Chapter Text
Atlas May’s death has finally been placed to rest. At least in Mordecai and Mitzi’s minds. Revenge was served unforgivingly on a cold evening, in the form of a blade delivered by the infamous Mordecai Heller himself. The man had died slowly and painfully, not for Atlas but for Mordecai himself. Did it have the desired affect that he had craved? Did it put an end to the mystery that has haunted him for years? Not particularly. But his revenge was to be served personally and intimately, a swift bullet between the eyes was too… impersonal and almost merciful. Too quick. A pathetic lump of a body is unceremoniously dropped onto the doorstep of Mitzi May at approximately 3:48 in the morning. Despite this, Mordecai was not granted forgiveness with open arms immediately. Which ultimately, was to be expected. Given how he had kneecapped a co-worker in his departure. There were few left on the list of individuals Mordecai has not attempted to murder, all of which reside in the Lackadaisy crew. In the end, it didn’t make a difference whether it was his bullet or another Marigold associate’s, there is and will forever always be blood on his hands. Mordecai has been the malevolent conductor of a blood spilling orchestra, leaving behind deathly silent crowds with each performance. Without so much as an applause. The Lackadaisy’s small found family are the only audience who have survived his slaughter, whether it be chance or simply some comatose sentimentality on Mordecai’s end.
It was by pure miracle, and some sweet, manipulative words from the young Ivy Pepper, that has placed Heller out of the metaphorical deck of the Marigolds and back into the hands of the Lackadaisy speakeasy. Ready for whatever play that Mitzi was willing to gamble. There has yet to be the need, but he’s ready for that call.
Mordecai had reluctantly re-joined his former crew five months ago.
To be expected, everyone kept a safe distance from him. Viktor still refused to speak with him, but it wasn’t like he was going out of his way to communicate with the Slovak to begin with. Mordecai knew to some degree when he is welcome, Viktor’s one-eyed death stare was quite enough. Ivy has made a habit of pestering him to ‘socialise’ with deceptively sweet attempts into tricking him into a room with someone under the guise of needing help with something or other. Calvin McMurray happened to have been an unfortunate soul tricked into a room with him. With a bristled tail and wide, stunned eyes. Calvin, better yet known and lovingly referred to as ‘Freckle’; did not last six seconds. To no one’s surprise except Ivy’s, Freckle made sure to not stick around too long whenever Mordecai happened to be about.
Mitzi fared better than most. It took some time but she soon fell into the role of an exasperated mother figure once more, as she did for all her employees. Knowing stares and bantering remarks, Mitzi took great joy in teasing him. It has only increased in frequency over time. Zib would scarcely interact with him if he really had no other choice in the matter. It was never a one-on-one interaction, but rather Zib is unwillingly dragged by the scruff of his neck into conversing. Depending on how Mitzi feels at the time, she is not afraid to drag Mordecai by his scruff as well.
All in all. Everything has been going exactly as Mordecai has predicted.
Except for one little, unexpectedly confounding thing.
Rocky.
Roark Rickaby is by the most respectful of terms, an incomprehensible, infuriatingly… charming enigma. Though charming is a word that Mordecai probably wouldn’t have used just a few months ago and to be fair, they were on opposite sides of the playing field at the time. Charming wasn’t particularly the word that… in all honesty, anyone in their right mind would use to describe Rocky. Mordecai happened to be the unfortunate soul that would. Not by choice, which is usually how most of Mordecai’s feelings sprouted. Unwillingly and pestering. Like a weed. Rocky is by all definitions, a pest.
But also… charming, in his own disturbing way. But there was something about that particular word that sat like honey on Mordecai’s tongue. Charming. The sweet, lulling flavour that reminded him of his favourite earl grey with a teaspoon of honey. This pestering realisation was not frail by any means, not like some weed. It isn’t spindly and slender, much like the tabby that haunts his thoughts. Instead, its roots are firm and inflexible. Charming is a word that blooms in the older man’s head like a blushing rose, as corny as that is. A rose is fitting, he concludes. There have been countless occasions where Mordecai Heller has been struck by unforgiving thorns. But the thorns that came with the rose that is Roark? Mordecai is anything but a man who isn’t prepared. Metaphorical gardening gloves if you will.
Mordecai isn’t entirely sure when it had started or if it will ever grant him mercy and stop.
Rocky has made a considerable effort to be present. Or perhaps he’s made no effort at all and he happens to just be there. Whether Mordecai liked it or not, the tabby stood out to him like a thorned rose in a field full of unsuspecting daisies. Rocky, the rose that he is, draws Mordecai in like a moth to a flame. He couldn’t help it; it didn’t matter how hard he fought against it. Seemingly against his will, the tiniest part of him will react. His ears will perk at the sound of the younger man’s voice. His inquisitive green eyes track every movement the tabby makes, studying and anticipating what move Rocky could possibly make next. Rocky is unpredictable. That’s what makes him that much more of an enigma.
