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nichenarratives · 8 months

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Bittersweet

An Obscure Oneshot

Inspiration art by: Tracy J Butler

The night is stiflingly still, interrupted only occasionally by a poorly concealed drunken hiccup or the murmur of cabbies working late, ferrying the conspicuously intoxicated home before the local police can lock them. The street lamps have long been lit, the oil burning low in the city smog, illuminating narrow pools of cobbled streets in hazy orange light.

Mordecai is used to the dark; his job - both past and present - demands discretion and secrecy, making the cover of night perfect for his needs. There's no better time to assassinate targets, equalize grudges or raze a competitor's warehouse to the ground than while the pillars of society slumber. The night is his armour and often, his advantage.

Tonight isn't just another job, however. Tonight is personal.

Apartments are always harder to break into. Not only does one have to find a way into the building but also the correct unit, all without being heard or seen. Thankfully, having lived within the city for over a decade, Mordecai has a vast pool of experience to draw upon, making this house call just as easy as any other assignment.

Rather than breaking into the lobby, he finds a window on the second storey to squeeze through, likely left open to quell the scent of mold and mildew infecting the walls. It's a revoltingly familiar smell, one that calls forth memories the tom would much rather leave forgotten: his mother crying on the stairs after Hannah passed in her arms, suffocated by the fungus in her lungs…

Uncomfortable emotions swell in his chest, a swift reminder to squash them down. Focus, he chides himself. Now is not the time for sentiments. Wrinkling his nose, he gets back to work. Retrieving the lock pick kit from his coat, he crouches in front of his target's door. Mordecai dare not put his ear directly to the grimy wood, but in the serene silence of the night, he doesn't have to; the click of success is almost deafening in the tiny hallway.

He slips his tools away and with a hand on a gun concealed within his jacket, steps inside.

Mordecai pushes the door barely wide enough to slip through, aware its rusting hinges would creak if opened a crack more, then closes it almost soundlessly behind him. There he pauses, large ears poised for any movement or threat, but greated only by the strained, heavy breaths of an injured man sleeping roughly in his favourite chair, the tom allows himself a second to relax.

As wide eyes adjust to the darkness, they scour the room in its entirety. The apartment is in worse shape than predicted; crusting cups, plates and bowls amounting to days of use and a pile of untreated bandages that smell suspiciously of puss are the worst offenders. Bacteria notwithstanding, a number of magazines are scattered aimlessly around the man's feet and a broken radio sits dejected in the darkness on the windowsill, its cogs on full display for all to marvel at.

With ears folding back and a disgusted curl of his lip, his gaze shifts to his target. The hulking ginger bobcat wheezes in the armchair, legs propped up on an ottoman Mordecai doesn't recall being previously present. His eye patch rests on a side table, and a heavy blanket across his lap has been tucked meticulously under the armpits, turning the once intimidating man into a rattling, cozy burrito.

Viktor grimaces with every breath, occasionally pausing to hiss through grit teeth before exhaling to begin the cycle anew. Seeing his old friend in such a state - and knowing he is the direct cause of his pain - raises unwanted empathy to the surface. This is why he doesn't try to make friends out of accomplices; loyalties shift, people die, plans change. Mordecai sighs and releases the butt of his pistol.

It's easier not to care, or you end up visiting old allies in the dead of night to check on them, forgetting they're an enemy.

All he can deduce tonight is he feels… something. It's not the burning anger of betrayal or frustration with a job gone awry. It's not even akin to the irritation he feels surrounded by unintelligent morons at the Mirabel Hotel. Those feelings all burn in his gut, devouring his patience, simmering below the skin until he extinguishes them. This is a solid weight in his chest, immovable and unforgiving. Guilt…?

In truth, Mordecai doesn't know what he should feel at that moment. He's gotten so good at suppressing natural emotional reactions, those that make it to the surface are often expressed in the same manner; frustration or anger, either at himself or the cause of distress, and an unending need to control it before it gets out of hand.

Mordecai scoffs silently at the idea. Why would he feel guilt, when he expressly told Viktor to retire? When he re enforced his message with a swift shot to the man's good knee? I practically autographed his retirement slip, he thinks as he stares down at his former friend, but his glare doesn't return. He can't seem to form it. If the obstinate bobcat had simply compiled, he wouldn't be in critical condition.

The reasoning is indisputable, yet the leaden feeling in the sharpshooter's gut remains unchanged, suffocating and nauseating all at once. Mordecai removes his pince-nez and rubs his eyes roughly, the beginnings of a migraine starting.

His composure is slipping, the monochromatic tom can feel it. Taking a deep breath, Mordecai straightens his posture and holds it for a few heartbeats, then releases the breath slowly. Focusing on the air leaving his lungs cements the man back in the moment. A sharp mind swiftly rifles through possible next steps, and by the time his glasses are back on his muzzle, Mordecai has a plan.

