but sincere.

“I can see that hasn’t changed.”

Mafioso’s posture straightened. He nodded, gentle. “No. It hasn’t.”

Mia reached over and snuck another roll from the center plate. “You should tell him about the soap prank.”

“No,” Elliot said instantly.

“Yes,” said Mr. Builder and Mafioso at the same time.

---

Dinner was winding down. Plates scraped clean, glasses half-full, and the smell of warm food still lingering. Elliot was half-hiding behind a pitcher of juice, cheeks permanently red. Mia was stacking olives on her fork. Mr. Builder was wiping his mustache with a napkin.

Mafioso sat straight-backed but calm, fingers resting lightly on the table. The bunny in his coat gave a quiet thump, but no one noticed.

Mr. Builder cleared his throat.

“You know,” he said, voice steady, “I was worried at first. Elliot’s always been... particular. And protective of his peace.”

Elliot stiffened.

“But I’ve been watching tonight. And he’s smiling, even if he’s pretending he’s not.”

Elliot sank lower.

Mr. Builder looked at Mafioso now. “You seem to really care about him. You listen. You laugh at his terrible stories. You even let my daughter win at mashed potato rock-paper-scissors.”

Mia gave a satisfied nod.

Mafioso smiled, quiet. “I care about him very much.”

A pause. Then:

“Then that’s good enough for me,” Mr. Builder said, simply. “Welcome to the family, son.”

Elliot made a faint squeak.

Mia leaned over and whispered to Mafioso, “You’re still scary. But like, cool scary now.”

“Thank you,” Mafioso replied gravely.

The bunny thumped quietly against Mafioso’s side, still nestled in his coat like it had been all evening.

Mia reached out and gently scratched its head. “Your bunny’s so well-behaved... I think it actually likes me now.”

“It does,” Mafioso said. “He told me.”

Mr. Builder blinked, amused. “I thought you were the scary one, but clearly the bunny’s in charge.”

Mafioso didn’t deny it.

Elliot looked between them all—Mia happily feeding the bunny a scrap of lettuce, Mr. Builder smiling, and Mafioso soft around the eyes. His chest felt tight in the good way.

He didn’t say anything.

But he didn’t need to.

Chapter Text

Mafioso didn’t expect to create a blog. But Consigliere said it would be "strategically beneficial" to open a line of communication with the outside world. So here it is — monitored, quiet, unnervingly blank.

Caporegime assumed it was for recruiting. Contractee assumed they were going to get fan mail.
There are zero messages.

Contractee refreshes the inbox every two minutes. Caporegime already challenged the internet to arm wrestle.
Consigliere sits beside the inbox, silently judging.
Mafioso just waits — arms folded, unreadable.

You may ask.
If you're brave enough.

Chapter Text

Elliot’s breath hitched as Mafioso hovered over him, his dark coat brushing the sides of his arms like wings. The room was quiet—save for the faint hum of the old ceiling fan and the low thump of Elliot’s heartbeat rattling in his ears. Mafioso didn’t speak. He just looked down at Elliot with those unreadable eyes of his, all stormy softness and silent want.

Then, with a touch lighter than air, Mafioso’s gloved hand rested against Elliot’s chest—right above his heart. His thumb moved in slow, unhurried circles, gliding over fabric and then beneath it, fingertips ghosting along bare skin. The gentleness of it made Elliot shudder, not from fear or nerves, but from how careful it was. As if Mafioso was handling something precious.

Elliot let out a shaky laugh, one that caught in his throat halfway. “You’re not usually this soft,” he whispered.

Mafioso’s lips curled into a faint smile. “You’re not usually this still.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Elliot didn’t. He couldn’t—not when Mafioso leaned in and pressed his forehead to Elliot’s, hand still warm and steady on his chest. The slow, deliberate rhythm of Mafioso’s touch was like a heartbeat of its own—one Elliot felt sinking deep into his ribs.

Elliot blinked slowly, eyes searching Mafioso’s face like he was still trying to figure him out. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he arched just slightly into the hand on his chest, like he was afraid it would disappear.

Mafioso noticed.

He let his palm flatten gently, feeling the warmth of Elliot’s skin, the way it rose and fell beneath him. “You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” His voice was low, steady, like a secret meant only for Elliot. “You never are. You just smile through it. Throw your stupid apron on and pretend nothing gets to you.”

Elliot’s breath hitched again—but this time, it wasn’t from the touch. It was from the truth.

He swallowed hard and looked away, blinking fast. “If I stop pretending,” he said softly, “I think I’ll fall apart.”

Mafioso didn’t say anything for a long moment. His hand moved up, tracing along Elliot’s ribs, gentle as a breeze. Then it came to rest just below his collarbone, fingers splayed like he was trying to protect something fragile.

“You can fall apart here,” Mafioso said. “I’ll stay.”

Elliot closed his eyes, tight, like the words hurt. They did. They were the kind of words he’d always wanted to hear but never believed were for him.

“Why are you being like this?” he whispered, voice cracking. “You’re never like this.”

“Because I almost lost you last week,” Mafioso said simply. “Because I realized I know how to patch up a gunshot wound, but I don’t know how to fix it if you stop looking at me the way you do. I’ve never been scared of death, Elliot. Not until you.”

There was silence. Then Elliot reached up and curled his fingers around Mafioso’s wrist, holding it where it lay against his chest.

“Then stay,” he said. “Just stay a while longer.”

Mafioso nodded. He shifted just enough to press a kiss to Elliot’s temple—light, reverent. “I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

And for the first time in a long time, Elliot let himself believe it.

The world outside had quieted. The hum of city noise had faded into the soft lull of nighttime, the kind of stillness that settled in thick and heavy, as if the air itself wanted to protect this moment.

Elliot lay curled against Mafioso’s chest now, half beneath his coat. His breathing had slowed, but sleep hadn't taken him yet—not fully. Every now and then, he shifted, fingers lightly clutching at the fabric of Mafioso’s shirt like he was afraid he’d wake up alone.

“You’re still awake,” Mafioso murmured, his voice low and warm, just above Elliot’s ear.

Elliot gave a soft hum, not quite an answer.

Mafioso adjusted his position slightly so Elliot wouldn’t have to hold on so tight. He brought one arm around him fully, the other brushing back a few strands of messy blond hair from Elliot’s forehead. “You don’t have to fight it,” he said. “I’m still here.”

“I know,” Elliot mumbled, voice hushed and raspy from exhaustion. “I just… I used to have to stay awake. In case.”

“In case of what?”

Elliot paused, then whispered, “In case they changed their mind. In case someone left.”

The words were said so quietly that Mafioso almost thought he imagined them—but the way Elliot stiffened slightly in his arms made it real.

“I’m not someone,” Mafioso said softly. “And I’m not leaving.”

His hand moved in soothing patterns against Elliot’s back now, patient and steady. Like he could rewrite every memory that ever made Elliot afraid.

“I don’t need you to be okay all the time,” Mafioso added. “You can be tired. You can fall apart. You can even fall asleep first and leave me talking to myself.”

That got a tiny, reluctant laugh from Elliot. He blinked slowly, eyes fluttering closed against Mafioso’s chest. “…You’re soft when no one’s watching.”

“You bring it out of me,” Mafioso murmured, pressing a kiss into his hair.

Silence stretched again, this time tender. Elliot’s breathing deepened gradually, fingers unclenching where they’d curled into Mafioso’s shirt. He didn’t speak again. Just exhaled one last shaky breath—and finally let go.

Mafioso stayed still, arms wrapped around him like a promise, even after Elliot had fallen fully into sleep.

He didn’t let go.

Not even for a second.

Chapter Text

It was quiet in the apartment, but Elliot was not.

He’d tried to be. God, he wanted to be.

But cramps had his body folded into an angry, trembling pretzel on the couch, and the heating pad wasn’t doing anything, and the blanket kept sticking to his skin weird, and everything just felt—off. Ugly. Wrong. Too much.

He hated how this made him feel. How small it made him feel. How hard it was to sit with the pain and not fall into that dangerous spiral: This shouldn’t be happening. This is wrong. I’m wrong. I hate this. I hate me.

He didn't mean to cry. But there were two ugly tears dripping down the bridge of his nose and soaking into the couch cushion before he even noticed they’d escaped.

The door creaked. Soft footsteps.

And then: “...You okay?”

Elliot nearly jumped. “Yeah,” he snapped too fast, voice cracking. “I’m fine.”

Mafioso didn’t say anything. Not for a moment. Then: a quiet shuffle, and the sound of his coat sliding off as he crossed the room. "You're lying."

Elliot turned his face into the couch, mortified. “I just—fuck, I don’t know. I don’t want to talk, alright?”

“Okay,” Mafioso said, and it was the gentlest ‘okay’ Elliot had ever heard. He sat beside him on the edge of the couch like he always did when he thought Elliot might flinch—close, but not assuming. He waited.

Elliot’s voice cracked again when he muttered, “It’s stupid.”

“I don’t care if it’s stupid,” Mafioso said. “If it’s hurting you, it’s not.”

Another sniffle. Elliot dug his hands into his hoodie pocket, fingers clenched tight. “I’m on my period. And it hurts like hell. And I feel like shit. And I hate this. I hate all of it. I feel like my body’s laughing at me.”

He didn’t look up, but he felt Mafioso go very still. Not in a bad way. Just… thoughtful.

Then came the soft rustle of fabric again—Mafioso had taken his gloves off, fingers bare and warm as he carefully, carefully touched the back of Elliot’s hand in his pocket. Just barely.

“Your body’s not laughing at you,” he said quietly. “It’s just hurting. That’s not the same thing.”

Elliot didn’t respond, but his breath hitched. Just a little.

“I used to feel like that,” Mafioso added after a long pause. “Different reason. But same shame. Like something I didn’t choose meant I was… broken. But you’re not. You're just in pain. That’s not your fault.”

Elliot finally looked at him. Red eyes, wet lashes. “You ever just wanna peel yourself out of your own skin?”

“All the time,” Mafioso said without missing a beat. “But not when I’m with you.”

That broke something soft in Elliot’s chest.

He slowly scooted closer until his shoulder bumped Mafioso’s. “Can I…?”

“You can.” Mafioso opened his arms without hesitation.

Elliot pressed himself in, burying his face against Mafioso’s coat, letting himself shake and cry a little in the safety of someone who wouldn’t ask him to explain. Someone who knew what it felt like to be trapped in something that didn’t feel fair.

Mafioso rubbed his back in slow, steady circles. “Don’t move. I got you.”

And he did.

---

Elliot wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that — Mafioso holding him gently, like he might crack if squeezed too hard. Outside, the muffled city noises came and went, but inside it was quiet. Warm.

Eventually, the worst of the ache dulled into a heavy throb low in his belly. His breath evened out. Not fine, but… better. Just enough.

“You smell like gunpowder,” Elliot mumbled into his coat.

Mafioso huffed a soft laugh above his head. “Not exactly perfume.”

Elliot didn’t pull away. He just pressed in closer, his face still damp. “I’m sorry.”

Mafioso stiffened. “What for?”

“I don’t know. Just. For being like this.” His voice cracked again, and he hated it. “For being gross. For making you—”

“Don’t.” Mafioso’s voice was low, almost sharp, but not unkind. “Don’t say that. You’re not gross. You’re not making me do anything.”

Elliot opened his mouth. Closed it.

“I’m here,” Mafioso said more quietly. “Because I want to be.”

Elliot curled in tighter. “I feel so… wrong. Like I try so hard to just be normal and then something like this happens and it’s like—I don’t even have a say.”

There was a long pause. Mafioso’s hand settled against the back of his neck, warm and grounding.

“You’re not wrong,” he said. “The world is.”

That made Elliot snort, even if it came out shaky. “You say that like you’re gonna shoot the moon for misgendering me.”

Mafioso didn’t answer right away.

“…Don’t do that,” Elliot said weakly.

“Do what?”

“That quiet thinking thing. It makes me nervous.”

Mafioso leaned back just enough to look at him. His brow was drawn in that serious way that usually meant someone was about to disappear in a river. “I just don’t know how to say it without sounding stupid.”

Elliot blinked. “You never sound stupid.”

“…Then I’m gonna say it.”

He took a breath.

“I know I can’t fix this. And I hate that. But if it helps—I don’t see you as anything but yourself. And that self is someone I care about. A lot. Not in spite of anything. Just because you’re you.”

Elliot stared at him.

And then he cried again, but this time it wasn’t sharp or ashamed. Just quiet. Just relieved.

Mafioso’s arms tightened. “There we go,” he whispered. “Let it out. I’ve got you.”

Chapter Text

The kitchen is quiet except for the soft hum of the fridge and Elliot muttering to himself while stacking boxes. Mafioso’s been watching him from the doorway for a minute now—leaning casually against the frame, gloved hands in his pockets, one corner of his mouth tugged into the tiniest smirk.

Elliot doesn’t notice until:

"Hi."

“Wha—!” Elliot jumps a little, flailing a pizza box dramatically. “Dude! You scared me!”

Mafioso just chuckles and walks forward slowly, like a predator approaching a very adorable rabbit.

“You’re very huggable when you’re busy,” he murmurs.

“What does that even—woAH—!”

Suddenly, Elliot’s feet aren’t on the ground.

Mafioso's hands settle firmly around his waist and lift him up, smooth and easy like Elliot weighs nothing at all. Elliot instinctively wraps his arms around his neck for balance, eyes wide.

“You—you can’t just—!” Elliot sputters, face pink. “I was literally working!”

“You can keep working,” Mafioso says calmly. “Later.”

Elliot blinks at him. His arms stay around Mafioso’s neck, but he tries to glare. It’s not very effective. “This is so unfair. You’re too strong.”

Mafioso only smirks. “And you’re too cute.”

Elliot’s brain flatlines. “I—”

“You fit perfectly up here,” Mafioso says, quietly now, voice warm like honey. He nuzzles their foreheads together. “Right where you belong.”

Elliot melts a little. His grip tightens.

“Okay. But just for a minute.”

“Of course,” Mafioso replies, but he’s already walking toward the couch like he fully intends to hold him forever.

Elliot doesn’t even pretend to resist anymore.

No flailing. No whining. No sarcastic backtalk.

Just a quiet breath…and then he melts—arms still around Mafioso’s neck, legs dangling slightly, body warm against him. And then, gently, he tucks his face into the crook of Mafioso’s neck.

Right there. Safe. Close.

Mafioso freezes a little—not from surprise, but from how soft it is. How easy. He can feel Elliot’s breath brushing his collar, the tip of his nose pressing lightly under his jaw.

“…You good?” Mafioso asks, voice lower now, gentler.

Elliot nods against him. His voice is muffled, but he mumbles, “Just…don’t put me down yet.”

Mafioso exhales slowly. Like something inside him unclenched.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

One of his hands lifts instinctively, cradling the back of Elliot’s head, running fingers lightly through his hair. The other stays firm at his waist, holding him steady. Like if he lets go, the world might fall out from under both of them.

“You always lift me like it’s nothing,” Elliot says quietly.

Mafioso hums. “Because you are. To me.”

“…That’s stupid,” Elliot says, but he doesn’t move. “But…kind of nice.”

He burrows a little closer.

Mafioso closes his eyes and presses a kiss to his temple. “You’re everything, Elliot. I’d carry you through fire if I had to.”

“You’d do it in style too,” Elliot mumbles.

“You bet I would.”

Chapter Text

The apartment is too quiet.

Elliot sits cross-legged on the kitchen counter, crust in his mouth, watching a reheated slice of pepperoni pizza spin slowly on a chipped plate in the microwave. He’s already eaten three. He’s not really hungry.

Mafioso’s coat is still hanging by the door. That’s the worst part. Not the silence. Not the empty bed. Not even the unread message sitting in their chat with the stupid little “delivered” checkmark.

It’s the coat. Just… right there. Like he’ll walk back in any minute and slip it on with a casual, “Hi.”

But he doesn’t.

It’s been two days.

Elliot’s eyes flick to the time. 4:17 PM. Again.

He said it was a quick job, Elliot reminds himself for the seventh time that hour. In, out, done by breakfast. You’ve done longer shifts at the pizza place. He’s probably fine.

He’s not pacing. That’s important. He’s not pacing.

He's not refreshing his messages.

He’s not checking the news for reports of body bags and shootouts.

He’s making pizza. That’s all. Normal. Normal people make pizza. They don’t freak out when their maybe-mafia-boyfriend disappears for forty-eight hours without contact.

The microwave beeps. He flinches.

“Okay,” he mutters, hopping down. “No big deal. He always comes back.” He talks to the pizza as he pulls it out. “Always. Comes back. Like a boomerang. A terrifying, well-dressed boomerang.”

He bites the slice and winces. Burned the roof of his mouth.

Elliot stares out the window, chewing miserably.

“...Right?”

No answer. Just the hum of the fridge and the faint, faraway sound of sirens.

BANG!!

The door explodes open with all the grace of a wrecking ball through drywall.

Elliot shrieks and nearly throws his pizza slice at the intruders. He whirls around, heart rocketing into his throat.

Standing in the now-doorless doorway are two absolute disasters in the shape of young men.

Caporegime, tall and all sunglasses and fury, yells like the building's on fire:

“BOSS GOT KIDNAPPED!!”

“WHAT?!” Elliot chokes, already halfway across the room with a spatula raised like a weapon.

Behind Caporegime, Contractee has already made himself at home. He’s halfway into the fridge, mumbling, “Dude, you have so much string cheese,” while tossing things over his shoulder. One yogurt container hits the floor and pops open like a sad landmine.

“Excuse me?!” Elliot snaps, eyes wide. “KIDNAPPED?! You—you can’t just SAY that and THROW DAIRY PRODUCTS.”

“He’s gone!” Caporegime stomps in like a hurricane in boots. “Vanished. Taken. Grabbed. Boom. One second we’re doing recon, next second it’s all ‘where’s the boss’ and bloodstains on the sidewalk.”

Elliot grabs a couch cushion and just screams into it.

Contractee flops onto the couch, chewing the corner of a cheese stick. “We think it’s the Carbone family,” he says around a mouthful. “You know, rival mafia, real crusty old-school types. Kinda lame, if you ask me.”

Elliot drops the cushion. “Lame?? You think it’s lame that Mafioso’s been kidnapped?! Are you even–!?” He looks between the two of them like they’re made of bees. “WHY ARE YOU EVEN HERE?!”

“You were next on the list,” Caporegime says, deadpan. “Also, your place is the closest to our safehouse.”

“We don’t have the key to the safehouse,” Contractee adds.

“We lost the key.”

Elliot makes a long, guttural sound.

Elliot is sitting on the coffee table now, because he couldn't decide between pacing or crying and just settled for vibrating in place. His hands are clenched. His pizza slice is forgotten and slowly dying on the carpet.

Caporegime is pacing, sunglasses still on indoors. Contractee is upside-down on the couch, eating a second cheese stick with his feet on the backrest like gravity is optional.

“Okay,” Elliot says finally. “Tell me everything. From the start. No metaphors. No weird hand gestures. Just words.”

Caporegime exhales. “Boss went solo on a recon job. Eastside drop. Supposed to be quick.”

“But it wasn’t,” Contractee chimes in, kicking his legs in the air. “We got his last location pinged yesterday. We pulled up and it was just… blood. And a knife. A really nice knife, by the way—”

Caporegime points at him. “Not the time.”

“Right. Anyway. He’s gone.”

Elliot stares. “Gone-gone?”

Caporegime nods. “Rival family grabbed him. Carbone’s crew. They’ve been poking at us for months—this was a setup. They lured him in. He went alone on purpose. Said it was ‘beneath our attention.’”
He pauses. “I told him not to go. He didn’t listen.”

Elliot sinks back, mind racing. “So call for backup! Get Eunoia! Or—Soldier—what about the other two?!”

“Eunoia’s…” Caporegime hesitates. “Not running at full capacity. System errors. Still recovering from the warehouse incident.”

“And Soldier and Consigliere are both in the mountains.” Contractee is now laying facedown on the rug, arms out like he’s flatlined. “Something about a smuggler and twelve crates of unmarked cargo. Won’t be back till Thursday.”

Silence.

Then Elliot, weakly: “…So it’s just us.”

“Yup,” says Contractee, muffled into the floor. “Just the C-team and the pizza boy.”

“Are we seriously calling ourselves the C-team?” Elliot hisses.

“Would you prefer D-team?” Caporegime deadpans.

“NO!”

Caporegime claps his hands once. “Then let’s move. We’ll need disguises, supplies, and a plan. We don’t know how long he’s got. If they’re torturing him for intel—”

“Don’t say that,” Elliot blurts.

Caporegime pauses. Softens. “...Sorry.”

Elliot swallows hard. Stands. Shaking, but taller. “Okay. Fine. We’ll go get him.”

Contractee lifts his head. “We?”

“You think I’m staying here while he’s tied up in some basement getting bunny ears mocked?” Elliot snaps. “No chance. I’m coming.”

A long beat.

Then Caporegime nods. “...Alright. Team’s in.”

“Team Carrotcake,” Contractee whispers. No one acknowledges him.

Outside, thunder rumbles.
Inside, Elliot picks up the dropped fedora from the coat rack and holds it tight.

Location: Elliot’s living room, which has rapidly become a war room. And by “war room,” we mean “blankets thrown on the floor, pizza boxes used as maps, and someone’s sock hanging from the ceiling fan for no reason.”

Caporegime is scribbling plans on the back of a takeout menu with a dried-out Sharpie. His sunglasses have fogged up from stress but he refuses to take them off.

“—Okay, so we enter through the side gate, take out the perimeter guards, slip in through the vents—”

“You don’t even know if there are vents,” Elliot says, typing furiously on his phone. “Do mafia hideouts even have vents? Google says—wait, this article’s from 2009, nevermind.”

“I brought a crowbar,” Contractee says proudly, lifting it like it’s Excalibur. “And two smoke bombs. Homemade.”

Caporegime flinches. “You are not using anything you made in your bedroom.”

Contractee pouts. “They’re stable!”

“One of them is leaking,” Elliot points out. “It’s literally sizzling through your jacket.”

“…Okay but the other one is stable.”

They all pause. A pizza box collapses under the weight of Contractee’s knife collection.

Caporegime sighs, pressing the bridge of his nose. “We’re not soldiers. We’re not trained. I have one week of fencing experience from third grade and Elliot works at a pizza place.”

“I’m good at dodging pizza cutters,” Elliot mutters.

“You’re coming either way,” Caporegime snaps. “So we need to get serious. Transportation. Weapons. Disguises. Timing.”

“TRANSPORTATION,” Contractee declares, rising from the couch. “I have an idea.”

Cut to:

Outside the apartment.

A shopping cart.

“No,” Elliot says flatly.

“YES,” Contractee says, already climbing in.

“You are not riding into a mafia base in a shopping cart,” Caporegime groans.

“It’ll distract them!” Contractee waves dramatically. “I roll in, screaming, chaos erupts, you two slip in while they’re confused!”

“Or they just shoot the cart,” Elliot mutters.

A beat.

“…Okay what if we bring two shopping carts—”

“NO!!” both of them yell at once.

Cut to:

Elliot back inside, typing into Google:

“how to break into mafia base without dying (no training no muscles no plan)”

The Carbone family’s hideout looks exactly like a place where you shouldn’t go if you value living.

High chain-link fencing topped with barbed wire. Steel walls. Searchlights sweeping across a cracked parking lot. A single rusted sign by the gate reads “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY” in faded red letters. Below it, someone’s spray-painted a bunny with a knife.

Elliot stares. “That’s not ominous at all.”

“We’re going around the side,” Caporegime says, keeping his voice low. “No one talks. No stupid moves. Just follow me.”

“Ten-four, boss,” Contractee whispers way too loudly, holding a walkie-talkie he insisted they bring even though they’re all five feet from each other.

“Stop talking,” Caporegime hisses. “And why are you holding the antenna like that?”

“It’s a signal booster,” Contractee replies, still gripping it like a magic wand.

They slip along the fence line, crouching like badly trained spies. Caporegime actually manages a decent job—he sticks to the shadows, listens for footsteps, gestures with sharp precision.

Contractee trips over a brick, slams into a garbage can, and says “oops” like they’re in a cartoon.

Elliot follows last, carrying a pizza box.

“What is that for,” Caporegime mutters.

“My disguise,” Elliot whispers, adjusting the hat on his head. “I told you, if we get caught I’m just the pizza guy.”

“You are the pizza guy.”

“Exactly.”

They make it to a side door—rusted metal, slightly ajar. Caporegime crouches and peers inside.

Two guards. Armed. Talking.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “We’ll wait till they move. Quiet, careful—”

“HEY!” Elliot suddenly shouts, stepping forward.

Both guards jerk toward the door.

“I’ve got an order here for one… uh… Luca Bigmouth?” Elliot lifts the pizza box like it’s a sacred offering. “With extra anchovies and betrayal?”

A beat of stunned silence.

“…What,” one guard says.

Caporegime is silently mouthing what are you doing.

But the guards are already opening the door wider. “We didn’t order—wait, who sent you?”

Elliot spins the pizza box around, showing a sticky note with “FOR YOU – 💀” scribbled on it.

The second guard steps forward, confused—just as Contractee swings down from the ledge above and clocks him in the back of the head with the walkie-talkie. It explodes into static.

Caporegime lunges forward, jabs the first guard with a stun baton (borrowed from Eunoia’s emergency stash), and he goes down twitching.

Silence.

Elliot’s breathing hard. “Did I—did that actually work?!”

“Holy crap,” Contractee whispers. “That was SICK.”

