Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Elliot pressed his palms to the counter, willing the world to stop spinning. The smell of tomato sauce—normally comforting—curled unpleasantly in his stomach. He swallowed hard, forcing down the wave of nausea before anyone noticed.

He straightened up quickly when Mafioso’s shadow fell across the kitchen doorway. The man’s fedora was tilted low, coat still damp from the drizzle outside. His sharp eyes scanned Elliot with a precision that made lying nearly impossible.

“You look pale,” Mafioso said simply. His voice wasn’t harsh, but it left no room to brush the words aside.

Elliot forced a laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Didn’t sleep much. Probably just the late shift catching up to me.”

Mafioso stepped closer, gloves brushing against Elliot’s sleeve as if to anchor him in place. “You’ve been dragging for days. Nodding off. Skipping meals. Don’t tell me it’s nothing.”

Elliot’s heart jumped, but he managed a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s nothing.”

Mafioso didn’t press further, but his stare lingered long after Elliot turned away, pretending to be busy with the oven.

The next morning, Elliot woke with a heaviness in his body he couldn’t shake. His head pounded, his stomach churned, and the pale reflection staring back at him in the bathroom mirror only confirmed what he already feared.

He gripped the sink so tightly his knuckles whitened.

I can’t keep pretending. I need to know.

When Mafioso left for the day—off to deal with business Elliot was never allowed too close to—Elliot slipped out. His hands trembled the entire walk to the pharmacy, every step echoing like a betrayal. He pulled his hat low over his face, avoiding every set of eyes on the street, as though the whole city could see through him.

At the counter, his voice nearly caught. “J-Just this, please.”

He slid the box forward, praying the cashier wouldn’t look too closely.

The bag felt unbearably heavy in his hand as he hurried back home, heart racing the entire way.

In the bathroom, door locked, he tore open the test with shaking fingers. Minutes felt like hours, his breath shallow as he stared at the little window. When the second line appeared, clear as day, Elliot’s knees nearly gave out.

“No,” he whispered, the word broken. “No, no, no…”

His mind spiraled.

He’ll hate me. He’ll think I ruined everything. He’ll leave. He’ll—

Elliot pressed his hands to his face, struggling to breathe past the panic rising in his chest. The truth was out, undeniable, and it felt like his world was collapsing in on itself.

After that moment, he knew he needed to pretend.

Elliot scrubbed the tears from his face, hid the test deep in the trash, and forced himself into a mask of normalcy.

When Mafioso returned that evening, Elliot met him with a smile so stiff it almost hurt. He laughed too easily at small things, brushed off Mafioso’s concerned looks, and kept busy with anything that didn’t involve standing still long enough for questions.

But Mafioso wasn’t fooled. He watched Elliot the way he always did—quiet, steady, dissecting every movement. When Elliot flinched away from a casual hand at his shoulder, Mafioso’s brow furrowed. When Elliot avoided sitting close on the couch, Mafioso’s stare lingered, heavy and searching.

“You’ve been… distant,” Mafioso said one night, voice low as though afraid of scaring him off. “What are you hiding?”

Elliot froze, the forced smile slipping. “Nothing. Really. I’m just tired.”

The lie left a bitter taste on his tongue. Mafioso tilted his head, unconvinced, but didn’t push further. Not yet. His gloved hand brushed the table, fingers flexing like he wanted to reach out, but Elliot stepped away before he could.

Behind closed doors, Elliot pressed his forehead to his pillow, muffling the quiet sobs that kept escaping. He wanted to tell him. He wanted to beg him to stay. But the fear of rejection held his throat closed like a vice.

And so, night after night, Elliot’s smiles grew hollower, while Mafioso’s worry deepened into something sharp and restless.

Until the night things finally went wrong.

Elliot had been holding himself together with frayed strings, but all it took was one small thing to unravel him. He dropped a glass while cleaning, the shatter echoing too loud in the quiet kitchen. The sound jolted something inside him, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe.

He sank to the floor, chest tight, tears spilling before he could stop them. His hands shook as he tried to gather the broken shards, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over like a prayer.