Not wanting to get his clothes covered in unidentifiable filth, the tom shrugs off his suit jacket and carefully lays it over the back of the cleanest looking dining chair. Detaching his cufflinks, Mordecai stows them away in a breast pocket for safety - the last thing he wants is to leave behind evidence of his visit - before donning his favored black leather gloves and getting down to the real dirty work.

He's got a lot to do before sunrise.

oOoOo

He doesn't remember finishing his task. It had been early in the morning - the sun had already kissed the horizon - when the tuxedo started his last piece of clean-up. He recalls being up to his elbows in soapy water, leather gloves replaced with rubber to keep the residues from touching his skin. One of them springs a leak, but he perseveres until…

A heavy thunk on the head startles Mordecai out of slumber. He first gasps, then retches as he inhales a thick cloud of dust. Another thunk and incoherent yelling in his left ear. More filth and cobwebs clogging his airways. He scrambles to get out of 'bed' but instead falls over the arm of the wingback chair he'd evidentially passed out in.

A hearty smack to his backside and Mordecai yelps, swiftly righting himself, an embarrassing tangle of limbs and fine fabrics crinkled from a night's sleep. He desperately tries to brush the dirt from his head, frantic hands messing up his usually coiffured hair and whiskers. He doesn't even notice the fourth swing until it sweeps within an inch of his side, to which Mordecai jumps another pace away from his assailant and reaches for his holstered firearms.

His shoulder holsters are gone, as is his jacket.

It's enough of a surprise to bring Mordecai securely into the present; neither his holsters or jacket come off unless their owner feels secure. Green eyes squint and attempt to focus without spectacles, which were also abandoned somewhere around the wingback last night, to find his attacker is a fuzzy orange lump flailing some form of bristled stick between them, loudly cursing in Slovakian.

The night prior comes back in an instant. Mordecai snuck in to check on his friend, only to find the place in disarray, and couldn't bring himself to leave without cleaning up first. He'd removed his jacket and holsters for the added flexibility, rolled up his shirt sleeves and got to work tidying the room; moving the disgusting old bandages to the tub to soak in bleach solution, picking up the magazines, then washing the dishes before leaving them to dry in the rack.

Underestimating the severity of slobbery, he didn't complete the last task until almost five in the morning, whereupon he dried his hands before taking a seat in the wingback he used to favour for a short rest. Intending to be gone before the angry Slovak awoke, he'd felt a little calmer about his former friend's unfortunate situation after helping, so much his eyes had begun to droop. He'll assume his Mrs Bapka or Miss Pepper assisted. I need only vacate before he wakes.

Except the familiar environment, coupled with an old friend's presence after months of working with the imbeciles Mr Sweet employed, has killed his exhausted body to slumber.

Now, I'm coated in…. He can't help it; Mordecai shudders just imagining what was on that broom. His tail puffing up in disgust as he turns on Viktor, his usually plain facade is splintered by the angriest expression he can muster while chronically squinting. "You oaf! You've ruined this suit with your… your perennial mote collection!"

His vision is too fuzzy to read the bobcat's expression, but Viktor launching the broom at his head communicates the sentiment effectively. Mordecai raises his hands to defend himself and grunts when the wooden handle rebounds off his bare palms. Damnit! I need my glasses. Why did I take them off?

"You ruin good knee!" Viktor roars back and grabbing the nearest item off of his side table, throws it at the other. The reminder of his past transgressions simmers Mordecai's anger a little even if his expression remains fierce, but gives him enough pause to allow the magazine to slap him square in the face before flopping to the floor. "Vork fine with one knee, vork vell. Now, can't even climb stairs!"

"In my defense, you were supposed to retire," Mordecai retorts swiftly, then flinches back as Viktor attempts to pick up the end table in his rage. Thankfully, with his lungs full of holes, the Slovak can't lift it off the ground and it only rocks precariously before settling again. Mordecao decides to try reasoning with the hulk of a cat again as he fumbles around for his pince-nez. "I told you I was leaving, Viktor. I warned you it would be distasteful. If you'd just listened-"

"I listen, and tell you no," the old Slavok asserts through grit teeth. "Then, you take guns! Give to farmers! I have swiss cheese lung thanks to you! No climb stairs naow, thanks to you! No help in bar, thanks to-"

"Victor?" A familiar young voice asks through the door. Both men freeze, their gazes snapping to the worn wood as the knob jiggles in its housing. When the door doesn't budge, Miss Pepper knocks a couple times, fast and worried. "Are you okay? Is there someone with you?"

Large green eyes snap to Viktor the same moment his gaze returns to the tuxedo tom. They stare a long moment before another attempt at the lock has Mordecai in motion, blindly snatching up what he can locate - his holders in the coffee table, jacket over a chair - while acutely aware of the single eye burning a hole in his back. He still can't find his specs when another familiar voice pipes up. "Miss Bapka has a spare under her flower pot. I'll go grab it."

"Okay. I'll stay here," Ivy responds softly, and there's a short pause while Mordecai is pulling on his boots before another knock and a worried voice. "Rocky's getting the key, Viktor."