Caporegime sighs. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m a pizza boy.”

They step over the unconscious guards and slip inside.

The halls stretch ahead—dimly lit, echoing. Somewhere far off, someone yells.

They’re in.

Mafioso sits in the center of a dim, concrete room, hands tied behind the chair, ankles bound. His coat is gone, his shirt rumpled, and a purpling bruise sits high on his cheek. There’s a scuff on his jaw and a tiny cut near his brow, but nothing life-threatening.

He looks bored.

The man standing in front of him slams a folder onto the table. “Start talking. Who else was with you?”

Mafioso doesn’t even look at the folder. He tilts his head slightly, dark hair falling into his face, and mutters something under his breath.

“…What was that?”

“I said,” he raises his voice just enough to be annoying, “you talk too much. You ever try silence? It’s refreshing.”

The man scowls. “You’re not in a position to make jokes.”

“I don’t joke. I make observations.”

A second guard groans from the corner. “He’s been like this for hours. It’s like arguing with a smug statue.”

Mafioso offers the faintest smile. “Statues are usually more handsome than you, though.”

“You want to get hurt?”

“Not particularly. But you seem eager, and I hate disappointing people.”

The room goes quiet.

He shifts slightly in the chair, rolls his shoulder as much as the ropes allow. His voice drops to a murmur again.

“Keep wasting time. They’ll be here soon.”

The men look at each other. Then at him.

He smiles wider.

One of the guards eyes Mafioso, arms crossed. “You think you’re so tough. Sitting there like you’re better than us.”

Another, younger one squints at the fedora still resting nearby. “What’s with the hat, anyway? He’s been acting like we stole the crown jewels.”

He walks over and picks it up.

“Don’t,” Mafioso says, voice low, suddenly sharper than before.

The guard smirks. “What, hiding something under here?”

He strides back and, before anyone can stop him, plops the fedora right back on Mafioso’s head—then yanks it off dramatically.

A beat.

Silence.

Floppy black bunny ears slowly uncoil from where they’d been flattened beneath the hat.

The room freezes.

One of the guards blinks.

Another takes a step closer.

Then—

“YO WHAT. HE’S GOT BUNNY EARS??”

The youngest one starts laughing immediately, cackling like he’s never seen anything funnier in his life.

“Are they real? Dude, are they real?” He reaches out and flicks one.

Mafioso flinches.

“Holy crap, they are! Bro’s got rabbit settings enabled!”

“This your boss? The feared Sonnellino? Man’s a bunny. Like, ‘carrot nibble, twitchy nose’ bunny.”

“Little bunny boy,” one snickers. “What’s next? You hop around giving people attitude?”

Mafioso stays still.

Jaw tight. Shoulders tense. Ears drooping slightly from exhaustion and exposure. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t rise to the bait.

But he’s furious.

It simmers in the way his gaze stays locked on the fedora now lying carelessly on the floor. In the way his fingers twitch behind his back. In the way the tips of his ears tremble—not from fear, but restraint.

The laughter doesn’t last long.

The door explodes inward.

It’s not subtle.

Smoke (from one of Contractee’s barely-stable bombs) spills into the room in a dramatic plume that mostly just sets off the sprinklers. One of the guards near Mafioso yells, stumbling back as—

“GET DOWN, BUNNY BOY!!”

Contractee screams as he charges in, wielding a metal pipe like a sword, soaked in soda from the vending machine he tripped into ten minutes ago.

Elliot barrels in next, holding a full pizza box over his head like it’s a flaming shield. “I DON’T KNOW HOW TO FIGHT,” he yells—then frisbees the pizza into one guy’s face. Pepperoni shrapnel explodes.

Caporegime comes in last, calm and terrifying. He just walks straight up to the nearest guard and punches him in the face. The guy goes down like a sack of wet laundry.

Another thug lunges for Contractee.

Bad idea.

“FOR THE BOSS!! FOR THE BUNNIES!! FOR NO REASON AT ALL!!”

Contractee swings the pipe and bonks the man square in the kneecap. The man goes down crying. No one knows what’s happening anymore.

Through the chaos, Mafioso lifts his head, blinking past the blur of motion and mist. His ears are still exposed—flattened back, trembling slightly.

He tries to move. His legs barely respond.

“Stay down,” a guard growls, noticing the attempt.

But before he can reach Mafioso—

“HEY!”

Elliot sprints across the room, grabbing a chair as he runs. He slams it over the guard’s back. It breaks with a crunch and a yelp.

Mafioso’s eyes go wide. “Elliot—?!”

“Hi. You’re a disaster,” Elliot says breathlessly, crouching down. “I got you.”

Mafioso tries to protest, but his knees give out as soon as the ropes are cut. Elliot catches him—barely, arms around his waist, anchoring him upright.

“You’re okay,” Elliot murmurs, hugging him tight even as the chaos continues behind them. “You’re okay. I got you.”

Mafioso leans into him, head resting against Elliot’s shoulder. “Took you long enough.”

Elliot makes a wet, shaky laugh. “Shut up. You owe me so many pizzas.”

“We need to go!” Caporegime shouts, already pulling open the side exit door. “NOW.”

“Wait, what’s this button do—”

BEEEEEEP!!

A deafening alarm BLARES through the hallway.

Everyone turns.

Contractee is standing beside a bright red button, eyes wide. “…Oops?”

“WHAT DID YOU PRESS?!” Elliot shrieks.

l

“I thought it was the light switch!”

“WHY WOULD A LIGHT SWITCH BE BRIGHT RED—YOU KNOW WHAT, NEVERMIND.”

Caporegime grabs Contractee by the hood and hauls him bodily down the hall. “WE HAVE TEN SECONDS BEFORE THIS PLACE SWARMS.”

Elliot pulls Mafioso’s arm over his shoulders, helping him limp forward as fast as they can. Mafioso is light-headed, weak, one foot dragging a bit—but still managing to look smug through the pain.

They dodge down a stairwell, past two confused guards who are immediately decked by Caporegime and pepper-sprayed by Contractee. (Where did he even get pepper spray? No one knows.)

Outside, the cold hits them like a slap.

They pile into the stolen van parked a block away. Elliot helps Mafioso into the backseat, where he immediately slumps against him, exhausted.

Sirens wail in the distance.

Caporegime slams the door shut, jumps behind the wheel. “Seatbelts. Weapons down. No sudden movements.”

Contractee, grinning: “This is the best day of my life.”

Elliot, sweating: “You pressed the alarm.”

“Yeah. But I got to yell cool stuff and hit people with a pipe. Win-win.”

In the back, Mafioso breathes out slowly, eyes barely open. His head rests against Elliot’s shoulder, one ear flopped forward, the other twitching.

“...Told you I’d come back,” he mumbles, voice hoarse but steady. “Took me longer this time.”

Elliot squeezes his hand.

“You idiot,” he whispers, voice cracking. “You absolute, stubborn idiot.”

Mafioso manages a small smile before letting his eyes close.

The apartment is warm.

It smells like broth and clean laundry. The heater hums softly. Outside, the city moves on. Inside, time has slowed to a crawl.

Mafioso lies in bed, half-propped on pillows, wrapped in soft blankets. His coat hangs neatly on the wall nearby. His fedora rests on the nightstand, untouched since they got home. The bandages around his arms and side peek through the collar of his clean shirt. His ears twitch faintly, still drooping with exhaustion.

Elliot sits beside him in a chair that he’s definitely dragged in from the kitchen. One hand gently wraps around Mafioso’s—thumb tracing the back of his glove, careful not to squeeze too hard.

Neither of them speaks for a long time.

Then Mafioso stirs. Barely.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, eyes half-lidded. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Elliot exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

“‘Didn’t mean to worry me’? Didn’t mean to worry me?!” His voice cracks. “You disappeared for two days, and then I find you tied up in some rusty murder basement with bunny ears flopped out like roadkill, and you’re apologizing like you missed dinner.”

Mafioso blinks. “…I did miss dinner.”

Elliot lets out a helpless laugh. It's wet. Ugly. He quickly wipes his face on his sleeve and leans forward, clutching Mafioso’s hand tighter.

“You idiot,” he whispers. “You stupid, smug, self-sacrificing idiot. I thought you were dead.”

Mafioso turns his head. His gaze meets Elliot’s. Quiet. Heavy.

“I’m not.”

“Yeah, now,” Elliot mutters. “But next time—” His voice trembles. “Next time, I won’t forgive you if you go alone.”

There’s a long pause. Mafioso doesn’t answer.

Then, gently, he pulls Elliot’s hand closer and presses his lips to the knuckles.

“I’ll bring you with me next time,” he murmurs. “Deal?”

Elliot huffs. “Terrible deal.”

But he doesn’t let go.

The apartment is dim now—sunlight fading behind the curtains, the golden hour brushing softly against the walls.

Mafioso shifts slightly in the bed, wincing as he adjusts his weight. Elliot’s already there, guiding him with a steady hand, helping him lean into his chest.

“You good?” Elliot whispers.

Mafioso hums. Tired, but content. His head rests against Elliot’s shoulder now, one ear flopped over where his cheek meets Elliot’s collarbone.

His voice is barely audible. “Better now.”

Elliot wraps an arm around him, thumb brushing slow circles along his back. The silence that follows is warm—not empty, but full of everything unsaid.

After a moment, Elliot reaches up and runs his fingers gently through Mafioso’s hair, careful around the bruises, even gentler when he reaches the base of those long, dark ears.

Mafioso sighs—quiet, instinctive. He melts just a little, leaning into the touch.

“Didn’t think I’d get to do this again,” Elliot murmurs.

Mafioso tilts his head, half-amused. “Pet me?”

“See you,” Elliot corrects. But he doesn’t stop petting. “Though… you’re really soft, actually.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

Mafioso closes his eyes. His breathing starts to slow—steadier now. Less pain, more peace. He’s safe.

Elliot watches him for a moment, then carefully reaches over to the nightstand and picks up the fedora.

He dusts it off with his sleeve, turns it in his hands like something sacred.

Then—slowly, lovingly—he settles it back over Mafioso’s ears, adjusting it just right.

“There,” he says softly. “Back where it belongs.”

Mafioso doesn’t answer. But the tiniest smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

And Elliot leans back against the headboard, holding him close, finally letting himself breathe.

The apartment is silent.

Mafioso has fallen asleep against Elliot’s side, breathing slow and even now. One arm is loosely draped across Elliot’s waist. The fedora has tilted slightly forward, shadowing his face. His ears twitch once, then settle.

Elliot doesn’t move.

He just sits there, cradling the weight of him, hand still resting in Mafioso’s hair. His thumb brushes gently behind one ear.

Outside, a car passes. Somewhere, a dog barks. The world keeps turning.

Elliot leans down just a little, breath warm against Mafioso’s temple.

“Don’t scare me like that again,” he whispers, voice barely above a breath.

It’s the first time he’s said the name aloud. It slips out like a prayer—something sacred and secret, meant only for the sleeping boy in his arms.

Mafioso stirs faintly, but doesn’t wake. His hand tightens, just barely, in the fabric of Elliot’s hoodie.

Elliot smiles through the ache in his chest and presses a soft kiss to his forehead.

“I mean it,” he murmurs. “No more hero stuff without me.”

He stays like that long into the night—watching over him, listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing.

Just in case. 

Chapter Text

It had been a long day.

Long enough that even Elliot, who had only caught the tail end of whatever job Mafioso had been on, could feel the weight of it clinging to the apartment like humidity. The hallway light was still on, shoes left uneven by the door, and a half-unzipped duffel sat forgotten near the kitchen—half out of habit, half out of survival instinct.

Elliot stepped around it gently, glancing at the watch Mafioso had forgotten to take off. Still ticking. Somehow.

He peeked into the bedroom expecting to find Mafioso changing or brushing him off with the usual “I’m fine, go to sleep,” but what he found instead—

Well.

There he was. Mafioso, Don Sonnellino, the infamous trench-coat-wearing, no-nonsense, bunny-loving nightmare of the underworld… dead asleep. On top of the sheets. Like he’d barely made it through the door before gravity claimed him.

His coat was crumpled in a heap on the floor, his boots kicked off in opposite directions. One sock was gone. His hat was still on, just barely, tilted so far back it had become more suggestion than accessory.

Elliot stood there quietly for a few moments, unsure if he should go grab a blanket or just admire the rare, peaceful scene playing out before him. His boyfriend, out cold. Mouth a little open. Cheeks soft in the dim bedside light.

He walked in slowly, kneeling next to the bed. Just enough to get a better look.

Sprawled on his back in a very un-Mafioso-like way, one leg still halfway hanging off the bed. His gloves were still on, fingers curled like they’d been about to reach for something. Maybe Elliot. Maybe a gun. Probably both.

But now he was just… asleep. Mouth barely parted, hair all mussed from whatever chaos he’d been doing earlier (Elliot was 60% sure it had involved threatening someone, 30% sure it involved rabbits, and 10% sure it was both again).

Elliot stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Quiet. Then slowly crept over, the mattress dipping just slightly as he knelt next to him.

“Look at you,” Elliot whispered. “You're always acting like you’ve got the whole world on a leash and now you're just—”

His voice dropped into the most ridiculous baby-voice he could manage.

“—a wittle guy! A wittle sweepy guy! Oh nooo…”

He cupped Mafioso’s face gently, thumbs brushing over cheekbones and the stubble just starting to grow in. Mafioso twitched a little but didn’t stir.

“You look like a baby man. You’re a baby. A tired baby. You look like I could put you in a stroller and give you a juice box and you’d fall asleep again.”

Elliot tried to keep a straight face. Failed. Giggled quietly.

“God, you’re so cute like this. What are you gonna do if you wake up and I tell you I pinched your cheeks for twenty minutes straight, huh?” He leaned in close. “What then, huh? Gonna put a hit out on me, big guy?”

Still no movement. Mafioso didn’t even twitch this time.

So Elliot pressed a kiss to his forehead. Then both cheeks. Then, for good measure, his nose.

“…Okay, but seriously,” he whispered, like he was letting him in on a secret, “you make being in love feel stupid easy.”

He stayed like that a moment longer. Watching. Smiling.

And maybe pinching his cheeks one more time, just because he could.

Mafioso shifted then—just slightly. His brow twitched. One gloved hand moved an inch like he might swipe at a fly. Elliot held his breath, hands hovering in place.

But… nothing.

Only the rise and fall of Mafioso’s chest. Slow. Steady.

Elliot exhaled softly and reached to tug his hat off, placing it gently on the nightstand. The last thing he needed was Mafioso waking up with a stiff neck and a dented forehead.

He moved to grab a blanket from the edge of the bed, unfolding it with quiet care. As he draped it over him, Mafioso’s hand twitched again—and this time, it latched onto Elliot’s wrist. Lightly. Instinctually.

Not enough to hurt. Not enough to stop him. Just enough to say: Don’t go too far.

Elliot froze. Then smiled.

“I’m not going anywhere, dummy,” he whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair off Mafioso’s forehead. “Sleep. I’ve got you.”

The grip loosened.

And in the hush of the room, beneath the soft pull of night, Elliot leaned in again, whispered one more sleepy joke—“juice box’s in the fridge if you need it”—and settled beside the bed, his head on his folded arms.

Watching the man he loved sleep, cheeks still warm in his hands.

Chapter Text

Elliot’s apartment smelled faintly like lavender soap and panic.  

Mafioso hadn’t meant to surprise him—he just had something to drop off, some folded-up paperwork from Eunoia and a suspiciously cute pen with a bunny cap he figured Elliot might like. His knock had gone unanswered, but the door was unlocked, and somewhere inside, the sound of running water echoed faintly.  

He stepped inside without much fanfare. The place was as chaotically lived-in as always—pizza boxes, a jacket over a chair, a rubber duck on the windowsill. But the bathroom light was on, and through the half-cracked door, he heard Elliot muttering.

Curious.

He pushed it open.

Then froze.

Elliot was standing in front of the mirror, head tilted slightly as he dabbed at his face with a sponge. There was a tube of something open on the counter. A compact. Makeup wipes.

Foundation. Concealer. Powder.

Elliot was doing makeup.

Mafioso blinked.

"...Are you hurt?" he asked flatly.

Elliot flinched so hard he nearly jabbed himself in the eye.

"Jesus! Knock, would you?" he snapped, spinning halfway to block the sink. “Why are you—why are you just walking in?!”

"You didn’t answer the door," Mafioso said. He squinted. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing!"

"You’re doing makeup."

"No, I’m—uh—yes, okay, shut up!" Elliot hissed, shoving the sponge behind his back like it was a criminal weapon. “It’s not a big deal. It’s fine. It’s just—whatever.”

Mafioso tilted his head. His gaze dropped to the sink, where the countertop was dotted with orange smudges and an uncapped bottle of something labeled soft matte. A folded wipe lay next to it. And on Elliot’s cheek—half-covered, still visible—were tiny scattered freckles.

"You have freckles?" Mafioso asked.

Elliot went still.

"...Not if I cover them fast enough," he muttered.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Mafioso, voice quieter, more confused than anything, said, "Since when?"

“Always,” Elliot mumbled. “They’ve always been there.”

Another pause.

Then:

“You wear makeup every day?”

Elliot finally turned to look at him. He didn’t look angry—just defensive in a way Mafioso rarely saw. Shoulders slightly hunched. Mouth tight. Not sarcastic, not teasing. Just... caught.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. I do.”

Elliot turned back to the mirror. His reflection stared at him like a traitor.

"...It’s not that weird,” he muttered. “People do it all the time.”

“You wear it around me all the time?”

Elliot scoffed, yanking a tissue off the counter. “Would it have killed you to notice?”

Mafioso shrugged one shoulder. “I just thought your skin was... smooth.”

“Yeah, that’s the point,” Elliot said dryly, scrubbing lightly at his cheek. The foundation smeared. “I didn’t want people to see the rest.”

“The rest being...?”

He didn’t answer at first.

Mafioso waited.

Eventually, Elliot sighed and let the tissue fall, stained with the concealer.

“My freckles,” he said quietly. “They make me look... young. Stupid. Cheap.”

A beat. He laughed without smiling. “I already run around in a pizza uniform and a red visor. I don’t need to look more like a mascot.”

Mafioso furrowed his brows.

“You don’t look cheap.”

Elliot arched a brow. “You just said I did.”

“No,” Mafioso said, dead serious. “I said you look more affordable.”

Elliot blinked.

“I don’t think that’s better,” he said slowly.

“It is,” Mafioso insisted. “It means people want to talk to you. You look like someone you could sit next to on a bench and not get stabbed.”

“I am someone you could sit next to on a bench and not get stabbed.”

“Exactly. You look like that. That’s good.”

Elliot squinted at him. “Do you think that’s a compliment?”

Mafioso nodded. “Obviously.”

There was a long pause.

Then Elliot let out a helpless, baffled laugh and sank down onto the closed toilet seat.

“God,” he said, rubbing his face. “You’re so bad at this.”

“I’m not bad. I just—use different words.”

“‘Affordable’ isn’t a romantic word.”

“It is if you understand economics.”

Elliot looked up, still laughing, a little pink in the face.

“You’re a disaster,” he said.

“I like your freckles,” Mafioso added, quieter. “They make you look like... you. Less polished. Less edited. Real.”

Elliot froze for a second, caught off guard.

“Oh,” he said.

Mafioso blinked. “What?”

“No, it’s just... that was almost normal.”

“I can say normal things.”

“Almost normal.”

The bathroom went quiet again, save for the faint drip of the faucet.

Elliot sat still on the toilet lid, hands in his lap, flushed but not fleeing. Mafioso stood across from him like he wasn’t sure whether to step forward or salute.

Then, carefully, Mafioso picked up one of the half-used makeup wipes.

Elliot blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Fixing it,” Mafioso said.

“You don’t know how to take off makeup.”

“I’ve taken off blood. It’s the same principle.”

Elliot opened his mouth, closed it again, and sighed.

“…Fine.”

Mafioso crouched slightly to be level with him, the wipe held gently like a sacred relic. His gloved hand rested under Elliot’s chin.

“Don’t laugh,” he warned.

“I’m not going to—”

The cold wipe touched his cheek, and Elliot snorted immediately.

“I said don’t laugh.”

“You didn’t say it’d be freezing!”

“That’s how you know it’s working.”

Mafioso wiped gently, slow circles over the half-finished spots. It wasn’t perfect—he definitely missed some—but under his careful, clumsy movements, Elliot’s skin began to show again.

The freckles returned. Little sun-dots across his nose and cheeks, like someone had flicked a paintbrush at his face.

“There you are,” Mafioso muttered.

Elliot swallowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You looked like a drawing before,” Mafioso said simply. “Now you look like Elliot.”

The name landed with surprising weight. Elliot blinked up at him, wide-eyed.

And Mafioso—suddenly unsure where to put his hands—reached out and brushed a thumb just under Elliot’s eye. His fingers hovered, hesitated.

Then, with weird tenderness, he pressed a kiss to the bridge of Elliot’s nose.

Right where the freckles were thickest.

Elliot’s breath caught.

“...You’re ridiculous,” he whispered.

“You look expensive and affordable,” Mafioso said.

Elliot laughed, shaky but real. “Do you even know what that means?”

“No,” Mafioso admitted. “But I think I mean ‘mine.’”

There was a pause.

Elliot looked at him, face bare, freckles out in the open, and for once, nothing to hide behind.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said, quiet but fond.

Mafioso shrugged. “You’re the one hiding freckles like they’re illegal.”

“I was trying to look more mature.”

“You look like you.”

Elliot blinked, startled by how sincere that was.

“…Okay,” he mumbled. “That’s actually kind of nice.”

Mafioso leaned in again, gently kissed the tip of his nose.

Then stood up and added, completely deadpan:

“Still makes you look more affordable, though.”

Elliot groaned. “You had to ruin it.”

“I was being honest.”

“You were being weird."

“I can be both.”

Chapter Text

Elliot had been hoping for a quiet morning.

Key word: hoping.

He was halfway through buttering toast when the front door burst open like a SWAT raid.

“ELLIOT!” Contractee’s voice ricocheted through the apartment.

Elliot jumped so hard the toast hit the floor.

Contractee appeared in the kitchen a second later, all bright eyes and dangerous enthusiasm. “It’s true!”

Elliot sighed, rubbing his forehead. “You’re gonna have to narrow that down, man.”

Contractee leaned across the counter, eyes locked on Elliot’s head like he’d just spotted a rare Pokémon. “The ears. They’re real. You still have them.”

Elliot instinctively slapped both hands over the fluffy appendages poking out of his hair. “Yeah, and we’re not talking about them.”

“Oh, we are talking about them,” Contractee said, circling him like a predator with ADHD. “You’re telling me you just… live your life with free head warmers? Built-in radars? Instant cuteness upgrade? And you’re not capitalizing on it?”

“I’m capitalizing on making breakfast,” Elliot muttered.

“No, no, no.” Contractee slammed his hands on the counter. “I need this. I deserve this. Imagine the chaos I could cause with rabbit speed.”

Elliot stared. “…Rabbits aren’t fast all the time.”

“But when they are?” Contractee grinned, almost manic. “Gone. Just gone.”

Elliot groaned. “You’re insane.”

“I’m determined,” Contractee corrected, pointing dramatically toward the window like they were about to set sail. “We’re finding the thing that made you this way, and we’re doing it today.”

“I am not—”

“It’ll be easy!” Contractee interrupted. “We find the source, I get ears, and we come back before your boyfriend notices.”

Elliot blinked slowly. “…You do realize my boyfriend notices everything, right?”

“Then we just… sneak extra quiet.” Contractee’s smile widened. “C’mon, bunny buddy. Adventure awaits.”

Elliot opened his mouth to argue. Closed it. Then sighed. “If we die, I’m haunting you first.”

“That’s fair,” Contractee said cheerfully, already pulling him toward the door.

Elliot had told himself—promised himself—that he wouldn’t get dragged into Contractee’s latest “brilliant plan.”

Ten minutes later, he was standing by the coat rack, shoving his arms into a rain jacket.

“How does this keep happening,” Elliot muttered.

“Because you love me,” Contractee said from the doorway, already in his own oversized hoodie, bouncing on his heels like a kid on too much sugar. “And because deep down, you want to know how cool you look in bunny form.”

Elliot rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that’s why. Totally not because you wouldn’t shut up for ten straight minutes.”

Contractee slung a suspiciously lumpy duffel bag over his shoulder.

Elliot eyed it. “…What’s in there?”

“Research supplies.”

“That’s a lot of supplies for ‘find a glowing plush.’”

Contractee unzipped the bag just enough for Elliot to glimpse a tangle of snacks, duct tape, two flashlights, a disposable camera, and a neon pink umbrella shaped like a cat.

Elliot stared. “…And the tape is for…?”

“Contingencies,” Contractee said, dead serious.

Before Elliot could argue, Contractee grabbed his wrist and yanked him toward the hallway. “Come on. If we leave now, we can be back before Mafioso’s done with… whatever ominous paperwork he does in that trench coat.”

They crept down the hall like they were escaping from prison.

Except instead of quiet stealth, Contractee whispered every step like an audio guide.

“Step… step… step—”

“Please stop narrating,” Elliot whispered back.

They reached the apartment door, Elliot glancing over his shoulder one last time—half-expecting Mafioso to appear out of nowhere like a horror movie jump scare.

No sign of him.

Contractee grinned and cracked the door open. “And thus,” he whispered, “begins the Quest for Double Bunny Supremacy.”

Elliot groaned but followed him out into the drizzle, muttering, “I can’t believe this is my life.”

