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unscrupulousartist · 8 months

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hellerby fic, part 10/10

19 December 1929

Sprawled across two booths in the Lackadaisy Cafe, the senior staff loosely gathered for a breakfast meeting. Furthest from the door, Mordecai had a table to himself to accommodate the piles of paperwork and books he was referencing. As such, Mitzi half kneeled in the other booth with Viktor and Ivy, both to be able to lean over the divide to bother him and also so she had a clear view of the doors. Outside, the streets were white with snow. The people of St Louis were bundled in colourful scarves and bulky jackets, and fewer cars were out and about.

“Where is he?” Mitzi grumbled.

“Who?” Ivy asked, voice muffled with food.

Shuddering, Mordecai hunched over his ledger and started a second count of the day’s proposed expenses.

“Zib!” Mitzi answered. “He knows we don’t have a whole lotta time!”

“Perhaps you should get him a watch?” Mordecai pitched in without turning. “Though I doubt it would help. Why are we hiring jugglers?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mitzi reached to smack his shoulder lightly. “You’re goin’ home at noon.”

“Yes, so you’ve said.”

“A nice, relaxing, stress free weekend for you while the rest of us frolic and play.”

“Sounds delightful,” he made a tally in the margin. “And suspicious.”

“Don’t worry so much,” Mitzi ruffled his hair, then straightened as the bell over the door dinged. “There you are!”

Zib’s voice carried across the cafe: “Here I am. Be grateful I’m even awake.”

“And with company,” there was a note of mischief in Mitzi’s voice.

Explained by Wick’s response: “Hullo.”

“Great,” Viktor grumbled. “Who do I owe money?”

“Money?” Wick questioned.

“No one, yet,” Zib answered. “Don’t worry about it, Wick. Ivy, budge over—”

There was some shuffling as three people squeezed together onto a two person bench, all of which Mitzi seemed to have no patience for. She turned to sit properly beside Viktor, leaving Mordecai as an eavesdropper. “Did you get it?” she asked.

“Who do you think I am?” said Zib. There was a fwump as something hit the other table. “Cost an arm and a leg, but I got it.”

Mordecai rolled his eyes and asked: “Is that why—?”

“Shush,” Mitzi shot back at him, then returned to the conversation. “And the recipe?”

“All sorted; I just need an hour in the kitchen before the festivities start.”

Wick cleared his throat. “Is this about the kissing booth..?”

The whole table laughed.

“No, no, Wick, that’s separate,” Mitzi purred. “But we’re still payin’ off Mozzie’s new piano, and there’s always something or another to fix.”

“I definitely have another kissing campaign in me,” Zib added. “You done with the paper?”

“Yea,” said Viktor.

“So…” Wick started. “The mushrooms were for—?”

“Shhh,” Mitzi, Ivy, and Zib all chorused.

“Nothing to worry about,” Mitzi continued.

“Suspicious,” Mordecai repeated.

The bell rang again. “Goooood morning!” An exuberant Rocky sang; Mordecai slumped lower in his booth, out of sight. “Horatio! Good sir! Are there pancakes?”

“Come here, Rocky,” Mitzi called. Someone scrambled to remove something from the other table. “Horatio knows your order.”

“Of course, Ms M—”

“We weren’t expectin’ you this early.”

“Is it early?”

“Oi, Rocky—” Zib waved something in the air. “—says here your boy was found in the Missouri.”

“Freckle?” Rocky questioned. He came close to stand at the edge of the other table. “What was he doing there?”

Quietly groaning, Mordecai reached for his tea to sit and stare at; but he could still see Rocky in his peripheral.

“No,” Zib laughed. “Not him.”

“Freckle’s my boy, Rocky,” said Ivy. “But I forgive you.”

“Ha, of course,” Rocky’s arms flailed high as he rubbed his neck.

Zib’s voice lowered to near a whisper, and Mordecai’s ears twitched to hear him. “The one you kept awkwardly flirting with.” There was a beat of silence as Rocky inhaled, and Mordecai felt something twist in his gut. Zib continued: “Says right here—” there was the smack of flesh on paper; Mordecai pulled his tea close to sip. “—cops finally identified the body they found back in October—”

“Oh good,” Rocky interrupted, sighing. “You had me going there, but I saw Ol’ Serious Face yesterday.”

Sputtering, Mordecai spewed his mouthful of tea across his tableful of paperwork. He continued into a coughing fit as Rocky tensed and twisted to look at him.

“Oh my gosh,” Ivy squeaked. “Rocky!”

“Oh—uh—hey, Mordecai,” Rocky managed a laugh. “Didn’t see you there.”

Staring up at him, Mordecai froze. He could feel his face flushing hot, and his ears angled low and away. But he managed to pick out the details of Rocky’s outfit; a dark gray overcoat obscuring the blue of his usual suit and a hideously yellow scarf, half unwound from his neck. His clothes slowly dripped, a scattering of snowflakes disappearing in the cafe’s warmth. His pupils were narrow, his smile panicked, and he brought his hands up in front of him to pull awkwardly on his sleeves.

“Jeez, Rocky, you can’t just say that stuff!” Zib said loudly. It drew the violinist’s attention, briefly. Just long enough for Mordecai to start gathering his work things into messy piles; he sorted by wet and dry.

“Can’t he?” asked Wick.

“Not about Mordecai,” Zib added. “Not unless you have some sort of death wish. It was a joke, right?”

“Uhhhhh—” Rocky frowned.

“You gotta work on your delivery.”

“Mordecai?” Mitzi knelt again, leaning over the booth to look at him.

“I’ll start that evening off now,” Mordecai rushed. “Should I take these upstairs or—?”

“I’ll get them, sugar.”

“Perfect,” he shifted along the bench, trying not to look at Rocky. “Don’t burn anything down.”

Flinching, Rocky managed a chuckle as Mordecai stood.

Wick asked: “Aren’t you staying for the party?”

“Definitely not,” Mordecai hissed. Standing, he could see the entire second table; they all stared, wide eyed, at him and Rocky. "I was promised ignorance and relaxation. Not jugglers and—"

"It was good to see you, Sugar!" Mitzi shouted, too loud. It drew the attention of several other morning visitors. "And don't you dare take any work home with you! I wanna hear about a boring weekend, full of plants and crosswords."

“So long as I don’t have to hear about tonight’s—”

“Shhh!” Ivy and Mitzi said again.

Shaking his head, Mordecai slipped on his overcoat and reached for his hat and scarf.

Rocky startled into motion, stepping towards him again. “You’re leaving?”

Tense, Mordecai bit his tongue and glared as he looped his scarf around his neck. He turned toward the door.

Rocky motioned as if to block his path, but Viktor reached out and snatched his arm.

“Take the hint, kid,” Zib interpreted. The musician draped across a confused Wick to point at Rocky. “We’re all lucky he hasn’t gone feral again. Remember what happened to Sully?"

"No?" Rocky frowned at the table.

Mordecai used the moment to slip away.

"Miriam?" Zib tried again. "Chance?"

"I don't think Rocky was around yet," Ivy mused.

"Ah—wait!" Escaping from Viktor's hold—he contoured out of his overcoat, leaving the article in Viktor's hand—Rocky stumbled after Mordecai. "I got you something."

Slowing at the doorway, Mordecai was very aware of the room full of potential witnesses. Behind the counter, Horatio stood with a tray piled high with pancakes, and every third table sat one or two people. Still, his traitorous body paused to stare at Rocky, mortified, and he noticed a familiar pair of black cufflinks at the violinist’s wrists. He didn't speak.

"For the candle Holiday?" Rocky explained. He bit his lip.

Back at the booth, Mitzi spoke up: "You mean Chanukah, sweetie?"

"Yes!" Rocky shot her a brief but dazzling smile. Mordecai managed to shift an inch closer to the door before Rocky looked at him again. "It's in the garage? I could go get it right now." And he took a single step backwards, raising his brows at Mordecai.

“Oh, Rocky—” Ivy sighed. “Chanukah isn’t really a gift giving holiday?”

