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unscrupulousartist · 1 year ago

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hellerby fic, part 8/10

19 August 1929

Leaning over the small sink in his tiny bathroom, Mordecai used a comb and scissors to meticulously trim the ends of his fur back into its usual shape. He was dressed down for the task, in loose sleep pants and an undershirt he didn’t mind getting littered with hair. In this manner, he was only able to tense and sigh when he heard his apartment lock scrape open. The door caught on the chain, barring the entrance of his wouldbe intruders.

“Mordecai!” Mitzi yelled. “Let us in, it’s an emergency!”

“We were supposed to meet at the Marigold at eight,” he called as he resumed trimming. “If you really need someone murdered, it can wait until tomorrow.”

“Mordecai Elijah Heller, open this door!”

Pausing to take a deep breath, he put down the comb but took the scissors with him to the little entranceway. Through the crack in the door he could see Mitzi, already ready for the Marigold event, glaring at him. “My name isn’t Elijah,” he said as he closed the door. Unslotting the chain, he pulled it open again and saw that Rocky, with violin-case in hand, stood beside the matriarch.

“Three names sounds more dramatic, honey, you know this,” Mitzi huffed. Then she pulled Rocky in with her, pushing past Mordecai.

“Hullo,” Rocky smiled awkwardly, his ears low. He looked over Mordecai’s frame, eyes lingering on the exposed scar on Mordecai’s chest.

“D’you still have that hoity toity suit you’d wear to the theatre?” Mitzi asked over her shoulder, dragging Rocky along with her towards Mordecai’s bedroom.

“Why?” Mordecai followed, loitering in the doorway as Mitzi deposited Rocky and his instrument beside the bed, where Mordecai’s suit for the evening was laid out.

“Asa called with a request,” Mitzi growled as she tore open Mordecai’s little step-in closet. It wasn’t as grand as her’s, but it was better organized.

Slowly turning, Rocky's grin grew as he took in the number of plants about the room, the neatness of the shelves, and—most embarrassingly for Mordecai, who flushed and looked away as Rocky noticed—a large book on the bedside table.

Mitzi continued: “Apparently, he heard we have a Concert Musician on staff. He was hoping we’d indulge him with some Classical pieces, for his birthday.”

Mordecai’s tail flicked and he crossed his arms. “And what does that have to do with Mr Rickaby?”

Rocky perked and blinked at him just as Mitzi sighed and turned. “Really, sugar?”

“I can passably play Tchaikovsky,” Rocky explained. He held an unusually humble air, tail tucked between his legs. “Ravel and Mendelssohn, as well. Paganini of course, and a handful of others. My Aunt would say Mozart most fits my temperament… but, I’ve never played with an orchestra.”

“That’s fine, sweetheart,” Mitzi purred at him, then began rifling through Mordecai’s clothes. “There won’t be an orchestra, just you.”

“Of course, Ms M,” Rocky grinned at her, but it pulled a little awkwardly at his face. “You can count on me.”

“Mordecai, honey, do you know what sort of songs Asa likes?”

“Pieces,” Rocky corrected.

“... no,” Mordecai looked between them. “I was usually preoccupied with the Savoys whenever we went to a concert.” Talking about the siblings made his chest itch, and he scratched at the old scar.

The motion seemed to catch Rocky’s attention, and his ears cocked forward.

Somewhat familiar with the past, Mitzi sent Mordecai a concerned pout as she pulled the first of a three piece suit from the closet. "Are they gonna be a problem?"

"Let me worry about them," said Mordecai. "Instead, explain what emergency requires you to destroy my closet?"

That caused Mitzi to snort. "Why? You hiding something in there?" She wagged her brows as she tossed pants and a jacket onto the bed, overlapping the clothes already there. Then she continued digging.

"Nothing you aren't already aware of."

Biting his lip, Rocky’s eyebrows quirked and his tail waved.

Laughing, Mitzi picked out two nearly identical shirts. “I’d think the emergency was obvious, honey.”

Mordecai shook his head and sighed, then stepped away from the scene to return to the bathroom. “Don’t make a mess.”

“No promises!" said Mitzi.

Listening to her fuss over Rocky was strangely reminiscent of days long gone, waiting around in a penthouse suite as Atlas and Mitzi donned themselves for whichever excursion or event they required Mordecai to escort them to. As such, he became an unwitting eavesdropper.

"Here we are—Rocky, sweetheart, put that down."

"Ah ha, sorry—it's hard to resist the siren song of the bard."

“Best to keep your hands off Mordecai’s things, if you want to keep them.”

“Will that, perhaps, be a problem with—?”

“This? No, don’t worry about that, sweetheart. Now, get yourself ready.”

“Sure thing, Ms M.”

Shaking his head at his reflection, Mordecai combed his fur for inspection. In his peripheral, he saw Mitzi step out of his bedroom with a familiar book in her hands. She took it with her across his little livingroom to sprawl across the chaise by the window. Letting the book rest on her stomach, she pantomimed strangling the ceiling. “I can’t believe Asa!”

“It’s a show of power,” said Mordecai. He angled his head one way and then the other, and found another couple of hairs that needed to be trimmed.