Mordecai prided himself in knowing.
But with Roark?
He just simply didn’t. But something in him itched and screamed to know.
That lead to where he is now, but not from his own actions. But instead, Ivy Pepper’s. The young woman has a way of orchestrating events that one would think she were the conductor of all their futures. She had a way about her. Unbeknownst to everyone involved, Mordecai’s future will be irreversibly changed henceforth.
Mitzi had gifted him access back into his former office space above the café. It was bitter sweet and a painful reminder, but greatly appreciated. Mitzi entrusted him with the book keeping, taxes and what not. The tasks he used to previously complete under Atlas’ employment. One evening as he is settling himself back in, a hurried and mismatched knock stumbled him out of his thoughts. His tail flicked, irritated and slightly bristled at the disruption. Flattening out his waist coat, and with an almost undetectable twitch of his whiskers, Mordecai stands up from his desk chair.
Upon opening the door to his office, the last person he expects to see is the band’s troublesome violinist and standing behind the tabby is the mischievous Ivy Pepper.
“Aha Ole’ Serious Face! Terribly sorry to bother you but miss Pepper here said you needed a hand-” the tabby attempts before he squeaks out an indignant noise as he’s suddenly pushed into the office, mere inches away from bumping into the older man.
“Sorry mudbug! Mordecai just looks so horrendously lonely in here!” Ivy gives the gunman a mocking stare, fluttering her eyelashes innocently.
“How about you tell him about that one poem you like? I’m sure he’d love to hear all about it!” the young Pepper playfully declares as she shoves the tabby into the room before slamming the door shut behind him. The sound of an obnoxious click sounds as Mordecai’s ears flatten against his head.
Dumbfounded and puzzled, Rocky stutters out a small noise of confusion, whipping around to test the doorknob. Mordecai stares wide eyed at the back of the younger man’s head, his tail twitching behind him in a mix of irritation and apprehension. Rocky sucks in a nervous breath through his teeth as he turns himself back around to face the noir man with a bashful (charming) grin.
“You wouldn’t happen to have the key would ‘ya Serious?”
Mordecai turns back to his desk with a small huff. Walking over, Mordecai eases himself back into his desk chair, only to relieve himself from the sudden weakness he feels his knees. If it were anyone else, he would have snapped at the attempt of a nickname. If it were anyone else- but Rocky made things… difficult. It didn’t matter how he tried. He couldn’t bring himself to fight it and say something. Mordecai wasn’t entirely sure why he couldn’t, it’s not that he felt particularly upset about it. It was more about maintaining appearances, but Mordecai’s jaw remained tightly shut. Which Rocky took as unsaid permission to continue calling him that. Sticking to him like syrup to his fur.
“No Mr Rickaby, I do not” the tuxedo replies back dispassionately, his hands coming to rest at his own knees. His grip tight on his pristine, black dress pants. Rocky’s charismatic grin falls, his bushy tail curling dejectedly around his own leg.
“Ah… I hope I’m not too much of a bother then, do you mind?” Rocky tentatively points at the empty chair opposite of Mordecai on the other side of the desk.
The tuxedo makes a small gesture with his hand, giving Rocky his unsaid permission to sit. The grin makes itself known on the tabby’s face once more as he practically hops into his seat, his fluffy tail swishing amusingly behind him. Theatrical and nonsensical as ever.
Charming.
“Well Serious, seems like I might be here for little while… what have you been up to in here?” the young man prompts, crossing a leg over his knee. Blue eyes staring back at him with a fascinated attentiveness.
“Taxes.” Mordecai replies dryly, his own eyes avoiding contact as he sifts through the multitude of ink written sheets.
“Oh.”
There was something about the unfiltered disappointment that seeped from Rocky’s despondent sigh that irked Mordecai immensely. Leaving a dense and tight sensation within the of depths his chest before making its way up into his throat. And before he knew it, he’s speaking.
“Miss Pepper said something about… a poem?” Mordecai enquires lowly, peeking back up at the tabby to gauge his reaction with narrowed eyes.
There wasn’t anything that could prepare him for the pure, almost manic joy that bloomed on Rocky’s face. The violinist’s trademark smile making itself known as he inches closer, until he’s sitting on the edge of his seat.
“You really want to know?” the younger man bites his lower lip, as if he’s struggling to keep himself contained.