Mafioso was there in an instant, crouching down, gloves brushing Elliot’s trembling hands away from the glass.

“Stop. You’ll cut yourself.” His voice was low but edged with alarm.

Elliot shook his head, unable to meet his eyes. “I can’t—” His throat locked, words tripping over themselves until they burst out raw and panicked.

“I can’t hide it anymore! I’m pregnant, and I’m scared you’ll hate me for it. That you’ll leave me.”

The silence that followed crushed Elliot’s chest. He braced for it—for Mafioso to pull away, for the disgust, the rejection. His whole body curled in on itself, as though making himself small could soften the blow.

But Mafioso didn’t move back. He froze, shocked, eyes wide beneath the shadow of his hat. The weight of Elliot’s words hung heavy between them, undeniable, irreversible.

The words seemed to echo in the room long after Elliot had spoken them.

Mafioso didn’t answer right away. His eyes, sharp as steel, stayed fixed on Elliot—too still, too unreadable. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until every second felt like it would crush Elliot where he knelt.

Elliot’s sobs grew quieter, broken hiccups against his palms. He didn’t dare look up. His chest ached with the certainty that he’d just ruined everything.

And then—Mafioso exhaled, slow and uneven, like the air had been punched out of him.

Mafioso finally moved.

He reached out, gloved fingers brushing Elliot’s wrists, firm but careful as he pulled his hands away from his face. Elliot’s red-rimmed eyes met his, wide and terrified, but Mafioso didn’t look angry.

He just looked shaken.

“Pregnant,” Mafioso repeated quietly, as if tasting the word on his tongue. He swallowed, his jaw tight. “Elliot… you thought I’d leave?”

Elliot’s voice cracked. “Why wouldn’t you? I—I ruined everything, and now you’re stuck with—”

“Stop.” Mafioso’s tone cut through the spiral like a blade, sharper than usual, but not cruel. His hands framed Elliot’s face now, steadying him.

“Leaving you is not an option. Do you understand?”

Elliot blinked, the words hitting harder than any rejection could have.

“But… you’re scared. I can see it.”

Mafioso’s lips pressed into a thin line. For once, he didn’t deny it. “Of course I am. I don’t know what the hell we’re doing. But I’m not walking away from you. Not now, not ever.”

His thumb brushed away a tear from Elliot’s cheek, softer than the steel in his voice. “We’ll face it together. No matter how hard it gets.”

Elliot choked on a shaky breath, leaning into that touch as if it were the only thing keeping him from falling apart. For the first time since the test, he let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—he wouldn’t have to carry this alone.

The storm between them slowly broke, leaving only the raw ache of relief. Elliot’s shoulders sagged as Mafioso drew him closer, pulling him into the dark fold of his coat.

For a moment, Elliot just listened—heart pounding, ears filled with the steady beat of Mafioso’s chest against his cheek.

“I don’t deserve you,” Elliot whispered, voice muffled.

Mafioso’s hand settled against the back of his head, holding him steady. “You deserve more than me,” he murmured, low and certain. “But you’ve got me anyway.”

Elliot’s lips trembled into a small, shaky smile. The fear was still there—lingering at the edges, whispering of all the things that could go wrong—but Mafioso’s presence dimmed it, quieted it.

For the first time since the truth had crashed down on him, Elliot believed it: Mafioso wasn’t going anywhere.

Together, they stepped into a future that was frightening and uncertain, but theirs all the same.

Chapter Text

Elliot lay awake, curled on his side, the silence of the night pressing too heavily on his chest. A dull cramp twisted through his stomach, sharp enough to keep him from drifting back into sleep. Hunger gnawed at him too, leaving his insides restless, but guilt pressed heavier than either pain.

He turned his head just enough to see Mafioso beside him. Even in sleep, the faint twitch of long ears betrayed his sharpness, the instinct that never truly rested. Elliot bit the inside of his cheek. Waking him felt impossible. Mafioso carried so much already; Elliot couldn’t bring himself to add midnight cravings and aching complaints to the pile.