“I know that,” Mitzi whined and kicked her feet. “It’s also childish. After all the trouble he caused, he asks for favours?”

“You could’ve said no,” Mordecai offered. He turned to peer out the door, and paused when he caught sight of Rocky, staring, across the apartment.

A dozen or so feet away, Mordecai spied the musician leaning from the throughway to the bar. Rocky worried his lip, brows upturned, tail low and still. Music and laughter filtered past him, the speakeasy still in full swing.

Mordecai squinted from his seat on the stairs.

A grin quirked across Rocky’s face, and he waved. Mordecai rolled his eyes and stepped out of the bathroom.

“I know,” Mitzi sighed, head dangling over the single armrest. “But then he’ll start being all patronizing again, and we just got past that.”

In the middle of the space, out of sight from the doorways, Mordecai stopped. He brushed trimmed hairs from his shoulders as he spoke. “If it’s his murder you want, it really should wait until tomorrow. It would be a little gauche to kill him on his birthday.”

Mitzi snickered and smiled at him. Then, the sound of a tuning violin drifted, somewhat quietly, from the bedroom. Sitting up, Mitzi scowled. “Rocky!”

The sound glissed to a stop. “Sorry!” Rocky called from the other room. “You said to get ready!”

“I meant, dressed!” Mitzi yelled. She shifted as if to stand, book falling from her lap to thunk on the floor. “Oops—”

“Sit, please,” Mordecai waved her down automatically. “Before you knock over something expensive. I’ll sort Rickaby."

She leaned to scoop the book as he turned toward the bedroom. "Anything expensive you got from me, sugar.”

Shaking his head, he heard her scoff. Then he had to pause in his own bedroom doorway. Fur raising on the back of his neck, his mind replayed his absent assertion as his lungs quietly seized.

On his part, Rocky didn't notice. He had dressed down to his undershirt, suspenders hanging at his sides, but had abandoned the task to prop his violin on his shoulder. While he had bow-in-hand, he refrained from pressing hair to string and instead mutely practiced chord transitions as he leaned over his open case. There, a collection of loose papers were gathered in the space that should've housed his instrument.

From this angle, Mordecai could see the bitemark on Rocky’s neck; he exhaled. "Last minute studying rarely works."

"Doesn't it?" Rocky replied without looking. But his bow-hand moved, trilling along a cluster of notes. "I haven't had any opportunities to know, but I'd've thought last minute study to be better than no study at all."

Forcing his shoulders to relax, Mordecai hooked his ankle around the door and kicked it close. It banged, and Rocky startled upright to blink at him. "Instrument away, please—" said Mordecai. He convinced himself to continue normally to his still open closet, where his laundry basket sat beside his dresser. "—before Mitzi has a heart attack."

Rocky laughed, but the sound aborted awkwardly. "She's not at risk to, is she?"

"At her age?" Mordecai glanced to raise a brow at Rocky. "You never know."

"She isn't that old," Rocky shook his head and moved to put his instrument away. He fussed for a moment, ears angling back towards Mordecai. It wasn't until Rocky peeked again over his shoulder that Mordecai realized he'd left too long of a pause. "... is she?"

"Best not to think about it," said Mordecai. Pulling off his undershirt, he leaned over the laundry basket for one more vicious scrub over his head and neck to rid himself of the last of his trimmings. "The last person asking those types of questions ended up taking a long walk off the Eads."

Rocky’s snickering drew Mordecai's attention; the musician grinned at him. "I take it you had something to do with that?"

"I held her purse."

Smile drawing back to reveal his fangs, his focus seemed to flicker up and down the length of Mordecai's body. After a moment, Rocky gestured to the scar carved into Mordecai's chest. "That looks like a story I haven't heard yet, Mr Serious Face."

Finding a clean undershirt, Mordecai shucked his sleep pants. "No one likes hearing stories from when I ran with the Marigold."

"Ah—" Rocky grimaced. "Sor—"

"Don't," Mordecai interrupted. "Just get dressed. Quickly."

"Yes sir," Rocky spread his arms and mock bowed, then perched on the edge of the bed to untie his shoes. Only to get distracted by the bounce of the mattress and the feel of the quilt. "Oh—this is nice." His tail swung up, wiggling.

"We've places to be, Rickaby," Mordecai shrugged into the clean shirt. Then he approached to dig his tidy suit out from the heap of fabric Mitzi threw on top of it.

"You're a poet now?" Rocky raised his brows. "Feeling inspired?"

"What?"

"The rhyme."

"That hardly counts as poetry."

"Sure it does," Rocky shrugged. "Anything could be poetry if you call it poetry."

"Ridiculous," Mordecai's tongue clicked. He started with charcoal pants, fresh from the tailor. "Poetry has rules, structure. You can't just call every accidental rhyme a poem, or the streets would be flooded with half wit poets and no one would know who to read. Next you'll say cereal boxes are poetry."

Rocky’s eyes dilated, the dark of his pupils obscuring the blue of his iris. "Quite the observation, Mr Serious."

Mordecai suppressed a shivver. "It would be best if you referred to me as Mr Heller this evening."