“It isn’t?” Rocky turned again toward the booth, face contorting into a puzzle.

It gave Mordecai the final opening he needed to flee the cafe. As the door shut behind him, he heard Mitzi add: “and it’s next week, sweetie.”

An overcast sky accompanied Mordecai as he stormed home, carefully picking his way over compounded snow and slushy ice as he darted between people and cars. But the short walk wasn’t long enough to calm his swirling thoughts, and he continued past his building and down the block.

“These are nice shoes,” Rocky remarked. Leaning closer, he disappeared out of sight beneath the table.

But Mordecai felt fingers on his feet a moment later. “Stop that—” he pulled his legs up out of reach. Squirming in his seat, he rearranged himself to put the violinist back in his sights. “How much longer are you going to sit down there?”

Half propped against the table leg, Rocky shrugged. “Use me but as your spaniel—” he hiccoughed, blinking, and continued. “—spurn me, strike me, neglect me—oh, hm, purrhaps that’s too romantic a prompt.” He pursed his lips and frowned at the underside of the table. “Someone wrote something under here.”

“Not falling for it,” Mordecai rolled his eyes. Looking across the room, he saw Mitzi and Viktor still watching them—Zib had wandered back to the stage. “Congratulations, Mr Rickaby, you’ve successfully drunken yourself under the table.”

“Not yet successfully,” Rocky countered. Then he listed onto his side, rolling. “But I can feel the first thralls of elixir, so it isn’t so bad.”

Eventually, Mordecai returned home.

Shucking his wet outer garments to dry in the bathroom, he methodically checked his plants. Most of them were dull as they overwintered, but they were still green and healthy. It was a five minute distraction he drug a whole hour out of.

Frazzled, he made tea and a sandwich for a late lunch, which he took in the living room. Bundling up beneath a thin blanket, he curled in the chaise and stared out the window for the exact amount of time it took to steel himself to pick up Shakespeare. He leafed through the pages—now completely graffitied with notes and questions—until he found the sonnets, and read until his eyes felt heavy and his mind could drift.

It was full dark when the phone rang. Unused to the reasonable mode of communication, Mordecai chased the sound through the remnants of a dream, flailing away from a despondent violin player on a burning stage.

Sitting up fully, ears perked and eyes wide, his consciousness clued in to what was happening just in time for the ringing to stop. He sighed, slumped, and straightened his glasses.

The phone rang again. Standing, he crossed the small apartment in a few long strides and picked up the device. “What is it?”

“Mordecai!” Ivy shouted, too loud. Then she giggled and shushed someone.

Mordecai looked for his nearest clock. “Ivy?”

“Yes!”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“Is it? It is! Can you come get me?”

He rubbed his brow. “Isn’t Viktor there?”

“His knee hurts.”

Mordecai groaned.

Ivy continued: “Because you shot it.”

“I know,” he hissed. “I was there.”

“Right,” Ivy giggled. “It’s late and I want to go home but everyone is too drunk to drive. Come get me.”

He knocked his head against the wall. “Sleep upstairs, Mitzi won’t mind.”

“Mordecai!” her voice dipped, crackling low over the line. “I’m bringing Freckle with me, I can’t take Freckle upstairs!”

“This seems like a phenomenal lack of planning on your part.”

“Mordecaaaii…”

“I’m not even working tonight.”

“Pleeeeease—”

“Why isn’t McMurray taking you home?”

“I tooold you, everyone is tooooo drunk. Just come get us!”

Waffling a moment longer, his other hand clenched into a fist. “Fine. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” And he hung up.

Not too bothered about being witnessed during the drunken hour, and still mostly dressed from falling asleep, Mordecai made short work of getting ready to leave. He took the stairs for haste, and nodded at the doorman on his way out. The weather, while mild, still held a midnight chill. The sidewalks had glazed over, and troughs had frozen in the streets. Very few people were out and about, and even fewer cars. So it was somewhat of a spectacle to see the dim glow of light coming from the Lackadaisy Cafe, and a small gathering of people outside the doors.

And, as he drew closer, Mordecai saw two unexpected individuals.

“Dere he is!” Serafine noticed him first, and nudged her brother.

“Peekon!” Nico cheered, but stayed in place leaning against the glass beside Viktor, who nodded a greeting. Mitzi, Zib, and Wick closed off the smoker’s circle, each of them bundled against the cold.

“What are you doing here?” Mordecai’s eyes narrowed.

Serafine grinned and shrugged. “Your musician invited us a while back.”

“Dou, he said you’d be here,” Nico added. He tapped the ash off his cigarette.

“Kid’s ballsy,” Zib sighed. Shaking his head, he leaned into Wick’s side. “I swear, he’s got nine fucking lives.”

“None of you could take Ivy home?” Mordecai glared at the group.

“We’re waitin’ for a taxi,” said Mitzi. “We offered to take her, but she doesn’t wanna hang out with the adults.”

“She’s twenty.”

“You try tellin’ her that, sweetheart. Lemme know how it goes.”

Mordecai shook his head.

“We could take her?” Nico offered.

Viktor and Mordecai spoke together: “No.”

“I’m hurt,” Nico pouted, first at Mordecai and then at Viktor. “T’ought we were gettin’ along.”

“Nothing personal,” Viktor over-enunciated in an uncharacteristic voice. Then Nico and Serafine started to laugh.

“I feel like I missed something,” Mordecai remarked wryly. He peered in through the glass, where a dozen strangers were having coffee pick-me-ups before heading home. Horatio was again behind the counter, this time bustling back and forth between percolators. “But I don’t want to know. Where’s Ivy?”

“Garage,” said Viktor. He rubbed at his knee.

“Be sure to knock,” Mitzi added.

Zib snickered into Wick’s side.

“Noted,” Mordecai drawled.

Instead of risking going through the building, he continued on around the block. Bright headlights turned the corner as he darted into an alleyway, and he supposed Mitzi and the rest would be gone soon.

Someone had shoveled the drive, all the way back to the discrete garage, but Mordecai paid the snowdrifts very little attention as he spied the open door. There was no one outside, but he could almost discern the intimate whisperings of a couple. Before he stepped inside, he announced himself: “I’m here.”

There was a scrambling, and he entered to see Freckle awkwardly side stepping away from Ivy, who sat on the hood of their dodgy vehicle. “Mordecai!” Ivy hopped down, swaying. “It took you long enough.”

“Mhm,” he propped his hands on his hips and gave her a practiced look, flat. “This feels unnecessary.”

Freckle cleared his throat and straightened to a stand; but his voice slurred around his words. “Faank you, Missir Heller.”

“Come ooooon,” Ivy urged. She stumbled to Freckle, pushing him at the back seat; but she climbed up front to sit next to Mordecai.

“Did you not have a plan?” Mordecai asked as he came around the vehicle. He pulled open the door. “What were you going to do if I didn’t pick up?”

“Slept here and hate you about it,” Ivy answered simply.

In the backseat someone—not Freckle—groaned. Mordecai tensed as Rocky’s voice floated up from the floor. “Issit t’morrow yet?”

“Yes, Rocky,” said Freckle. He reached down to pat his cousin's head.

“Oh, good… ma’by thin’s’ll be differen’ now…”

Frowning, Mordecai peaked over the seat. Sprawled out on the car floor, Rocky drooled into the upholstery. Slumping behind the wheel, Mordecai turned to hiss at Ivy: “What’s he doing here?”

Ivy rolled her eyes. “Well, usually Rocky drives us home, but, uh—Zib made something?” She scratched her head. “It was sorta like Rocky’s tea? But mush—much stronger.”

“He doesn’ ushully get like this,” Freckle added, then hiccoughed. There was a pause before he continued. “He’s got a tall—a taller—a tall-shurance?”

“Ignore him,” said Ivy. “He can barely tell his reds from his greens right now. Le’sss gooooo.”

Reluctantly, Mordecai started the car. He took care of the garage door himself, opening it, driving through, closing it again, and then they bumped down the little alley and out to the street. A couple more people were leaving the Lackadaisy, but the senior staff—plus guests—were all gone. And then they crawled, extra slow, through the streets of St Louis.