Carefully, quietly, he slipped out of bed. His socks whispered against the floorboards as he crept down the hall, hand brushing the wall for balance. The kitchen was cold when he entered, moonlight spilling across the counters in pale strips.

He pressed his palms flat against the surface, bowing his head, breathing through the cramps until the world steadied. Then, with shaking hands, he opened the cupboard, searching for something—anything—that might help. Crackers, stale bread, a half-empty box of cereal. He clutched at the first thing his fingers found, forcing a small bite past the lump in his throat.

The house was still, but Elliot’s heart pounded fast, every crunch sounding too loud in the silence. He ate in tiny, guilty bites, shoulders tense, praying Mafioso wouldn’t wake.

But deep down, he knew—Mafioso always noticed.

The sudden shift in the quiet made Elliot freeze mid-bite. A shadow stretched across the doorway, impossibly tall, ears upright and alert even in the dim moonlight.

Mafioso stood there, bare feet on the cool floor, pajamas rumpled from sleep, his trench coat and fedora nowhere in sight. The faint twitch of his long, dark ears and the subtle quiver of his nose betrayed a predator’s awareness, every movement impossibly precise.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” His voice was low, steady, and calm—but the subtle thrum of tension in it made Elliot’s stomach flip. There was no harshness, but the tone left no room to lie.

Elliot jumped, nearly dropping the cracker in his hand. He forced a laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “I… I didn’t want to bother you. I was… just hungry.”

Mafioso’s gaze narrowed, sharp and unyielding, ears flicking at every sound Elliot made. The way he stood—feet grounded, arms loose but ready, tail brushing the floor—made Elliot feel pinned in place without a single hand touching him.

“You were hungry, and you didn’t wake me?” Mafioso’s head tilted slightly, ears swiveling, nose twitching. “Do you think I wouldn’t hear your stomach complaining?”

Elliot swallowed hard, cheeks heating. “I… didn’t want to disturb you…”

Mafioso stepped forward, barefoot on the tiles, each movement quiet but deliberate. He leaned against the doorframe, ears still high, shadow stretching over Elliot in a protective but commanding way. Even casual, in pajamas, he radiated that same impossible intensity.

Elliot’s hands tightened around the crackers, hesitation frozen in his chest. Before he could shove them into his mouth, Mafioso stepped closer. Barefoot, pajama-clad, ears twitching with careful attention, he reached out. His fingers brushed Elliot’s trembling hands as he gently took the food from him.

“You shouldn’t be eating like this,” Mafioso murmured, his voice low but not unkind. His ears swiveled slightly, picking up the faintest shuffle of fatigue in Elliot’s body, his nose twitching as he assessed the tension and the faint smell of unease. Even in the soft moonlight, with his short tail barely visible beneath his pajamas, he radiated the same impossible presence—commanding, protective, yet intimate.

Elliot’s protest died on his lips. “I… I didn’t want to bother you,” he whispered.

Mafioso gave the barest tilt of his head, ears flicking. “You’re not bothering me. Sit down.”

He moved with an odd grace, quiet but deliberate, retrieving a small pot from the counter. Within minutes, he had warmed water for tea, fried an egg with soft edges, and toasted bread until golden brown. The aroma wrapped around Elliot, far better than the stale crackers he had grabbed. Mafioso set the plate in front of him, the short twitch of his tail behind his back as he leaned against the counter.

“Better,” Mafioso said simply, eyes softening. “Eat this. Slowly.”

Elliot’s hands hovered over the plate, unsure if he deserved such care. But the warmth of the food, the steady presence of Mafioso, and the gentle flick of his ears drew a small, grateful breath from him.

He took the first bite, and the tension in his shoulders eased slightly, though his stomach still twisted with nerves. Mafioso remained close, ears alert, tail still, silent and watchful, as though nothing in the world could touch Elliot while he was there.

Silence hung heavy between them, the quiet only broken by the faint scrape of Elliot’s fork against the plate. Mafioso sat beside him, bare feet brushing the cool tiles, ears still high and alert, short tail twitching with a soft rhythm. His presence was steady, grounding—but not pressing. He waited, patient, letting Elliot unravel in his own time.