Expecting banter, Mordecai frowned when Rocky dimmed. "Right," he toed off his shoes. "Tonight."

Pausing, Mordecai's brows drew together. "You're nervous."

"Me?" Rocky forced a laugh, rocking backwards as he shimmied out of his blue pants. "Nervous? Why would you think—" twisting, he slipped off the side of the bed and careened to Mordecai's patterned rug. "—ow—that?"

"You tell me." Mordecai secured his slacks and picked up a crisp dress shirt. "Playing music is already your job."

Rocky popped up onto his knees, elbows indenting the mattress. "I play jazz."

"You're always bragging about panini—"

"Paganini."

"—and all those other motifs," Mordecai methodically worked the buttons closed. "You clearly have enough expertise to accept."

"Classical soloists are different," Rocky insisted. "Jazz is easy, you flub a note and improvise a phrase and the rest of the band are there to riff off of. When Classical musicians mess up they get run out of the theatre and left to get sick and—ah—" Biting his lip, Rocky shook his head.

"You're assuming people will notice," Mordecai noted. He glanced at his bedside clock, slightly askew; weeks prior, he'd shifted it to make space for his new book. "It's a guarantee that everyone has already started drinking, and more than likely that no one will be sober enough to realize the genre has changed."

For a moment, Rocky stared and blinked at Mordecai; then his smile blossomed back. "You're trying to reassure me."

"Mitzi needs the night to go smoothly." He tucked the shirt into his pants, then found his suspenders. "That means whatever harebrained scheme the two of you devised on the way over here needs to succeed. I'm guessing the plan amounts to you being yourself while Mitzi flaunts non-existent assets to Asa and his boys."

At odds with the rest of his expression, Rocky’s ears drooped. "You think I can do it?"

Mordecai rolled his eyes. "Stop overthinking," he snagged the pile of clothes Mitzi had picked and tossed them all at Rocky's head. The musician guffawed with laughter. "Or do you need a head pat and empty platitudes as well?"

Pulling the clothes away from his face, Rocky’s tail wagged low and slow above the carpet. He bit his lip, brows upturning.

Mordecai sighed. "Just get dressed."

Shifting away, Rocky sat crossed legged with his back against the mattress. He leaned forward to sort the clothes on the carpet, both ears cocking to point at Mordecai. "Getting ready is more than just getting dressed. First, rehearse your song by rote—"

For the first time that evening, Mordecai's eyes were drawn to Rocky’s mouth. Vision glazed in spite of lenses, the musician seemed to split into two. Two of Rocky, both sitting cross legged with a hand resting on Mordecai's exposed sock. Two of Rocky, both leaning forward to soliloquy beneath the table-canopy. Two of Rocky, both petting a line along Mordecai's ankle. It made his head swim, and something selfishly fond dripped warmth along his senses.

Rocky recited: "—to each word a warbling note."

Mordecai watched the syllables take place. He tried to interrupt: "Obviously you rehearse—"

"Shh," Rocky lifted one hand from Mordecai's ankle to wave between them. "It's rude to cut into someone's plagiarisms. Listen—" something thunked to the floor, then Rocky raised both arms to gesture. "—hand in hand, with fairy grace, will we sing and bless this place."

Focusing on the task of dressing, Mordecai managed to tune Rocky’s voice into the background as he layered on his clothes. A holster over the vest, pistols procured from the night table, a matching set of shoes and jacket. For his part, Rocky bounced between characters nonsensically, sometimes pantomiming along lines Mordecai had yet to recognize. Often Puck or Bottom, sometimes Rosencrantz or Guildenstern, occasionally Oberon or Titania. But Mordecai's thoughts were preoccupied with piecing together disjointed moments.

Eventually, as Mordecai looped a tie around his upturned collar—he'd have to seek the aid of his bathroom mirror to make sure it laid evenly against his shirt—Rocky rolled up to a stand. The borrowed white vest was still undone, and he awkwardly turned in place as he fought with the buttons. "This is strange, isn't it?"

"Hm?" Mordecai's ears twitched. He moved to where his cufflinks were stored, on the small table in front of the window, and stopped to poke at one of his plants.

"Getting dressed," Rocky replied, then cringed. "Together, I mean. Not that getting undressed isn't strange! The whole process is bordering on the phantastical—" he slowed, looking at Mordecai as he raised a finger to emphasize. "—and I mean that in the eerie sense."

"Mhm…" Mordecai leaned against the little table as he carefully folded his cuffs together.

"Like a dream and deja vu rolled into one—" he spun his hands around each other, then paused to touch his chin. "Dreamah-vu?"

"Jacket next," Mordecai instructed.

"Right," Rocky snapped his fingers, then scooped the jacket from the floor. "Have you ever told yourself something so many times that you begun to believe it?" He shrugged on the jacket. "Only for something to happen to conjure a near perfect memory of the thing you were trying not to believe?"

Something tingled low against Mordecai's spine. "Are you believing or not believing?"

"Both," said Rocky. "Believing in the not believing."

"That's nonsense."

"Perhaps," Rocky nodded. Then he moved to fish through his discarded clothes. "But have you?" He retrieved his monogrammed tie.