With it being light out and Viktor's apartment up on the third floor, jumping from a window isn't an option. He'll be seen or worse, break his leg and get caught. Neither Lackadaisy or Mirabel staff can know he was here; both would question his loyalties, based on the fact he cleaned instead of killing the bobcat after breaking in. I'll have achieved nothing, besides alienating former cohorts. They can't find me. I need to hide.

Still without his pince-nez, Mordecai is forced to navigate the small apartment from memory, passing close enough to Viktor for the old cat to grab his collar. There aren't many places to hide - the bedroom is too close to the front door, the bathroom could potentially be used by a visitor - but the tuxedo cat knows of one. Quiet as a mouse, he slides open one of the pantry doors and slips inside, squeezing his slim frame between said door and the shelves.

Almost as soon as he pulls the door closed, the front door springs open. Through the crack, Mordecai watches Rocky launch himself inside with a yell, shoe raised over his head and eyes darting about the room wildly. A moment passes and he straightens, looking confused as Ivy walks past him. "Does it…" He pauses, scratching his head with the sole of his shoe as he finds the words. "Look cleaner in here?"

"Maybe Mrs Bapka cleaned some," Ivy says as she steps carefully over the discarded broom, raising a brow at it as she balances a small cardboard box in her hand. From his current angle, Mordecai can't see the bobcat's face, but the young flapper feline looks quizzical. "I could've sworn I heard you talking to someone, though."

"Maybe he was talking to himself," Rocky suggests, his smile unwavering as he hops about trying to put his shoe back on. "I do it all the time! I have the best answers to questions I didn't even know I asked!"

Ivy ignores him and presents Viktor with the box, placing it carefully on his chest. "Rocky's taking me to university, but we stopped at the Little Daisy and got you your favourite pastry. Thought it might cheer you up a bit, you know… being stuck in here all day." She smiles a bittersweet smile, but when Viktor simply huffs sadly it fades. "I'm sorry, I wish we could make things better… if there's anything we can-"

"Hey, whose are these?" Rocky asks as he scoops a pair of glasses off the floor, straightening to scrutinize the missing pince-nez closely. Mordecai feels his chest tighten as Ivy leans in close too, frowning at the little circular spectacles. "Oh! I recognise those" she says suddenly. "Aren't they-"

"Old looking glass," Victor interrupts with an obvious lie before either of the two young visitors can say anything more. They both glance up to the orange bobcat, who holds out a meaty hand for the delicate eyeglasses. "Had made for reading. Vas joke with old partner. Ve match for vhile."

Rocky and Ivy share a glance, but the gray tabby hands the glasses over without fuss. "I didn't know you need glasses to read," Rocky states as Viktor neatly places them on the magazines now carefully categorized on the side table. "Oh, I remember!" Rocky explains with a snap of fine fingers. "They're like Ol' Serious Face's glasses! You know, the guy that-" he mimes a finger gun directly at Viktor's knee, and Mordecai can smell the sour expression it garners from Viktor. Rocky doesn't seem to notice it as he 'shoots' the knee with a soft click of his tongue.

Ivy swiftly pulls Rocky out of reach just as a huge hand goes for his neck. "Well, this was nice," she says brightly as she hurries Rocky towards the door, pushing him harder when he aims another finger gun. "But I really should get to school now. I wouldn't want to be late. Enjoy your cake!"

With that, the hurricane of youth exits the apartment and all falls silent again. Mordecai stays in his hiding place a little longer, to be sure they won't be disturbed again, before he finally slips back out of the pantry. From the kitchen, he can see Viktor staring down at his cake blankly, devoid of any discernible emotion, holding the little box with both hands.

It's a stark contrast to his earlier anger, and that heavy mass settles firmly back in Mordecai's chest seeing it. Like his mother's grief, this isn't something he can gloss over or fix, but it is his fault. That somehow makes everything worse.

He picks his way back through the living room, forced to run his fingers along surfaces and furniture as he nears them to avoid falling over, until he's so close to Viktor the cat is once again just colourful blobs. From here, Mordecai fumbles on the side table for his glasses and relieved when his hand closes on them, swiftly brings them to his muzzle.

Close up, Viktor looks like a caricature of depression, with pale lips drawn down so far it deforms his face and broad shoulders slumped towards his lap, apparently uncaring that the monochromatic tom is close enough to punch. The cake ibeads condensation from being recently removed from a cool display cabinet, the powdered sugar on top flavouring the air sickly sweet, as if openly mocking the bobcat's emotions by counteracting them effortlessly.

Mordecai sighs heavily, and not just because there's a large fingerprint smudging the corner of his glasses. "I'm sorry," he says, perhaps as earnestly as he ever has before, hand lingering above Viktor's shoulder but never making contact. It doesn't feel like a good time. There's so many feelings in his head, so many unnamed emotions and sentiments he can't make sense of, things he should say that Mordecai simply doesn't know how to express. "I should… I'll go."

He strides for the door, pausing for one last look at his only - now former - friend before letting himself out. Mordecai is fairly sure he hears the cake hit the door not a moment afterwards.

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