Contractee, walking backward with a grin: “Oh, you love it.”

The rain had picked up by the time they hit the streets, but Contractee was completely unbothered.

In fact, he had the cat-shaped umbrella open and spinning like a sword while Elliot trudged beside him under the hood of his jacket.

“Okay,” Contractee said, pointing dramatically at a puddle like it had insulted him. “Step one: retrace your steps. Where exactly did you meet the Glowing Plush of Destiny?”

Elliot shoved his hands in his pockets. “An alley. Near the old corner store. It was raining. Kind of like now, but with less… you.”

“Less me is a tragedy,” Contractee said. “Lead the way.”

They made it halfway there before Contractee started stopping random strangers.

“Excuse me,” he asked a confused delivery guy, “have you seen a glowing rabbit plush wandering the area? About yea big, radiates destiny?”

The guy blinked twice. “…You mean like a toy?”

“No, like an artifact,” Contractee clarified, dead serious.

Elliot dragged him away by the hood. “You’re gonna get us banned from the whole neighborhood.”

Contractee shrugged. “At least they’ll remember me.”

By the time they reached the alley, the rain had softened to a drizzle.

The place looked… exactly like Elliot remembered—brick walls, wet pavement, flickering light above the corner store’s back door.

“No plush,” Elliot said flatly.

Contractee squinted, pacing like a detective. “No, no… it’s here. I can sense it.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Oh really?” Contractee pointed toward a stack of wooden crates tucked against the far wall. One of them was faintly glowing through the cracks.

Elliot froze. “…Okay, that’s exactly how it works.”

Contractee grinned. “Told you. Bunny radar.”

The crate pulsed faintly, light seeping out between the slats like it was alive.

Contractee crouched beside it immediately, hands already testing the edges. “Alright, step aside. I’ve played enough video games to know you always open the suspicious glowing thing.”

Elliot hung back. “Yeah, and in every video game that’s a terrible idea.”

“Correction,” Contractee said, prying at a loose plank, “it’s a terrible idea for other people. For us? This is destiny.”

With a loud creak, the plank came loose. The glow instantly grew brighter, spilling over the alley walls in soft gold.

Inside, resting on a crumpled piece of cloth, was the bunny plush. Still missing one button eye. Still soaked from the drizzle seeping in. Still… somehow warm-looking.

Elliot’s ears twitched. “Yup. That’s it.”

Contractee didn’t even hesitate—he reached in and grabbed it with both hands.

The moment his fingers closed around the plush, the glow flared blindingly.

“Uh,” Elliot said, squinting. “Contractee—”

“Don’t worry, I feel great—” Contractee started. Then stopped. “Oh. Oh, something’s happening.”

The light wrapped around him like a whirlpool, swirling faster until—poof.

When it faded, Contractee was standing there with a pair of floppy bunny ears sticking out from under his hood.

He gasped. “It worked!”

Then noticed Elliot staring. “…What?”

Elliot pointed. “Uh, yours are… extra floppy.”

Contractee grinned like it was the best compliment he’d ever gotten. “Perfect.”

But before Elliot could tease him, the plush pulsed again—this time in Elliot’s hands.

“Oh no,” Elliot muttered. “Not again—”

Another blinding flash. Another poof.

When the light faded, Elliot felt the telltale twitch on his head—and behind him.

Contractee’s jaw dropped. “Oh my gosh… your ears are even fluffier than before.”

Elliot groaned, tugging his hood up. “We’re never getting out of this alive.”

Contractee slung an arm over his shoulder. “Alive? Buddy, we’re unstoppable now. Double bunny power.”

They made it all the way back to the apartment building without incident.

Which was shocking, because Contractee kept refusing to wear his hood and Elliot’s ears wouldn’t stop twitching at every noise.

“We’re fine,” Contractee whispered, fishing out the spare key. “We’re quiet. We’re—”

The door opened before he even touched it.

Soldier stood there, steaming mug in hand, expression unreadable.

His eyes flicked to Elliot. Then to Contractee. Then to the matching sets of bunny ears.

He took a long, slow sip of tea. “…No.”

Elliot tried for a smile. “Hi.”

Soldier turned, called over his shoulder, “Capo. Consigliere. You’ll want to see this.”

In seconds, Caporegime appeared—sunglasses fogged from the heater—and promptly froze.

“…Why does Contractee have ears now?”

“Because destiny,” Contractee announced proudly.

Consigliere walked in next, pen already in hand. “Noted: two cases of plush-induced transformation. Hypothesis—possible contagious magic?”

Elliot groaned. “It’s not contagious, it’s—”

The front door clicked again.

Mafioso stepped in, trench coat dusted with rain. He looked mid-sentence, voice low and irritated. “I told you not to—”

He stopped.

His gaze moved from Elliot, to Contractee, to their ears… and back again.

There was a long pause.

“…Why is my youngest goon and my boyfriend rabbits?”

Contractee grinned. “Because we’re awesome?”

Elliot muttered, “It’s a long story.”

Mafioso rubbed his temple like the world’s most patient man clinging to his last shred of sanity. “…We’re talking about this. Later.”

Soldier, sipping tea: “I’m not cleaning the carpet again.”

Caporegime adjusted his sunglasses. “This is officially the weirdest Tuesday we’ve had.”

Consigliere kept writing. “Correction: second weirdest.”

Contractee, beaming: “Bunny squad, assemble!”

Mafioso sighed, looking like he aged a decade in five seconds. “Everyone out of my apartment.”

Despite Mafioso’s command to get out, no one actually left.

Soldier claimed he was “guarding the tea.” Caporegime sat on the couch like it was a stakeout. Consigliere said he needed “more field data.”

And Contractee was busy trying to stick a carrot in Elliot’s hoodie pocket.

Mafioso finally gave up on crowd control.

He walked straight to Elliot, crouched down in front of him, and tilted his head.

“…Still real?” he asked quietly.

Elliot’s ears twitched. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Mafioso reached up, brushing his gloved fingers over the soft fur. Elliot’s breath caught—it was weirdly intimate, even with everyone watching.

“You’re still you,” Mafioso muttered, almost like reassuring himself. Then, with no warning, he pulled Elliot into a firm hug, trench coat wrapping around both of them.

“Ma—” Elliot’s voice was muffled in his chest.

“Don’t say my name when you’re this cute,” Mafioso growled into his hair.

Elliot laughed, embarrassed, ears flicking against Mafioso’s cheek.

Click.

They both froze.

Contractee was standing three feet away, phone in hand, grinning like he’d just stolen state secrets. “Ohhh, this one’s going on the group chat.”

Mafioso didn’t even turn his head. “Delete it.”

“Nope.”

“Contractee—”

“Bunny couple foreverrrr~”

Somewhere in the background, Soldier muttered, “This is going to be our Christmas card, isn’t it?”

Caporegime just sighed. Consigliere wrote down: Subject: Mafioso. Symptom: Flustered.

Elliot groaned into Mafioso’s coat. “Can we move to another country?”

Mafioso tightened his hold. “If we do, we’re leaving him behind.”

Chapter Text

Mafioso was halfway through buttoning his shirt when the knock at the door came.

Some messenger from Eunoia—judging by the brisk, muffled voice—bringing mission orders. Mafioso’s shoulders stiffened, and he muttered something under his breath that Elliot couldn’t catch.

It was early. Too early for Mafioso to look this sharp, and yet Elliot still found himself watching from the bed, cheek pressed to his pillow. Mafioso’s movements were methodical: shirt, tie, gloves, coat. His hair was still a little mussed from sleep, but even groggy he carried that usual, calm weight.

“Don’t wait up,” Mafioso said, grabbing his holster and shrugging into the rest of his gear.

Elliot hummed in acknowledgement, watching the door click shut behind him. Footsteps receded down the hall, then silence.

And that’s when Elliot’s gaze slid back to the chair by the dresser.

Mafioso’s coat—black as midnight, heavy and well-kept—hung neatly over the backrest. His tie was coiled on the seat like a sleeping snake. The fedora sat on the dresser above it all, tilted in its own kind of smugness. The shirt, freshly pressed, lay folded at the foot of the bed where Mafioso had swapped to something more mission-appropriate.

Elliot blinked once.

Twice.

“…What if I just…”

The next few minutes were a blur of bad decisions.

The coat went on first—its hem dragging almost to his knees, the sleeves swallowing his hands whole. The shirt followed, slightly loose but surprisingly comfortable. The tie? He didn’t even bother tying it properly; it just hung crooked around his neck like a lazy declaration of power. And the fedora—oh, the fedora—slid right over his forehead until it dipped low enough to almost cover his eyes.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror and had to bite back a laugh.

He looked like a kid who’d stolen their dad’s wardrobe for a school play, but… it wasn’t terrible. In fact, it felt kind of… right. Cozy, in a “smells-like-him” way. The faint scent of cologne and gun oil clung to the fabric, grounding and warm.

Yeah. He was definitely wearing this all day.

By midmorning, Elliot was a menace in pinstripes.

He shuffled around the kitchen, coat tails swishing with every turn, rolling pizza dough like a man on an intimidation mission. Every time he glanced down at his sleeves bunched over his hands, he smirked a little to himself.

Capo would’ve rolled his eyes. Consigliere might’ve just stared blankly. But Elliot’s co-workers? Oh, they went all in.

“New look, Elliot?” one of them called from the prep counter, clearly trying not to laugh.

“Yeah,” another chimed in, “you finally joined the family, huh?”

Elliot straightened his tie—still hanging crooked—and gave his best Sonnellino impression. “Maybe I did. You gonna make somethin’ of it?”

They burst into laughter.

The regular customers were no better. A sweet old lady squinted at him over the counter. “Oh, dear… did your boss shrink in the wash?”

“Yes,” Elliot deadpanned, sliding her a slice. “Very tragic.”

Between orders, he leaned against the counter and snapped a quick selfie: fedora tipped low, coat collar up, pizza in one hand like he was offering a peace treaty. He sent it to Chance before thinking.

Three minutes later, his phone buzzed.

Chance:

😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂 (x500)

Chance:

u look like the world’s tiniest debt collector lol

Elliot groaned, shoving the phone back in his pocket.

When he got home in the late afternoon, the bunnies were the next audience. One by one, they hopped toward him, sniffing the coat hem, nudging his shoes.

“See?” Elliot crouched down, letting the fedora brim shadow his grin. “They know who the real boss is now.”

One of the bunnies thumped its foot, as if in agreement—or maybe impatience for treats. Either way, Elliot decided it counted as approval.

The apartment door clicked open with the familiar scrape of the lock. Mafioso stepped inside, shoulders stiff from hours of tension, the scent of rain clinging to his coat. He’d been picturing nothing but silence, maybe the faint hum of the fridge, and a mercifully empty couch.

What he got instead was Elliot.

Elliot, sprawled on said couch like he owned it, one knee propped up, a slice of half-eaten pizza balanced on a paper plate beside him. And—most notably—wearing Mafioso’s coat. And shirt. And tie. And fedora.

Mafioso stopped dead in the doorway.

His eyes flicked once, slowly, from the hat brim shadowing Elliot’s smirk, down to the too-long coat sleeves bunched at his wrists.

Processing.

Confusion.

Disbelief.

A faint flicker of irritation in the furrow between his brows.

And then, as Elliot tilted his head with a deliberately casual smile, something in Mafioso’s expression softened—like a lock clicking open.

“…What are you wearing?” His voice was flat, but not sharp.

Elliot didn’t even glance away from his pizza. “Yours. Obviously.”

A beat of silence. Mafioso set down his gloves on the entry table, regarding him with the slow suspicion of someone trying to figure out if this was a prank.

“…Are you trying to mock me?”

Elliot shrugged, leaning back against the couch cushions. “Maybe I just like how it feels.”

The corner of Mafioso’s mouth twitched, but he turned away quickly, pretending to be interested in taking off his shoes.

Mafioso stood there for another moment, watching Elliot lounge in his clothes like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then he exhaled—slow, heavy—and muttered, “You’re ridiculous.”

Elliot’s grin widened, but he didn’t say anything.

Instead of demanding his coat back, Mafioso crossed the room and sank down onto the couch beside him. The cushions dipped under his weight, and before Elliot could react, an arm hooked around his shoulders and pulled him close.

The oversized coat bunched awkwardly between them, but Elliot still fit perfectly against him—like he always did. Mafioso didn’t seem to mind the fabric in the way; if anything, his hold only tightened.

After a moment, Mafioso’s fingers drifted up, brushing idly along the brim of the fedora still perched on Elliot’s head. He adjusted it slightly, then let his hand rest there, thumb brushing against the edge in a slow, absent motion.

The room was quiet, just the faint patter of rain against the windows.

“…It’s cute,” Mafioso said at last, voice low enough that Elliot almost thought he imagined it. “On you.”

Elliot’s grin softened into something smaller, warmer, pressed against Mafioso’s chest. “Knew you’d think so.”

Neither moved to get up. Eventually, the weight of the day pulled them both under—Elliot still wrapped in Mafioso’s coat, Mafioso’s arm secure around him, the fedora tipping slightly forward as they drifted into sleep.

Chapter Text

The evening rush had died down, leaving Elliot with the quieter part of his shift — the late orders, the ones people made when they were too tired to cook.

He balanced the pizza box on one hand, phone in the other, thumb tapping out a quick text:

be home in an hour. maybe earlier if my boss doesn’t keep me hostage.

Mafioso’s reply came almost instantly.

Don’t.

Elliot snorted, shoving the phone back into his pocket as he hopped onto his bike. Overprotective as ever. He wasn’t delivering into a warzone; it was just another street. Sure, it was further out, and sure, the address didn’t look familiar, but… that was half the fun of this job, right? Meeting weird people and getting tipped in loose change and free soda.

The neighborhood grew quieter as he pedaled in, streetlights dim and patchy. Most windows were shut tight; a few cars sat abandoned at the curb. The house matched the vibe — small, a little run-down, the paint peeling.

He knocked once. The door creaked open almost immediately.

A man stood there with a casual smile and a wad of bills in his hand. “You the pizza guy?”

“Yeah,” Elliot said, shifting the box for a better grip. “One large supreme—”

Movement caught his eye. Not just the man in front of him — but shadows stretching across the walls, heavy footsteps on the porch behind the door. Another man stepped out. Then another.

The first one’s smile sharpened.

“You’re the pizza boy, right? Sonnellino’s pizza boy?”

Elliot’s stomach dropped. “Uh—”

The rest of the sentence was crushed out of him as someone grabbed his shirt, yanked him forward, and slammed him into the wall hard enough to rattle his teeth.

Elliot’s instincts screamed run before his brain caught up.

He twisted, trying to duck under the man’s arm, shoving the pizza box into someone’s chest like a makeshift shield. The smell of melted cheese burst into the air as the box flew out of his grip.

A hand caught his collar and yanked him back hard. He slammed an elbow into someone’s ribs and almost broke free — almost — before another set of arms wrapped around him from behind, pinning his own.

“Feisty,” one of them laughed in his ear, the sound low and ugly.

Elliot’s heart hammered. Over their shoulders, the porch light caught on the ink winding up their necks — curling shapes he’d seen once before, when Mafioso had pulled him out of a diner in the middle of “business.” Rival mafia. The ones who had stared at him too long, like they’d already marked him.

“Let me go—” His words cut off as someone shoved him forward.

“Why would we?” a different voice said. “You’re worth more than a dozen of Sonnellino’s men.”

The words sank in, cold and heavy. His pulse roared in his ears as they hauled him into a narrow back alley. The concrete under his sneakers was slick, the air damp and sour.

Something sharp pressed against his side — a knife, maybe — just long enough to keep him still.

Then a rag reeking of chemicals was shoved over his mouth and nose. He jerked, struggled, tried to breathe through it and failed.

The world tilted. Black crept in from the edges of his vision.

And then everything went dark.

The meeting room was quiet except for the soft scratch of Consigliere’s pen on paper and the low hum of Mafioso’s voice as he went over the week’s operations. Caporegime leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, while Contractee picked at the edge of the table like they were bored out of their mind. Soldier, as always, listened without moving a muscle.

Mafioso’s phone buzzed once against the tabletop. He didn’t break his sentence, just slid it closer with a gloved hand and glanced at the screen.

The words stopped.

The others noticed instantly — not because he made a sound, but because Mafioso never paused like that.

On the screen was a photo. Elliot, bruised and pale, duct tape biting into his wrists as he sat in a metal chair. His head was bowed, his shirt torn, and in the background, graffiti marked with the rival mafia’s colors.

The message under it was short.

We have your boy. Come alone.

His jaw set. Mafioso’s voice, when it came, was clipped and colder than the steel in his holster.

“Everyone. Gear up.”

Contractee blinked. “Boss—this could be—”

“I said now.”

Caporegime shifted. “It might be a trap—”

“It doesn’t matter.” Mafioso’s tone cracked like a whip. His hand, still holding the phone, trembled once before curling into a fist. “We go now.”

The chairs scraped back all at once. The mafialings didn’t ask again.

The old warehouse loomed at the end of the street, half its windows shattered, graffiti screaming its ownership. Mafioso didn’t slow down. The black car screeched to a stop, and before the engine even cooled, the doors flew open.

The moment they breached the side door, chaos erupted. Gunfire tore through the air, shouting echoed off the metal walls. The mafialings moved like clockwork — Soldier taking point with steady precision, Caporegime cutting down anyone who got too close, Consigliere laying out cover fire, Contractee darting between crates to take flanks.

Mafioso didn’t fire unless he had to. His eyes were locked on the far corner where Elliot sat tied to a chair, head drooping forward. His heart was pounding loud enough to drown the fight.

He shoved past a scattering of debris and bodies, dropping to one knee beside the chair. “Elliot—”

The younger man stirred, eyelids fluttering open. His voice was weak, hoarse. “M-Mafioso…?”

Mafioso’s chest tightened at the sound of his name. “I’ve got you.”

But the moment his knife sliced through the ropes, a shot rang out — sharp, too close. Pain flashed across Elliot’s face before he even realized what had happened. His breath hitched, hand flying to his side where crimson was already blooming.

“No—” Mafioso’s arms shot out, catching him as his knees buckled. The world around them blurred into noise and gunpowder as he pulled Elliot tight against him, feeling the warm seep of blood through his gloves.

Mafioso dropped to the ground with Elliot cradled in his arms, one hand clamping down hard over the wound. Blood welled hot and fast between his fingers, and the metallic scent clawed at his throat.

“Stay with me, you hear me?” His voice was low but raw, cracking in a way the mafialings had never heard. Elliot’s eyes fluttered weakly, lips parting as if to answer — but no sound came.

“Don’t you dare.” Mafioso’s grip tightened, pressing harder against the wound. “Not here. Not now.”

A fresh burst of gunfire rattled the walls. Soldier yelled for cover, Caporegime barked for everyone to move. Mafioso didn’t hesitate — he hooked an arm under Elliot’s legs, hauling him up against his chest. The younger man was already limp, head rolling against Mafioso’s shoulder.

“Go!” he snapped, and the mafialings closed in around him, forming a moving shield as they fought their way back out into the night.

The cold air hit them like a slap as they broke from the warehouse. Contractee shoved open the car door, and Mafioso slid into the back seat with Elliot still in his arms. The second the door slammed, Caporegime gunned the engine.

They sped through the dark streets, headlights cutting swaths through the fog. Soldier muttered something about applying pressure, but Mafioso didn’t move, didn’t hand Elliot over. He kept one palm firm over the wound, the other wrapped around Elliot’s shoulders, holding him close as if letting go would make him vanish.

“Faster,” he ordered, voice like iron. “Get us to Eunoia.”

The safehouse bedroom had been transformed into something closer to an operating room — bright lights overhead, medical equipment humming, the sharp scent of antiseptic cutting through the air. Eunoia’s hands moved in precise, mechanical swiftness, her voice calm but clipped as she rattled off instructions to Consigliere.

Mafioso stayed at the bedside, a statue in black. One gloved hand gripped Elliot’s limp fingers; the other stayed clenched on his knee. He didn’t flinch at the sound of scissors cutting through fabric, or at the muted curses when Eunoia found just how bad the wound was. His gaze never left Elliot’s face.

“Boss,” Soldier said quietly from the doorway, holding out a thermos, “you should—”

“No.” The answer was instant, final.

The mafialings rotated through in shifts. Caporegime brought a tray of food that went untouched. Contractee popped in with a blanket, mumbling that the room was cold. Consigliere delivered quiet status updates from the outside world, each one answered with a distracted nod.

Hours bled into a day. A day bled into two.

That second night, with the lights dimmed and the machines keeping steady time, Mafioso sat slouched forward in his chair, his forehead resting against the back of Elliot’s hand. His lips moved soundlessly, barely a breath, the words meant for no one but the man lying unconscious in front of him.

If anyone heard, they didn’t say.

It was the faintest shift — a twitch of fingers against his palm — that jolted Mafioso upright in his chair. For a moment he thought he’d imagined it, but then Elliot’s hand flexed again, slow and clumsy.

“Elliot?” His voice was sharper than he meant, breaking the quiet hum of the room.

Eyelids fluttered open, unfocused at first. Elliot squinted at the light, then at the figure leaning over him. “…You look more dead than me,” he croaked, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Mafioso huffed something that was almost a laugh, but the sound caught halfway. He leaned in closer, shadow falling over Elliot’s face. “Don’t do that again,” he said, the words low, tight, like they’d been waiting days to get out.

Elliot’s brows pinched faintly, but his smile softened. “Not planning to.”

For a long moment, neither moved — then Mafioso slipped an arm behind his shoulders, easing him into a careful embrace. Elliot pressed his forehead against Mafioso’s shoulder, breathing in the faint scent of his coat, the steady beat of a heart that had been running on adrenaline and fear for far too long.

They stayed like that, quiet except for the steady beep of the machines, each holding on just a little tighter than they needed to.

The peace didn’t last long.

The door slammed open hard enough to rattle the frame, and suddenly the room was full of voices, footsteps, and far too much energy for a man who’d just woken from near-death.

Caporegime was first, striding in with a straight face as if this was a formal presentation. He placed a folding knife in Elliot’s hand. “For self-defense. Keep it on you.”

Before Elliot could respond, Contractee practically bounced onto the bed, shoving a worn bunny plush into his arms. “This is for emotional support. Don’t argue, it works.”

Soldier came in next with a steaming bowl of soup balanced like a priceless artifact. “Hot. Fresh. You’re gonna eat all of it.”

Consigliere was the only one who approached without noise, setting a neat stack of Elliot’s favorite snacks on the bedside table. “For later,” they murmured, tone calm but eyes softer than usual.

Mafioso, still sitting on the edge of the bed, muttered something about “needing to bar the door next time” under his breath. Elliot just laughed, leaning sideways until his shoulder pressed against Mafioso’s, pulling him closer despite the crowd.

The room was loud, crowded, and a little ridiculous — yet underneath the chaos, Elliot could feel the relief in every gift, every grin, and in the way Mafioso’s arm stayed firmly around him, like letting go wasn’t an option.

Chapter Text

The pizza place was quiet now, the lingering scent of baked dough and melted cheese filling the air. The last order had been delivered, the registers were counting down, and the hum of the neon “Open” sign flickered softly. Elliot leaned against the counter, breathing heavily, his sleeves pushed up, sweat glistening on his forehead.

Mafioso stepped inside, his coat brushing the floor, eyes sharp and tired as he scanned the cramped, cluttered kitchen. “You’re pushing yourself too hard,” he said bluntly, voice low but firm.

Elliot’s jaw tightened. “I have to,” he snapped back, wiping a hand down his face. “If I don’t keep this place running, no one else will. You think I want to be exhausted? I’m doing my best. That’s all I can do.”

Mafioso’s gaze didn’t soften. “It’s not about wanting, Elliot. It’s about surviving. You can’t keep burning out like this.”

“I don’t have the luxury to stop,” Elliot shot back, bitterness creeping into his tone. “If I stop, everything falls apart. I’m the only one who cares enough.”

The room grew heavier, the tension thick enough to cut through. Mafioso’s eyes darkened with frustration and worry. “That’s not true. You’re not alone.”

Elliot turned away, the weight of it all pressing down on him. “Maybe it’s easier for you to say that.”

Silence stretched between them, cold and suffocating.

Mafioso reached out, then hesitated. Elliot stepped back, avoiding the touch as if it burned.

After that, Elliot stopped answering calls. Ignored texts. Avoided Mafioso’s presence like a shadow he couldn’t face.

The silence was louder than any argument.

The days that followed were mechanical.

Elliot still showed up to work, still tied on his apron, still tossed dough into the air with practiced hands—but the warmth was gone. His greetings were short, his smile a thin line at best. When Mafioso stopped by, Elliot barely looked at him.

He’d hand off deliveries without eye contact, mutter “thanks” without inflection, then vanish back into the kitchen like smoke.

Mafioso didn’t chase him. He didn’t demand conversation or explanations. He watched from a quiet distance, the faint crease between his brows betraying the worry he kept locked behind a calm exterior.

Instead, he shifted his focus.

A paper bag with Elliot’s favorite cinnamon rolls appeared in the delivery fridge one morning. No note, no signature—just there, waiting.

The flickering light above the prep table stopped flickering overnight.

The squeaky back door hinge was suddenly silent.

A small thermos of hot chocolate, still steaming, appeared on the counter during a particularly rainy evening rush.

None of it was announced. None of it was acknowledged.

And every time Elliot found one of those small changes, he’d pause for a moment, fingers brushing over the evidence of someone’s care… before shaking his head and burying himself back in work.