"Of course not. Lies are things you tell other people, not yourself." Mordecai’s eyes narrowed. "What are you doing?"

"Embarking on a perilous parley, I think," Rocky looped the material around his neck and began to tie it from memory.

"You can't wear that," Mordecai clarified. Abandoning his second cufflink, he crossed the small space. "Mitzi picked out a bowtie."

Blinking, Rocky remained stunned until Mordecai reached to pull the tie away. "No!" He dodged backwards a step, the back of his legs hitting Mordecai's night table. He tried to compose himself. "I mean—this is my lucky tie. Surely a smooth evening requires every superstitious ritual to be observed. It's too risky not to."

Mordecai squinted at him.

"It's a perfectly fashionable tie," Rocky argued. He adjusted his loops, fumbling with the tail.

"It's stained," Mordecai pointed out. "I'm fairly certain with blood. If history is anything to go by, probably your blood."

"I need it," Rocky pleaded. He craned his neck, attempting to see his work. "Jazz is one thing, but I've only ever performed a successful concerto with this on. And Ms M is counting on me."

"Mitzi is counting on you to wear a bow tie," he reached again, stopping Rocky’s hands. Slowly pulling the tie from the musician's grip, Mordecai considered the fabric. He made a small concession. "We'll compromise."

Rocky perked, looking. "Compromise?"

It struck Mordecai how close they were standing. Folding the tie around one hand, he gathered it into a small bundle and tucked it in Rocky’s breast pocket. For a moment he futzed to make a sort of pleat, then he pressed the fabric against Rocky’s chest.

Which was when he noticed the musician's hands, still raised but now with palms forward, as if to surrender or placate. And Rocky’s eyes, dark and wide. And Rocky’s lip, bitten.

He pushed Rocky against the side of the car, lips pressing together in a kiss as Mordecai pulled on his lapels.

"Dreamah-vu," Rocky muttered.

"That's not a real word," Mordecai countered, voice too soft for a real debate. Gravity invited him forward, and he felt the world lean.

Then Mitzi knocked on the door. "You boys decent?" she called courteously, only a second before turning the handle. Mordecai had just enough time to stumble back a step before she poked around the doorframe. "Are you nearly done? I swear, Mordecai, you take longer than Zib on Swingers Nights."

"You could've met me at the Marigold," Mordecai reminded her. Face burning, he stalked back to the little table under the window to retrieve his matching cufflink. "And I know how many hours it takes for you to put your face on; don't go throwing stones."

"Whatever, sweetheart," she crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe as she looked both him and Rocky over. "I suppose this will have to do. Rocky dear, where's your bowtie?"

"Uh—" he tugged on the short cut of the jacket and shifted on his toes. "I don't know how to tie it?"

"Oh, dear," Mitzi sighed fondly, then snapped her fingers at Mordecai. "Cufflinks."

"The black ones—" Mordecai picked out another simple set, holding them out as he beelined to exit. "—I won't miss them if they disappear."

Mitzi took them. "Didn't I get you these?"

"My sister," he corrected. Angling past her, he folded his lone loose cuff together and secured it. "And your musician needs some encouragement. Perhaps a sincere atta-boy and a treat."

"My musician?" Mitzi exaggerated a scoff. "We pilfer one suit, and suddenly he's my musician? When is he your musician?"

Hands flexing, his footsteps fell a little heavily across the apartment. "You hired him, he's always your musician."

"I suppose that's true," he heard her sigh and step into his room. "Rocky, come here and hold still—"

Scowling into the bathroom mirror, Mordecai finished putting himself together. His fringe was brushed back with a little product, his tie was secured, and his glasses polished with time leftover for his thoughts to spiral into a dark mood. He returned to the little livingroom to wait, and picked up his newest book—The Complete Works of William Shakespeare—from where Mitzi had discarded it on the chaise.

Leafing through, he found and dismissed the one play he had read and reread—the marginalia made it easy—and moved instead to the sonnets. The regular form and structure, while playfully executed, appealed to him. He traced the edge of a page.

"Hurry, hurry," Mitzi urged Rocky out of the bedroom, one dainty hand clamped around the musician's wrist.

Mordecai snapped the book shut. "What's the rush?"

Even being dragged by the small matriarch, Rocky cleaned up nice. The clothes fit well enough, if a little long in the sleeves and leg, and the splash of orange at his breast was charming in spite of its asymmetry. The hand not captured by Mitzi held tight to his violin case, and his eyes flashed in Mordecai’s direction.

"I left Viktor downstairs," Mitzi explained as she fumbled with the front door.

"What?" Mordecai frowned. Placing the book on his desk, he followed Mitzi and Rocky into the hallway. "Why didn't he come up?"

"Oh, you know Viktor…"

"There's an elevator."

"He's just a little sore."

Sighing, he pulled the door shut. They made the short trip with little interaction, save for Mitzi's habitual banter with the lift operator and the doorman. She quoted the time and unconsciously started the groundwork for a plausible alibi; or she was just being polite, Mordecai always had trouble telling the difference.