Mordecai raises a single brow and with a small ‘go-on’ gesture of a wrist, Rocky nearly vibrates in his seat. Sharp teeth on display and dilated pupils, the tabby grips the arms of his chair in excitement. Amusement bubbles in Mordecai’s chest and it takes every fibre of his being not to give a small smile at the sight. Keep yourself together.
“Do you happen to read any Shakespeare?” Rocky grins, blue eyes narrowed in anticipation.
“I’m not one to dabble into fiction, I read non-fiction” the tuxedo replies.
“Really? None of his work? Surely you have heard of Macbeth? Perhaps Romeo and Juliet?” the tabby enquires, claws tapping at the wood of his chair. The way he speaks reminds Mordecai of an actor giving a performance. It’s as if the violinist is always on stage, eager to impress and engage. Roark didn’t really need to try; Mordecai finds him plenty interesting as he is.
“Heard, not read” Heller stoically clarifies, adjusting his pince-nez.
“I highly recommend… perhaps a sonnet? Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Rocky verses gently, eyelids fluttering dramatically as he brings a hand to sit on upon his own chest. The tabby’s hand rests right against tufts of charming, devious fur that happen to peek out from his collar. Absurdly alluring and instantaneously distracting the tuxedo cat of any previous coherent thoughts.
Mordecai lets out a small cough to clear his throat as he continues to sift through the tax papers, purposefully turning his face downwards, tilting to hide any cracks in his expression. His sleek tail sways contentedly behind him, hidden by the desk.
“Thou art more lovely and more temperate… rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer’s lease hath all too short a date… really? You truly haven’t heard it?” Rocky playfully pouts as he leans back into his chair, lulling blue eyes squint mischievously as he continues, “Mordecai Heller, I’m almost disappointed.”
“Almost?” the older man peeks up at the tabby, who silently gives a sharp grin in return. Eyes twinkling with mischief.
The gunman is stuck and hopelessly lost in the violinist’s charming eyes once more. Rocky’s expression remains true as he tilts his chin up slightly, standing firm in his silence. Surrendering to Rocky’s stubborn reserved quietness, Mordecai sighs defeatedly;
“Well to answer your question, no, I haven’t heard of that particular sonnet” Mordecai calculatedly replies as he avoids eye contact once more. Eager to quell the ever-bubbling emotion in his chest from overflowing.
Looking away is a struggle, as it seems. As the second Mordecai looks away, the urge to stare at the tabby hits him like a hearse. He longs to count each stripe that are uncovered on Rocky’s blissfully exposed forearms. There’s four on each forearm. The countless hours of... watching guarantee it. He longs to get lost in eyes so azure one would think he were staring up into the broad midday sky itself. Ponder upon the scar that sat so neatly and perfectly on the centre of Roark’s forehead. Symmetric in a macabre sort of fashion. Though Mordecai is aware he would need to peer quite intensely at Rocky’s forehead to truly see it, it hides thinly behind regrown grey fur. Tempting Mordecai to trace it with a finger if he so dared. But with teeth as sharp as Rickaby’s, Mordecai isn’t willing to lose a finger to the bear trap that is the younger man’s grin. He hasn’t had an opportunity like this before.
He’s never usually this close.
Considering the violinist this close is an entirely different experience to... observing the tabby from afar. Mordecai notes that it is a lot easier to take in Roark’s fine details when the younger man in question is staring back at him. Every other time, the tabby is often distracted by something or other. Much too preoccupied to notice that every movement he makes is being observed with innate dedication. Mordecai isn’t sure what he is looking for in particular. It is simply the fact he just doesn’t know, or understand. There wasn’t much that could keep Mordecai’s attention these days, not anywhere near as close as the devotion that he commits to watching Roark. This current situation is... exceedingly dissimilar. The speakeasy’s stage is often where the younger man would allure Mordecai’s undivided attention. A dwelling where the younger man is often more himself than any other place. A performance of a different kind. However now, with the younger man across from him, it seems the stage lights doesn’t give the violinist the true justice. Here, in his dingy little office space, Roark is bathed with the warm light of Mordecai’s desk lamp. Mordecai notices tiny innate details he’s never had the chance to truly study. Like just how soft and inviting the hair on Roark’s chest looks. It is becoming increasingly difficult to pay attention to the work on his desk.
His senses are numbed. Piercing like a needle through tough skin, Roark’s voice penetrates through the fog of Mordecai’s mind.
“That’s a real shame Serious…if given the opportunity, would you read Shakespeare?” Rocky enquires carefully, eyebrows raised.
“That would be extremely unlikely” Heller replies amusedly, the barest hint of a smile on his face.