Ivy took up the cause of conversation. “You missed out on a fun party,” she sighed, drifting across the seat. “There was a bit of a theme? The twelve days of Christmas. You know it?”

“Yes,” Mordecai growled. “It’s the worst carole.”

“It’s not that bad, you sourpuss. But ins’ead of the regular days of Christmas, Mitzi mixed it up. You know?”

“The juggler?” Mordecai guessed.

“Jugglers,” Ivy corrected. “Ten clowns-a-juggling, nine swingers swinging, eight—” and she rattled off a whole stream of nonsense as Mordecai tried his hardest not to bend the steering wheel beneath the force of his grip. In the backseat, Freckle occasionally nodded or added a comment, but Rocky was quiet. Oblivious, Mordecai hoped. He still found himself straining to hear any noise the musician might make.

When they finally pulled in front of the midtown apartment Ivy kept, paid for by her inflated paycheque, the girl was still waxing about the three Dutch dancers that had taken up a whole segment of the evening.

"We're here," Mordecai noted.

"Oh—" Ivy squinted out the window, then perked. "We are! Freckle, come on—"

Opening the back door, Freckle stumbled and tripped onto the ground. "Ow."

Ivy giggled, and carefully disembarked the front seat. "Thank you, Mordecai! Have a good—"

"Wait—" Mordecai leaned to catch her door, forcing it open so he could address her. "What about Rickaby?"

Taking on an air of innocence, she blinked at him. "What about Rickaby?"

He grit his teeth and waved toward the back seat. Ivy raised her brows and tilted her head. Mordecai narrowed his eyes and flattened his ears.

“Roooocky,” Freckle sing songed himself upright, and leaned into the car.

Ivy giggled as Rocky snuffled to semi-consciousness. “Whaaaaaa’—”

“Haaaaappy biiiiirthday,” Freckle pushed on the frame of the car, rocking it.

Rocky snickered quietly.

And Mordecai froze, frowning.

Ivy cleared her throat. “You can just take the car back—Rocky will be fine.”

“Goodnight—” Freckle continued. “Sleep tight—”

“No bed buuuuuugs—” Rocky whined.

Mordecai’s ears twitched. “He’s not staying with you?”

“Nope,” the word popped from Ivy’s mouth, then she leaned forward to whisper. “Mitzi doesn’ know—he sleeps in the garage. Shhh…”

“He sleeps here?” Mordecai’s claws dug into the seat. “In the car?”

The backdoor shut, and Freckle stumbled around the vehicle.

“Shh,” Ivy reiterated. Then she leaned into the car to kiss Mordecai’s cheek. “Thanks again. Goodnight, Rocky!”

“Night, Mssssss Pep…”

Smiling, Ivy retreated, slamming the door. Meeting Freckle on the sidewalk, the two walked towards the building. Creeping across the bench seat, Mordecai watched until they greeted the overnight doorman and disappeared inside. Then, sighing, he slowly moved to peer again over the back of the seat.

At some point, Rocky had rearranged himself onto his back. His knees were bent, one foot resting against the back door and one arm sprawled beneath the seat. The thin blanket, wrapped around his waist, had tangled and lowered, showing the wrinkles forming in Rocky’s shirt and vest. His jacket was missing.

Mordecai shivered. “What am I going to do with you?”

Inhaling, Rocky’s eyes snapped open. They were a luminous blue in the darkness, his pupils rapidly growing and shrinking as he tried to focus.

Mordecai held his breath.

Then Rocky relaxed, eyelids drifting partway closed. “‘Mmmmm I dreaming?”

Biting his lip, Mordecai looked around the car pointlessly. “Yes,” he decided.

“Tha’ makes sense,” Rocky sighed and closed his eyes.

Another moment, and Mordecai tapped his claws against the upholstery. “Get up here.”

“Hmm?”

“Up front.” Half crawling, Mordecai reached behind the seat. He caught hold of the blanket first, and tugged.

The motion caused Rocky to roll. “Whaaaaa—” he fell into snickers as he wedged under the backseat. Shifting, he scrunched his face up at Mordecai. “Why?”

“The symmetry,” said Mordecai. “Obviously.”

“Symmetry?” Rocky puzzled. But he climbed up, tipping over into the front cushions.

Sliding back into place, Mordecai threw the blanket overtop of Rocky again. Clearing his throat, he restarted the car. “Well?”

“Well what, silly duck?” Rocky laughed as he fought his way out of the blanket. He managed to nearly kick Mordecai’s head as he awkwardly rolled around the seat, falling off the front. Snickering, he smiled up at Mordecai.

“What should I do with you?” Mordecai asked.

Perking, Rocky struggled back into the seat. “Take me home?”

“I would,” Mordecai drawled. But his carefully measured tone did nothing for the goosebumps rising beneath his fur. He stepped on the gas. “But, apparently, your home is the garage.”

“Well…” still half on the floor, Rocky swayed close. “You could take me to your home…”

Shivering, Mordecai drove.

It wasn’t long before Rocky yawned, eyes drooping. He nodded several times, seeming to catch himself, before finally falling against Mordecai’s thigh. “This’s nice,” he mumbled, eyes closed.

“Is it?” Mordecai replied softly. Overhead the clouds cleared, letting a handful of stars sparkle through the light pollution. The moon was out, gibbous and waning. “We’re just driving.”

“Is nice,” Rocky repeated. “I’s like our first drive.”

“Is it?” Mordecai repeated, panicking.

“Yes—no—” Rocky sighed, and turned to rub his face against Mordecai’s leg. “I couldn’t’ve dreamed that drive, I’m too dull.”

“You?” Mordecai scoffed. And, inexplicably, he relaxed under the pretenses. “Dull?”

“Dim-witted,” Rocky nodded, continuing. “Dotty, daft, dopy, dumb, brain-dead—”

“Sit up,” Mordecai interrupted.

“What?”

“Sit up,” he said. “You’re throwing off the symmetry.”

“Nooooo—” Rocky whined. Pawing, he pulled one of Mordecai’s hands from the steering wheel and held it against his head. “It’s my dream.”

While the drive was relatively easy—nearing five in the morning, the day was too cold and quiet for the general public—Mordecai left his hand where it was. He traced along the nearly-even pattern of Rocky’s fur, listening to him purr and ramble. “Through the forest have I gone, but Athenian found I none—” Rocky spoke Puck’s part as he nosed into Mordecai’s palm. “—on whose eyes I might approve, this flower’s force in stirring love. Night and silence; who is here? Weeds of Athens he doth wear—”

They’d both shifted, laid out facing each other on the roof of the car. Rocky still performed, “Now, until the break of day—” But his voice softened, eyes hooded as he studied Mordecai’s reactions. And Mordecai, transfixed, watched the words as they formed on Rocky’s lips. At some point, his hands lifted to grasp at the front of Rocky’s vest, claws catching in the fabric. Their ankles were intertwined and their tails brushed together. Rocky continued: “—through this house each fairy stray. To the best bride-bed will we—”

Mordecai interrupted: “I think I want to kiss you.”

When they came close, Mordecai idled the car in front of the Lackadaisy. Still lying on the bench—though now he faced the seat more than Mordecai—Rocky continued reciting every line, regardless of character, straight into the third act. He didn’t seem to notice the pause in the journey, nor when Mordecai made up his mind and continued driving home.

Parking in the alley behind his building, he tried corralling Rocky out of the car. But the violinist frowned for a long moment before sitting himself up. “I have presents for you,” he announced; then he climbed again over the seat, falling into the back.

“I don’t need presents,” Mordecai sighed. Stepping out, he moved to open the back door.

Squirming, Rocky searched for something under the seat. Two somethings, which he produced with a flourish and a smile. “Ta da!”

Hesitating, Mordecai observed both objects. One was lumpy and wrapped in newspaper. The other was a cactus, decorated with googly eyes and planted in a familiar old shoe. “Well, I think this is already mine,” he remarked and tapped on the shoe’s toe, then leaned to inspect the unhappy plant. Its needles were shedding and its soil was dry, but it still seemed alive. “And you’ve killed the cactus.”

