Archive of Our Own

21 August 1925

If pressed, Mordecai could, eventually, recall a few things of the night in question. In a rare good mood, he sat at an otherwise empty table—recently vacated by Viktor, who had been dragged out to the dance floor by an excited Miss Ivy Pepper—tucked at the back of the Lackadaisy where the general hustle and bustle of the speakeasy seemed a little further away. The books were balanced, the booze was flowing, and there was no pressing need for blood or carnage. Atlas and Mitzi were making their rounds, shmoozing with investors and patrons alike; the band was testing out a new member, a fiddle singing high above jazz chords; and the bar was flush with paying customers. With his favourite ficus within reach, Mordecai sipped through half a glass of Canadian whiskey while, reluctantly, allowing himself to enjoy the moment.

If inclined to answer, he wouldn't be able to say when, exactly, Rocky Rickaby sat down across from him with two cocktails of something blue and sweet smelling, except to say that the dancefloor had become sedated and the bar less busy.

"Hey-oh, Mr Serious Face," Rocky greeted. Smiling, he pulled a flask from his jacket.

"Good evening," said Mordecai. He lifted his glass, only to discover a lonely ice cube skirting the dregs of his drink.

"Some might argue it to be morning," said Rocky. He bit his lip, fangs showing as he added a splash of the flask's contents to each of the cocktails. "But who can judge time while so merry? Night becomes day becomes night again, and us in the business of Dionysus become heroes of the cheerless."

"Is that why you are here?" Mordecai drawled. "I assure you, I am filled with cheer. Brimming with it, even; at least, I was before being so rudely interrupted."

"I'll strive to return you to your happiness," Rocky raised his brows, and one of the cocktails, then stared expectantly. "Drink with me."

Narrowing his eyes, Mordecai inspected the cat in front of him. Though it was their first official meeting, the musician had been pointed out to Mordecai earlier in the day. Rocky was neatly dressed in a clean blue suit, but years of shopping with Mitzi gave Mordecai insight on last season's fashion and the mismatched colour of mended seams. "You're the new addition to the band."

"Almost," Rocky nodded, and lifted his free hand to hold two claws close together. "Very nearly. It seems the last leg of my initiation is to enjoy a drink with you."

"What?" Mordecai frowned.

"Ms M insisted upon it," he nodded again as he bit his lip. 

Scanning the room, Mordecai found Mitzi sitting at the bar with Zib and Viktor. All three of them watched Mordecai and Rocky with varying degrees of intrigue and humour. "It's a joke," Mordecai sighed. "Mitzi already handed in your paperwork; I signed off your payroll at the end of the day."

"Then it should be an easy celebration!" Rocky grinned, pushing the second cocktail closer. "Come on, Mr Serious."

"My name is Mr Heller," Mordecai corrected. But his good mood carried, and he saw little personal sacrifice in subjecting himself to the request. Still, time and experience warranted caution. He picked up the cocktail. "What, precisely, did Mrs May say you had to do?"

Rocky shrugged. "There may have been mention of drinking you under the table."

Mordecai rolled his eyes. "And you assumed one glass was enough?"

"Zib was under the impression it might be," Rocky agreed. "But I thought I might convince you of an alternative route, just in case." Standing, he took his drink and sat on the floor.

Stunned for a moment, Mordecai looked across the bar at the baffled and laughing faces of Mitzi and Zib. He tried to find consolation in Viktor, but the old Slav just shrugged. He had little choice but to tilt in his seat to look down at Rocky. "What are you doing?"

"Drinking under the table!" Rocky cheered, then schooled his expression into a mockery of seriousness. "Thou this underhandedness will be wasted if you don't join me."

Amusement bubbled inside him, but Mordecai maintained his airs. "You've done little to convince me."

"I saw you back here, basking in my playing," Rocky boasted. "You seem the type to enjoy fine things; wouldn't it be nice to continue hearing motifs of Paganini and Bach?"

There were some areas of expertise that Mordecai had long given up mastering. Needless to say, he could only suppose the musician to be referring to some niche of his profession. "Correlation does not equal causation," he replied.

A dash of uncertainty pulled at Rocky's façade. "Reason might suggest drinking to be the easiest way to get rid of me," he argued. He continued in sing-song: "One drink under the table, one drink to make me able, one drink under the table and I'll be on my way."

Looking up, Mordecai leveled a glare at Mitzi. The mirthful lady took a considering sip of a martini, eyes hooded with mischief. "You'll need to make better rhymes," he said to Rocky.

"You want something more poetic?" Placing the cocktail glass precariously by his knee, Rocky broke into verse. "The raging rocks, and shivering shocks, shall break the locks, of prison gates. And Phibbus' car, shall shine from far, and make and mar, the foolish Fates."

"What?"

Ears drooping, Rocky sighed. "Not a fan of Shakespeare?"

"Who has time for Shakespeare?" He raised his glass to toast to Mitzi across the room; her and Zib both lifted their drinks, and the three drank in tandem. Then Mordecai coughed, gagging on an extra sharp tang that tasted like nothing in their inventory. He looked again under the table at Rocky.  

The rest of the night was decidedly harder to remember.

The Next Morning

The first thing that made it past the crusty feeling beneath his eyelids and the pounding in his head was the all too familiar coppery taste of blood. It was startling enough to cause the near-slumbering Mordecai to attempt to push himself upright, only to misplace a hand and fall gracelessly to the dirty floor of a car. He needed an extra moment to finish taking in his surroundings—made difficult by double vision. Early morning light filtering through windows, the chattering of birdsong above the rush of a river, and the drooling face of Rocky Rickaby all contributed to his rising panic. Add to that the large gap in his memory, his absence of clothes, and his apparent proximity to the musician in the back of an unrecognized vehicle and, well…

Scrambling, Mordecai tripped out of the car and onto the bank of a river. They were parked under a bridge—it felt somewhat familiar, but it wasn't one that Mordecai frequented on his way in or out of St Louis. The rocks were cold beneath Mordecai's feet, and he shivered with a morning breeze. Rocky mumbled and curled closer to the seat. In an equal state of undress, one of Rocky's shoulders was matted and damp with blood. Mordecai brought a hand up to his mouth, and a memory of Rocky—pinned and mewling beneath him—sprang, fully formed, to the front of his mind.