The pattern became impossible to ignore.

Elliot would unlock the shop in the morning to find a brown paper bag waiting by the register—pastries from that bakery two streets over, the one that always sold out before noon. Some days it was a cup of caramel coffee, still warm, condensation clinging to the lid like it had only just been placed there.

The wobbly stool at the prep counter stopped threatening to tip him over. The ice machine that had been rattling for weeks was suddenly smooth and quiet. Even the ancient oven door, which used to stick halfway open, now swung shut with a satisfying click.

When Elliot stayed late to close, he’d sometimes find the floor already mopped, the counters wiped spotless, and the clutter in the storeroom mysteriously organized. Once, while restocking the sauce shelf, he noticed a folded scrap of paper tucked between cans:

You’re allowed to rest. The world won’t end if you do.

Another note surfaced later, hidden in the delivery bag:

You’ve done enough for today. More than enough.

He never saw who left them, but he knew.

Deliveries that should’ve been his started disappearing from the schedule, reassigned without a word. The worst, most chaotic lunch shifts—ones that left him sweating through his shirt—were covered before he could protest. Supplies appeared in the pantry without him needing to place the order.

It was like someone had been quietly rearranging his life so it didn’t crush him. And the more it happened, the harder it was to pretend he didn’t notice.

Elliot wasn’t oblivious.

He saw every fixed hinge, every spotless counter, every delivery ticket that vanished from his pile. He could taste the unspoken care in every cinnamon roll left for him, every coffee made exactly the way he liked it.

And it made something in his chest twist.

Part of him wanted to lean into it—to breathe for once, to let someone else carry a piece of the weight he’d been holding for so long. But the other part, the louder part, hissed that he couldn’t. That it wasn’t fair to put more on Mafioso’s shoulders, not when he already carried enough.

Pride kept him moving. Guilt kept him from slowing down.

He told himself he didn’t need the help. Told himself he was fine, even as the ache in his muscles lingered longer each day, even as his eyelids grew heavier before closing time, even as the smallest inconveniences started to feel like breaking points.

At night, lying in bed with the quiet pressing in, he’d think about saying something—just a thank you, or even an “I see what you’re doing.” But every time, the words stayed lodged in his throat.

And so the silence stretched on, even as the exhaustion seeped deeper into his bones.

The rain had been falling since morning, a steady drizzle that turned the streets slick and gray. By the time Elliot trudged into the pizza place, his hair was damp, his hoodie clinging to him, and his shoulders slumped like he’d been carrying the whole city on his back.

Mafioso was already there. No coat this time—just leaning against the counter, a to-go cup steaming in his gloved hands. Without a word, he slid it across to Elliot.

“Hot chocolate,” Mafioso said simply.

Elliot hesitated, eyes darting to his face, but Mafioso didn’t push. Instead, he reached behind him, pulled out a thick, soft blanket—familiar enough that Elliot recognized it from Mafioso’s apartment—and draped it over his shoulders with careful precision.

The warmth was immediate, and Elliot’s fingers tightened around the paper cup almost without thinking.

Mafioso didn’t speak. He didn’t demand thanks or explanations. He just moved to the chair beside him, sitting close enough that Elliot could feel the quiet presence without it crowding him.

They stayed like that, the rain tapping softly against the windows, steam curling from the cup between Elliot’s hands. Slowly, the tightness in his chest eased, the weight on his shoulders feeling just a little lighter.

A small sigh slipped from him, unguarded. He glanced sideways at Mafioso—just a flicker of eye contact—and, for the first time in days, the corner of his mouth lifted in the faintest, tired smile.

Mafioso returned it, just as small, but steady.

The silence stretched for a while longer, the kind that didn’t need to be filled.

It was Mafioso who spoke first, his voice low, almost cautious.

“You don’t have to do it all alone, Elliot.”

Elliot’s grip tightened on the cup, the warmth seeping into his palms. “If I don’t… everything falls apart.”

“It won’t,” Mafioso said, steady as stone. “Not if you let someone help you hold it together.”

Elliot stared into the swirl of chocolate, his reflection rippling with every breath. “I’m… tired,” he admitted, the word feeling heavier than it should. “Not just physically. It’s like… if I stop, even for a second, everything I’ve worked for slips away. And I can’t afford that.”

Mafioso leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “You’re not going to lose everything because you take a breath. And if something does slip? I’ll be there to catch it. To catch you.”

Elliot let out a shaky laugh, though it wasn’t really a laugh at all. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” Mafioso said, and there was no softness in his honesty. “But it’s easier when it’s not just you against the world.”

Something in Elliot’s shoulders eased, the blanket sliding a little as the tension unwound. For the first time in days, the knot in his chest loosened enough for him to nod. “Okay. I… I’ll try.”

Mafioso’s reply was simple, but it carried weight. “That’s all I’m asking.”

From that night on, things shifted—not all at once, but enough. Mafioso still slipped him cinnamon rolls and fixed the little things before Elliot could notice they were broken, but now Elliot would look him in the eye when he said thanks. And sometimes, when the shop was too quiet, Elliot would hand him a delivery ticket with a grin and say, “Your turn.”

It wasn’t perfect, but it was balanced—two people carrying the load together.

Chapter Text

The place smelled faintly of roasted coffee and warm bread, the kind of place that pretended to be casual while still charging you the kind of prices that made Elliot want to glare at the menu. Mafioso sat across from him, leaning back in his chair like he owned the whole block—which, knowing him, he probably did.

Elliot stirred his drink aimlessly. “You know, we could’ve just gone to the diner near my place.”

Mafioso didn’t look up from his espresso. “The diner near your place serves coffee that could dissolve a spoon. I’d like to keep my internal organs intact, grazie.”

“That’s dramatic,” Elliot muttered, but there was a little smile tugging at his mouth.

Around them, the low hum of conversation filled the air. Elliot had learned over the months that people tended to… notice Mafioso in public. Maybe it was the coat, the hat, the air of mystery king of the block. Maybe it was just that he looked like he stepped out of an old movie and somehow made it work.

Normally, it didn’t bother Elliot. Tonight felt no different—at least until he spotted someone approaching from the corner of his eye.

Elliot noticed her before Mafioso did.

Tall, confident, hair styled just enough to look effortless, and wearing heels that clicked with every step like she was announcing I am here to be noticed. She didn’t look at anyone else in the bar—just made a straight line for their table.

“Hi there,” she said smoothly, resting a hand on the back of Mafioso’s chair. “I couldn’t help but notice you from across the room.”

Mafioso didn’t even glance up from his espresso. “Mm.”

Unfazed, she leaned a little closer. “You have this… mysterious aura about you. Like you’ve got a hundred stories you’d never tell.”

Elliot, from his seat, nearly choked on his drink. Oh, so we’re just— we’re just doing this now? Right in front of me?

Mafioso finally looked up, but his expression was flat. “I suppose.” He went back to stirring his espresso like she’d just commented on the weather.

She laughed—too hard, in Elliot’s opinion. “I like a man who’s hard to crack.” Her fingers brushed the sleeve of his coat.

Elliot’s jaw clenched so hard he was surprised it didn’t crack. He kept his eyes on the table, but the hand holding his glass was tense, knuckles white. Okay, lady, that’s enough touching.

Mafioso didn’t flinch at her touch, but there was the faintest flick of his gaze toward Elliot—brief, like a silent you seeing this?.

Elliot definitely was.

The woman stayed planted at their table like she’d paid rent.

“Do you come here often?” she asked, leaning forward on the table now, like she was so interested in every syllable Mafioso might say.

“No,” Mafioso replied, tone bone-dry. “This place is new.”

She tilted her head, smiling. “Well, maybe I could make it worth your while to come more often.”

Elliot’s fork clinked sharply against his plate. Make it worth his while? What does that even mean? His brain supplied at least five scenarios, all of which made his blood pressure spike.

“Do you live around here?” she pressed on.

Mafioso’s answer was a lazy, “Far enough.”

Oh, he’s being vague? Great. Great. Let’s just give her an air of mystery to chew on. Elliot stabbed at his food like it had personally wronged him.

She reached out again, brushing a bit of nonexistent lint from Mafioso’s sleeve. Elliot’s jaw dropped. Lady, if you don’t take your manicured little hands off him—

He tried to be subtle, but his glare could’ve cut glass. And still, Mafioso didn’t look flustered—just kept sipping his espresso like this was any other Tuesday. Occasionally, his eyes flicked to Elliot in that amused but pretending not to be way that only made Elliot more furious.

The woman laughed again, this time softer, and lowered her voice. “You know… you’re exactly my type.”

Elliot’s chair scraped as he stood, sharp and sudden. Alright, that’s it.

Elliot marched over before he could talk himself out of it.

The woman glanced up at him, eyebrows raised, clearly not expecting company. Mafioso didn’t move, just watched with that infuriatingly calm expression that made Elliot want to both kiss and strangle him.

“Oh,” the woman said, blinking. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah,” Elliot said flatly. “By moving about five feet to the left. Away from my boyfriend.”

Her eyes widened. “Your—?”

“Mm-hm.” Elliot folded his arms, glaring. “Boyfriend. As in, taken. As in, not available for you to touch like he’s a museum exhibit.”

Mafioso’s mouth curved in the faintest smirk, but he still didn’t step in. Elliot swore he could hear him enjoying this.

The woman hesitated, glancing between them. “Oh. I… didn’t realize.”

“Now you do.” Elliot’s tone was sharp enough to slice bread.

She muttered something that might’ve been “sorry” before backing away, her heels clicking toward the other end of the bar.

Elliot stood there for a beat, chest rising and falling like he’d just finished a sprint. Mafioso, of course, looked as composed as ever, swirling the last sip of espresso in his cup.

“You done?” Mafioso asked mildly.

Elliot narrowed his eyes. “You could’ve said something.”

“I could have,” Mafioso agreed, tilting his head. “But this was much more entertaining.”

Elliot slid back into his chair with all the dignity of a cat that had just fallen off a counter. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, stabbing at the ice in his drink.

Across from him, Mafioso leaned back, watching him like one might watch a favorite TV show. “Tesoro, you were practically glowing with fury. I haven’t seen that much fire in you since you found out I don’t like pineapple on pizza.”

“That was different,” Elliot grumbled.

Mafioso’s smirk softened into something warmer, though the amusement never quite left his eyes. “You know,” he said, voice low, “you have nothing to be jealous about.”

Elliot froze mid-stir. “…I wasn’t jealous.”

“Of course not,” Mafioso said, leaning forward, his hand brushing Elliot’s on the table. “But if you were… I’d tell you that you’re the only one I look at like this.”

He held Elliot’s gaze just long enough to make him flush, then sat back again, utterly self-satisfied.

Elliot mumbled something incoherent and took a large gulp of his drink to hide the redness creeping up his ears. “…Still gonna punch her if I see her again,” he muttered.

Mafioso chuckled, deep and quiet. “I’ll make sure you get the chance, amore mio.”

And Elliot tried not to smile—he really did—but the smug warmth in Mafioso’s tone made it impossible.

Chapter Text

The kitchen smelled faintly of garlic and oregano, the last wisps of steam curling from the pot on the stove. Dinner was over but the plates still sat scattered across the table—Elliot’s half-eaten pasta, Mafioso’s empty dish, and a bowl of breadsticks that had lost their heat.

Elliot leaned back in his chair, legs stretched under the table, tapping a fork against his plate in a soft, lazy rhythm. “So,” he began, eyes flicking to Mafioso, “how was work today?”

Mafioso didn’t look up immediately. He was still fussing with his gloves, smoothing the leather over his knuckles before peeling them off. “Work was… work,” he said at last, voice low, almost too casual.

Elliot tilted his head. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.” Mafioso finally met his gaze, a faint smile tugging at his lips—one of those deflective ones Elliot had learned to recognize.

“Uh-huh,” Elliot murmured, not buying it. He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Dangerous day?”

“Elliot…” Mafioso’s tone carried a hint of warning, not unkind but firm. “It’s better if we don’t talk about certain things.”

Elliot’s fork paused mid-tap. “Better for who?”

Mafioso reached for his water glass, deliberately taking a slow sip before replying. “For you. I don’t want you worrying about something you can’t control.”

There was still no real heat in the room yet, but the warmth from dinner had dimmed a little—like a candle’s flame catching a draft.

Elliot set his fork down with a soft clink, watching Mafioso like he was trying to read him through a fogged window. “You know I’m not made of glass, right? I can handle hearing about your day.”

Mafioso leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “It’s not about whether you can handle it. It’s about whether you should have to.”

“That’s not your call to make,” Elliot shot back, the words quicker, sharper than before.

Mafioso’s jaw tightened. “Elliot, my work isn’t some dinner table story. People get hurt—”

“I know that,” Elliot interrupted. “But every time I ask, you shut me out like I’m… what, too naive? Too soft?”

“That’s not it.” Mafioso’s voice dipped low, a note of steel threading through it. “I’m protecting you. That’s my job.”

Elliot stared at him, incredulous. “Your job? Is that what I am now? Another thing you keep under lock and key?”

The air between them seemed to tighten, each sentence winding the string a little further. Mafioso’s eyes softened for half a second, but then he said, “If knowing the details puts you in danger, then yes, I’ll keep you in the dark.”

Elliot’s lips pressed into a thin line. His chair scraped faintly against the floor as he pushed back from the table. “Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Mafioso stood, his shadow stretching across the table, the faint creak of leather from his coat filling the pause. “It’s not about confidence, Elliot. It’s about the fact that you wouldn’t last five minutes in my world without—”

He caught himself, but too late.

Elliot’s eyebrows shot up, a disbelieving laugh breaking from his throat. “Without what? Without you there to babysit me?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Mafioso said quickly, though his voice still carried an edge.

“Sure sounded like it.” Elliot’s words wavered now, like his throat was tightening, but he pushed on. “I’m not some helpless kid you have to keep tucked away. I’m here. I’m yours. And all I’m asking is to know what’s going on with you.”

Mafioso didn’t answer. He couldn’t—not without either lying or spilling truths he swore he’d never put on Elliot’s shoulders.

The silence was its own kind of answer.

Elliot shook his head, backing toward the hallway. “Fine. If you can’t trust me, then don’t talk to me.”

He turned sharply, disappearing into the bedroom. The door closed—not slammed, but firm enough to feel final.

Mafioso stayed where he was, hands curling at his sides, the faint click of the latch echoing far too loudly in the quiet apartment.

The apartment felt colder without Elliot’s voice in the air. Mafioso stood there for a long moment, staring at the closed bedroom door like it might open if he willed it hard enough.

It didn’t.

He sank back into his chair, elbows braced on his knees, rubbing a hand over his face. The words he’d said replayed in his head—sharp-edged, too fast, spoken like he was cornering an enemy instead of talking to the person he loved.

A faint rustle came from behind the door, maybe Elliot shifting on the bed, maybe just the sound of fabric moving. Mafioso listened, straining for something—anything—that would tell him he hadn’t broken more than the conversation.

Minutes passed. Maybe more. He couldn’t tell. The clock on the wall ticked in slow, deliberate beats.

Mafioso tried distracting himself—tidying the table, stacking dishes—but every creak of the apartment seemed to pull his eyes back to that door.

By the time he finally stood, the weight in his chest had settled into something almost painful. He crossed the room quietly, each step deliberate, and stopped just outside Elliot’s room.

He raised a hand, hesitated, then knocked—soft, as if the sound itself might bruise. “Elliot,” he said, low and careful. “Can I come in?”

Silence.

He waited, listening for an answer that didn’t come.

When no reply came, Mafioso stood there a moment longer, fingers hovering at the doorframe. Then, quietly, he turned the handle.

The room was dim—only the faint glow from the bedside lamp cutting the shadows. Elliot was curled on the far side of the bed, knees drawn up, his phone resting on the blanket like he’d stopped pretending to scroll a while ago.

Mafioso stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. He didn’t go straight to touching him—he’d learned not to cross that line without permission when Elliot was upset. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that the mattress dipped, not so close that it crowded him.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Mafioso glanced at him, taking in the slight redness around Elliot’s eyes, the way he kept his face angled away. His chest ached.

“I didn’t mean…” Mafioso’s voice caught, and he had to clear his throat. “I didn’t mean to talk to you like that. I was trying to keep you safe, but—”

Elliot gave a small, humorless laugh, still not looking at him. “You’re doing a great job keeping me out, too.”

Mafioso’s hand flexed on the blanket, then stilled. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

That broke something in the air—not fully, but enough that the silence no longer felt like a wall.

Mafioso shifted, turning just enough to face Elliot fully. “I don’t talk about my work because… when I picture you knowing every detail, I also picture the worst-case scenario. I see you getting pulled into it. Hurt. And that—” his voice faltered, “—that thought scares me more than anything else.”

Elliot blinked, eyes glossy in the soft light. “So instead of trusting me to handle it, you just… lock it all away?”

“I thought I was protecting you.” Mafioso’s gaze dropped, shame tugging his shoulders forward. “But I was just making you feel small. I didn’t see that until you walked away.”

For the first time since dinner, Elliot turned to face him. His expression was tight, but his voice wavered. “I don’t need to know everything. I just… I need to feel like you trust me. Like we’re on the same side.”

Mafioso’s throat worked. “We are. Always.”

The mattress shifted as he reached for Elliot slowly, giving him the chance to pull away. Elliot didn’t—he leaned in, letting Mafioso’s arm curl around him.

The first tear slipped down Elliot’s cheek, catching on the edge of his smile. Mafioso pressed his forehead against his temple, whispering, “I’m sorry,” again and again like the words might stitch the gap between them.

Elliot’s fingers gripped the front of his coat, holding on like he didn’t plan to let go. “Just… promise you’ll stop shutting me out.”

“I promise.”

And for the first time that night, the air between them felt warm again.

Chapter Text

The lunch rush was in full swing, the scent of melted cheese and garlic filling the air. Elliot was halfway through ringing up a large pepperoni when the door jingled open. He didn’t look up right away—he was too busy counting out change.

“Yeah, that’ll be twelve—” he glanced toward the door mid-sentence and froze.

The mafialings walked in. All of them.

Every. Single. One.

And, like clockwork, not a single tall black coat among them.

Elliot’s stomach sank. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

He flicked his gaze toward the big front window, and there he was—Mafioso. Standing just outside, hands in his coat pockets, wearing the smuggest little half-smile Elliot had ever seen. Like he was posing for a magazine cover called Petty Monthly.

Of course. He’d sent his boys in to place the order instead of coming inside himself. Again.

Elliot pressed his lips into a thin line, returning to the register like nothing was wrong. He knew exactly what this was—Mafioso was still milking the fact that Elliot once admitted it bugged him when he pulled this stunt.

The mafialings approached the counter without shame, like this was just an average pizza run and not a deliberate act of harassment.

Elliot took a slow breath. “So… let me guess,” he said flatly. “You’re ordering for your boss.”

“Yep,” Contractee replied cheerfully, sliding a folded piece of paper across the counter. “Large margherita, extra mozzarella, two garlic breads, and—”

Caporegime, without even glancing at the menu, added, “And don’t forget to throw in one of those mini tiramisus. He’ll pout if you don’t.”

Elliot arched a brow. “Pout.”

“Mm-hmm.” Soldier pointed toward the window. “See for yourself.”

Elliot’s eyes followed their finger, and sure enough—Mafioso was still there, leaning slightly so their gazes lined up perfectly. That smug little look deepened, like he knew Elliot was one eye twitch away from marching out there.

Elliot grabbed the order slip and muttered under his breath, “Unbelievable.”

The kitchen was busy, the ovens roaring, but Elliot’s focus kept drifting toward the window.

Every time he glanced up, Mafioso hadn’t moved an inch. Still standing there. Still smug.

Still making direct eye contact.

The pizza was almost done when Caporegime leaned over the counter, watching Elliot work.

“You know he’s been staring this whole time, right?” he said, like it was casual small talk.

“I noticed,” Elliot replied, sprinkling on the last of the mozzarella with a little too much force.

Contractee stepped up next to Caporegime, folding his arms. “He told us to tell you hi, by the way.”

There was a faint smirk in his tone—one of those smirks Elliot could hear.

Elliot glanced at the window. Mafioso gave him a tiny wave.

Slow. Deliberate. Infuriating.

“Oh, that’s it,” Elliot muttered.

Consigliere checked the order timer. “You still have about thirty seconds before it’s done.”

“Perfect,” Elliot said, slamming the oven shut and reaching for a pizza cutter. “Plenty of time to plan a murder.”

Soldier, ever unbothered, raised an eyebrow. “You’re not actually gonna—”

But Elliot wasn’t listening anymore. He was focused, laser-locked on the man outside.

That smug expression was going to be wiped clean off his face the second Elliot—

Ding!

The oven timer went off.

Elliot slid the pizza into a box, shut it with one swift motion, and set it on the counter.

He didn’t hand it to the mafialings.

Instead, he untied his apron, tossed it onto the hook, and pushed through the front door.

The door slammed shut behind Elliot as he stepped out into the sunlight, pizza box in hand.

Mafioso’s smug smile widened immediately, like he’d been waiting for this moment all along.

“Oh, so you do make deliveries now,” he said lazily, as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

Elliot didn’t answer. He didn’t even slow down. He started walking toward him with purpose.

Mafioso tilted his head. “What’s with the—”

Elliot suddenly took off.

Not a jog. Not a playful dash. A full-force sprint, sneakers pounding the pavement like he was chasing down a fleeing thief.

“COME BACK HERE, YOU STUPID—!”

Mafioso’s eyes went wide for a split second before breaking into a laugh, spinning on his heel and taking off down the sidewalk.

Not quite fast enough to escape, but just enough to keep the gap between them for a few thrilling seconds. His coat flared dramatically with every stride.

Inside the pizzeria, the mafialings were plastered against the glass, watching the chaos unfold.

“Oh yeah,” Contractee said, “he’s definitely pissed.”

Soldier smirked. “Ten bucks says he tackles him before the crosswalk.”

Elliot’s breath came in sharp bursts, but he didn’t slow—if anything, he accelerated. His eyes locked on Mafioso’s back like a heat-seeking missile, his grip on the pizza box tightening.

“You think you’re funny?!” he shouted between breaths.

“I know I’m funny!” Mafioso called back, still laughing.

That was it. Elliot surged forward with one last burst of speed and launched himself.

The tackle wasn’t neat. They both went crashing to the grass, the pizza box tumbling safely to the side. Mafioso landed flat on his back, still laughing like an idiot, while Elliot straddled him with one hand fisted in his coat.

“You’re—absolutely—insufferable,” Elliot growled, chest heaving.

“And yet,” Mafioso wheezed through laughter, “you still chased me.”

Elliot tried to look furious, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward.

Elliot finally rolled off him with a groan, brushing grass off his shirt. The pizza box sat a few feet away, miraculously intact.

Mafioso sat up, still chuckling, and straightened his coat like he hadn’t just been flattened into the lawn. “You’re quick when you’re angry.”

“I was motivated,” Elliot muttered, retrieving the box and brushing off a stray leaf.

The mafialings wandered over from the pizzeria, entirely unhurried.

“Who won?” Contractee asked.

“Me,” Elliot said flatly.

“Me,” Mafioso said at the exact same time.

Caporegime smirked faintly. “Looked like a tie. You both hit the ground at the same time.”

“Yeah, but I landed on him,” Elliot pointed out.

Soldier crouched, peeking into the box. “Well, at least the pizza survived.”

Elliot glanced at the pizzeria clock through the window. He still had a few minutes before his break was over. He sighed, flipped the box open, and plopped it onto the grass. “Fine. Sit. We’re eating this here.”

Mafioso smirked like he’d just gotten away with a grand heist. “How generous.”

They settled into a loose circle—Elliot cross-legged with a slice in hand, Mafioso lounging back on one arm, the mafialings sprawling like they owned the sidewalk.

The banter rolled easily:

Mafioso kept making snide comments about Elliot’s “dramatic entrance.”

Elliot pretended to be annoyed but couldn’t stop smiling into his pizza.

Caporegime occasionally nodded like he was mentally rating Elliot’s sprinting form.

Contractee somehow got sauce on his sleeve and loudly blamed Soldier.

Soldier calmly kept a steady rotation of slices between himself and Caporegime.

Consigliere was the only one eating without looking like a complete mess.

Elliot checked the time again and groaned. “Alright, break’s over. Go on, get out of here before you tempt me to throw something at you.”

Mafioso stood, dusting off his coat, and leaned in just enough to give him that smug smile again. “I’ll be sure to wave next time.”

Elliot just pointed toward the street. “Go.”

They left in a swirl of coats, laughter, and lingering pizza smell.

The bell above the pizzeria door jingled as Elliot walked back in, tying his apron around his waist. He tried to look casual. Calm. Like he hadn’t just been sprinting down the street and tackling a trench coat–wearing man in broad daylight.

It didn’t work.

Three of his coworkers were already huddled by the counter, staring at him like he’d walked in with a winning lottery ticket taped to his forehead.

“So…” Jenna began slowly, “you gonna explain that?”

Elliot kept his eyes on the register. “Explain what?”

“You know what,” another coworker said, leaning on the counter. “The guy in the coat. The mafia fashion show that just left here with you sitting in the grass eating pizza.”

“That was—” Elliot started, then stopped. “—just a… friend.”

“Friend?” Jenna’s eyebrows shot up. “Friends don’t usually stare through windows at you for ten minutes, send their… entourage to get pizza, and then let you tackle them on the sidewalk.”

“Yeah, and since when do you share your lunch?” another added. “You barely let us have breadsticks.”