“Have I?” Rocky frowned and pulled the plant closer to look at.

Mordecai took the other present and tucked it under his arm. “Inside first,” he instructed. “Can you walk?”

“Pssh,” Rocky rolled his eyes, but moved to crawl awkwardly out on all fours.

“Stop, stop—”

“What?”

Mordecai sighed, tilting his head. “Your feet should be underneath you.”

“I’s fiiine,” he insisted. But he still teetered out the door, performing a miraculous shoulder roll to flatten himself on the icy pavement; somehow, the cactus remained intact. Rocky blinked, then grinned up at Mordecai. “See?”

“I see that your feet still aren’t under you.”

“The little details don’t matter.”

“You’re inebriated.”

“Am I?” Rocky’s puzzled. “There was, purrrrrrrhaps, more inbide—imblide—impride—” Scowling, Rocky stuck his tongue out. “Words.”

“Come on,” Mordecai shook his head.

Somehow, he convinced Rocky to teeter on two feet. The trek inside was practice in balance and patience, and Mordecai tried to feel indifferent about the polite non-attention of the doorman and the lift operator. Rocky leaned next to the door while Mordecai fished for his key, and then they were inside.

“This is an awfully long dream, isn’t it?” Rocky remarked as he waited for Mordecai to shed his outer layers.

“I suppose typical dreams are short,” Mordecai agreed. A tinge of guilt crept into the corners of his mind, dark and sour. He tried to shake it off. “You should change into something dry.”

“Present first,” Rocky reminded. His tail twitched, and he watched Mordecai eagerly.

Mordecai frowned, but picked at the newspaper packaging as he wandered across the little apartment. “Isn’t it your birthday? Why get me a present?”

“I’ve never been good at birthdays,” Rocky shrugged, following with cactus-and-shoe in hand. "And I missed yours."

“Hm—” he ripped away the paper and sighed. It was a scuffed menorah, second hand. But… "I don't light candles for Chanukah."

"Oh." Ears lowering, Rocky frowned. "Then, what do you do?"

"Usually? Call my mother." Mordecai threw the candle holder onto the chaise and moved to take the cactus from Rocky’s hold; their fingers overlapped. “This one seems more like you.”

A snort drew from Rocky. Instead of yielding the plant, he moved as if Mordecai were pulling him along, too. “I’ve had it for years. I thought, well—” he let go to gesture at some of the many potted flora dotting the apartment, and Mordecai wrestled the shoe from his hold. “—if anyone could keep it alive, you could.”

“It’ll need new soil,” Mordecai noted. Walking into the bedroom, he moved to the little table by the window. Rocky followed him. “Dry clothes are in the closet. You can borrow something from the dresser, and put your things in the laundry for tomorrow.”

Rocky’s fingers rasped together. “Tomorrow?”

Mordecai tensed. Setting the cactus down next to a flowerbox of ferns, he kept his fingers busy by unbuttoning his cuffs. “Only if you’d like.”

There was a moment of silence, then Rocky stumbled to Mordecai’s little closet. It took a few minutes, but they both dressed down from their day, slipping into clean sleep things. Neither of them looked directly at the other, both awkwardly lost in thoughts and memories, until the floor was littered with clothes and their bedtime preparations were complete. Then Rocky waited, tail twitching, until Mordecai could again meet his eye. Reaching, he took Mordecai by the wrist and pulled him toward the bed.

Even inebriated—especially inebriated—Rocky was a force of chaos. The bedding seemed to rearrange around him as he maneuvered Mordecai into a little spoon. Nested, Mordecai arched back into Rocky’s torso. He tensed as Rocky licked a line up his neck, but slowly relaxed to the gentle pull of teeth across fur. The ministrations went no further.

Eventually, Rocky fell asleep with his face pressed against Mordecai’s scruff.

The hitman was less fortunate. The afternoon’s early sleep, combined with the usual hours of his profession and a dash of nerves, kept his heart beating and mind racing. He tried everything from solving complex algebraic problems to mapping out the most efficient route around the great lakes and couldn’t settle his thoughts. It was worse when Rocky pulled close, an arm snaking around Mordecai’s waist. Then worse again when Rocky shifted to nose at the back of Mordecai’s ear.

And worser still when the first hints of morning finally invaded the room. A glow out the window suggested daylight, and the start of traffic sounds drifted up from the street. All at once, Rocky inhaled, sat up, and scrambled away. Mordecai curled a little tighter around his knees and feigned sleep.

Falling out of bed, Rocky made muted noises as he searched around the room. Mordecai heard him pick up his clothes and tip toe away.

Consumed, Mordecai buried under his pillows and bit his cheeks. Minutes passed. The pain grounded his thoughts, and he tried listing all the reasons he was being stupid. It had been a mistake. A long, drawn out farce fuelled by alcohol and other intoxicants that, yes, perhaps both of them played into on occasion but neither of them had business pursuing. Outside of a penchant for the philosophical—and a precocity of word that often sent others racing for the exit—they had little in common. The idea of them together was a joke to their friends, an inconceivable notion that went unnoticed and unthought of; and even if it had, it would only be as betting fodder. He didn't even like to be touched—usually. And there was blood in Mordecai’s ledger, too much for any person to deserve—

“Shit shit shit!” Rocky’s voice chorused from the other room.

Sitting up, Mordecai smelled smoke. The blankets tangled around his ankles and he tripped from the bed. Half the bedding shed with him as he scrambled from the bedroom, only to pause in the doorway to watch as Rocky dropped a flaming pan into the little kitchen sink. The musician turned on the water, dousing the flames with a hiss.

“Not ideal,” Rocky cursed.

Mordecai took notice of the state of his kitchenette. Flour was spread across his small countertop, where a bowl of something sat balancing a whisk. His fridge was open, the contents disheveled as if they had been riffled through. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Startled, Rocky twisted to blink at him. Still undressed, his eyes were manically wide and ringed with exhausted circles. “Uhhhh—” the water was still running; he scratched at his disheveled neck. “—making pancakes?”

Habitually, Mordecai’s eyes narrowed and his shoulders hunched. “That’s cast iron. You can’t leave it in the sink.”

“Sorry—” Rocky darted to turn off the water. “It sort of caught on fire—”

“And—” continuing, Mordecai cast a quick look around the rest of the room. Seeing a pile of material on his coffee table, he pointed at it. “—I told you to put those clothes in the laundry.”

Biting his lips together, Rocky leaned against the little sink and raised his brows. He considered Mordecai. “So… it wasn’t a dream?”

Hand dropping to his side, Mordecai frowned. “... no.”

“I mean, the part where you seemed to reciprocate,” Rocky added. “You know I like you.”

“Yes.”

“And you—”

“Rocky,” Mordecai interrupted. “Please, get out of my kitchen before my cast iron rusts, or you manage to blow up the stove.”

Rocky’s nose scrunched as he grinned. “So bossy.”

“That’s not new,” he replied. Then, hesitant, he walked closer. “I thought you’d left.”

Rocky shrugged. “Technically, you weren’t wrong.”

“You know what I mean,” Mordecai intoned. “I would’ve left.”

Cautiously, Rocky reached out to hold Mordecai by the waist. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Slotting together, Mordecai nestled against Rocky’s neck. “I’m not good at this.”

Rocky snorted. “Neither am I.” He pet a line down Mordecai’s spine. “But… I think I’d like to kiss you. If that’s okay.”

Shuddering, Mordecai pulled back just enough to peer into Rocky’s eyes. “I don’t usually like kissing.”

“Oh.”

“But yes,” Mordecai added. “It’s okay.”

Tentative, Rocky pressed his lips to Mordecai's cheek. He started butterfly soft, leaving a trail of affection across Mordecai’s eyelids and up to his temple. "I don't understand kissing—" Rocky admitted in a whisper.

Mordecai snorted.

"I should say, didn't understand," Rocky corrected. He rubbed his face against Mordecai’s, knocking his glasses askew.