Elliot swallowed, trembling. His hands shook as he picked at the toast Mafioso had prepared. “I… I don’t know if I can do this,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I… I’m not… I’m not… good enough.”

He pressed a hand to his stomach, the thought catching in his throat. “This… being pregnant… it’s not what I planned. I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t plan for any of this,” he admitted, forcing the words out before the memories could creep in—before he could think too hard about the intimate night that had led to this.

“But… I don’t regret it,” he said softly, a tremor in his voice. “I… I don’t mind having your child. I want… I want us to be okay. I just… I don’t know if I can do it.”

The fear built in his chest, raw and unrelenting. “What if I fail? What if the kid… hates me? What if I mess everything up and you… regret this?” His voice broke, tears slipping despite himself.

Mafioso remained still, ears swiveling slightly, nose twitching with quiet assessment. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t judge. He just let Elliot spill everything, the panic and the fear laid bare, the tiny fragments of hope clinging to the edges.

Finally, Elliot’s breath hitched, and the weight of the unspoken pressed down on him. He looked up briefly, shame and terror in his eyes, trying to read Mafioso’s expression beneath the shadow of his ears.

Mafioso remained still for a moment, ears twitching faintly, watching Elliot tremble over the plate. The kitchen felt impossibly quiet, the moonlight catching the soft curve of his short tail, the faint fur along his wrists brushing the edge of the counter. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t scold. He just listened, letting every word, every tremor of fear, reach him.

Then, slowly, he reached out. Gloved fingers brushed Elliot’s wrist, grounding him against the panic spiraling in his chest. The warmth of Mafioso’s touch anchored him, subtle but undeniable, as if saying: I am here. You are not alone.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Mafioso said quietly, voice low but steady, ears flicking with faint emphasis. “Leaving you… is not an option. We’re in this together.”

Elliot’s breath hitched, eyes wide, unsure if he deserved this calm certainty. Mafioso’s gaze softened, ears lowering just slightly, the faintest twitch in his tail betraying a subtle warmth. “I’m scared too,” he admitted, the words catching in his throat, raw and honest. “And… I should’ve been more careful. I’m responsible for this. But none of that changes what I want. None of it changes you.”

He shifted closer, short tail brushing against Elliot’s side, hand still firm on his wrist. “I love you… for you, every part of you. And this,” he pressed his other hand gently to Elliot’s stomach, “this little family we’re making—it’s worth everything. You’re worth everything.”

Elliot’s lips trembled, the tension in his shoulders loosening slightly, the lump in his chest softening for the first time in days. Mafioso’s presence, steady, unwavering, carried a promise far stronger than fear: we will face this together, and I will never let go.

Mafioso helped Elliot to his feet, careful not to jostle him too much, ears twitching softly as he supported him. Every step toward the bedroom was deliberate, quiet, the soft pad of bare feet and the faint brush of his short tail grounding Elliot like an anchor.

Once on the bed, Mafioso tucked Elliot in gently, smoothing the blankets over him with gloved hands. He pressed a hand to Elliot’s stomach, firm but tender, letting him feel the steady warmth of his presence.

Then came the kisses—soft, comforting, almost ritualistic. One to the temple, one to the cheek, one to the tip of Elliot’s nose, each one lingering a little longer, wordless promises of safety and devotion. Elliot’s body relaxed against him, shoulders loosening, eyelids drooping, the tension in his chest melting away.

“Sleep,” Mafioso murmured, ears flicking as he nuzzled the side of Elliot’s head. “I’m here. Always.”

Elliot let out a small, sleepy sigh, curling closer, feeling the steady press of Mafioso’s hand, the quiet rhythm of his chest beneath him. Comfort settled in every nerve, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he believed it: he wasn’t alone.

Mafioso stayed beside him, awake in the dark, ears alert even as his breathing slowed. His gloved hand remained firm over Elliot’s stomach, protective without words. The short tail twitched faintly, a subtle signature of vigilance. In the silence, his vow remained unspoken, absolute and unyielding: whatever the future holds, he would never let Elliot face it alone.