Elliot’s grip tightened on the register pen. “It’s complicated.”

The group exchanged glances, clearly unsatisfied.

One of them crossed their arms. “Is he dangerous?”

Elliot froze for half a second. “…Not to me.”

That only made them look more suspicious.

“Okay,” Jenna said, smirking now. “We’ll just keep our eyes open. For your… complicated friend.”

Elliot groaned, slumping against the counter. “You people are relentless.”

“Only because you’re so mysterious at work,” Jenna said, already heading back to the kitchen. “Now we finally have something to gossip about.”

Elliot sighed and punched in the next order, muttering under his breath. “Should’ve thrown the pizza at him.”

Chapter Text

Elliot wasn’t trying to be sneaky, but his shoes still made soft thunks on Mafioso’s hardwood floor as he padded toward the kitchen. His shift at the pizzeria had been brutal, and all he wanted was something cold to drink and maybe a leftover slice if Mafioso hadn’t gotten to it first.

The apartment was quiet — the kind of quiet that made you think everyone was asleep — until he saw a pale rectangle of light spilling out from the kitchen doorway.

He slowed, head tilted.

…Was someone raiding the fridge?

When he stepped into the doorway, his voice died in his throat.

Mafioso was perched on the counter, coat off, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a half-eaten carrot in one gloved hand. But that wasn’t what froze Elliot in place. No, it was the two long, black-furred ears sticking straight up from his head, twitching toward the sound of Elliot’s arrival.

For a few heartbeats, Elliot just… stared.

Then, before he could stop himself—

“Are—are those… ears?”

Mafioso turned his head lazily, one ear tilting as though it was listening to him. His mouth quirked into a faint, smug smile as he took another bite of the carrot, chewing unhurriedly.

Elliot’s gaze dropped lower — to where a short, fluffy tail peeked from the hem of Mafioso’s shirt, flicking once before settling.

Elliot’s heart performed some kind of gymnastic stunt.

“You’re… you’re part bunny?!”

Mafioso didn’t answer. He just hopped down from the counter with that same impossible grace, brushed past Elliot on his way out, and muttered, “Go back to bed, pizza boy.”

Elliot stayed in the doorway, still staring at the empty counter like it might explain itself.

“…What the hell just happened?” he whispered to no one.

Elliot didn’t sleep much. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw them — tall, velvety ears twitching in the fridge light, that little flick of a tail, and Mafioso’s completely unbothered expression.

It was driving him nuts.

By sunrise, he’d decided he needed answers. Or maybe he just needed to see it again to prove he hadn’t hallucinated from exhaustion. Either way, he found himself standing at Mafioso’s door, knocking before he could second-guess himself.

The door creaked open a moment later. Mafioso stood there barefoot, hair tousled from sleep, a loose black shirt hanging off one shoulder. A steaming mug of coffee was in his hand. And, clear as day, his long black ears were standing upright, their tips curling slightly forward as if curious about the visitor.

Elliot made a sound.

Not a word, not a laugh — just a strangled squeak.

One of Mafioso’s ears tilted sideways. “…You’re early,” he said flatly, stepping aside. “Mind your business.”

Elliot slipped inside, cheeks burning, clutching his bag strap like it was a lifeline. “I am minding my business. My business just happens to include—” He gestured vaguely toward Mafioso’s head. “—those.”

Mafioso sipped his coffee, completely unruffled. “Mm.”

That was it. No explanation. No denial. Just mm. Elliot’s brain did a full circuit of confusion, frustration, and awe before sputtering out into helpless silence.

Elliot dropped onto the couch like he’d just run a marathon, burying his face in his hands.

“Okay,” he muttered into his palms, “either I’m still asleep, or this is real, and you’ve just been hiding it from me.”

He heard slow footsteps cross the room. The cushions dipped beside him. Then—

Something brushed against his shoulder. Not a hand, not quite—soft, deliberate. Elliot peeked out of his fingers to find Mafioso leaning in, chinning him, brushing the side of his jaw and neck like he was… claiming him.

“Uh—”

Before Elliot could form a sentence, a light nudge pressed against his knee. Mafioso’s gloved hand lingered there, not pushing, just asking for attention.

Elliot’s chest tightened. “…What are you doing?”

Mafioso didn’t answer. Instead, he let himself flop sideways onto the couch, coat pooling around him in a dramatic spill of black fabric, ears relaxed and eyes half-lidded. For someone who looked so dangerous most of the time, he was suddenly—

Soft.

Open.

When Mafioso leaned in again, this time it wasn’t just to nudge or mark him—it was to quietly fit himself against Elliot’s side, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Coming for cuddles.

Elliot’s heart was doing dangerous things in his chest. He hesitated only a second before his arm went around Mafioso’s shoulders.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, smiling despite himself.

Mafioso didn’t reply. But his ears twitched once, and the faintest smile touched his lips—safe, comfortable, and unmistakably content.

Chapter Text

Elliot sat at the counter, pushing the scrambled eggs around his plate without really tasting them. The smell of burnt toast made his stomach twist, but he forced himself to swallow anyway.

“You look like you’ve been poisoned,” Mafioso’s voice cut through the quiet kitchen. He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, his usual calm presence somehow sharper today.

Elliot’s fork froze midair. He noticed. Panic flared in his chest. “I’m… fine,” he muttered too quickly, turning his face away.

Mafioso raised an eyebrow, not fooled in the slightest. “You’ve been pale the last few days. And tired. Distracted. You don’t usually ignore your breakfast like this.”

Elliot swallowed hard, trying to laugh it off, but it came out shaky. “Just… bad food yesterday, I guess. Nothing serious.”

Mafioso didn’t say anything more, just studied him with that sharp gaze that made Elliot feel like he was being x-rayed. Elliot’s hands clenched around his fork until the tines bent slightly. He can tell something’s off. He’ll know… he’ll know if I tell him. He’ll leave.

Later that day, when Mafioso stepped out to handle a few errands, Elliot sneaked out to the pharmacy. Heart hammering, palms slick with sweat, he grabbed a test off the shelf, his legs trembling as he held it in his hands.

What am I doing? he thought. I can’t… I can’t tell him. He’ll hate me. He’ll leave.

The cashier barely glanced at him as he paid, but every step back to his apartment felt like walking on a tightrope over a pit of fire. When he shut the door behind him, he leaned against it, sliding to the floor. The test still in his hands, Elliot let out a shuddering breath.

I have to know. I have to… but what if…?

Elliot closed the apartment door behind him with a soft click, heart still racing from the pharmacy. The small box felt impossibly heavy in his hand, like it carried the weight of a future he wasn’t ready to face.

He tiptoed to the bathroom, praying no one would barge in—though only Mafioso lived there, and Mafioso was out. Locking the door, Elliot sank onto the cold tile, staring at the test like it was a ticking bomb.

Hands trembling, he tore open the package, pulled out the tiny device, and followed the instructions with shaking fingers. He set it on the counter and waited, pacing the small space like a caged animal.

The result appeared. Positive.

Elliot’s knees gave way beneath him, and he sank to the floor. The world tilted sideways, his stomach twisting in a knot that had nothing to do with nausea. No, no, no… he’s gonna hate me for this.

He whispered the words again, almost like saying them out loud would make them true. “He’s… he’s gonna leave me. He can’t… he won’t…”

For a long moment, he just sat there, head in his hands, rocking slightly. The thought of telling Mafioso filled him with panic. He won’t understand. He’ll… he’ll walk away. He’ll be disgusted.

By the time Mafioso came home, Elliot was forcing a weak smile, pretending nothing had happened. He laughed a little too loudly at Mafioso’s dry comment about dinner, his stomach twisting at the lie.

I have to act normal. He can’t know. Not yet. I can’t lose him.

The two of them sat across from each other at the small kitchen table, the quiet hum of the apartment filling the spaces between words. Mafioso stirred his coffee absentmindedly, glancing at Elliot every so often.

“You’ve been… distant,” he said finally, his voice calm but firm. “You keep zoning out when I talk to you. Is something wrong?”

Elliot’s heart thumped in his chest. He twisted his fingers in his lap, avoiding Mafioso’s gaze. “I’m fine,” he said quickly, too quickly, forcing a smile. “Just… tired, I guess.”

Mafioso didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press. Not yet. He leaned back slightly, studying Elliot like he always did—like he could see straight through him.

Elliot’s stomach churned at the look. Every second of Mafioso’s quiet scrutiny reminded him that hiding this secret was impossible. He’s going to see through me. He’ll see it and he’ll leave anyway. I can’t… I can’t let him touch me, not yet.

So when Mafioso reached across the table, brushing a finger against his hand, Elliot jerked back almost imperceptibly. When Mafioso leaned down to kiss his temple, Elliot ducked his head.

“Elliot…” Mafioso murmured, his voice tinged with worry. “You’re… not yourself.”

Elliot swallowed, the panic rising. “I said I’m fine,” he insisted, though his voice cracked just slightly. He forced himself to laugh lightly, covering the tremor. “Really. Nothing’s wrong.”

But deep down, the guilt gnawed at him. Each lie, each forced smile, each small avoidance was a thread in a web he feared would eventually snap—and when it did, Mafioso would leave. He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He’s going to leave. He has to leave. This… this is too much.

Elliot’s stomach lurched violently, and he doubled over, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. A wave of nausea hit him, and he barely made it to the trash can before he retched.

Mafioso, who had been quietly watching from the doorway, stepped forward immediately, concern etched into his normally unreadable face. “Elliot, sit down. You’re… not well.”

Elliot pulled back sharply, wiping his mouth, eyes wide. “I’m fine!” he snapped, his voice cracking. “I… I just—” His words faltered. Panic surged, his chest tightening. “You don’t get it! I can’t just tell you!”

Mafioso raised an eyebrow but didn’t step back. His tone remained calm but firm. “Then tell me when you’re ready. I’ll wait. But you need to stop punishing yourself like this.”

Elliot’s breath caught in his throat. He felt cornered, like the walls of the apartment were closing in on him. The guilt gnawed at every nerve in his body. I’m making him worry. I’m lying. He’s going to leave anyway. I can’t… I can’t do this.

He sank to the floor, knees trembling, wrapping his arms around himself. His head bowed as hot tears spilled down his cheeks. Mafioso crouched beside him, one hand hesitating over his shoulder, letting Elliot have space—but not letting him be alone.

He’s not leaving. But… he doesn’t know yet. And I can’t tell him. I can’t.

The apartment felt smaller than usual, the space between them thick with tension. Mafioso had been unusually quiet all evening, focused on some work on his laptop. Elliot had been trying to keep the conversation light, but the knot in his stomach kept growing.

“You’ve been… distant again,” Mafioso said finally, closing the laptop. “I understand work is important, but… you can’t keep shutting me out.”

Elliot’s chest tightened. He wanted to shout, to tell him everything, but the words stuck in his throat. The fear—of losing him, of being abandoned—was suffocating. His hands shook as he wrung them together.

“I… I can’t…” he whispered, his voice barely audible. Panic rising, he straightened, tears threatening. “I’m pregnant, okay?! So if you’re gonna leave, just do it already!”

The words hung in the air, heavier than anything Elliot had ever said. His voice cracked halfway through, and the instant they left his lips, he regretted them. His face burned.

Mafioso froze, the usual composure on his face replaced by a sharp, unreadable stillness. For a moment, he just stared, letting the words sink in, his eyes locked on Elliot’s trembling form.

Elliot’s throat tightened at the silence, interpreting it as everything he had feared. He hates me. He’s leaving.

“No! I—I didn’t mean for it to happen, I swear—please don’t hate me—” Elliot babbled, stumbling over words, his hands flying to his face as tears streaked down. “I’m sorry! I never wanted this—please don’t—”

His whole body shook, every breath heavy with panic. He expected Mafioso to pull away, to coldly say he couldn’t stay, but the silence lingered, tense and almost unbearable. Elliot buried his face in his hands, waiting for the final blow he was certain was coming.

Before Elliot could sink further into his panic, Mafioso stepped forward. His hands cupped Elliot’s face, warm and steady, stopping the trembling at its source.

“You think I’d leave you for this?” His voice was low, firm—but there was a vulnerability there that Elliot had never seen before, raw and unguarded.

Elliot blinked through tears, unable to speak, the weight of fear slowly giving way to shock. Mafioso’s eyes searched his, unwavering, as if daring him to even consider the thought of abandonment.

Without another word, Mafioso pulled him close, pressing him against his chest. The steady beat of his heart, the solid warmth of his body, made Elliot’s panic falter for the first time.

“Don’t ever think you’re alone in this,” Mafioso whispered, his voice a quiet promise that carried more strength than any words Elliot had ever heard.

Elliot clung to him, letting the sobs fall freely now, his fear finally meeting the comfort he had desperately needed. Mafioso’s arms tightened around him, holding him like he would never let go, and for the first time in days, Elliot felt a flicker of safety amidst the chaos of what was to come.

Elliot clung to Mafioso, pressing his face into the warmth of his coat. Sobs shook his body as words tumbled out between gasps.

“I… I was so scared…” Elliot whispered, his voice muffled. “I thought… I thought you’d leave me. That… that this would make you hate me. I didn’t know how to tell you… I didn’t want to lose you…”

Mafioso tightened his hold around him, rocking him gently, his own chest rising and falling with quiet breaths. After a long moment, he spoke, his voice low and raw.

“I’m scared too,” he admitted, almost reluctantly. “Scared of fatherhood… of danger… of not knowing what kind of future we’ll have. But leaving you isn’t an option. Not now. Not ever.”

Elliot clung tighter, letting himself believe it, letting himself feel the weight of the fear begin to lift. For the first time in days, he allowed himself to breathe, to rest in Mafioso’s arms.

“You… you really mean that?” he asked, voice trembling.

Mafioso pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head. “Every word.”

And for a moment, the chaos of the world outside—the fear, the uncertainty—faded. In that small apartment, wrapped in each other, they just existed. Together. Safe.

Over the next few days, Mafioso’s care became a quiet, constant presence.

When Elliot felt waves of nausea, Mafioso was there with warm ginger tea, setting the mug gently in front of him with a small, patient smile.

When anxiety gripped Elliot’s chest and made him pace or fidget, Mafioso would pull him into his lap, wrapping him in arms that were strong yet soothing, whispering that everything would be alright.

Sometimes, almost shyly, Mafioso would place a hand on Elliot’s stomach, gentle and reverent, as if already honoring the life growing there.

“I’ve spent my life protecting things that don’t matter,” Mafioso said one quiet evening, voice steady but soft. “I won’t fail you. Or them.”

Elliot’s tears flowed freely then, but they were no longer only of fear—they were relief, trust, and a fragile, tentative hope.

One morning, Elliot sat curled up on the couch, still pale and shaky. Mafioso crouched beside him, brushing a hand through his hair.

“You know,” Mafioso said, voice thoughtful, “you and this little one… you’re like bunnies. Fragile, small, needing care. But they’re also resilient. I’ll protect you both, with patience and care. Always.”

Elliot’s lips trembled, tears sliding down his cheeks as a shaky laugh escaped him. “Of course you’d compare my pregnancy to bunnies,” he whispered.

Mafioso just smirked faintly, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Better than comparing it to a storm, don’t you think?”

Elliot sobbed again, but these were tears of comfort, relief, and trust. In Mafioso’s arms, he finally allowed himself to believe: he wouldn’t be left behind. They would face this together, carefully, tenderly, and with love.

Chapter Text

Mafioso never liked mirrors.

He kept his bathroom one covered, the gilded wall piece turned to face the wall, the glass of his office polished to the point of showing only faint blurs. But lately… it didn’t matter. The reflection followed.

The first time, it was quick. He was passing through a hallway, and in the corner of a framed picture, Elliot’s face peered back—only it wasn’t Elliot. His skin looked drained, lips cracked and split, shirt clinging to a wound across his chest. And the smile—wide, wrong—cut deeper than any knife could.

Mafioso stopped breathing. He blinked. The reflection was gone.

The second time, he was washing his hands. He looked down. The water in the sink swirled pink, though he hadn’t cut himself. And in that red whirlpool, Elliot’s reflection drowned, staring up at him with glassy eyes, grin stretching, stretching.

Mafioso yanked the faucet off and stumbled back. His heart hammered so hard it hurt.

“...You’re not real,” he whispered. His voice shook. “You’re not real.”

The figure in the glass tilted its head. The smile twitched, as if amused.

Mafioso tore his gaze away, pressing his palm over his eyes. He muttered Elliot’s name like it was an anchor, a prayer. When he looked again, the reflection was only his own.

But the feeling stayed.

Every hallway mirror, every glint in a window, every puddle on the street—it was there. Elliot’s body, ruined, grinning like he knew something Mafioso didn’t.

The worst part was the silence. He never spoke. He only looked. Stares with those broken eyes, a reflection frozen mid-breath, like he’d been left behind and never saved.

The next night, Mafioso woke in a cold sweat. His windowpane caught the glow of streetlight. And there—standing in the reflection—was Elliot, pale and broken, blood seeping down his shirt. His mouth moved this time, slow, deliberate.

Mafioso strained to hear. He swore the word was “why.”

The smile came after. Wide. Endless.

Mafioso stumbled to his knees, clutching his head. He couldn’t breathe. He wanted Elliot, the real Elliot—the one who was alive, safe, warm. But all he saw was this distorted phantom, haunting him, blaming him, smiling through death.

All he knows is when he looks away, he still feels the smile.

And sometimes—sometimes—he swears he hears the faintest laugh in the back of his head.

:)

Chapter Text

Elliot had stopped picking up the phone.

The first time it buzzed with Mafioso’s name, he’d stared at the screen until it went dark. The second, he pressed “ignore.” By the fifth call in less than an hour, he’d turned the phone off completely.

He didn’t want to see him. Not tonight. Not after the way Mafioso had shown up at his job, all dark coat and sharp words, making his boss pale and stammer. Elliot had nearly lost his shift—again—because Mafioso “didn’t like the idea of him being out so late.”

It wasn’t just embarrassing. It was suffocating.

So Elliot had said it.

Over the phone, before he’d shut it down: “Don’t come here again. Don’t call. Just—leave me alone.”

And for the first time, there had been silence on the other end. No protest, no sharp remark. Just a silence that sat heavy in Elliot’s chest long after he ended the call.

He thought maybe—maybe—that would be the end of it.

But even as he sat curled on the couch, staring at the blank TV, Elliot couldn’t shake the crawling feeling that Mafioso didn’t understand what “leave me alone” actually meant.

The knock came just past midnight.

Not a polite tap, but three heavy, deliberate raps that made Elliot jolt upright on the couch.

For a long moment, he just sat there, heart hammering, hoping it was a neighbor or delivery mix-up. But some part of him already knew. Nobody else knocked like that.

When he cracked the door open, the hall light caught on a figure that looked half-put together, half-ruined. Mafioso stood there in his usual black suit, but the fabric was crumpled, streaked with something dark that Elliot realized with a sick twist was blood. His tie hung crooked, his fedora missing, and in his hand he held a bouquet of flowers—white lilies, crushed at the stems like he’d been gripping them too hard.

“Elliot,” he said, voice hoarse. It was a prayer and a plea all at once.

Elliot’s breath hitched. “...You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m sorry,” Mafioso blurted, stepping closer. His shoes left faint red smears on the tile. “I shouldn’t have— I scared you. I shouldn’t raise my voice, I know. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

He tried to push the flowers into Elliot’s hands, as if that alone could erase everything. They were trembling slightly, crushed further under the force of his grip.

Elliot took a step back. “That’s not— That’s not what this is about, you don’t even—”

But Mafioso kept going, desperate now, his words tumbling over each other:

“I can’t stop thinking about you, I can’t—when you don’t answer, I don’t breathe right, Elliot. I know it’s wrong, I know, but I can’t help it, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

He looked wrecked, suit stained and eyes raw, but none of his apologies touched what Elliot had begged for: freedom.

“Stop.”

Elliot’s voice cracked sharper than he meant it to, but it finally cut through Mafioso’s rambling. The hallway fell into silence, except for the sound of Elliot’s own uneven breathing. He stared at him—at the blood on his sleeves, at the bouquet crushed like paper in his fist—and felt that familiar mix of pity and fear churn in his chest.

“You’re not listening,” Elliot said, his throat tight. “You’re saying you’re sorry for yelling, for scaring me, for… whatever this is, but you’re not sorry for the thing that matters.”

Mafioso blinked at him, stunned. “I—”

“You’re not sorry for controlling me,” Elliot pressed, anger edging in now, burning through the exhaustion. “For showing up at my job, for tracking me like I’m property. You’re not sorry for any of that. You’re just sorry because you’re afraid I’ll leave you.”

Mafioso’s face fell, like Elliot had struck him harder than any fist could. He staggered a step closer, reaching out before stopping short, fingers twitching in the air. His voice was low, shaking.

“I can’t—lose you.”

Elliot swallowed hard. “Then maybe you should learn what it means to love someone without breaking them.”

That was when Mafioso’s composure cracked. His jaw trembled, his hand shot out and caught Elliot’s arm with a grip that was almost frantic. His eyes—wild, rimmed red—searched Elliot’s like a drowning man looking for air.

“Don’t… say that,” he whispered, desperation bleeding through. “Don’t tell me to let go. I can’t. You don’t understand—I don’t work without you.”

For the first time, Elliot saw him not as untouchable or terrifying, but as something raw and unraveling, held together only by his obsession.

Elliot’s arm shook under Mafioso’s grip, but he forced himself to stay still, to look him in the eye.

“You don’t get it,” Elliot said softly, exhaustion outweighing the heat in his voice now. “This isn’t love, not the way you’re doing it. I can’t breathe like this. And if you really care about me, you have to let me go tonight.”

For a moment, Mafioso just stared at him—like a command had been given in a language he didn’t know how to obey. His lips parted, but no words came. Only a tremor in his chest, a shaky inhale, and then—finally—his fingers uncurled from Elliot’s sleeve.

The flowers slipped from his other hand, falling in a wilted heap at their feet.

“I…” His voice broke. He pressed the heel of his palm to his temple, like he could hold himself together by force. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, but it sounded hollow now. “Please… don’t—don’t hate me.”

Elliot’s throat ached, but he shook his head. “I don’t hate you.”

And then, quieter, like it hurt to say: “That’s what makes this worse.”

He stepped back, hand closing around the door. Mafioso’s eyes widened, panic flickering in them again—but he didn’t move forward this time. He just stood there, shivering with the weight of his own restraint.

The door clicked shut between them.

On the other side, Elliot pressed his forehead to the wood, heart hammering, his whole body heavy with relief and grief. And in the hallway, Mafioso remained frozen, staring down at the crushed bouquet at his shoes—like if he stood there long enough, maybe the door would open again.

But it didn’t.

Chapter Text

The safehouse had gone from tense to almost domestic in the days since Elliot woke. The medical equipment had been packed away, the lights dimmed back down, the sharp smell of antiseptic replaced by the faint, warm scent of soup that Soldier seemed determined to keep replenishing.

Elliot sat propped up on the bed with a blanket over his lap, one arm still stiff from the healing wound. Contractee perched at the foot of the mattress, dramatically retelling the warehouse raid like it was an action movie.

“—and then Capo was all bam-bam!” they swung their hands like guns, “and I was like zip-zap!—”

Caporegime groaned, “That is not how it went.”

“Shh,” Contractee waved a hand, “don’t ruin the narrative.”

Elliot snorted, hiding a smile behind his hand. “You guys sound like a bad cartoon.”

That earned him a chorus of mock protests, and for a few minutes it almost felt normal. Mafioso stayed in the chair at Elliot’s side, silent as always, but his hand rested lightly on Elliot’s shoulder — grounding, steady, refusing to move.

Elliot leaned into the touch, pretending it was casual. Pretending a lot of things were casual. He cracked jokes about hospital food, teased Consigliere about their scowls, even smiled wide enough to make the mafialings relax.

But later that night, when the safehouse was quiet and the others had drifted off to their own corners, the weight of it settled back in.

The house creaked as the wind shifted. Somewhere down the hall, a door clicked shut.

Elliot’s heart lurched like a gun had gone off.

He sat up too fast, breath caught in his throat, blanket twisted around his legs. His eyes darted to the shadows in the corners of the room, every muscle tensed as if expecting someone to step out with a knife.

It was just a door. Just the house settling. He knew that. His brain knew that. But the roar in his ears said otherwise.

On the chair beside the bed, Mafioso stirred, his hat tilted low over his eyes. Without looking up, he murmured, “You’re safe.”

The words cut through the noise in Elliot’s head. Slowly, he forced himself to sink back against the pillows, knuckles white where he gripped the blanket.

“Yeah,” Elliot whispered, voice thin. “Yeah, I know.”

But his eyes stayed open long into the night.

The room was dark, the only light a faint strip of moon through the blinds. The safehouse was still, quiet — too quiet — until Elliot lurched awake with a sharp gasp.

His chest heaved, lungs dragging for air that wouldn’t come fast enough. His hands clawed at the sheets, desperate, because in his mind he was still there — the alley’s sour stench in his nose, the rough press of a rag against his mouth, the bite of rope cutting into his wrists. He could feel the chair beneath him, could hear the echo of footsteps that meant no one was coming.

“No—” His voice cracked, thin and frantic. He shoved at the blanket tangled around his legs like restraints, but his body wouldn’t obey fast enough.

A shadow moved beside him. The scrape of a chair, then Mafioso’s voice, low and steady:

“Elliot.”

A gloved hand caught his wrist, firm but careful. Another pressed against his shoulder, steady weight anchoring him.