"What's not to understand?" Mordecai asked, aiming for condescending even as his heart beat with sincerity.

Rocky shrugged and tugged him closer. Boxed in against the sink, his hands pushed under Mordecai’s shirt to scratch claws down his back. "Usually people would act nice to get kisses, then hurt me and leave."

He couldn't help purring, even as another twinge of guilt had Mordecai leaning back against Rocky’s hold. Cadling Rocky’s neck, Mordecai pet the old bite wound. "That's what I did."

"You didn't act nice," Rocky snickered, nosing close. "You didn't pull your punches, or go along with things you didn't care about, or pretend."

"I pretended you were still dreaming just to get you up here."

"To kiss me?" Rocky raised a brow at him

Mordecai rolled his eyes.

"That's what I thought," Rocky hummed. "I like kissing you; I didn't realize it was fun for everyone."

"Who were you kissing before, that it wasn't fun?" Mordecai's eyes narrowed. "There's reasons we throw people into the river, Rickaby, and—"

"Hush—" Rocky licked Mordecai’s nose. "Who cares about them? You're fun to kiss—but only when you want to. No need to be a Miriam—or Arty—or Chance—or—"

Mordecai kissed him, licking into his mouth until they were both left panting. He scratched down Rocky's chest, enjoying the soft hiss that angled the musician's jaw wider and sighing as Rocky’s claws combed through his fur. Something reminiscent of flickering warmth and summer nights coloured in the corners of his consciousness, and he leaned closer, closer, closer until he felt Rocky’s spine arching backwards over the sink. Then, nipping at Rocky’s bottom lip, he pulled away. "You aren't like anyone else," he said. "You're very…"

A smile split across Rocky’s face. "Oh?"

"Tolerable," he settled on. “Now—get out of my kitchen, and I’ll see if I can salvage pancakes.”

Snickering, Rocky kissed Mordecai’s cheek before ducking away. He winked. “Yessir, Mr Heller, sir.”

As Mordecai scrubbed and reseasoned the cast iron, Rocky regathered his clothes to dump somewhere in the bedroom—presumably in the laundry basket, but Mordecai couldn’t be sure. He returned to the livingroom as Mordecai was inspecting the lumpy pancake mix, and curled up on the chaise with a well-read copy of the Complete Works of Shakespeare.

When Mordecai served a tray of pancakes with jam—he made a mental note to consider adding syrup to his shopping list—Rocky tucked his feet under his knees and used his finger as a bookmark. “You’ve worked your way through the whole volume,” he noted with a smile.

“You do quote the bard a lot, Roark,” Mordecai replied.

Rocky’s nose scrunched. “Only Aunt Nina calls me Roark.”

“You’ll have to add me to that list,” said Mordecai. And when Rocky blanched, he conceded. “At least some of the time.”

Rolling his eyes, Rocky held up the book. “Do you have a favourite play?”

“I may have formed a preference along the way,” Mordecai sidled onto the chaise next to him. “But I’m afraid it isn’t the frivolous one you like so much.”

“You think Macbeth is frivolous?”

Mordecai narrowed his eyes at Rocky. “Your favourite play is Midsummer’s Night.”

Settling to sit closer to Mordecai, Rocky reached to fill a plate. Undeterred by the lack of syrup, he spread an inch of jam between two pancakes. "Yes, Midsummer is a little frivolous; but why did you think I would prefer Midsummer?"

"You quote it constantly."

"Ah—" Pausing to think, Rocky nodded. "—I suppose I do."

"You convinced the band to do the third act."

"A thematic choice, for Mayday."

"Why quote it if it isn't your favourite?"

Rocky shrugged and pulled the plate into his lap. “It’s a famous tale of lovers, drugged by faeries and left to frolic overweekend in the woods.” Picking up his jam-pancake-sandwhich, he shoved the whole thing in his mouth. “Id feld ap—”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” Mordecai admonished. “Or I’m changing my mind about everything.”

Cheeks puffing as Rocky strained his lips together, he raised his brows at Mordecai. Frowning back, Mordecai’s ear twitched; so Rocky tapped a sticky finger against the volume of Shakespeare as he chewed.

Sighing, Mordecai glanced out the window in pretense of annoyance. Really it was an attempt to stop his face from heating in embarrassment. Outside, the occasional snowflake drifted by. From memory, he recited: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

The rest of the morning passed both slowly and too quick. Food was finished and set aside, but instead of leaving the two cats reclined together. Mordecai dozed on Rocky’s chest; Rocky peered over Mordecai’s shoulder to keep reading; and both of them occasionally purred or whispered to the other. Everything was on track to becoming the most relaxed day off in Mordecai’s recent memory.

And then the window slid open.

“Mordecai!” Ivy’s voice yelled. Both him and Rocky flinched. “What did you—! Oh.”

Looking up, Mordecai and Rocky saw Ivy and Freckle perched on the living room windowsill. The four cats looked at each other for a long moment; then, Ivy continued climbing inside.

“I have a front door,” Mordecai noted. He pushed himself up until he was kneeling, more or less in Rocky’s lap.

“There was no time for the door,” Ivy snapped her fingers at him. “We thought you had killed him!”

“Who?” Rocky blinked.

“You,” said Freckle. He tripped as he tried to follow Ivy, falling to the floor.

“I have to call Mitzi,” Ivy continued, beelining across Mordecai’s apartment. “I think she owes Zib money.”

Sighing, Mordecai slumped against the back of the chaise. “So much for a peaceful day.”

Then Rocky took hold of his hand. “Good day, though,” he said with a smile. “Right?”

“Right—” Mordecai entwined their fingers. "—but if you tell anyone, I'll deny it."

Scoffing, Rocky lifted the limb to press a kiss to Mordecai's knuckles. "Deny it all you want," he said. "I've got you figured out."

#lackadaisy #lackadaisy fan comic #lackadaisy fanfiction #lackadaisy fanart #fanfiction #i haven't picked a title #posting all the parts here before i upload to ao3 later #hellerby #mordecai x rocky #mordecai heller #rocky rickaby #*slaps fic* this baby can fit so many headcanons #Rocky's favourite Shakespearean Play is Macbeth #mordecai is tsundere #inappropriate use of shakespeare #nonlinear #flashbacks #the section where they figure their shit out

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unscrupulousartist · 8 months

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hellerby fic, part 3/10

10 March 1929

Like most days since returning to the Lackadaisy, Mordecai woke in his modest one bedroom apartment between soft cotton sheets. Unlike most days, he was woken by a hyperactive Ivy Pepper.

"Good morning!" She cheered, bounding across his little room to pull open his curtains. Leafy plants sat on the white windowsill. It's already mid morning, but the North facing windows denied the worst of the sunlight from his personal sanctuary. "I need you to drive me to St Charles!"

Groaning, Mordecai pulled a pillow over his head. "Ask Viktor."

"Viktor's tired from the Kehoe run."

"I'm tired from the Kehoe run. Or have you forgotten, it was twilight when we returned."

Little hands took hold of the edge of his blankets and yanked, exposing him. "Viktor never betrayed my trust to work with the enemy," she huffed and grabbed his pillow.

He hissed. "You can't keep using that excuse to—to—bully me into doing what you want!"

"I can," she propped her hands on her hips. "And I will. Now get dressed." Sticking her tongue out at him, she spun around to stomp out into the main room. He took notice of her dress; a more conservative cut, reminiscent of something his mother might have worn to church, had his mother paid any attention to fashion.

Rolling onto his back, he allowed himself a moment to stare at the ceiling and rub the sleep from his eyes. At length he sat up, running his claws through his fur to attempt at taming the inevitable bedhead. Partially dressing, he ventured after Ivy to make his way to the tiny bathroom.

Over the years, Mordecai had collected a number of items to decorate his home. The initial design had, of course, been plotted under Mitzi's careful eye. It showed most in the cozy sitting area, with curved plush chairs clustered around a little fireplace, mostly ignored in favour of the desk set up adjacent to the kitchenette. At the time, Mitzi insisted it was for her own comfort, and indeed she had spent many afternoons sprawled across his otherwise unused chaise to complain about Zib, or Atlas, or Church, or whichever poor soul had evoked her trivial anger that day. Now, it's where Ivy sat.