Rocky sighs in dramatic defeat, though his posture remains alert and interested.
The two men then sit contentedly in silence as Mordecai works. Occasionally Heller’s green eyes peek up at the tabby before hastily looking back down at his work. Each time he is caught by Rocky’s inquisitive bright eyes and an expression that Mordecai cannot quite place. He can feel the younger man’s eyes staring, he’s being studied. It is as if any slight movement could give away Mordecai’s most well-hidden, impossibly secured thoughts and feelings. Hidden and trapped within the impenetrable vault of his mind, and his heart. Though there are many individuals that would argue that he lacks the latter.
Mordecai didn’t need to prove to anyone he has a heart.
Not when he can feel it pump so uncontrollably within the confines of his chest. He has all the unavoidable proof he needs.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask and… I haven’t really had the right moment for, would you be so kind as to indulge me, Mr Serious?” Rocky enquires with a small almost… solemn smile.
Everything about the tabby’s posture is taut, as if he’s ready to spring up and out of his chair over the tiniest of inclination. Taut like the strings of his beloved violin. Rocky appears ready to jump at any moment, possibly set to jump out the nearby window if the situation demands it. He looks nervous. Mordecai gives no hints of his immediate curiosity and interest, green eyes still cast down towards his work as his tail whips undetected behind him. Rocky’s nervousness doesn’t sit well in Mordecai’s chest.
“I’m well aware you will continue… regardless if I give permission or not” Heller drawls out, his grip on his favourite red China pen tenses.
Rocky is silent for a moment, mulling over the question in his scrambled mind. His hands fiddle nervously in his lap as his mismatched ear twitches.
“Do you ever find yourself... echoing to yourself in this chamber? Lacking ears willing to capture your voice?” Roark leans forward slightly, lithe hands gripping each other tightly. The tabby’s expression becomes less confident with every question.
“I’m sorry?” Mordecai questions, confused by the violinist’s roundabout questions. Eyebrows furrowing; Mordecai feels... frustrated with himself for not quite catching onto whatever flowery enquiry that Roark spills out. The tabby’s tail is bushed up behind him, skittish like a caught squirrel.
“You know... lacking in some keen camaraderie?” Roark questions almost softly, twinging like an untuned violin, as if he regrets asking in the first place.
His hands are up, shakily grasping at some invisible... something. As if the motions would aid Mordecai in translating the overcomplicated sugar-coated questioning the violinist is rambling at him. Mordecai raises his brows in evident puzzlement, his agitation rising. The musician’s smile shrinks at the sight, appearing more embarrassed by the second.
“Mr. Rickaby, I ask that you just spit it out already.” Mordecai demands, tired with the tomfoolery.
Roark visibly gulps at the demand, charming brows furrowed as his eyes dart to look down at his own now clasped hands. Biting at his lower lip, darling fangs gnaw at the delicate skin in a way that Mordecai has to resist the urge to tell the violinist off for being so rough with himself. The gunman’s better judgement allows him to remain silent. Roark sucks in a steeling breath, as if gathering the strength to continue. Azure eyes finally meet Mordecai’s as Roark delicately questions;
“Are you lonely?”
What?
Mordecai stares at the violist across from him, incredulous but intrigued. His expression mustn’t be as fascinated as he feels, sending Roark into a panic.
“Now before you say anything! This isn’t meant to offend, because heck- I’m lonely too… if that helps! It probably doesn’t- I just- I see you and- well, I thought maybe-” the tabby rambles, desperate to redeem himself.
“Mr. Rickaby, just- Roark stop-” Heller forces, hands coming up to mimic an easing motion to the spiralling man.
Rocky’s mouth shuts with a small wince, his charming brows furrow in anxiety. Mordecai takes a second to sigh and process his thoughts. He breathes in and exhales slowly to ease his posture, attempting to appear less threatening. He wasn’t looking to scare the tabby out the window. Not when he’s right here, talking to him. Regardless if it’s willingly or not. Though if the younger man wasn’t interested in speaking with him, Rocky would have made use of the window the second the door locked.
“I didn’t mean to offend you-” Rocky quietly starts again, though less hurried and fretful this time. He is swiftly interrupted once more.
“You haven’t offended me” Mordecai states firmly before continuing; “I would like to ask… what you meant by your question.”
Rocky’s face transforms microscopically through a mix of emotions before settling on a timid expression. The tabby purses his lips as he hums in thought, vivid green eyes consume every movement like a starved hawk.
“Well, it’s just… I see you around and you never stay. Zib is always telling me to steer well away from you but- I think that’s just Zib so it wouldn’t be entirely your fault... I think everyone is a little terrified of you to be frank-”
“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Terrified?”