“You’re here,” Mafioso said, calm against the chaos. “You’re safe. Look at me.”

Elliot’s breath came fast and shallow. He blinked hard, struggling to drag himself out of the dream. At last his gaze lifted, finding Mafioso’s dark eyes through the haze.

There. Real. Solid. The panic stuttered, then cracked. Elliot’s face crumpled, his hand clutching at Mafioso’s glove like a lifeline.

“I thought—” His voice broke. He had to swallow hard before the words stumbled out. “I thought you weren’t gonna make it in time.”

For a moment, Mafioso didn’t answer. His jaw was tight, shadows carving sharp lines down his face. When he finally spoke, the words were rougher than he meant them to be.

“I will always make it in time.”

The conviction in his tone made Elliot’s chest ache. He let out a shaky laugh that dissolved into something closer to a sob, his forehead pressing against Mafioso’s shoulder.

Mafioso stayed there with him, one arm curling around his back, the other still firm over his wrist — a promise he wouldn’t let go.

And slowly, breath by breath, Elliot’s trembling eased.

By daylight, Elliot wore a smile like armor. He cracked jokes about the soup Soldier kept bringing, teased Contractee about his messy hair, and pretended the bandages around his ribs weren’t tugging whenever he moved.

For a while, it worked. The mafialings went along with it — Contractee animated as always, Caporegime stone-faced, Consigliere muttering about logistics in the corner. But it only took one moment to shatter the illusion.

Contractee had just finished a wild impression of Caporegime’s “serious face” when they burst into a loud, exaggerated laugh. The sound bounced sharp against the walls.

Elliot flinched before he realized it, his shoulders jerking up like he was bracing for something to hit.

The laugh died instantly. Contractee’s grin faltered, guilt creeping in. “Hey, uh… I was kidding. Just kidding. Don’t—don’t take it seriously, alright?” They scratched at the back of their neck, eyes darting anywhere but at Elliot.

Elliot forced a smile, shaky at the edges. “I know. Just… got startled.”

Caporegime’s gaze sharpened. Later that afternoon, they pressed a folding knife into Elliot’s hand with the same seriousness they gave orders.

“If this ever happens again, you don’t hesitate. You fight dirty — go for eyes, knees, whatever it takes.”

Elliot stared at the blade like it might burn him. “I’m… a pizza guy.”

“Then you learn,” Caporegime said flatly. “Because no one touches you twice.”

Outside, Soldier became a silent shadow. Whenever Elliot tried to get some air in the courtyard, Soldier appeared at his side — not saying a word, not drawing attention, just there. Elliot caught the faintest nod when their eyes met, a wordless vow that no one would sneak up on him again.

Consigliere’s approach was quieter still. They’d slip into the room with a steaming mug of tea, set it on the table, and sit across from Elliot in silence. No prying questions, no pressure — just calm presence, as if holding the room steady until Elliot could breathe easier.

Through it all, Mafioso hovered like a storm on a leash. He followed Elliot from room to room, intercepting anyone who tried to push too hard, his coat brushing the doorway like a shadow that refused to leave. If Elliot so much as winced, Mafioso’s hand was already at his shoulder.

By the third day, Elliot sighed, dropping back onto the couch with exaggerated dramatics. “You know, for someone who says I’m safe, you’re making me feel like I’m in witness protection.”

Mafioso didn’t answer. He just sat beside him, the weight of his presence both suffocating and grounding at once.

And though Elliot joked, he didn’t move away.

The warehouse was darker this time. The shadows pressed close, thick as tar, and Elliot could barely see the chair he was tied to. His wrists burned against the rope, his ribs ached with every breath.

Somewhere beyond the black, footsteps echoed. He lifted his head, desperate.
“Mafioso?”

No answer.

The steps drew closer, heavier, until laughter rolled through the dark — the same voices, sharp and ugly.

“Did you really think he’d come for you?” one sneered.

Elliot strained against the ropes, heart pounding. “He’s coming.”

But the laughter only swelled, mocking, until it drowned everything else out. Mafioso never came. The chair, the ropes, the stink of blood — it was all there, and he was alone.

The sound ripped out of him before he could stop it. A raw, broken scream.

---

He bolted upright in bed, thrashing, the cry still tearing through his throat. Sweat dampened his hair, his chest heaving as if he’d run a mile.

The door slammed open a second later. Mafioso was already at his side, coat half-off, gun in hand. When he saw Elliot, shaking and gasping on the mattress, the weapon clattered to the floor.

“Elliot—” He was on the bed in two strides, arms locking around Elliot’s trembling frame before the younger man could recoil.

Elliot clutched at him instinctively, breath hitching as if apologies might hold him together. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Don’t.” Mafioso’s voice was sharp, but it broke at the edges. He pressed Elliot against his chest, one hand firm at the back of his head. “You don’t apologize for nightmares.”

Elliot’s whole body shook against him. “I feel so—so weak. I can’t even close my eyes without—”

Mafioso pulled back just enough to catch his face in gloved hands, tilting his chin up until Elliot met his gaze. His own was dark and unyielding.

“You’re alive,” he said, the words hard, deliberate. “That’s strength. Don’t you ever call it anything less.”

Elliot’s lip trembled, but he nodded, the tightness in his chest loosening under the sheer weight of the vow. He sagged back into Mafioso’s hold, burying his face in the familiar fabric of his coat.

Mafioso held him there, steady, as if daring the nightmares to try again.

It wasn’t just Elliot who was haunted. Mafioso carried his own wound—silent, festering, and no less sharp.

Sometimes he’d wake in the middle of the night, hearing again the deafening crack of the gun. Seeing Elliot collapse. Feeling the warmth of blood pooling too fast against his gloves, slick and impossible to stop.

One evening, he slipped outside for air, trench coat pulled tight as if it could hold his chest together. Soldier found him there, cigarette dangling from his mouth, watching smoke curl and vanish.

“You saved him,” Soldier said plainly, reading the torment without needing an explanation. “That’s what matters.”

Mafioso didn’t answer at first. His jaw was locked. Finally, a ragged whisper:

“I keep seeing him die in my arms. Over and over.”

Soldier exhaled, steady. “Then keep reminding yourself that he didn’t. He’s still here. Because of you.”

Later, Caporegime caught wind of it too. His approach was sharper, his words cutting but meant to keep Mafioso steady:

“Don’t let guilt eat you alive, Don. If you break, everything else crumbles. Including him.”

And when Mafioso finally let Elliot see the edges of that guilt, it was quieter—softer. A confession murmured while Elliot leaned against him, half-asleep on the couch.

“I thought I’d lost you. I still feel it—like I’m stuck there.”

Elliot stirred, blinking up at him. His voice was small but firm:

“…But you didn’t lose me. I’m right here.”

For a moment, Mafioso let himself believe it.

Morning light slips through the blinds, soft and golden. Elliot stirs awake, body still aching but less heavy than before. His hand brushes against warmth that isn’t his own — Mafioso, slumped in the chair at his bedside again. His fedora has slipped down, shadowing his face, and his long coat is draped over his shoulders like a poor excuse for a blanket.

Elliot watches him for a moment. For all Mafioso’s sharp edges, he looks almost vulnerable in sleep. Without thinking, Elliot shifts the blanket higher and tucks it around him instead. His chest still hurts, but this small act of care feels right.

The door creaks open.

Contractee’s whisper-shout breaks the quiet: “Oh my god, this is giving such domestic vibes—”

A heavy hand shoves them back. “Shut up,” Soldier mutters, dragging them out of view.

Consigliere lingers just long enough to pinch the bridge of their nose, muttering something about professionalism, before closing the door with a soft click.

Elliot exhales a shaky laugh. For the first time in days, it doesn’t hurt to smile. The nightmares will still come, he knows — but he isn’t alone in them anymore.

Chapter Text

Mafioso had been leaving the base at the same time every week. No announcement, no excuse, no mission briefing—just a freshly pressed coat, a neat adjustment of his tie, and, worst of all, a smile.

It wasn’t the tight, intimidating smile he wore during negotiations, either. It was softer. The kind of smile that made the mafialings exchange horrified looks whenever it appeared.

Caporegime leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching as the Boss smoothed down his collar in the mirror. “He’s hiding something,” he muttered, voice low but sharp.

Contractee’s eyes widened as if he’d been waiting for this revelation. “Yeah. Has to be a secret weapons deal. Black market. Maybe lasers.”

Soldier barely looked up from his coffee. “...Bet it’s a bunny.”

That earned him a round of incredulous stares.

“It’s not a bunny,” Caporegime snapped, though he sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as the others.

Across the room, Consigliere didn’t even lift their gaze from the stack of papers they were sorting. Their voice was flat, logical, as always. “Statistically, none of you are correct. However…” Their pen stilled, just for a moment. “I will admit, the behavior is unusual.”

The Boss hummed under his breath as he slipped on his coat, the sound light, almost casual. Then he left—no gun holstered at his side, no briefcase, no orders for anyone. Just that faint smile.

The silence he left behind was deafening.

Caporegime straightened, eyes glinting. “Alright. New mission. We tail him.”

Contractee was already dragging a trench coat off the rack, far too big for his small frame. “Operation Bunny Snare,” he declared.

Soldier groaned. “That’s not the name.”

Consigliere pinched the bridge of their nose, resigned. “Call it whatever you want. But if we’re doing this, we do it discreetly.”

They all nodded in agreement.

Five minutes later, every one of them was standing outside in the worst disguises imaginable.

The plan was supposed to be discreet. Professional. Silent shadows in the night, gathering intel like the skilled mafialings they were.

Instead, they ended up looking like the cast of a very low-budget spy movie.

Soldier’s fake mustache didn’t even match his face. Worse, he’d punched two crooked eye-holes into a newspaper and kept peeking through them, muttering “classic spy work” as if that excused the fact that he walked straight into a lamppost.

Caporegime had gone all-in on the trench coat and fedora look, insisting that sunglasses made him look “mysterious.” Unfortunately, the trench coat was far too long, and every few steps he tripped on the hem, stumbling forward with a grunt and pretending he’d meant to do that.

Contractee had taken a different approach altogether. His disguise was a giant foam bunny mascot head he’d found in storage. It wobbled precariously on his shoulders as he marched along, declaring proudly, “Untraceable. They’ll never suspect it’s me.”

“They’ll never suspect it’s anyone sane, either,” Soldier muttered.

Meanwhile, Consigliere wore a plain jacket, kept his head down, and walked like an ordinary pedestrian. The only one who could possibly pass for normal. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he watched the others stumble and clatter their way down the street.

“This is not discreet,” he hissed.

“It’s working,” Contractee countered from inside the muffled bunny head.

“It’s not working,” Consigliere shot back. “You’re drawing attention.”

Caporegime nearly tripped again. Soldier’s newspaper fluttered away in the breeze, leaving the fake mustache clinging desperately to his upper lip.

Consigliere exhaled sharply, adjusting his pace to keep up. “I hate all of you,” he muttered.

But still, he followed—because as ridiculous as they looked, they were committed to their new mission.

And up ahead, completely unaware of the circus tailing him, Mafioso strolled calmly toward his evening with Elliot.

The bell above the café door jingled as Mafioso stepped inside, coat sharp and movements composed. Elliot was already waiting at a corner table, waving when he saw him. Mafioso’s expression softened instantly, almost unrecognizably gentle, as he made his way over.

A perfect little date scene.

Or, at least, it would have been.

Across the street, four shadows pressed themselves against the glass window of the wrong restaurant.

“Wait,” Soldier squinted. “Why is there sushi in front of him?”

Contractee smacked the bunny mascot head with both hands in frustration. “That’s not him, that’s just a guy in a black coat!”

They spun around as one, realizing their mistake. Mafioso wasn’t in the ramen shop at all—he was next door.

“Move, move, move!” Caporegime barked, trench coat flapping dramatically as he charged out the door.

They tumbled into the correct café a moment later, trying to look casual as Consigliere and Contractee arranged themselves at a table near Mafioso and Elliot. Consigliere took the seat facing them, deliberately adjusting his posture like he was just an ordinary customer. Contractee… not so much.

Contractee leaned back too far in his chair, the oversized bunny head bumping against a hanging plant.

Elliot blinked toward the commotion. “Uh… do you know that guy?” he asked quietly.

Mafioso sipped his coffee with a practiced calm. “No,” he said evenly, though his eyes flicked toward the ridiculous silhouettes in the corner.

The goons were already hard at work.

Contractee, eager to impress, tried to lean close enough to hear without drawing attention. Instead, he elbowed the sugar jar clean off the table. It shattered with a crash, sugar spilling everywhere.

Consigliere ignored him, slipping a sleek little listening device out of his jacket pocket and pressing it discreetly against the wall. He adjusted the dial, the faint static resolving into voices.

Except… not the ones he wanted.

“Mom! I said more ketchup! Like, way more!” a kid’s shrill voice blasted through. “I can’t eat fries without—HEY, you’re not listening!”

Consigliere’s eye twitched. He adjusted the device again.

Static. Then:

“...Yeah, and that’s why I think we should break up.”

He switched it off before Contractee could shout “Ooooh, scandal!” across the room.

From their table, Elliot tilted his head curiously at the sound of the sugar jar still being swept off the floor. “Weird customers today,” he murmured.

Mafioso only nodded, though there was a faint edge to his smile, as if he knew exactly who was behind the chaos.

Meanwhile...

Caporegime had never trusted “indoor surveillance.” He insisted you got a clearer read on a target by watching their body language through a window. So, while Contractee wrestled with the broom a barista had handed him for cleanup duty, Caporegime slipped outside.

He crouched low, trench coat dragging against the pavement, sunglasses gleaming as he crept to the café’s front window. He pressed himself against the glass, leaning just enough to angle a look inside.

And at first, it worked. Mafioso sat across from Elliot, posture relaxed, the faintest smile still tugging at his mouth. Elliot was laughing at something—a bright, easy sound.

Caporegime narrowed his eyes, suspicious. Definitely hiding something.

But then Mafioso leaned back slightly in his chair. The timing was cruel, perfect, and Caporegime’s face smushed flat against the glass. His sunglasses skewed sideways as his nose squashed awkwardly, breath fogging the window.

Inside, Elliot blinked, startled. “Uh…” He pointed toward the window. “Do you—do you see that?”

Mafioso did not turn his head. His expression didn’t even flicker, though a faint pulse of irritation throbbed at his temple. “Ignore it,” he murmured, sipping his coffee.

But Elliot couldn’t ignore it, not when the man outside slowly slid down the glass like a melting decal.

Soldier, who had followed to “cover the perimeter,” quickly stepped up beside Caporegime with perfect deadpan delivery. He rapped the glass with two knuckles and called out loudly, “Just checking for snipers! Health inspection!”

A couple at the next table glanced over, frowning.

Elliot stared, baffled. “Health inspectors check… for snipers?”

Mafioso set his cup down carefully. “Apparently.”

The silence stretched until Caporegime scrambled back to his feet, shoving his sunglasses straight again and muttering curses as Soldier guided him away.

“Professionalism,” Soldier grunted, though his fake mustache was dangling halfway off his lip now.

Back inside, Elliot rubbed the back of his neck, still watching the window with lingering confusion. “Weirdest health inspectors I’ve ever seen.”

Mafioso only hummed in agreement, though the faintest smirk tugged at his mouth as he picked up his fork.

After coffee, Mafioso suggested a walk. Elliot agreed, and the two slipped into the lively stream of the shopping district, neon signs buzzing overhead and the smell of fried food drifting through the air.

It should have been a quiet stroll, but quiet was impossible with four shadows tailing them from every corner.

---

Soldier was the first to break formation. A gleaming knife shop pulled him in like gravity, displays full of shining blades lined up in velvet cases. He pressed his hands to the glass, whispering under his breath like a pilgrim at a shrine.

“Focus,” Consigliere hissed, grabbing his coat sleeve and yanking him away before he could try asking about “steel quality” mid-mission.

---

Caporegime, meanwhile, got ambushed by a sneaker salesman.

“Sir! You look like someone who knows quality footwear when he sees it.”

“I—what? No, I’m busy,” Caporegime muttered, glancing nervously down the hall.

But ten minutes later, he was awkwardly lacing up a pair of bright white sneakers, nodding stiffly as the salesman gushed about “arch support” and “modern urban agility.” By the time Consigliere found him, he was holding the box under one arm, sunglasses glinting with shame.

“Shut up,” Caporegime snapped before Consigliere could say a word.

---

Contractee, of course, had the worst instincts of them all. At the ice cream stall, he snagged a free sample cone, bouncing on his heels with glee. The giant bunny head wobbled precariously as he lifted it high in the air.

“Boss! You want some?” he shouted across the walkway.

Elliot blinked, mid-laugh at something Mafioso had said, and glanced over his shoulder. “Wait… did that mascot just—”

Mafioso smoothly guided him to look at a shop window, steering him away. “Ignore it,” he said, though the muscle in his jaw twitched.

---

Consigliere’s listening device finally crackled back to life as they settled near the food court. He adjusted the dial, narrowing his eyes in concentration—only for the voices to filter in too clearly.

“—I just don’t think this is working anymore,” a woman’s voice said miserably.

“What do you mean it’s not working?” another voice protested, thick with heartbreak.

Before Consigliere could switch it off, Contractee gasped dramatically, pointing across the food court. “Ooooh! She dumped him! Cold!”

Half the food court turned to look.

Mafioso stopped walking, pinching the bridge of his nose in silence as Elliot tugged at his sleeve. “Okay, seriously,” Elliot whispered, “are we just… being followed by disasters?”

Mafioso exhaled slowly. “…Yes.”

And yet, instead of stopping them, he kept walking, guiding Elliot toward the movie theater—expression unreadable, as if daring his mafialings to keep humiliating themselves.

The shopping district stroll ended at the glowing marquee of a theater. Elliot’s face lit up as he pointed to a film poster plastered across the entrance.

“Come on, you’ll like this one,” he said, tugging lightly at Mafioso’s sleeve.

Mafioso only raised a brow, but followed without resistance.

Behind them, the mafialings exchanged a frantic huddle.

“We can’t lose sight of them now,” Caporegime hissed.

Soldier frowned. “But we don’t have tickets.”

Contractee grinned beneath the bunny head. “Guess we’re going undercover.”

Moments later, they filed into the theater with popcorn and sodas in hand, having somehow bullied Soldier into paying for everyone.

---

It was dark, quiet, the silver screen flickering to life—perfect cover for surveillance. Perfect, except for the fact that when they shuffled into the row, they ended up sliding directly into the seats beside Mafioso and Elliot.

Elliot blinked in surprise as four very suspicious “strangers” collapsed noisily into the chairs next to them. The bunny mascot head wobbled, nearly knocking over Elliot’s drink.

“Uh…” Elliot started. “Weird choice of seats.”

Mafioso didn’t look at them. “Very,” he said flatly, eyes fixed forward.

The movie began.

---

For a while, the mafialings managed to stay quiet. But then the first emotional climax hit—the hero of the story delivering a gut-wrenching monologue about sacrifice, the music swelling, the audience leaning forward in tense silence.

Contractee burst into loud laughter.

It wasn’t just a chuckle—it was a full belly laugh, his voice muffled but booming inside the bunny head. “Ha! He’s not even dead yet!”

Half the theater shushed him at once.

Caporegime shoved an elbow into Soldier’s ribs to shut him up before he could comment. The popcorn bucket flew into the air, rattling and spilling like rain across the floor. A chorus of “shhh!” followed, sharp as knives.

Soldier scowled, brushing kernels off his lap. “You’re the one making more noise than me.”

Caporegime hissed back through gritted teeth, “Professionalism.”

Elliot sat frozen between bafflement and secondhand embarrassment, glancing at Mafioso in disbelief. “Do… do you know them?” he whispered again.

Mafioso’s face remained carved from stone, though his hand flexed once around the armrest. “No,” he said, voice smooth as ice.

The truth was—he was counting down the minutes until this circus collapsed on itself.

By the time they stepped out of the theater, Mafioso had that particular glint in his eye. Elliot figured it meant he couldn’t decide between grabbing late-night food or heading home. But really, Mafioso had already noticed the muffled footsteps shadowing them since the start of the evening.

“Where you wanna go?” Elliot asked, tugging on his coat sleeve.

Mafioso hummed, gaze flicking down the street. “Not sure. Maybe this way.”

He deliberately turned them toward the carousel, walking slowly enough to hear the frantic shuffle of boots behind them. Elliot trailed along, unbothered, watching the neon lights blink to life.

Behind them, Soldier had tried to duck behind a bench but miscalculated, and by the time he scrambled to cover, he was already swept into the carousel queue. The ride started before he could get off—leaving him awkwardly perched on a painted horse, circling by every thirty seconds.

Elliot blinked at the faint squeak of carnival music. “...Weird night, huh?”

“Mm.” Mafioso’s lips twitched. “Strange.”

He guided them in another circle, this time toward the corner photo booth. Caporegime, trying to keep pace, was pushed by a crowd straight into the booth. The curtain snapped shut behind him just as the flash went off.

A strip of photos spat out seconds later: four identical shots of Caporegime grimacing furiously into the lens.

Elliot glanced over. “Was that—?”

“Coincidence,” Mafioso said smoothly, tugging him toward yet another street. Elliot just assumed his boyfriend was stalling, maybe nervous about choosing the next stop.

But Mafioso knew. And every time he heard one of his men swear under their breath, muffled by some new accidental trap, his smirk deepened.

The night air was cool, buzzing faintly with the sound of traffic down the block. Elliot slid into the passenger seat of Mafioso’s car, still rambling about the movie they’d just seen.

“—I’m just saying, if the spaceship had enough fuel to escape the wormhole, why did they spend twenty minutes talking about—”

Mafioso shut the driver’s side door, hand resting casually on the steering wheel, but his eyes weren’t on Elliot. Instead, they flicked toward the rustling shrub ten feet away.

“...You can come out now,” he said, voice flat, cutting through Elliot’s rant like a knife.

Elliot blinked, mid-sentence. “Uh—come out of what?”

The bush quivered violently, and then, as if gravity itself had given up, four figures tumbled forward in a heap. Caporegime landed on Soldier’s back with a groan. Consigliere tried to keep his dignity but ended up face-first in the grass. Contractee, wheezing, raised a hand like a dying Victorian child.

Mafioso just sighed. “Pathetic.”

Elliot’s jaw dropped. “Wait. Wait. Wait.” He jabbed a finger toward the pile. “They’ve been—following us? All night?!”

Consigliere pushed his glasses up, trying to salvage professionalism. “For the record, this was strategic surveillance.”

Contractee coughed. “Strategically—unpaid surveillance!”

Caporegime muttered something about “next time, tighter formation,” while Soldier wordlessly held up the popcorn bucket he’d somehow carried since the theater, now completely empty.

Mafioso leaned an elbow against the window frame, unimpressed. “Next time, at least wear matching shoes.” His gaze drifted meaningfully to Caporegime’s polished dress shoe and one—yes, one—muddy sneaker.

Elliot just stared at them, mouth opening and closing like a broken vending machine. “...I went on a date with an entourage.”

“Correction,” Mafioso said smoothly, starting the car, “you went on a date. They went on a field trip.”

The mafialings groaned in unison as the engine purred to life.

Chapter Text

The apartment smelled faintly of cigarettes and something sharper, something that made Elliot wrinkle his nose when he stepped inside. He tried not to make a face, but it was impossible not to notice the glass on the counter—the rim stained amber, the bottle half-empty beside it.

Mafioso was sitting on the couch, his hat tipped low, coat still on as though he hadn’t even bothered to take it off when he got home. His gloves were discarded on the table, but his tie was still crooked, tugged loose just enough to breathe.

“You’re home late,” Elliot said carefully, slipping his shoes off and trying to sound casual.

“Work,” Mafioso muttered, not lifting his head.

The word hung between them, sharp and heavy. Elliot swallowed down a reply. It wasn’t worth arguing—Mafioso always had an excuse, always brushed it off like nothing. Still, Elliot couldn’t unsee the way his hand trembled slightly when he reached for the glass again.

“You’re shaking,” Elliot said before he could stop himself.

“I’m fine,” came the quick reply, defensive and flat.

Elliot sighed, dropping his bag by the door. “You don’t look fine.”

That made Mafioso tilt his head just enough for Elliot to see his face. His skin was paler than usual, eyes shadowed, lips pressed thin as though holding something back. It hurt to look at him like this—like someone carrying weight he refused to set down.

Elliot wanted to reach out, to take the glass from his hand, to ask why he was doing this to himself. But he knew what would happen: Mafioso would push him away, say he was imagining things, maybe even snap at him.

So instead, Elliot forced a smile. “Want me to make something? Pasta, maybe? You look like you haven’t eaten all day.”

Mafioso’s hand paused on the glass, his knuckles tightening around it. For a moment, Elliot thought he’d say yes. But then Mafioso shook his head and muttered, “Don’t bother.”

It was the dismissal that stung the most. Elliot looked at him for a long moment, then slipped into the kitchen anyway, because he couldn’t just stand there and watch the man he cared about slowly destroy himself.

It started small. Elliot was cleaning. That was all.

Mafioso had gone out again—said he had “business” to handle—but Elliot couldn’t sit around doing nothing, not with the sour smell clinging to the apartment and the half-empty glass still on the table. So he picked up, moving quietly through the rooms, pretending it was normal.

That was when he found it.

At first it was just one bottle, tucked under the couch, wrapped in a folded handkerchief like it was being hidden. He frowned, pulling it out. The bottle was nearly empty. A slip of paper was taped to the side, the handwriting unmistakably Mafioso’s.