"Aren't you ready yet?" She kicked up her feet, frowning at him.

"If you expected expediency, you should've called ahead," he left the bathroom door open as he fished for his brush. "What are you dressed up for? Where are we going?"

"Nevermind what!" She pointed a finger at him, then proceeded to outline a series of complex directions—no doubt pulled from the depths of her memory.

He rolled his eyes, but let her rant as he brushed his teeth and wandered around the apartment watering plants. Her voice followed him back into his room as he finished up his routine, purposefully going slow to rile her up. Taking a cue from her tasteful earrings and necklaces, he donned his favourite cufflinks and picked out his nicest shoes.

"Finally!" She jumped up while he pulled on his jacket. "Why do you take so long!?"

"I could go back to bed," he reminded.

"No, no, no!" Scooping a long box under an arm, she moved to push him towards the door. "Let's go!"

"How did you get in, anyway?" He asked, pausing to lock up. "Do I need to dispose of my doorman?"

"What you need are better windows," she snickered.

"The fire escape, of course," he sighed.

Offering his arm, they took the stairs at a moderate pace. They bid the doorman a good day, then walked the three blocks to the Lackadaisy Cafe to borrow one of the company cars. It was only Horatio behind the counter, and Ivy chatted with him for a few minutes while Mordecai continued to the garage. He drove around to pick her up out front, and they were on their way.

It wasn't until they were out of St Louis proper that Ivy looked at their surroundings. "Take that left!" She pointed at an oncoming intersection.

"This would be easier if you just told me where we were going."

"I told you, we're going to St Charles!"

Hackles rising, an old memory came to him. The details were fuzzy, the context unclear.

"I'm drivin'—" Rocky hiccupped, laughed, and wrestled his way past Mordecai to the driver's seat.

Swaying on his feet, Mordecai tried to follow, only to stand awkwardly in the open door. He blinked. "Where are we going?"

"Someplace special," Rocky grinned. Then he took hold of the front of Mordecai's vest and started hauling him into the car—and, consequently, into his lap.

Feeling loose and amenable, Mordecai let the musician maneuver him up and over into the bench seat. He rolled with the motion, ending upside-down with his feet against the passenger door. Which was when he noticed: "Where'd my shoe go?"

This time, he recognized the bridge.

"There's a little road, a couple miles along," she gestured to the other bank of the Missouri River. Beyond her side of the vehicle, a streetcar rumbled past in the opposite direction taking people toward St Louis. "I remember, there was a funny rock with a tree growing up on top of it."

"Fascinating," he scanned the road periodically as they ambled alongside traffic, wedged between an empty farm truck and a couple other leisure cars. "Perhaps it would be helpful to consult a map."

"There weren't many signs," she admitted.

He sighed. "I'm beginning to think you don't actually know where we are going."

"I do know," she insisted, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes. "It's just, been awhile since the last time I was there."

"Of course," he raised his chin to put on an air of arrogance. "Do I at least get to know the name of the person you're courting?"

Her nose wrinkled. "You're not allowed to judge him."

"Judge?" He raised a brow at her. "Who do you take me for?"

"Shush you," she swatted his shoulder, pouting. "You think you’re so clever."

Humming, he caught a glimpse of the little turn off that disappeared beneath the bridge.

The car bumped over the uneven path. Boneless, Mordecai noticed the reflection of headlights in the Missouri from where he was plastered against the passenger door window. The truss bridge passed out of and into focus, and he shifted to rub his dry eyes and look at Rocky. "Where are we?"

"He wakes!" Rocky sang. Changing gears, the car jolted to a stop and the engine went quiet; though the lights stayed on.

"So it seems," Mordecai hummed.

"Are you sure that we are awake?" Rocky asked. Only, his voice dipped theatrically and he turned to face Mordecai. One hand braced on the bench seat, beside Mordecai's knee, and he leaned close. "It seems to me that yet we sleep, we dream. Do not you think—" reaching into his jacket, Rocky pulled out his flask. "—the duke was here, and bid us follow him?"

Mouth dry, Mordecai pressed himself back against the door. "What?"

Rocky sighed, and uncapped the flask. "My own fault, for forgetting."

They lost their entourage one by one to the major intersections before Ivy pointed out the funny boulder wearing a tree. It was nearly another half hour of zig zagging through the outskirts of St Charles, then they pulled onto a semi affluent road. The houses there were modestly spaced between privacy bushes, offering an allusion of wealth.

"There!" Ivy leaned over the dashboard to point at a specific house. It was differentiated by plant boxes in the window and meticulously tended flowers. "Pull over, pull over!"

"Calm down," Mordecai took his time parallel parking, eyeing an angle that he might be able to see from the front window. "Does your father know you're making housecalls?"

"No," she glared at him as she pushed open her door. "And if you tell him, I'll sneak mayonnaise into your office."

His tongue curled in disgust, but she had already jumped out of the car. Following, he caught up to her on the cobblestone path to the front door. "And what if I tell Viktor?"

"Viktor is the one who told me to come here," she boasted. Juggling the long box she'd carted the whole way, she took hold of the door knocker and struck the hammer three times.

"Then why not take Viktor?" Mordecai crossed his arms. "And don’t give me that excuse about the Kehoe run."

"You know how Viktor is," she raised her brows.

Then the door opened, and an older lady frowned at them. She was dressed in something borrowed from the previous century, with narrow glasses and curls piled beneath a bonnet. "I've already found the word of God," she clipped. "And I'm not interested in buying."

"Goodday!" Ivy demured, performing a perfunctory curtsy. "Mrs McMurray?"

The name registered, and Mordecai's ear twitched.

"Yes," said Mrs McMurray. "I don't fancy on repeating myself."

"We’re not trying to sell anything. I was hoping to visit with Calvin?" Ivy asked, tone sweet and eyes innocent. "My name is Ivy. Ivy Pepper? I brought Calvin a present, for his birthday."

"Oh," Mrs McMurray seemed to relax, her expression turning to curiosity. "He never mentioned you."

"He does seem awful shy," Ivy agreed, nodding. "I've asked Rocky about a million times to bring me over, but—" Ivy hissed and bit her cheek when Mordecai stepped on her toe.

Mid headshake, Mrs McMurray didn't seem to notice. "Say no more. That nephew o’ mine is half handful, half dalliance, and not a speck of common sense. Come in, come in—" she stepped back, opening the door wide for them to enter. "The boys are working in the yard, we'll have to call them in for tea."

"Splendid," Ivy grinned, nearly vibrating as she tried to control her excitement. She bustled in, wiping her shoes and moving far enough along for Mordecai to follow.

"Thank you for your hospitality," he managed not to grit his teeth around the words.

"Of course," said Mrs McMurray. She shut them in, then gave him a considering look. "You must be Miss Pepper's chaperone. Mr..?"

Behind Mrs McMurray's back, Ivy pretended to gag.

"Mordecai Heller," he introduced. "I used to work with Miss Pepper's father—I've known her for quite a few years now."

"How quaint," Mrs McMurray intoned, eyes flat. "And what is it you do, Mr Heller?"

Ivy blanched, panic causing her fur to rise.

"Accounting," answered Mordecai. "Your roses are growing nicely. Do you tend to them yourself?"

"Yes," Mrs McMurray preened, her shoulders squaring. "A gentleman who knows his flora?"

"Plants are easier to understand than people," he explained.

"Well, then we should take tea in the garden. It's a good day for it." She hustled ahead of them at a good pace, spry for an elderly.

Ivy waited for him to walk beside her, and leaned close to whisper. "A gentleman who knows his flora?"

"Ivy-Ivy?" He mocked.

"Shut up."

"I hope Calvin doesn’t mind seeing his supervisor on his birthday."

"You're not anybody's supervisor, Mordecai."

"The paperwork says otherwise."

"Here we are!" Mrs McMurray announced as she threw open the back door. She charged ahead, maneuvering down the steps and toward a grassy patio surrounded by fruit trees and shrubbery. "Calvin! Roark! We've guests!"