Outside, Mordecai glared at the three steps that separated his building's stoop from the sidewalk. But he inhaled, slowly, as he approached the familiar car—and its familiar driver—parked halfway down the block.

Not bothering with the back seat, he pulled open the front passenger side and leaned to scowl at Viktor. "For the millionth time, I'm sorry."

Viktor shrugged, and Mordecai felt the car shift as Rocky opened a door for Mitzi. "Bad veather today," said Viktor. He rubbed his knee. "Is going to rain."

"Move over—" Mordecai reached and tugged his old friend's arm, bullying him across the bench seat. "I'll drive."

"You von't—"

"I will—" Mordecai hissed. A leveraged pull put Viktor off balance.

Laughter from the backseat caused both hitmen to look up; Rocky closed the door behind him.

"This is cute and all," Mitzi smiled. "But we really should go. Viktor, let Mordecai drive."

Rocky’s face squashed under the pressure of his grin.

"Fine," Viktor gruffed.

Slamming the passenger door, Mordecai rounded the front of the vehicle to slide behind the wheel. As he was getting comfortable, Mitzi leaned forward over the seat. “Viktor, dear, pass me my purse.”

“Ya, ya…” the old slav grumbled as he reached down to where it had apparently fallen from the seat. He passed it back, and Mordecai started the car.

Digging a couple bills from her purse, Mitzi handed them to Viktor. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

“Vhat’s this for?” Viktor frowned, but took the money.

“Can I have some?” Rocky asked.

“Mordecai’s reading Shakespeare,” said Mitzi.

“Ha!” Viktor grinned and counted the bills. “Told you.”

“How is this news?” Mordecai complained as he maneuvered the vehicle onto the road. “And why are you betting about it? Don’t you have anything better to do?”

"McMurray owes me, too," Viktor flaunted a rare smile.

"Freckle?" Rocky leaned forward to interject.

"Is the band in on it?" Mordecai asked. "Can't you stick to betting on Zib?"

"Oh we are, Sugar, don't worry," Mitzi demurred. "We've got a pool going for how long it'll take Wick to realize Zib’s flirting—five dollar buy in, if you're interested."

"McMurray ask if you vould read Shakespeare," Viktor explained. "Zib couldn't resist."

"Oh shoot," Mitzi snapped her fingers. "I owe him too."

"You bet against me?" Mordecai glanced at Mitzi in the rearview mirror, and caught a glimpse of Rocky trying to keep up with the conversation.

"Can you blame me?"

"Yes."

Viktor twisted, propping an arm on the back of the seat to speak to Mitzi directly. "He hate not knowing. Only matter of time before he go and figure out."

"I suppose," Mitzi sighed, and returned to sorting through her purse.

“I saw your edition,” Rocky admitted. In the rearview mirror, Mordecai watched the musician’s ears rotate forward and his hands come up to rest on the front seat before realizing that he wasn’t looking at the road. Rocky continued: “The Complete Works is ambitious to take on—have you read much of it?”

“I thought it might make a convenient projectile.”

"You should read it, sugar," Mitzi pitched. She pulled lipstick and a compact from her purse. "It's good to do somethin' other than work all the time."

Mordecai gripped the steering wheel tighter as he maneuvered through a turn. "Hypocrite."

"Ooo—we startin' the name callin' early?" Mitzi pursed her lips at her mirror and applied a fresh layer of lipstick.

"Remind me, how many prospective patrons are attending tonight's festivities?"

"I never said I wasn't a working girl, but A-plus deflection, Sugar." Mitzi snapped her compact closed and tossed it back into her purse. "Speaking of tonight… Rocky, honey, there's a few things you need to keep in mind—" and she launched into an impromptu lecture of who to expect and how to act. Occasionally, Mordecai would see Rocky’s reflection nodding along or hear the musician pose a question.

A quarter hour crawled past, and they arrived at the Marigold Hotel. Mitzi herded Rocky and his instrument out, taking the young musician by the elbow for a final look over on the sidewalk. Mordecai took a moment to gather himself as he got out of the car; he rounded the vehicle to see Viktor waiting with a narrowed eye.

He pointed at Mordecai. "Keep Rocky out of trouble."

"Why me?" Mordecai growled.

"Well, Viktor can't do it," said Mitzi. She tugged on the ends of Rocky's bowtie to straighten it under his chin. "Shoulders back, dear. Don't let them see your nerves."

"Ha ha," Rocky chattered. "Of course, Ms M."

Mordecai glared at Mitzi, then Viktor. "If this is about your knee again—"

"This not about apologies," Viktor began a slow march toward the door. "Is simple fact. I not keep up, you can. You keep Rocky out of trouble."

"Fine," Mordecai ground out.

"Relax, sugar," Mitzi stepped away from Rocky to slip a hand around Mordecai's elbow. "Just make sure he gets on stage unscathed. And doesn't burn the place down."

"No need to worry about that, Ms M," Rocky kept pace as they started after Viktor. "I left all my matches at the Lackadaisy."

"Somehow, that doesn't reassure me," Mitzi sighed, then gestured at Rocky. "Try to be a little less… yourself, Sweetheart. We don't need any extra theatrics."

Rocky slumped, ears drooping.