“I needed this one. Don’t ask.”

Elliot’s chest tightened.

He searched further—not out of curiosity, but dread—and found more. Behind the books on the shelf. In the drawer of Mafioso’s desk. Even inside the closet, under a stack of coats. All of them bottles, all of them with notes scrawled in that same sharp penmanship.

Some were excuses:

“Just to take the edge off.”

“Stress from work.”

Some were defenses:

“I don’t have a problem.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

But a few—just a few—were confessions.

“I can’t sleep without it.”

“It’s my fault anyway.”

“I don’t want him to see me like this.”

The last one made Elliot stop. His hand trembled as he unfolded it again, reading the ink over and over. I don’t want him to see me like this.

It wasn’t just drinking. It wasn’t just bad habits or stress. Mafioso was hiding from him—burying guilt and pain at the bottom of bottles, scribbling it out in notes he never meant anyone to find.

Elliot sat down hard on the edge of the bed, clutching the note. His throat burned. He wanted to be angry, wanted to demand why Mafioso thought he had to deal with this alone. But all he could feel was the ache of helplessness, the weight of knowing the man he loved was drowning himself in secrets and shame.

When the sound of the door unlocking startled him, Elliot scrambled to shove the notes and bottles back where he’d found them. His heart pounded, guilt mixing with fear. He wasn’t ready to confront him. Not yet.

But as Mafioso stepped inside—coat heavy on his shoulders, hat shadowing his tired eyes—Elliot couldn’t unsee it anymore. Every tremor, every hollow stare, every bitter glass on the counter.

And it terrified him.

Dinner sat untouched on the table. Elliot had cooked anyway, even though he already knew Mafioso wouldn’t eat it.

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching as Mafioso shrugged off his coat and tossed his hat aside. The man looked exhausted, but there was no softness in it—just something sharp, brittle, held together by willpower alone.

“Long day?” Elliot tried, his voice tentative.

Mafioso grunted something noncommittal, already reaching for the bottle on the counter.

That was when Elliot’s patience cracked. His hand shot out, covering the glass before Mafioso could pour.

“Enough,” Elliot said, sharper than he intended. “You’re not fine. You’re shaking all the time, you won’t eat, you—” He cut himself off before he said too much, before he admitted what he’d found. “You can’t keep doing this.”

Mafioso’s eyes lifted slowly, dark and unreadable. “Doing what?”

“You know what.” Elliot’s voice trembled, but he held his ground. “You’re killing yourself.”

For a long moment, the room was silent but for the clock ticking on the wall. Then Mafioso pulled his hand back, slipping into that cold distance he wore like armor. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” Elliot repeated, his chest tightening. “I find you coming home drunk, sick, barely able to stand sometimes—and I’m not supposed to say anything?”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re not!” Elliot snapped, louder than he meant to. His throat burned. “You think I don’t notice? You think I don’t see what this is doing to you?”

Something flickered across Mafioso’s face, too fast to name. But then it hardened, shuttered. “This isn’t your problem, Elliot.”

“Yes, it is!” Elliot’s voice cracked. “I— I care about you, damn it. Don’t you get that? You don’t get to just—just destroy yourself and tell me it’s not my problem!”

Mafioso’s jaw clenched, his hand flexing as if he wanted to reach out, then stopped himself. He turned away instead, the set of his shoulders final. “You’d be better off if you didn’t care.”

The words hit like a gunshot.

Elliot stared at him, the silence ringing louder than any argument could. His hands shook, but he forced them into fists, nails digging into his palms. He wanted to scream, to cry, to beg—but all he could do was stand there, staring at the man who refused to let himself be saved.

“I can’t do this with you right now,” Mafioso muttered, grabbing his coat again.

And before Elliot could stop him, the door slammed shut, leaving the apartment colder, quieter, emptier than ever.

The slam of the door echoed long after Mafioso was gone. Elliot stood in the silence, staring at the wood as though it might swing back open. It didn’t.

He let out a shaky breath and sank into one of the kitchen chairs. The food on the table had gone cold. He couldn’t even look at it—his stomach twisted too hard.

It wasn’t the first time Mafioso had walked out. It wasn’t the first time he’d come home late, drunk, sick, insisting nothing was wrong. But this time felt different. This time Elliot had seen too much—seen the shaking hands, the bottles hidden like secrets, the notes scrawled in guilt. He couldn’t shove it under the rug anymore.

He buried his face in his hands. What was he supposed to do? He wasn’t a doctor, he wasn’t a miracle-worker. He was just… him. Just Elliot. All he could do was watch someone he cared about tear himself apart, piece by piece, bottle by bottle.

His phone sat on the counter, silent. Elliot picked it up more than once, thumb hovering over Mafioso’s name, but he never pressed call. He didn’t know what he’d even say. Please come home? Please stop? Please don’t leave me like this?

By the time midnight rolled around, Elliot was curled up on the couch, staring at the door, his chest aching with every minute that passed without Mafioso’s return. He told himself he was just tired, just overthinking. That Mafioso would come back, like always.

But deep down, beneath all the reassurances, a heavy, gnawing dread had already taken root.

And Elliot knew—whether Mafioso came home or not—things couldn’t keep going like this.

The call came just past two in the morning.

Elliot hadn’t been able to sleep—every creak of the apartment made him jolt upright, every minute stretched into an hour. When his phone finally buzzed, he scrambled for it, heart in his throat.

It wasn’t Mafioso. It was a neighbor. Someone had found him in the alley behind the building, slumped against the wall, too sick to stand.

Elliot didn’t remember running down the stairs. Didn’t remember shoving through the door into the night air. All he remembered was seeing him there—hat fallen beside him in the dirt, coat half-open, his face pale and slick with sweat.

“Mafioso—!” Elliot dropped to his knees, grabbing his shoulders. He was burning up, shivering despite the summer heat. His breaths came shallow, uneven, and the sour reek of alcohol clung to him like poison.

Mafioso stirred weakly, eyes half-lidded. “I’m fine,” he slurred, voice rough.

“You’re not fine,” Elliot choked, clutching him tighter. “God, look at you—you can’t even stand.”

“I don’t… need your help.” His hand twitched against Elliot’s arm, trying to push him away, but the movement was feeble, desperate. “You’d be better off… if you just let me go.”

The words stabbed deep, sharper than any knife. Elliot’s vision blurred with hot tears, his chest aching. “Don’t you dare say that to me.”

Mafioso’s eyes flickered, unfocused. He muttered something else—half a confession, half a plea. “It’s all my fault. I always ruin it. Always ruin you.”

Elliot shook his head furiously, pulling him against his chest. “No. No, you don’t get to decide that. You don’t get to destroy yourself and call it protecting me. I don’t care how broken you think you are—I’m not leaving you here.”

Mafioso’s body sagged against him, too weak to fight anymore. His breathing hitched, a strangled sound caught between a cough and a sob. Elliot held on tighter, heart pounding as though he could anchor him there, stop him from slipping away.

“You’re all I’ve got,” Elliot whispered, forehead pressed to his damp hair. “Please… please don’t leave me.”

For once, Mafioso didn’t argue. He just trembled in Elliot’s arms, feverish and hollow, too tired to keep pushing him away.

And as Elliot shouted for help, his voice cracking in the empty night, he realized with a sick, twisting dread that love alone might not be enough to save him.

The hospital room was dim, the only light coming from the monitor’s soft glow and the city lamps outside the window. Elliot hadn’t left the chair at Mafioso’s side, not even once. His eyes burned from staying awake, his hands cramped from gripping Mafioso’s gloved one too tightly, but he couldn’t let go. Not yet.

When Mafioso finally stirred, it was with a weak groan, his brow furrowing as though the very act of waking was a fight. Elliot leaned forward instantly.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Mafioso’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused, fever-bright. His lips parted, dry and cracked. “Should’ve… let me go.”

Elliot’s throat clenched. “Don’t you dare start with that.”

But Mafioso wasn’t fully here—his gaze drifted past Elliot, to memories only he could see. His voice was hoarse, broken by weakness. “It’s always the same. I touch something and it breaks. I ruin everything. My father… my family… and now you.”

Elliot’s breath hitched. He wanted to tell him he was wrong, that none of it was his fault, but the words tangled uselessly in his chest.

Mafioso’s hand twitched faintly in his grip, the smallest movement of someone too exhausted to fight. “I drink because it’s quiet, Elliot. Because for a while, I don’t see her face. Don’t hear his voice.” His throat worked, a shuddering swallow. “But it never lasts. And when it’s over, you’re still here. And I—” His voice cracked, raw. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

Elliot felt the tears spilling before he could stop them. He pressed Mafioso’s hand to his forehead, clutching it like a lifeline. “Then don’t hide it. Don’t shut me out. I don’t care if you’re shaking or sick or broken—I want to be here. I need to be here. Do you understand?”

For a long moment, there was only the sound of Mafioso’s uneven breathing. Then, slowly, his fingers curled weakly around Elliot’s hand. Not strong, not certain—just enough.

Elliot bent closer, whispering through the ache in his throat. “You’re not alone anymore. You don’t have to carry it all yourself. Even if you think you’ll break me, I’m not letting go.”

Mafioso’s eyes closed again, but his hand stayed in Elliot’s. His lips moved faintly, shaping words Elliot barely caught.

“…don’t leave.”

It was so quiet Elliot almost thought he imagined it. But he held on tighter, his tears dampening the back of Mafioso’s glove.

“Never,” Elliot breathed, rocking him gently as the fever pulled him back into restless sleep. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The room stayed heavy, the weight of unspoken things still suffocating—but for the first time, Mafioso hadn’t pushed him away. And for Elliot, that was enough to keep holding on.

Chapter Text

The knock at the door came sharp and sure, just as the sun started warming the city. Elliot, still tugging on his shoes, blinked in surprise when he opened it to find Mafioso standing there—coat swaying like he had just stepped off the set of some dramatic film.

“Wha—Mafioso? It’s barely nine—”

“Exactly,” Mafioso cut him off smoothly, tipping his fedora in mock greeting. “Perfect time to steal you away. Today, you’re mine. No work. No worries.”

Elliot’s protests melted under that grin. His chest gave that familiar, helpless flutter. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re coming with me.” Mafioso offered his gloved hand like it was an invitation to another world. Elliot took it before he could think twice.

---

The café Mafioso led him to was tucked between two tall brick buildings, its windows glowing warm. Inside, the smell of fresh bread and espresso wrapped around them like a hug. Glass cases sparkled with pastries and delicate macarons in neat pastel rows.

Elliot’s eyes widened. “Oh—look at those! They’re so pretty I don’t even wanna eat them—”

Mafioso leaned against the counter, dark and imposing, but with his gaze fixed softly on Elliot’s excitement. “Sei più dolce di qualsiasi pasticcino qui.”

Elliot blinked. “...What’d you just say?”

A slow, teasing smirk. “You’re sweeter than any pastry here.”

Color crept up Elliot’s cheeks. “Y—you can’t just—say stuff like that!”

“Ti amo, tesoro.” Mafioso said it low, almost reverent.

(“I love you, darling.”)

Elliot covered his face with his hands, laughing nervously. “Oh my god—stop! People are staring!”

Mafioso only reached across the table once they were seated, brushing his thumb against Elliot’s knuckles. “Let them stare. Lascia che sappiano quanto ti amo.”

(“Let them know how much I love you.”)

The waiter brought their coffee, and before Elliot could mumble out a flustered thank-you, Mafioso leaned in, pressing a light kiss to his forehead. The world slowed—the café noise, the clinking cups, all of it fading into the background as Elliot melted under the gesture.

“You’re unbelievable,” Elliot whispered, trying and failing to hide his smile.

Mafioso only raised his cup in a toast. “Unbelievably yours.”

They wandered out of the café hand-in-hand, the morning light now spilling golden across the streets. Mafioso guided them with a quiet sort of certainty, like he had everything mapped out. Elliot just followed, sipping the last of his coffee, trying not to blush every time Mafioso’s thumb brushed over his knuckles.

The little bell above the shop door jingled as they stepped inside. Elliot’s head shot up immediately—rows and rows of books, the air smelling faintly of ink and paper.

“Oh my god,” Elliot whispered, drifting toward a shelf like he was pulled by invisible strings. “They have the new edition—I’ve been looking for this everywhere!”

He reached for it, only to pause when the shopkeeper smiled knowingly and handed it right to him. “Reserved for you.”

Elliot blinked. “Reserved? But I didn’t—”

Mafioso leaned against a nearby shelf, arms crossed, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Of course I knew. I pay attention.”

Elliot turned, clutching the book to his chest, cheeks flushed bright. “You’re dangerous when you’re thoughtful, you know that?”

“Per te, lo sarò sempre.”

(“For you, I will always be.”)

---

The air outside was alive with sound: the hum of traffic, the chatter of people, and somewhere in the square, a violinist pouring his soul into the strings. Elliot tugged Mafioso closer, eyes shining.

“That’s beautiful…” Elliot murmured, dropping a handful of coins into the open case.

Mafioso, without hesitation, slipped a folded bill on top of the pile. Elliot’s head whipped around. “Mafioso! That’s like…a week’s worth of groceries!”

Mafioso shrugged, unbothered. “Lascia che abbiano qualcosa di bello.”
(“Let them have something beautiful.”)

Elliot groaned, hiding his smile with his hand. “You’re such a show-off.”

“And yet you’re smiling,” Mafioso teased.

---

Down a side street, Elliot spotted it—a beat-up, coin-operated photo booth. His eyes lit up like it was treasure. “Oh, we have to!”

Mafioso raised a brow. “That thing looks older than me.”

“All the better.” Elliot shoved him inside, practically bouncing as he fed in coins. The curtain snapped shut, and in the cramped little booth, Mafioso had no time to prepare before Elliot pressed their cheeks together, flashing goofy grins at the camera.

Click.

The next shot, Elliot held bunny ears over Mafioso’s head.

Click.

The third—Mafioso surprised him by tilting Elliot’s chin up and kissing him soft.

Click.

When the strip slid out, Elliot laughed so hard he nearly cried, but carefully tucked one into his wallet. Mafioso, meanwhile, slipped the other into the inner pocket of his trench coat with the same care he’d give to a secret document.

---

They hadn’t gone three blocks before Elliot pointed. “Oh—look!”

Through a shop window, a line of rabbits hopped lazily in their pen, noses twitching. A small adoption sign hung above.

Mafioso froze. His entire demeanor—cold, composed—crumbled in a single heartbeat. “Bunnies…”

And just like that, he was at the glass, kneeling down, watching them with a softness Elliot had only seen in rare moments. He whispered something in Italian Elliot didn’t quite catch, but his voice carried a reverence that needed no translation.

Elliot leaned on the glass beside him, teasing lightly. “I think you love them more than me.”

Mafioso didn’t look away from the rabbits, but his voice was sure. “Impossible.”

Elliot’s laugh filled the street, light and unguarded, as Mafioso finally turned and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek—his eyes still sparkling like a man who had just discovered magic.

By the time noon rolled around, Mafioso led Elliot up a narrow stairwell that opened onto a rooftop diner—tiny tables, potted plants, and an unobstructed view of the whole glittering city. The wind carried the smell of sizzling food, and the hum of the streets below felt far away.

They slid into a booth by the edge, and before Elliot could sit opposite, Mafioso tugged his wrist and guided him to the seat beside him instead.

Elliot raised a brow. “You know, most people sit across from each other.”

Mafioso’s lips curved as he draped an arm behind Elliot’s shoulders. “Most people don’t get to sit with you.”

The food was simple—burgers, fries, soda—but with Mafioso practically leaning into him, every bite tasted extraordinary. At one point, Elliot laughed mid-bite, cheeks puffed with fries, and Mafioso just stared at him with a look so tender it made Elliot choke on his drink.

“You’re staring.”

“I’m memorizing,” Mafioso corrected, voice low, brushing a fry crumb from Elliot’s lip with a gloved thumb.

---

Later, the two wandered into the city park, the path shaded by rows of trees. A small vendor sold cones of ice cream, and Mafioso, without hesitation, bought two.

Elliot licked his happily, already smudging chocolate on his nose before he realized. Mafioso halted mid-step.

“…You have something there,” Mafioso said gravely, gesturing.

“Oh, do I?” Elliot went cross-eyed trying to see it, swiping uselessly.

Mafioso sighed like a martyr. “Disgraceful. Truly.” He leaned down, kissed the smear right off Elliot’s nose, and pulled back with a mock grimace. “Tastes like poor judgment.”

Elliot doubled over laughing, nearly dropping his cone. “You’re—awful!”

Mafioso smirked, but the way his hand lingered at the small of Elliot’s back betrayed just how much he adored him.

---

The afternoon bled gold into the sky as Mafioso guided Elliot toward the pier. Rows of rides and lights flickered awake, but Mafioso led him straight to the Ferris wheel, slipping the attendant a bill for the two of them to ride alone.

As the cart rose higher, the city unfolded beneath them—rooftops stretching like patchwork, the river shimmering in the distance. Elliot pressed his face to the glass, eyes wide with wonder.

“Look at that view…” Elliot whispered.

But Mafioso wasn’t looking at the skyline. He was looking at Elliot, at the way the sunlight caught his hair, at the reflection of the city in his eyes.

Elliot turned, catching him. “…You’re not even looking outside.”

“I am,” Mafioso murmured, tightening his hand around Elliot’s. “Sei il mio orizzonte.”

(“You are my horizon.”)

The cart swayed gently at the top, and Elliot leaned into him, heart hammering, their joined hands resting between them. From above, the city sparkled, but neither of them cared—because the world felt smaller when they were pressed this close.

After the Ferris wheel, Mafioso guided Elliot down a quieter street, past glowing shop windows. Elliot was mid-story about some disastrous pizza delivery when Mafioso suddenly stopped in front of a boutique jewelry store.

Elliot blinked. “Uh… you don’t really seem like the necklace shopping type.”

Mafioso didn’t answer—just held the door open with a little flourish. Inside, glass cases sparkled with silver chains and trinkets. Mafioso moved with purposeful intent, scanning the displays until his gaze landed on a small charm: a delicate silver keychain shaped like a rabbit.

He bought it without hesitation.

“Mafioso, no,” Elliot whispered, hands flapping nervously. “That’s too much, I don’t—”

Mafioso pressed it into his palm and closed his fingers around it. His voice dropped warm, insistent: “Accettalo. Sei la mia fortuna, Elliot.”

(“Accept it. You're my luck, Elliot.”)

Elliot’s throat went tight. “…You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” Mafioso corrected, brushing his lips over Elliot’s knuckles before they stepped back into the evening air.

---

They found their way onto a quiet rooftop garden as the sun sank low, painting the city in orange and pink. The wind was softer up here, the chaos of the streets below fading into a distant hum.

Elliot leaned against Mafioso’s shoulder, sighing with contentment. “It’s beautiful…”

Mafioso tilted his head slightly toward him. “Non quanto te.”

(“Not as much as you.”)

Elliot laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

Mafioso’s arm tightened around him. For once, though, his voice softened into something fragile. “Non pensavo di meritare questa felicità.”

(“I never thought I’d deserve this happiness.”)

Elliot turned his face toward him, smiling, though his eyes shimmered. “Well, too bad. You’re stuck with it. With me.”

Mafioso kissed his temple, lingering like he never wanted to pull away.

---

When night fell, Mafioso led Elliot to a small, candlelit restaurant tucked away on a corner street. Classy, but cozy—the kind of place with flickering lanterns and soft piano in the background.

Ever the gentleman, Mafioso pulled out Elliot’s chair, poured his drink, and draped his coat on the back of his own seat in a single elegant motion. Elliot just watched, smirking.

“You know, if you weren’t a scary mafia guy, you’d make a really good waiter.”

Mafioso arched a brow. “Attento, coniglio.”

(“Careful, bunny.”)

But Elliot kept it up, cracking little jokes until Mafioso’s stoic mask broke. His shoulders shook as he tried to suppress laughter, finally giving in when Elliot leaned across the table and whispered some terrible pun about spaghetti.

Mafioso laughed—really laughed—and Elliot swore it was the best sound in the world.

“You’re impossible,” Mafioso said, wiping at his eyes with a glove.

Elliot reached across the table, squeezing his hand. “Good thing you like impossible, then.”

The candles flickered between them, their laughter melting into soft smiles, and the whole world felt narrowed down to just two plates, two glasses, and two people hopelessly, shamelessly in love.

The night had settled over the city, streetlamps flickering pools of golden light onto the sidewalks. Elliot and Mafioso walked hand-in-hand, their steps unhurried, the rhythm of their day still lingering between them.

Elliot swung their joined hands slightly, his laughter echoing faintly in the quiet streets. “I can’t believe you dragged me all over the city today.”

“You loved every second of it,” Mafioso said smoothly, but when a cool breeze cut across the street, he stopped. With no hesitation, he slipped off his coat and draped it over Elliot’s shoulders.

Elliot blinked. “…Mafioso, this thing weighs like twenty pounds.”

“Then it’s perfect,” Mafioso murmured, brushing a strand of hair from Elliot’s face.

They paused beneath a lamppost, the city hushed around them. Mafioso’s grip tightened, his usual composure faltering just slightly.

“Elliot,” he began, voice lower, unsteady. “I’m not… good at this. But you should know… sei la mia vita.”

(“You are my life.”)

Elliot’s breath caught, but Mafioso pressed on, words tumbling raw. “You’re the reason I’m still here. The reason I smile at all. Without you, I—” He stopped, swallowing, eyes shadowed under the lamplight. “You saved me.”

For a beat, Elliot just stared—then his grin split wide and helpless. “Mafioso, I love you so much I think I’ll explode.”

Mafioso blinked, startled, before Elliot launched himself into his chest, burying his face in his shirt. Mafioso chuckled shakily, pressing a kiss to the crown of Elliot’s head before tilting his chin up and kissing him quiet under the glow of the streetlight.

By the time they reached Elliot’s doorstep, the world had blurred into a soft haze of city lights and muffled night sounds. Mafioso shifted, like he was about to step away—but Elliot clung tighter to his coat sleeve, eyes wide.

“You’re making this hard, pizza boy,” Mafioso murmured, voice fond.

Elliot’s answer was immediate, stubborn, and achingly sweet. “Good. Stay.”

There was no hesitation after that. Mafioso’s coat slipped from Elliot’s shoulders as he let himself be pulled inside. The door closed softly behind them, shutting out the city, leaving only warmth, quiet, and the promise of tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The alley was silent except for the buzzing of a weak light overhead. Mafioso stood there, his breath curling in the night air, heavy and steady after the work was done. At his feet, his rival lay crumpled against the wall, barely clinging to life. Blood ran in thin rivulets across the cracked pavement, spreading until it touched the edge of his polished shoes.

He exhaled slowly, as if the violence had left him tired rather than satisfied. With a quiet, methodical care, he pulled a handkerchief from his coat and wiped the blood from his gloves. The smell of iron clung to the air, sharp and metallic, but to him it was only routine. Another night. Another problem silenced.

The dim light flickered, casting his shadow long across the bricks. For a moment, he only stared at it—tall, faceless, looming. Then his hand slipped into his pocket, brushing past the weight of his lighter and his folded papers, until his fingers found something else.

A photograph.

He drew it out carefully. It was small and bent at the corners from overuse, the paper soft where his thumb always traced. Under the yellow glow of the alley light, Elliot’s face looked brighter than anything around him—like he didn’t belong in this place at all. Mafioso’s chest eased the moment he saw it, his jaw unclenching, his breathing settling into something gentler. The alley, the blood, the silence—all of it seemed to fall away until there was only Elliot’s smile looking back at him.

For a fleeting moment, he could almost see it: himself pushing open the pizzeria door, the warm smell of dough and cheese greeting him instead of the metallic tang of blood. Elliot would be there behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, tossing a smile as if it were nothing at all.

The image was almost enough to make him turn on his heel and leave this place behind.

But duty clawed at him. His comrades were waiting—waiting for confirmation that their rival was gone, waiting for the next move in a game of survival that had no pause button. If he disappeared now, if he chose Elliot over the family, what message would that send?

Still, he lingered in the thought. He could hear Elliot’s voice in his head, light and teasing: “Did you even wash your hands before thinking about me?”

He almost smirked at that, almost let himself laugh. Then another thought, softer, steadier: “You don’t always have to carry this weight, you know.”

The imagined words wrapped around him like a shield, dulling the guilt that usually pressed against his ribs after nights like this. Maybe he couldn’t be with Elliot now—not with blood on his gloves and shadows trailing him—but he carried him close enough.

He folded the photo, slipped it back into his coat, right over his heart. His gaze lingered on the pizzeria in his mind’s eye for a moment longer before turning toward the real world. The job wasn’t done yet.

The casino’s back entrance loomed ahead, its neon lights bleeding red and blue into the dark street. The sounds of muffled laughter and music trickled out from inside, but in the quiet alleyway, Mafioso’s footsteps echoed like a metronome. Each step was steady, measured—carrying him farther from Elliot’s imagined warmth and deeper into the life he could never escape.

Inside, his comrades were waiting. A card game half-abandoned, glasses of brandy sweating on the table. Their eyes flicked up as he entered, sharp and expectant. Mafioso said nothing at first, removing his gloves with practiced ease, folding them carefully beside him as if they weren’t stained just minutes ago.

Finally, his voice cut through the smoke-filled air—low, even, certain.

“It’s done.”

No one asked for details. They didn’t need them. A few nods, a muttered toast, and the room shifted back into its rhythm. Business as usual.