Ivy elbowed ahead to pause on the stair; her ears perked and angled forward. Her grip on the gift tightened as Mordecai loomed on the step above her. Following her line of sight, he quickly determined the cause of her symptoms.

"Guests?" Freckle asked. He stood in about the middle of the lawn, a hatchet in hand for splitting wood, dressed down to his undershirt and suspenders. He blinked in the sunlight, lean muscles on display. A pile of logs beside him explained his state.

Next to him, in a similar sort of undress, Rocky dropped the two splinters of wood he had been carrying to a wheelbarrow.

"You have me at a disadvantage—" Rocky wagged his brows as he shrugged out of his vest. The whole while, Rocky managed to keep a hand on Mordecai's chest, pushing him lightly against—

"Miss Pepper!" Rocky shouted, taking immediate notice of them both. "What are you doing here?"

Ivy raised a hand, fingers waving as she held the gift with her elbows.

"She's come along to visit your cousin, Roark," Mrs McMurray tutted. "I thought, I surely misheard when Miss Pepper said you refused to bring her along for introductions. Have you no consideration for your family, Roark?"

Freckle coughed, and Rocky scooped the dropped wood to toss into the wheelbarrow. "I considered us to be living in progressive times, dear Aunt. If the boy wanted to introduce her to his mother, he would've invited her along ages ago."

Ivy chewed on her lip as Freckle panicked and looked at her. Mordecai prodded her along.

"Yes, I did wonder at that," Mrs McMurray narrowed her eyes at Freckle.

All of Freckle's fur stood on end, his tail raising straight as his shoulders hunched. "We work together—" he glanced at his mother, back at Ivy, then turned to the ground. "We never—um—"

"You know how he is," Rocky placed a hand on each of Freckle's shoulders, pushing as he spoke to Mrs McMurray. "Our Funny Freckle can barely speak to you, Dear Aunt. How did you imagine him approaching an intimidating figure like Miss Pepper?"

Snickering, Ivy smiled as Mrs McMurray looked back at her. "It's lovely to be here," she deflected.

Sighing, Mordecai edged past them all to choose a seat. He tuned out the idle chatter as he studied the round table set in the rectangular space. There were only four seats, each angled so one's back faced a corner. Seeing few opportunities for true symmetry, he clenched his fists and picked the spot with the best view of the ingress.

Ivy bounded over as Mrs McMurray followed Rocky and Freckle inside, and dropped into the seat next to him. A pleased smile decorated her face, and her eyes seemed wistful. "Did you see how surprised he was?"

"No more surprised than me," Mordecai removed his glasses to inspect the lenses, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. "I somehow doubt that Viktor advised you to ambush Mr McMurray in his home."

"Not in so many words," Ivy shrugged, focusing on carefully placing the gift in the center of the table.

"Just the other day he called McMurray a weak jawed milk drinker, unfit for our lifestyle."

Gasping, Ivy punched his shoulder. "He did not!"

"Not in so many words," Mordecai shrugged, brows quirking at her as he cleaned his glasses.

"You'll be nice today, Mordecai," she hissed. "I really like him."

"Ah, yes, the one quality I am known for," he replaced his glasses. "My niceness."

They had a couple more minutes to quietly bicker before Mrs McMurray returned with a tea-laden tray. Five sets, Mordecai noted, plus a little jug of syrup. "Make a bit of space please, Miss Pepper," she directed, not-unkindly. Ivy scrambled to pick up the gift again, holding it in her lap. "Thank you—Roark says you work together. What instrument do you play?"

"Not in the band," Ivy managed an awkward laugh, nodding in thanks as Mrs McMurray placed a teacup and saucer in front of her. "I—um—sometimes I wait tables at the Lackadaisy."

"Neither of them take their jobs very seriously," Mordecai added. "But the customers like them, so Mrs—" he hesitated a moment, and settled on a borrowed euphemism, "—M keeps them around."

Ivy's lips pinched as she glared at him.

"Roark takes very few things seriously," Mrs McMurray sighed. "And Calvin?"

"We're lucky to have him," Mordecai managed. Ivy relaxed into a small smile. "He's good at… fixing things."

"He's always had a mendful spirit," Mrs McMurray nodded.

The door opened again, and Freckle stumbled out, as if pushed. Freezing, he glanced up at the table with wide eyes and pinpricked pupils; but he was well dressed, with a jacket overtop of a pinstriped vest.

Rocky waltzed out a moment later, violin and bow in hand. He wore his usual duds, sans jacket, with his sleeves rolled up. "Hark! Have you started without us?"

"Heaven forbid anything should start without you, Roark," Mrs McMurray tutted. "Calvin, come sit at the table. Roark, something soothing, if you'd be so inclined."

"Of course, Dear Aunt," he fell into a deep bow, then kicked Freckle into motion. As Freckle joined them at the table, sparing Ivy a shy smile, Rocky put his instrument to his shoulder to tune.

Though Mordecai had never made a habit of watching Rocky play—the opposite, in fact, had been his general goal—he'd had, over the years, plenty of opportunities. Enough to realize that, regardless of piece or company, each performance always brought the same image to mind.

Bow flying across strings, Rocky seemed preoccupied in some other plane of awareness. He stood on the car's roof, the headlights catching the underside of his chin and arms as he plucked a pizzicato. The fireflies were out and dancing about his head, an ethereal chaos that incited the musician to laugh and spin, tail wavering.

Mordecai's grip tightened on the flask, holding the borrowed drink between both hands as he leaned heavier on the car's hood. "What song is that?"

Rocky slowed, the rhythm cutting in half as he peered down at Mordecai. "Hm?"

"Well, Calvin," Mrs McMurray settled in the spot between her son and Mordecai. "Now is as good a time as any to say how you met Miss Pepper."

"Ah—?" Freckle grimaced and looked at Ivy.

"Rocky brought him along to work," she jumped in. "And at the end of the day I asked him to come dancing."

"How forward," said Mrs McMurray.

Beyond the table, Rocky hopped onto the splitting log. He cocked a toe and pulled a long note from his instrument, then pitched into sing-song. "Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend more than cool reason ever comprehends. The lunatic, the lover, and the poet are, of imagination, all compact."

“No quoting, please, Roark,” Mrs McMurray sighed. But she readied the fifth cup for him, placing it on the arch of the table closest to Rocky. “Or, if you can’t contain yourself, something less frivolous than Midsummer’s Night.”

“Do you have requests, Dear Aunt?” he asked, pivoting into a spin. “Perhaps from the happy tale of Hamlet?”

Freckle snickered and Ivy grinned.

“That’s Shakespeare?” Mordecai guessed.

Rolling her eyes, Ivy elbowed him. “A little literature wouldn’t hurt you.”

“A big enough tome could cause significant blunt force trauma,” Mordecai challenged.

Ivy’s eyes widened as Freckle winced; she tilted her head significantly at Mrs McMurray.

Sighing, he shifted in his chair to address the matriarch directly. “That was a joke. I prefer to restrain my small talk to shrubberies,” he reached as if to feel the closest leaves, but they remained too far away. “Is this a Japanese Cypress?”

It proved a decent tactic. “You’ve a keen eye, Mr Heller,” Mrs McMurray appraised. She slipped into an easy lecture, and Mordecai made sure to hum and nod and ask questions at appropriate intervals. Rocky played an Irish aire, and Ivy leaned close to whisper with Freckle. Quietly, she passed him the gift box; he peeked inside, grinned, and looked up at her shyly.

A hasty equilibrium held for half an hour, before the performer descended from his pedestal and approached the table. “I’ve heard not a word of dancing,” said Rocky. Juggling bow and instrument in the same hand, he tipped a generous portion of syrup into his teacup.

“Then you need to clean the cotton from your ears,” Mrs McMurray drawled. “For it was the first thing Miss Pepper mentioned.”

“And you dropped the subject,” Rocky nodded. “No doubt thinking of our dear Freckle’s two left feet.”