The silence devours the small confined space of the office as tension thickens like a smog. The two men are stuck staring into the eyes of the other, waiting for even an inkling of movement. A hint or a sign, anything substantial to work off. Mordecai stares imposingly at the tabby across from him, whilst not actively… trying to be intimidating. He is well aware that it doesn’t truly matter if he tries or not. Anyone who wasn’t terrified of Mordecai Heller were either bluffing or mad. Even Mitzi, in all her ‘all bark no bite’ attitude, holds a smidge of fear for the hatchet man. Calvin wore his fear on his sleeve unlike Ivy, who very convincingly, does a splendid job in hiding hers. A false bravado, she is well aware that while Mordecai wouldn’t harm her… Mordecai has grievously harmed others.
But Rocky? Mordecai once again, simply did not know. Is he bluffing? Or has his head injury truly messed with his frame of mind? Mordecai can recall the tabby’s bright eyes full with fear as he aimed his pistol at the back of the Lackadaisy ford. Narrowly missing as the car swerved left off of the road and headfirst into Sedgewick Sable’s quarry. The tabby’s maniacal laughter haunted him most nights. But he didn’t truly mind it. The manic young man stood high upon the mechanical beast, trapping Mordecai in an almost bewitching trance. Mordecai is very aware that something is undoubtedly fundamentally wrong with himself. His convictions of murder and various crimes placed aside for a moment. Finding Rocky at his most charming when he’s rife with madness and hysteria is something that Mordecai cannot fully process. All he knows is that he wants more of it.
Mordecai concludes that he isn’t sure if he wants Roark to be afraid of him.
Mordecai isn’t sure how he wants Roark to feel about him.
Does he wish for the violinist to be closer?
A small part of him fights to remain the image that everyone has made of him… but a surprisingly large part of him dreads losing this. Whatever complicated thing that he and the violinist have. It’s horrifically fragile. And most likely one-sided Mordecai bitterly reflects. Although, as fragmented and as strange as it is, Rocky is just as lonely as him. He can see it hidden within the depths of those azure gates.
Rocky is the first to break eye contact, opting to stare down at his own intertwined hands, twitching and fidgeting. The tabby gives a small smile as he finally speaks, the darling fur of his cheeks raise slightly in embarrassment.
“I wouldn’t say terrified is the right word for it-”
The office door swings open.
Mitzi May stands in the open doorway with her eyes wide with bewilderment, a key in one hand and letter in the other. Her eyes dart between the two men, fixed with an expression typically reserved for when she is having trouble trying to comprehend something. The same face she pulls when Rocky is trying to explain his unfiltered love for a certain rounded, sickeningly-sweet, doughy breakfast cuisine. Under Mitzi’s scrutiny, the tabby shrinks slightly in his chair, his posture caving in on himself. Seemingly doing his best to take up as little space as possible. Mordecai clears his throat to gain Mitzi’s full attention, directing it to himself and off of the tabby.
“Can I help you Ms. May?” the tuxedo enquires curtly, quickly placing his metaphorical walls back up. Brick by brick.
“Mordecai, honey you know you can just call me Mitzi… for heaven’s sake. I just came by to drop this off for you” Mitzi huffs out, her heels clicking as she steps forward. She gently places the letter in front of Mordecai before turning to face her band’s violinist.
“Though I am curious... how are you still alive?” the woman smiles amusedly, leaning against the desk with a hand on her hip.
“Pardon?” Rocky awkwardly yet politely smiles, his hands held tightly on his lap.
“Well dear, I had to use the key just to get in. I didn’t realise the big bad Mordecai had you all locked up in here” Mitzi teases, causing the hatchet man to sputter and cough slightly.
“Oh! No, this isn’t Serious’ doing... Miss Pepper locked me in” the tabby chuckles weakly, keeping his eye contact anywhere else than back at Mitzi.
“Now that makes sense... well, come along Rocky, Zib was looking for you anyhow” Mitzi states, giving the tabby a small pat on the shoulder as she saunters towards the office door.
The violinist trips slightly as he stands, shaky in the knees. Stepping away, Roark looks over his shoulder as he leaves. Mordecai watches on solemnly as the enigma of his thought’s exits his office, Roark’s expression is unreadable as he briefly peeks at Mordecai over his shoulder.
Without another word, Rocky has left.
Leaving Heller behind with the silence of the office and the screaming of his mind. Second by agonising second, he is driven further into his inner madness. Pondering over an unanswered question. His delightful company has left the room, but he left behind an uneasy presence through the form of an unanswered question.
What was Roark going to say?