And Mordecai found himself adding: "Just the regular theatrics." Something warm tickled down his spine as Rocky grinned, perking.

"Don't encourage him," Mitzi teased. Stepping into the building, she looked around. "We want to get out of here before sunrise. Oh, there's Asa—Rocky, come here—" switching partners, she pulled Rocky with her towards a crowd of people and away from Mordecai.

Something about the way Rocky looked back over his shoulder, past Mitzi's immaculate hair to check Mordecai's reaction, triggered another memory.

"Come along, Rocky—" Mitzi guided him away. "Time to leave the Big Bad Mordecai alone."

Mordecai blinked after them. "Where are they going?"

"Back to the stage," Zib answered. Hands slipped under Mordecai's armpits to pull him upright: he stumbled. "Easy there, tiger."

"'M fine—"

"Dere he is!" A familiar voice made Mordecai cringe, but he knew better than to avoid the arm that fell across his shoulder. Jostling him, Serafine Savoy grinned and prodded him along. "Nico is gonna be happy; he were sure you weren't gonna come."

"I considered it," Mordecai admitted. Carefully, he pushed on the frame of his glasses. "But it'd be worse if you two showed up at the Lackadaisy."

"Ha!" Serafine snickered. "We woulda."

"I know."

The crowd started filtering toward the ballroom, and Serafine rearranged herself to lead Mordecai after them. "Saw who you were runnin' with."

"Are running with," Mordecai corrected. "And it's not any concern of yours."

"Of course it is, cher," Serafine nudged him with her elbow. "We family."

He rolled his eyes, disguising the motion with a look around the foyer. "Where is Nico, anyway?"

"Oh, you know. Around."

"How reassuring."

"Awe, cher! He missed you too."

Shaking his head, he stepped into the main ballroom with Serafine. The party was already in full swing, a thirteen piece band accompanying a chorus of dancing girls. Tucked in the back, there was a queue at the bar that ringed dozens of tables. Every full seat—and they were all full—offset dancing and chatting couples and groups. Not too far into the room, Mitzi and Rocky were standing with Asa and a couple of gentlemen.

Spying his entrance, Mitzi raised a hand to wave at him, gestured at Rocky, then made loud goodbyes to Asa. The gentlemen all turned and Asa spotted Mordecai next; he hollered something unintelligible over the noise of the room. Mitzi took the moment to slip away, patting Rocky on the shoulder and abandoning him to chit chat with sharks.

Mordecai sighed. "Excuse me—" he brushed off Serafine's arm. "I'm required to supervise my co-worker."

"The slippery one, non?" Serafine let him take the lead.

"That would be an accurate description of Mr Rickaby, yes."

"Always up for a good time dou," mirth decorated Serafine's voice.

"That depends on your definition of a good time," Mordecai drawled.

As they stepped up to Asa's circle, Mordecai took notice of the gentleman caller speaking with Rocky. Inhaling, he recognized a familiar blue handkerchief first pointed out by Mitzi months previous. The gentleman handed a long-stemmed glass to Rocky—who had to juggle his violin case to accept it—and let his hand linger by the musician's wrist.

Asa called: "Mordecai! Have you had a drink?”

“Not yet,” Mordecai answered. He sidled into the group, next to Rocky. “I should be taking Mr Rickaby to the green room.”

“Serious-face!” Rocky grinned at Mordecai, and lifted his glass towards his gentleman-compariot. “This is—”

“I don’t care,” said Mordecai. Reaching, he took the drink from Rocky’s hand. A few cats in the circle chuckled—Asa loudest—and the gentleman next to Rocky frowned. Mordecai continued: “Let’s get this over with.”

“Why, Mordecai—” Asa interjected. “You make it sound like work. I don’t have to worry about any corpses tonight, do I?”

“Admitting it would be inconceivably stupid,” Mordecai spared his ex-employer a look. He raised a brow. “So likely not. But the night is still young, and Nico isn’t here—”

As if summoned, Nico’s voice shouted above the noise of the room. “Peekon!”

Sighing again, Mordecai tipped back the stolen drink. He had just enough time to cringe at the taste, hand the empty glass off to Serafine, and wipe his sleeve across his mouth before brawny arms wrapped around his torso and lifted him in a bear hug. Tensing to stop himself from bloodshed, he stared up at the vaulted ceiling. “Put me down, please.”

“Is been too long!” Nico laughed. Dropping his suspecting victim, Nico left no recovery time before bodily turning Mordecai around to face him. Then he cuffed Mordecai’s neck with calloused hands, to keep Mordecai from moving while he pressed multiple loud kisses to both of Mordecai’s cheeks.

“Please stop,” Mordecai repeated. In his periphery, he saw Rocky staring.

“Careful, Nico,” Serafine tugged on her brother’s arm. “You know how he is. Remember Remy?"

Nico leaned back on his heels to bark with laughter.

"Remy?" Rocky asked.

"You never told me he was an informant," Mordecai glared at Serafine. Then, breaking away from Nico, he took Rocky by the arm and pulled him away from the group. "Good evening, Mr Sweet."

"Don't mind him—" he heard Asa say as he dragged Rocky away. Liquid fire burned a line through his stomach, and he aimed for one of the employee exits near the stage.