But while they shuffled cards and clinked glasses, Mafioso sat back, silent. His hand drifted instinctively to his coat pocket, pressing against the photo tucked inside. He didn’t take it out this time; just the faint brush of paper against his palm was enough.

As the chatter blurred around him, he thought of Elliot again—imagined flour dusting his hair, imagined that easy smile waiting for him. The chaos, the blood, the endless responsibilities… they all dulled when he remembered that.

He drew in a quiet breath, steady and sure. For all the weight on his shoulders, it was Elliot who gave him the air to carry it.

Chapter Text

1. The Pronoun Interrogation

The line at the coffee shop was long, slow-moving, and annoyingly crowded. Elliot fidgeted with his sleeve, trying not to spill his nerves along with the latte he was about to order. Mafioso, as usual, was calm, leaning slightly against the counter, arms crossed, exuding that intimidating “don’t even think about it” aura.

Then the man behind them spoke.

“So… what are you supposed to be?” he asked, eyes flicking to Elliot with a smirk that made Elliot’s stomach twist.

Elliot froze. His throat tightened. “…A guy,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

The man raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Uh-huh. Sure you are.”

Mafioso’s head tilted, eyes narrowing slightly. A slow smile spread across his face—one that promised trouble.

“Correct,” Mafioso said, voice calm but deliberate, cutting through the chatter like a blade. “A man. My man. A very handsome man, in fact. Would you like me to spell it out for you, or are you capable of understanding on your own?”

The man blinked. Blinked again. He clearly hadn’t expected someone to intervene with this level of intensity.

Elliot wanted to shrink into himself. “Maf… maybe don’t—”

“He,” Mafioso said, louder this time, fixing Elliot with a glare that could make steel bend. “Him. Boyfriend. Husband material. Masculine. Manly. Adonis. Himbo. My Elliot.”

The man staggered back a step. “I… I was just—”

“You were just what?” Mafioso asked, soft and dangerous, like a velvet whip. “Questioning the pronouns of someone I love? That’s adorable. Please continue so I may correct you further.”

Elliot buried his face in his hands, muffling a laugh. He’d say something, but Mafioso’s smug satisfaction was a force of nature he couldn’t interrupt.

By the time their lattes were ready, the man had slunk off, muttering apologies under his breath.

Elliot peeked up. “You do realize you terrify people, right?”

Mafioso’s grin softened just slightly. “I protect you, Elliot. That terrifies the wrong people.”

Elliot shook his head, exasperated but secretly thrilled. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet effective,” Mafioso replied, sliding his arm around Elliot as they walked out.

2. The ID Trick

The bookstore smelled of old paper and cinnamon-scented candles. Elliot wandered down an aisle, fingering the spines of novels, while Mafioso casually scanned the store, eyes always alert.

“Pfft. You don’t look like a real man,” someone muttered from behind, loud enough for Elliot to hear.

Elliot froze. His cheeks burned, and he started to turn red. “Maf… maybe ignore—”

But Mafioso was already in motion. He spun around slowly, wallet in hand, face the picture of calm menace.

“Sir,” Mafioso said, voice dripping with honeyed danger, “I have three forms of identification here proving he is, in fact, a man. Four, if you count the love letters addressed to my boyfriend, Elliot, the man.”

He dramatically flipped through his wallet: ID card, driver’s license, a membership card to a very exclusive wine club… each one pulled with perfect timing.

Elliot blinked, mortified. “Maf… you do not need to—”

“Would you like me to produce the grocery receipt as well?” Mafioso asked, holding up a crumpled piece of paper. “Look. Elliot (handsome MAN). Clearly labeled.”

The transphobe’s mouth opened, then closed. Words failed him. He shuffled backward, muttering something incomprehensible, before making a hasty exit.

Elliot buried his face in a book, whispering: “You’re ridiculous…”

Mafioso leaned close, smirking, voice low and possessive: “Ridiculous? Perhaps. Effective? Absolutely. You’re safe, Elliot.”

Elliot peeked up, a mixture of exasperation and amusement on his face. “You have a whole binder of this, don’t you?”

Mafioso chuckled, tucking the IDs back into his wallet. “A man must be prepared. And so must my Elliot.”

3. The Over-the-Top Threat

Elliot and Mafioso were walking through the park, the afternoon sun dappled through the trees. Elliot was pointing out some stray bunnies, trying to enjoy the quiet.

Then someone muttered under their breath as they passed, loud enough for Elliot to hear: “Look at him… she thinks she’s—”

Elliot froze. His stomach dropped. “Maf… please, let’s just—”

Mafioso’s head snapped toward the offender, eyes sharp as knives. He leaned in, voice deceptively sweet but with the weight of pure danger behind it:

“Excuse me,” he said, smiling faintly, “that’s Mister Elliot. He/Him. My future husband.”

The person blinked, trying to respond.

“Misgender him again,” Mafioso continued, voice low and melodic, “and I’ll file a complaint with… Heaven’s Registry. They handle complaints about souls. I assure you, they are very efficient.”

Elliot buried his face in his hands, half embarrassed, half trying not to laugh.

The passerby’s eyes went wide, their pace quickening as they muttered hurried apologies.

Elliot peeked out. “Maf… Heaven’s Registry?”

Mafioso’s lips curved into a tiny, smug smile. “It exists for people like this. I keep their number handy. You never know when someone needs to be… corrected.”

Elliot shook his head, exasperated but secretly relieved. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, highly effective,” Mafioso said, offering his arm. “Shall we continue our walk, Elliot?”

Elliot linked his arm with Mafioso’s, grinning despite himself. Public ignorance had never been this entertaining.

4. The Sonnellino Voice

Elliot and Mafioso were in the grocery store, grabbing ingredients for dinner. The aisle smelled faintly of bread and citrus, but Elliot’s nerves were already on edge from a previous encounter earlier that day.

A loud voice broke the relative quiet.

“She—”

Elliot flinched, instinctively turning red. “Maf… please, don’t—”

Mafioso’s eyes narrowed. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in toward the speaker. His voice dropped to a soft, calm, but terrifying tone—the kind that could make grown men shake:

“That’s he/him you’re speaking to. My man. My Elliot. Forget again, and I will have your tongue removed and mounted in a jar labeled ‘People Who Forgot Elliot’s Pronouns.’ Care to test me?”

Elliot’s jaw dropped. “Maf… you don’t actually—”

“Daily practice,” Mafioso interrupted smoothly, voice as casual as if discussing the weather.

The transphobe stammered, eyes wide as they realized they were no match for this calm, methodical wrath. With a hurried apology, they slunk away, leaving Elliot blinking at Mafioso in disbelief.

“You… you practice that?” Elliot whispered, cheeks still pink.

Mafioso’s smirk was faint but sharp. “Of course. One must be ready to protect what is theirs, in all ways necessary.”

Elliot shook his head, part exasperated, part secretly thrilled. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” Mafioso said, wrapping an arm around Elliot’s shoulders, “incredibly effective.”

5. The Comedy Bit

Elliot and Mafioso were exiting the subway, trying to dodge the late-afternoon crowd. Elliot was half-laughing at how ridiculous the day had already been.

Then a voice called out from behind, loud and accusatory:

“She—”

Mafioso didn’t even turn his head. “HE.”

The person’s face twisted in confusion. “…I mean, she—”

Mafioso’s voice rose slightly, still calm but dripping with deliberate insistence: “HE.”

“…She—”

“HE.”

“…I mean—”

“HE. HIM. MY BOYFRIEND.”

The passerby’s words became tangled in frustration. They tried one last time: “She—”

“HE,” Mafioso said again, this time with a subtle grin, savoring the moment. “And if you try again, you’ll be personally escorted to the next available lesson on respecting men named Elliot.”

Finally, the transphobe gave up, muttering incomprehensible apologies while retreating into the crowd.

Elliot, cheeks flaming, buried his face in Mafioso’s arm. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I protect you,” Mafioso replied, voice softening as he squeezed Elliot gently. “Ridiculous or not, I’m very effective.”

Elliot shook his head, half laughing, half exasperated. “I can’t believe this is my life.”

Mafioso only pulled him closer. “You’ll get used to it.”

Chapter Text

It starts in the little things.

Visits cut short with a phone call. Late-night texts left unanswered until morning. His chair at the pizza shop sitting empty more often than full.

Elliot notices every crack. He’s always noticed.

At first he tries to fill the gaps with excuses—maybe Mafioso’s busy, maybe he’s stressed. But the excuses wear thin when the distance lingers, heavy and deliberate.

The warmth Elliot offers so freely, the kind that used to draw Mafioso in like a starving man to food, now feels like a danger. He keeps himself on the outside of it, watching from across the street instead of stepping through the door. He smokes until the filter burns, throws away more cigarettes than he finishes. He tells himself it’s better this way.

But when Elliot catches his eye from the counter one evening—smiling, bright, calling his name like nothing is wrong—Mafioso feels something twist inside him. He grips the edge of his coat until the leather strains under his gloves.

It would be so easy to sit down, to order a slice, to pretend.

It would be so easy to let himself want.

But he turns instead.

Leaves Elliot mid-sentence, smile faltering at the empty doorway.

The rain starts that night, steady and cold, and Mafioso doesn’t stop walking.

The storm hasn’t let up by the time Elliot closes shop. He fumbles with the keys, shivering as the rain beats down, and when he finally turns, he sees him.

Mafioso is waiting under the streetlamp, coat soaked through, fedora shadowing his face. He looks carved out of the storm itself, more shadow than man.

Elliot freezes. “...You could’ve come in.”

Mafioso shakes his head, water dripping from his hat. “I can’t keep doing this.”

The words cut sharper than the rain.

Elliot swallows hard. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Mafioso’s voice is low, flat, but his hands tremble inside his pockets. “You have your life. Your peace. And me—” His jaw tightens. “All I do is drag blood to your doorstep.”

“That’s not true,” Elliot snaps, stepping forward, the storm plastering his hair to his forehead. “You don’t get to decide what I want—”

“You deserve better!” The shout cracks like a gunshot, echoing through the empty street. Mafioso’s chest heaves, rain streaming down his face, indistinguishable from the tears he refuses to show.

Elliot’s voice shakes. He takes another step closer, desperation spilling out raw:

“Because I love you, damn it!”

The words hang in the downpour. For a moment, Mafioso falters. His eyes widen, vulnerable, the mask slipping—just for a heartbeat.

But then the hardness returns. He shakes his head.

“No. Not like this. Not because you’re afraid I’ll leave.”

He turns sharply, coat whipping with the storm, and starts walking away.

“Mafioso—!” Elliot reaches out, his hand brushing the wet fabric of the coat, but Mafioso pulls free. He doesn’t look back. His figure dissolves into the rain, swallowed by the night.

Elliot stands under the streetlamp, trembling, soaked, throat raw. His knees threaten to give, but he stays rooted, staring into the rain as if waiting for Mafioso to turn around.

He doesn’t.

And in the shadows of the alley, the mafialings linger unseen, silent witnesses to their Don’s retreat. Not even they can bridge the distance he’s just carved open.

Soldier shifts uncomfortably, his gloved hands clenching into fists. He’s seen blood spill, heard dying screams without flinching—but Elliot’s broken voice under the streetlamp makes something in his chest twist.

Caporegime mutters, low, “This is a mistake.” But there’s no fire in it. Just a quiet resignation, because Mafioso’s word is final—even when it leaves wreckage behind.

Consigliere stays stone-faced, though the rigid line of their jaw betrays how hard they’re holding back. Contractee wipes their face on their sleeve, cursing under their breath. None of them step forward. None of them can.

They fade back into the shadows as Elliot finally staggers inside, dripping rainwater across the empty shop floor. He doesn’t even turn on the lights. Just drops into a chair, the silence pressing in where Mafioso should be. His eyes fall on the opposite seat—the one always reserved, even if Mafioso never asked for it—and for the first time, it looks unbearably empty.

He sets his head in his hands. The sobs that escape are raw, unpolished, nothing like the cheerful chatter the shop usually hears. They sound too big for the little building to hold.

Across the city, Mafioso sits alone at his desk. The rain still drums against the windows. A fresh cigarette burns down to ash between his fingers, ignored.

There’s a letter half-written in front of him—ink smudged where his hand had hesitated, words spilling out like confession. He’s written half a dozen like it, each one folded and hidden in the drawer. Not a single one has ever reached Elliot.

The words he can’t speak fill the page in shaking lines:

I love you too. But I will ruin you.

Mafioso stares at it until the letters blur, until the ache in his chest is unbearable, then crumples the page and tosses it aside. The drawer is full, and he knows he’ll only write another.

Morning will come. Elliot will open the shop like always. And Mafioso will drink his bitter coffee in silence, sleepless, waiting for the night to take him again.

Elliot throws himself into running the pizza shop. He scrubs the counters until the laminate shines, refills sauce bottles before they’re half-empty, stacks boxes higher than they need to be. Anything to keep moving. Anything to keep from looking at the chair near the window—the one Mafioso used to sit in.

But no matter how he tries, his eyes always find it.

The empty seat glares back at him, loud in its silence.

On the worst nights, when he closes up and the hum of the freezers is the only sound, Elliot slips a hand into his pocket. His fingers brush over the little bunny charm he’d picked out weeks ago, meaning to give it to Mafioso. A small thing, something gentle, something that said I know you, I see you, I care.

Now it burns against his palm, hot with rejection. A gift that will never be given.

Meanwhile, Mafioso doesn’t sleep.

The mansion is vast and quiet, its hallways echoing with a cold that no amount of wealth can soften. Nights stretch long, silent, and unbearable without Elliot’s chatter filling the space. Without his laugh, without the warmth of his absurd little stories.

Mafioso sits at his desk, cigarette smoke curling around him, letters scattered across the surface. His handwriting falters with every page—letters addressed to Elliot, full of things he cannot say aloud.

I miss you.

I am not what you deserve.

I love you, but I will only destroy you.

The letters never leave the desk. He folds them, tucks them into the drawer already overstuffed with the same words, rewritten over and over. Confessions trapped on paper, hidden away like contraband.

When dawn comes, he doesn’t crawl into bed. He doesn’t even close his eyes. He just pours another cup of black coffee and stares at the sunlight breaking through the curtains, numbly waiting for another sleepless night to follow.

And across the city, Elliot opens the pizza shop, unlocking the door with a heaviness in his chest that doesn’t fade.

The empty chair is still waiting.

The days blur into weeks. Elliot keeps moving—pizza dough, deliveries, laughter forced until his throat aches. But the empty chair is always there, silent, heavy, unyielding. The bunny charm never leaves his pocket. Some nights he presses it so hard into his palm it leaves marks.

Mafioso keeps writing. Letters pile high in the drawer, ink bleeding truths he’ll never let Elliot see. Dawn comes and goes in waves of sleeplessness, bitter coffee, and the endless hum of silence.

Until one night—one mistake—he leaves the drawer unlocked.

Elliot doesn’t mean to find them. He isn’t supposed to be there at all, but Mafioso’s absence has finally pushed him into recklessness. Into storming the house he once swore he’d never step foot in. Searching for answers he isn’t ready to find.

And he finds them.

Dozens of pages, some neat, some smudged, all carrying the same weight.

I miss you.

I love you.

I’ll only ruin you.

The words blur as Elliot reads them, his hands shaking, throat tight. Proof that Mafioso never stopped caring. Proof that the distance was never born of hate, but of a belief too deep in his own unworthiness.

By the time the last page slips from Elliot’s hands, his chest is a battlefield of grief and hope, both tearing him apart.

He stands in the quiet of the office, rain beginning to drum against the windows again. The stack of letters waits on the desk, heavy with everything unsaid.

It should feel like an answer. Instead, it feels like a question.

Whether it’s too late—or not—hangs in the silence between them.

And somewhere in the city, Mafioso walks alone beneath the storm, unaware that his hidden truths have finally been found.

Chapter Text

The announcement came mid-morning, delivered with all the calm precision of a government memo and the weight of divine decree.

“You are officially cleared for one full week. No missions. No collections. No surveillance. Enjoy the silence,” Eunoia intoned, her holographic display flickering faintly as she blinked. Then, with a warning beep, she added: “This was not easy. Please don’t squander it.”

And then she blinked out.

The room fell into stunned silence.

“…She basically just gave you guys a vacation,” Elliot said slowly, coffee balanced in his hands as he sat cross-legged on the floor.

“A week off?” Caporegime repeated, like he was testing the words for poison. “Like… a full week? In a row?”

“Does this mean we don’t have to break anyone’s legs?” Contractee asked, eyes wide.

“No breaking. No threatening. No paperwork,” Consigliere confirmed, thumbing through a color-coded folder. “All debts are paused. This is legitimate.”

Contractee let out a gasp so dramatic it bordered on theatrical. “We’re… free?”

“For now,” Soldier muttered, arms crossed, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

There was a beat of silence. Then—

“BEACH EPISODE!!” Contractee bellowed, leaping onto the couch cushions like it was a stage.

Everyone stared.

Caporegime blinked. “…I’m listening.”

“I’m in,” Mafioso said immediately, not even glancing up from his tea.

Elliot raised a brow. “Seriously?”

“You deserve a break,” Mafioso said simply. Then, after a beat, “And so do I.”

“I’ve never even been to a beach before,” Contractee admitted in a rush. “Like a real one. With sand, and seashells, and those little drinks with umbrellas in them—”

“You don’t drink,” Consigliere cut in.

“I will if it comes with an umbrella,” Contractee declared.

Elliot snorted into his sleeve.

Mafioso set his mug aside with quiet finality. “We’ll need a van. Supplies. A map.”

“I already have five spreadsheets,” Consigliere said.

Caporegime was hunched over his phone, eyes alight. “There are volleyball brackets. Do we enter as a team? Do we need a name? We should have a name.”

“I’m bringing floaties,” Contractee announced proudly. “The big kind. Comically oversized.”

“You can’t swim,” Soldier deadpanned.

“Nope,” Contractee said cheerfully. “But I will float like a champion.”

Elliot leaned against the arm of the couch, watching the chaos spill over as Capo and Contractee started arguing about team logos, Consigliere muttered about itineraries, and Mafioso quietly scribbled down a packing list in sharp, neat handwriting.

The gang was loud. Chaotic. Impossible.

But, for once, they were

also… happy.

And no one was looking over their shoulder.

The safehouse was in shambles.

Elliot leaned against the kitchen doorway, coffee in hand, and watched the living room unravel like a slow-motion explosion.

“I asked for one duffel bag,” Consigliere muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose as Contractee sprinted past, armed with a pool noodle longer than he was tall.

“It’s emotional support equipment,” Contractee insisted, dramatically stuffing three inflatable flamingo rings into a suitcase that already contained four pairs of sunglasses, a beach speaker, and—Elliot squinted—one small garden gnome.

Caporegime stopped mid-stretch. “What is that even for?”

“For vibes,” Contractee said solemnly.

“Unpack it.”

“Coward.”

Across the room, Soldier zipped up a neatly packed black duffel with military precision. Inside: one towel, one backup towel, sunscreen, a first aid kit, and a single spare floatie labeled in neat Sharpie: CONTRACTEE INSURANCE.

He glanced up once, calm and unbothered. “The gnome doesn’t go.”

“It goes,” Contractee hissed, clutching it tighter.

Mafioso entered then, balancing a woven picnic basket in one arm and a beach umbrella in the other. “No weapons,” he said flatly.

Caporegime froze. “…Wait, what?”

“This is a vacation.”

“But what if we get attacked by a rival gang on a banana boat?”

“Then you improvise.” Mafioso’s expression didn’t change. “With the banana.”

Elliot walked in behind him, hefting a cooler full of drinks and half-frozen water bottles. “Okay, but what if someone starts a turf war over a volleyball court?”

“We win,” Caporegime said immediately, rolling his shoulder like he was prepping for the match of his life.

Consigliere swept by with a clipboard, ticking boxes like a man possessed. “Food for two days, backup sunscreen, a bag of marshmallows, emergency meds, and enough towels to open a linen shop. We are not bringing the gnome.”

Contractee gasped, scandalized. “You can’t just ban vibes!”

Mafioso blinked once, unimpressed, and headed for the door. “I’m loading the van.”

Consigliere exhaled through his teeth. “Put him in the trunk.”

“HEY—” Contractee yelped.

Elliot hid his grin behind the cooler handle. For all the chaos, it was starting to look less like a mission briefing

…and more like a family packing for vacation.

Outside, the van was already open and half-packed. Mafioso slid the picnic basket and umbrella into place with practiced efficiency, arranging them like puzzle pieces. Elliot followed with the cooler, setting it down carefully beside the folding chairs.

He stretched, back cracking, and tilted his head toward the morning sky. “Think it’ll be clear?”

Mafioso glanced over his shoulder. “We deserve good weather.”

Elliot grinned. “And no one gets lost this time?”

“No promises.”

---

Inside the safehouse, chaos was still at full volume.

Contractee crouched by Soldier’s bag, attempting to bury the gnome—Professor Splash—between neatly folded towels.

Soldier didn’t even blink. “I will burn that gnome.”

Contractee shrieked like he’d been shot and bolted down the hallway, gnome clutched in both hands.

Consigliere ignored them, calmly checking the final item off his clipboard. “That’s everything. Theoretically.”

Caporegime marched past, volleyball net slung over one shoulder, a bulky case tucked under the other arm. “I’m not saying I’m going to dominate beach sports,” he said, “but I am bringing a scoreboard.”

Elliot blinked. “Why do we even own a portable scoreboard?”

Caporegime grinned, sharp and unrepentant. “For situations like this.”

---

By the time everyone stumbled out the door, the van looked less like a vehicle and more like a clown car preparing for war.

Chaos: packed.

Snacks: secured.

Weapons: accidentally left behind (on purpose).

Mafia beach bonding… loading.

The rest of the drive dissolved into madness.

It started when Caporegime leaned forward, pointing at the car speakers like they were a loaded weapon.

“I bet you can’t hit the high note,” he said.

Contractee gasped, scandalized. “Is that a challenge?”

The opening chords of Total Eclipse of the Heart blasted through the van, loud enough to rattle the mirrors, as if summoned by some chaotic god.

“You’re gonna regret this,” Contractee warned, dramatically flipping his sunglasses down.

He launched into the first verse with the reckless passion of a Broadway understudy about to lose his job. Caporegime didn’t wait—he dove into the harmonies like his life depended on it.

“I NEED YOU NOW TONIIIIIIIIIIGHT—!”

“AND I NEEEEED YOU MOOOOORE THAN EVEEEEEER—!!”

Elliot groaned, burying his face in a towel. “Why are they screaming like they’re being hunted?”

“They are,” Mafioso muttered, eyes still on the map. “By the pitch.”

Consigliere’s temple pulsed like a warning light. “If either of you touches the AUX again, I will replace you with a playlist of whale songs and shame.”

---

A crinkle.

A fwip.

Then—a lone potato chip pinged off the back of Consigliere’s head with sniper-like accuracy.

He didn’t flinch. He simply reached up, plucked the chip from his collar, and placed it on the dashboard with all the slow menace of a man taking inventory of personal betrayals.

“Capo, that wasn’t me!” Contractee shouted instantly. “It was—it was gravity! And, uh—bumpy roads! And sabotage!”

Caporegime wheezed. “I literally watched you frisbee it like a Pringle of death.”

Consigliere exhaled through his nose, dangerously calm. “If another chip hits me, I will install a cage around the entire back row. I already have the schematics.”

Contractee leaned close to Capo, whispering: “Do you think he’s serious?”

Capo glanced toward the front, where Consigliere was scrolling through a file titled MODULAR VEHICLE RESTRAINT DESIGN: EMERGENCY EDITION.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Run.”

---

Meanwhile, Elliot had let his head fall against Mafioso’s shoulder, eyelids fluttering, fingers curled lazily around a water bottle.

“Let me know if I’m heavy,” he murmured, voice soft with sleep.

“You’re not,” Mafioso said quietly.

The map lay open in his lap, one finger tracing the coastal highway marked in pale blue. Every so often his gaze slipped from the paper to the curve of Elliot’s cheek, to the freckles dusted across his nose, to the way humidity tugged his hair into soft curls. He didn’t say anything about it. He just smiled faintly, tilting his head until it rested against Elliot’s.

“Have you ever been to the beach?” Mafioso asked after a long stretch of quiet.

Elliot hummed. “Once. I got sunburnt in five minutes and cried over a crab.”

Mafioso’s mouth curved. “Sounds like a tragic romance.”

“I was six.”

“Then we’ll rewrite it.”

And with that, the quiet wrapped back around them like a blanket, broken only by the karaoke war zone raging in the back.

---

Soldier remained in the passenger seat, arms folded, ushanka slightly askew. He had not stirred once since they left the city. Not during—

• The loud explosion of a chip bag,

• Caporegime attempting to do the Worm in the aisle,

• Contractee setting off a beach ball horn by accident,

• or Mafioso suddenly barking, “TURN LEFT HERE” when they were already in the correct lane.

At some point, Contractee gently crowned him with a string of seaweed beads, whispering, “For the vibes.” Soldier didn’t so much as twitch.

When a cooler slid forward and smacked his knee, still nothing.

“Is he even alive?” Elliot whispered, peeking forward.

“Yes,” Consigliere replied without hesitation. “He’s simply choosing not to acknowledge any of you.”

---

Two hours from the coast, Contractee clambered over the back row like a gremlin, planting himself directly behind the driver’s seat.

“ARE WE THERE YET?” he roared into Consigliere’s ear.