Ivy giggled, and Rocky winked at her.

“Rocky,” Freckle hissed.

“Is there supposed to be a story there?” Mrs McMurray asked, looking over her glasses at Rocky. “Or are you determined to embarrass your cousin at every turn?”

“I entreat you to imagine a scenario where both could be true,” Rocky grinned at his aunt. “For Miss Pepper has spent many an evening teaching our dear Freckle to dance.” He cradled his fiddle like a ukulele, and plucked a quick tune. “Perhaps your eyes would believe faster than your imagination.”

Squealing, Ivy jumped from her seat and pulled Freckle with her. “Come on!”

Laughing, Rocky managed a quick sip of his tea before readying again his instrument. Propping a foot on Ivy’s abandoned chair, his eyes swept over Mordecai. But it was only for a moment, then the musician started a fast paced jazz improvisation. It was somewhat lacking without accompaniment, but it was more than enough for Ivy to guide a smiling Freckle through the Lindy Hop.

“How lively,” Mrs McMurray failed to keep some fondness from her voice, and she managed a small smile. She raised her voice to address the merrymakers. “And where did you learn to dance, Miss Pepper?”

“Mostly my godmother,” she admitted with a laugh, spinning with Freckle. Her coordination survived the extra task of talking. “But all her friends took turns teaching. Even Mordecai!”

“Ol’ Serious Face?” Rocky snickered.

“Don’t be rude, Roark.”

“It’s simple fact, Dear Aunt,” Rocky soothed. “Though my memory might fail me, I am certain I have never seen this cat dance.”

Mordecai rolled his eyes and sipped his tea. “Many things have failed you, Roark.”

Gasping, Rocky struck a discordant note, then pointed his bow at Mordecai. “Take that back.”

“Calm down, Rocky,” Ivy giggled. She slowed to a stand, arms still around Freckle.

“Nope, no, only Aunt Nina calls me Roark,” Rocky shuddered.

Ivy sighed. “Are you done being dramatic? I was having fun.”

“The dramatics are never truly over,” said Rocky. He took the opportunity to slurp more tea.

“It was nice of you to come visit,” said Freckle. He looked almost at Ivy, smiling.

“I’ve been meaning to, for a while,” said Ivy. “But someone seemed to think I shouldn’t come over.”

“Let me play the lion too,” Rocky performed another gasp, then raised his voice. “I will roar that I will do any man’s heart good to hear me! I will roar that I will make the Duke say—”

“No more quotes, Roark!” Mrs McMurray yelled over him.

A prickle wound down Mordecai’s spine. He couldn’t help asking: “Who is this Duke?”

Rocky turned to him with a wide smile.

“Nevermind Shakespeare,” Ivy groaned. “Be quiet, Mordecai, or I’ll make you dance with me.”

“That would be a sight to see,” said Rocky.

Mordecai made a show of pulling his watch from his pocket. “If you’re finished dancing with Mr McMurray, perhaps it is time we go.”

Ivy opened her mouth to complain, but Rocky interjected. “A serendipitous notion. You’re no doubt going my way, you can give me a lift.” He turned to Freckle and Ivy and waved his instrument at them both. “Chop, chop, lovebirds. Say your saluts so we can be on our way.”

“Rocky!” Ivy stomped a foot.

But Mrs McMurray was unaffected. Standing, she picked up her teacup to take with her. “I suppose it’s prudent to take opportunities when you see them, Roark. But perhaps next time, you could do your cousin a favour?”

“We’ll make a meal of it,” Rocky placed a hand on his chest. “Next Sunday dinner, I’ll bring Miss Pepper around for a proper interrogation.”

She shook her head, then looked at Freckle. “Calvin, see your friends to the door while I gather your cousin’s things.”

“Yes, mother.”

The four of them watched Mrs McMurray retreat inside; then Rocky’s smile dropped and he pulled a familiar flask from his jacket. “Blast you, Miss Pepper.”

Freckle flinched.

“Don’t be such a spoil sport, Rocky,” Ivy huffed.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times,” he complained as he tipped a measure of liquid into his teacup. As an afterthought, he offered the flask to Mordecai.

“No, thank you,” Mordecai drawled.

“We should go inside,” said Freckle. His shoulders were raised, but he still held Ivy’s hand.

“Not you, too,” Ivy groaned.

“You groan because you don’t understand,” Rocky flailed his arms, then drained his syrupy drink. “It’s bad enough we dragged Freckle into our sordid mess of a life—and yes, Miss Pepper, you still get to share in that blame, I don’t care how you rationalize it—but what do you think will happen if you, Little Miss Princess of St Louis, were to be followed? Am I to one day return here—” he gestured at the house, then pointed at Freckle. “—to our childhood home, to find Dear Aunt Nina dead or worse?”

“Worse than dead, Rocky?” Ivy crossed her arms.

Mordecai sighed. “There were four vehicles that crossed the bridge with us,” he said, standing. “None of them followed us off the main road.”

Arms dropping, Rocky blinked at him. “You’re certain?”

Mordecai hesitated, heat flushing beneath his fur.

“You’re certain?” Rocky asked, breath ghosting across Mordecai’s lips. “Absolutely? Because the others seemed to insinuate that—”

Mordecai kissed him.

“Most of my job relies upon attention to detail,” Mordecai rationalized.

“But are you certain?” Rocky pressed.

He recognized some semblance of desperation in the other cat’s eye. Clearing his throat, Mordecai looked up at the well maintained home. “I’d risk my mother’s life on it.”

The musician relaxed, a comfortable grin coming back to him. “No you wouldn’t,” he challenged.

“I wouldn’t,” Mordecai agreed. “But, by definition, it wouldn’t be a risk because no one followed us.”

Mrs McMurray poked her head out the door. “Are you coming, or have we changed our minds?”

“Coming!” Freckle and Rocky chorused together.

The ensemble was hustled inside, and Rocky disappeared to sort his violin and do whatever else he still needed to do in the home. Freckle and Ivy loitered, talking in whispered giggles. It left Mordecai to entertain Mrs McMurray again; this time he focused on the photos on the walls. "You've a lovely home," he gestured.

"Thank you, Mr Heller," she nodded, following his movement. "It hasn't always been a peaceful place, but we make do."

Reluctantly, he took a look at whatever frame he had inadvertently drawn attention to. It appeared to be a family portrait, with a young Rocky and Freckle both front and center. Freckle's head was ducked and he looked up at the camera awkwardly; whereas Rocky had his normal huge smile, a tiny violin cradled in his arms. Behind them was a host of adults, Nina McMurray near the edge. More than half were close enough in appearance to suggest siblinghood, and one—who rested a hand on Rocky's shoulder—held a full sized version of the child's instrument.

"I'd imagine any house with Mr Rickaby to have been chaotic," Mordecai mused.

“That’s putting it mildly,” Mrs McMurray huffed.

Then Rocky came barrelling down the stairs, a case in hand and fully dressed. “Pick up your feet, players! Time to make our exit.”

“You could stand to foster a little more serenity, Roark,” said Mrs McMurray. She handed him a parcel of clothes. “Your laundry; pray, please get less blood in them next time.”

“I shall try, Dearest Aunt,” he leaned to kiss her cheek as he took the items. “But you know how clumsy I am.”

“Mhm,” she glowered.

“And we’re off!” He danced out the front door, then froze on the step. Shoulders dropping, he sighed. “Of course, he parked out front.”

“Where else would I have parked?” Mordecai asked. He glanced back to check on Ivy, who gave Freckle a quick peck on the lips.

“Nevermind,” Rocky waved back at him, already on the move again. “I’ll drive.”

#lackadaisy #lackadaisy fanfiction #lackadaisy fan comic #lackadaisy fanart #fanfiction #the fic has been written but I'm still illustrating it #posting all the parts here before i upload to ao3 later #inappropriate use of shakespeare #i haven't picked a title #hellerby #mordecai x rocky #mordecai heller #rocky rickaby #*slaps fic* this baby can fit so many headcanons #like mordecai is a plant person #ivy and freckle being cute #nonlinear #flashbacks

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