Nico and Serafine flanked them. On Mordecai’s right, Nico pressed close to brush shoulders. On Rocky’s left, Serafine wrapped an arm around the musician’s waist. “Co-worker, hm?” She squeezed Rocky close, but spoke past him.

“Don’t remember you evah draggin' us off,” Nico added in a purr. “Eh, Sera?”

“Nah, never.”

“I’m sure it wouldn’t have worked, anyways,” said Mordecai. “None of you are particularly good at listening.”

“Have we been introduced?” Rocky asked, voice raising as he looked at Serafine. “I’d shake your hand, but, well—” he awkwardly flailed both his arms, one still held by Mordecai and the other still clutching his instrument.

Propping an elbow on Mordecai’s shoulder, Nico leaned to wink at Rocky. “Don’t t’ink we’ve ever been on dah same side of a pistol, cher.”

“There’s no need for introductions,” said Mordecai. "If I'm lucky, you'll never be in a room together again."

"Don't be like dat, Peekon!" Nico whined through a grin.

Serafine shook Rocky, which jostled Mordecai's arm. "We just wanna be sure you're nice to your… co-worker," she grinned at Rocky. "You be tuggin' him pretty hard, Cher. He gonna get hurt."

"This?" Rocky laughed. Wiggling, he dislodged himself from Mordecai’s grasp. There was somewhat of a recoil as the tension between them broke, Mordecai double stepping as Rocky waved his arm vaguely at Serafine. “This is nothing compared to the time Ol’ Serious Face broke my nose.”

There was a beat of silence, then the Savoys burst into laughter. Nico shifted to grip Mordecai’s shoulder as he leaned over to slap his knee, and Serafine pressed her face to Rocky’s collar.

“You aren’t helping,” Mordecai intoned.

“So mean, cher!” Serafine boasted. She pulled just enough away to give Rocky a proper look over. “Dou, maybe not so mean…”

“His murderous inclination is part of his charm,” Rocky added.

Nico snorted and bat his eyes at Rocky. “Wha’d about your charm, cher?”

“Nope, no more charm,” Mordecai shook off Nico and went to grab Rocky again. But when he pulled, fist tightening over Rocky’s elbow, Serafine tugged. “Mr Rickaby will be performing—”

“A performer, ah?” Loosening her hold, Serafine lifted a hand to tug on one of Rocky’s ears; in response, the musician’s tail wavered upright. “What will you be performing for us?”

“I haven’t decided,” Rocky admitted. “Mr Smith suggested Paganini.”

“Who?” Mordecai’s eyes narrowed.

“Paganini,” Rocky repeated. “He’s a famous composer from—”

“Not the music,” Mordecai interrupted. “Who is Mr Smith?”

“No one you care about, cher,” Serafine winked at him.

“We don’t like Smith?” Nico asked. “Wha’d he do?”

“Told bad jokes about money, mostly,” said Rocky. “Which Ms M said is a good thing, but I like it better when Zib’s around to take over. Some things are harder to ad lib.”

The details aligned close enough for Mordecai to grasp, and he scowled. "Unless Mitzi's plan was for you to seduce prospective patrons, I suggest against taking any suggestions from Mr Smith. Now come on—" another tug, and this time Serafine let Rocky go.

He stumbled along a couple of steps. "That wasn't the explicit plan—" he managed to regain his balance.

"A contingency, then," Mordecai scoffed. Anger narrowed his field of vision; most people recognized something in his expression and cleared out of their way. In this manner, it slipped his notice that neither Nico nor Serafine were following.

"Well, anything can be a contingency," Rocky reasoned. And he continued babbling some excuse that Mordecai didn't hear.

Nostrils flaring, annoyance boiled up Mordecai's ears. But he contained the steam as they marched the last few yards to the employee exit, passing through a subtle haze of tipsiness. A couple staff were loitering about; they jumped as the doors opened and recoiled as Mordecai dragged Rocky past. It wasn't far to the green room, but Mordecai didn't pay attention to where he was going. At each corner and intersection he checked for people and chose the quietest route.

Eventually, he found a deserted stairwell and stopped.

"Do you know where we're going?" Rocky asked. "I thought I saw a sign; we could retrace our steps—"

Facing him, Mordecai pushed Rocky toward the wall. "Is Mitzi's plan to have you seduce unsuspecting philanthropists with classical violin?"

Stumbling, Rocky leaned against peeling wallpaper. "No?" His voice squeaked, and he held his violin case in front of him. "I'm not sure? She was fuzzy on the details."

Unconsciously, Mordecai stepped closer. "And you didn't think to clarify?"

"I didn't think it mattered?"

"So you would."

"Would what?"

"Sleep with him."

"Is that what we're talking about?" Rocky’s brows upturned and he attempted a smile.

"Yes," Mordecai growled.

"Um—" Rocky’s gaze drifted down, then back up to meet Mordecai's eyes. "... is that a problem..?"

"Yes."

A grin quirked on Rocky’s face, only to be washed away by concern. "How much did you have to drink?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" Mordecai's claws scratched at the violin case.

"You usually only have one," Rocky managed a small shrug. "Did you have something else in the ballroom? Or before—"

"Stop talking—"

Instinct and momentum collaborated; Mordecai pushed forward and kissed Rocky. A moment of awkward shuffling softened into shared sighs, and the instrument case was abandoned to clatter to the floor.

Their pants, somewhat heavier than their other shed clothing, thumped onto the roof of the car.

From his perch at the edge of the backseat, Mordecai shook his head at Rocky. "Why..?" He caught Rocky’s wrist and tugged him closer, between the cradle of his knees.

"I won’t be the one to ruin those pants,” Rocky explained. His hands slid up Mordecai’s thighs, rucking the material of Mordecai’s drawers. “The clothes make the cat, you know.”

“Do they?” Mordecai questioned rhetorically. Then he took fistfulls of Rocky’s undershirt and pulled him forward.

Licking the fur of Rocky’s cheek, Mordecai’s hands moved to grasp at the small of the musician’s back. Idly, he could feel the steady wag of Rocky’s tail, the pant of Rocky’s breath, the clutch of Rocky’s claws. “Don’t you think—” Rocky’s voice hitched when Mordecai’s teeth grazed the shell of his ear. “—that—that Helena is a tragic figure?”

Head swimming—he’d eventually question why one drink would have snuck up on him in such a capacity—the seemingly dramatic shift in subject caught him off guard. He tilted somewhat back, just enough to look at Rocky’s face. “What?”

“Midsummer is a comedy,” Rocky explained. His voice rushed out, and his fingers anchored on Mordecai’s shoulder blades. “And all the couples end the play happily married. But would Helena still be happy if she knew Demetrious only loved her because of an Elixir?”

“It’s a play,” Mordecai drawled. But his shoulders relaxed with the meaningless banter, and he nosed back into the fur on Rocky’s neck. His eyes closed, somewhat heavy. “She’s happy because Shakespeare wrote her that way.”

“So you did read it,” a pleasant note in the musician’s voice washed over Mordecai’s mind.

“Hush—” and Mordecai tried kissing him again.

“Mm!” Rocky tilted his head away. “Are you sure—”

“Certain.”

“Your haste makes me believe you less,” a shallow chuckle echoed from Rocky’s mouth, and he conceded to a peck before tilting away again. “You’re out of character.”

Mordecai snorted against Rocky’s cheek, and the stairwell swayed into darkness.

The taste of blood snapped Mordecai's attention, and he pulled away to blink at the body beneath him.

Tension releasing, Rocky sighed and relaxed into the seat. His tail, still twitching, moved to loop around Mordecai's leg. "Murder," he muttered.

"Sorry," said Mordecai. Stretching out, he used his hands to investigate the bite on Rocky’s neck. It bled sluggishly, and some baser instinct prompted Mordecai to lick at it.

Shuddering, Rocky panted. "Sorry?" He turned his head to rest his cheek on the seat and chuckled. "I see no reason for your sorrys, Mr Serious Face; thou I admit I am a little confused as to your current—ah—state of mind?"

Mordecai hummed and nosed deeper into Rocky’s scruff.

With his arm slung over someone’s shoulders, Mordecai was distantly aware of being walked through a door.

“Almost—” Rocky’s voice was strained in his ear, and he could feel the musician trembling. Then his body experienced freefall, and he crashed into a couch. “—there.”

"You told me to stop?" Rocky prompted.

"No grooming," Mordecai clarified with a lick across Rocky’s jaw.

Someone brushed the hair back from Mordecai’s forehead, and he groaned. “No grooming.”

"No grooming, cher," someone repeated. "Your musician is on stage."

Blinking, cross eyed, up at a vague silhouette, Mordecai tried and failed to lift his arms. "I can't…"

Arching, Rocky whimpered. "No grooming for Mr Serious," he repeated back. "But you like to—?"

"Stop talking," Mordecai growled into his ear; then he set his teeth around the delicate cartilage to tug.

Rocky squirmed. "That may be somewhat of a problem—I've been told I have a great propensity for rambling."

For a few fleeting moments, a familiar violin playing an unfamiliar piece grounded Mordecai in the present. Opening his eyes, he recognized the dingy air of the Marigold's tiny green room. It was full of silent musicians—an entire band's worth—all quietly craning toward the open door, where Serafine leaned to look, presumably, to the stage.

Then the world split in two and glazed over.

Sighing, Mordecai pulled back until he was braced, on hands and knees, above Rocky; it was space enough for the musician to roll awkwardly onto his back. "Is there a cure for your rambling?" Mordecai's brows rose.

"I can think of no true remedy," Rocky bit his lip. "Perhaps, if I were tasked with some other performance—?"

"Up we go, Peekon—" brawny arms scooped him.

Flopped against a broad chest, Mordecai looked up and frowned. "Why do you have blood on your face?"

"Never mind dat," Nico chuckled. "We found your friend."

"One job," came Viktor's grumbling voice. "Should have told Rocky to keep you out of trouble."

"Oh yay, Viktor is here." At ease, Mordecai closed his eyes to succumb fully into darkness. "Viktor's great."

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