Clothes were strewn inside and out of the car. His jacket and vest were on the front seat, his left shoe and tie discarded by a tire, his right shoe missing entirely. Socks and pants were thrown on the roof, beside a violin case, and his glasses were on the car floor. Mortified, Mordecai collected the items and dressed as quickly as he could, habit determining him to leave as little evidence of presence possible. Then he ran, before the musician could wake up and confront him.

When he found the road, signage helped sort his mental map. He crossed the bridge on foot, the Missouri River mocking him, and saw no one for the near-hour it took to locate a phone box. There he devoted a whole thirty seconds to pressing his still-hurting skull into the graffitied panel next to the phone.

Eventually, he dialed a number. Eventually, someone picked up.

"Good morning! "

Recognizing the voice, Mordecai sighed. "Miss Pepper. Would you please pass the phone to Viktor?"

"Mordecai? " She guessed.

"Who else would be calling?" He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "What are you even doing there? Don't you have school today?"

"It's summer, Mordecai, " Ivy sighed at him. "Mitzi and I came around for breakfast— "

He groaned, letting his head drop again against the wood. "Would you please pass the phone to Viktor?"

"Oh, now she's laughing—why are people making bets about you? Did something happen after I left last night!? "

"Of course not," he grit his teeth. "Now, would you please pass the phone to Viktor?"

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 Little Daisy Café 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. With one hand braced on the bench seat, beside Mordecai's knee, 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 demurred, 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 Little Daisy."

"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 barreling 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.”

28 March 1929

By far, his favourite part of being back at the Lackadaisy was the ability to work in the main office—Atlas’ office—again. Nothing had truly changed, beyond a gathering of clutter, the disgraceful state of the books, and a little updating of colour. At some point, Mitzi had changed the curtains and chairs, but she was considerate enough to leave Mordecai’s little desk exactly as it had been.

It was there Mitzi found him holed up, long past the popular hours of the café but only just breaking into the Lackadaisy’s first act.

“Here you are, sugar,” Mitzi tutted at him as she meandered across the room to the main desk. “You planning on hiding up here all night?”

“You underestimate the work required to bring all this—” he picked up the corner of a page, pulling and letting it flutter back into place. “—into some semblance of order.”

“That’s all fine and good, sweetheart, but have you forgotten the date?”

He had. Frowning, he checked the calendar and worked out where he was in the complicated itinerary. “Ah—of course.”

“You gonna come celebrate?” Mitzi asked. She leaned behind the main desk to open a cupboard, and retrieved a large album.

“I suppose I must,” he sighed, rubbing his nose. 

“That’s the spirit,” Mitzi smiled at him. Album under her arm, she helped him straighten his tie and vetoed his choice of jacket. They argued for a couple minutes, but in the end she stole the article of clothing and threw it out the window.

“That was hardly necessary,” he glared at her.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” she demurred. Taking him by the arm, she tugged him towards the stairs. “Is it so much to ask for you to relax, even just one night out of the year?”

“I prefer to save my celebrations for when they are earned,” said Mordecai. “Being born does not fit that bill.”

“Birthdays aren’t about earning things, sugar,” Mitzi tutted. “It’s about being celebrated.”

“I can hardly wait,” he drawled.

Together they navigated the hidden entrance of the Lackadaisy Speakeasy, exchanging small pleasantries with a shuddering Horatio. The club itself was quiet for a Thursday—after sorting their unfortunate business with the Marigold Hotel the Lackadaisy hadn’t reached the same level of patronage as its glory days, but that didn’t explain the low lighting or the calm music coming from the stage. Mitzi led him to a cluster of plush chairs around a low table, where Ivy sat with Viktor and some of the band.

“Here he is,” Mitzi pushed him at an empty seat. “The Birthday Boy.”

Squealing, Ivy leaned forward to pour a measure of rum into a tumbler. “It’s been forever since we sat down for your birthday, Mordecai.”

“Yes, well, let's get this over with.” he sighed, but took a moment to appreciate the near symmetry of the seating plan. Until Mitzi sat on the arm of Zib’s chair, offsetting the balance. 

Still standing, he heard a familiar voice call out from the backrooms. It sent a shiver down his spine, tail quivering. “We’ve returned, with merry bounty!”

“Thou speak’st alright,” Rocky exposited as he toed out of his shoes and unbuttoned his shirt. “I am that merry wanderer of the night!”

“Stop it,” Mordecai said around a rare smile. Listing, he leaned against the car to untie his lonely left shoe. “Before I change my mind.”

“I jest to Oberon,” Rocky gestured to him, hands faltering and voice lowering in performance. “—and make him smile, when I—a fat and bean-fed horse—” He stopped abruptly, laughing, when Mordecai tossed the shoe at him. Rocky’s arms waved in defense, swatting the offending weapon away. “—beguile! Neighing in likeness of a filly foal! And sometimes—” he fell back half a step, and shrugged out of his shirt. He continued in a calmer tone, brows quirking with suggestion. “Sometimes lurk I in a gossip’s bowl, in very likeness of a roasted crab—”

He found he was still in possession of Rocky’s flask, and fumbled with the cap. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll kill you.” He brought the drink to his lips.

“Rocky, sweetheart!” Mitzi called. “I told you, you didn’t need to get anything.”

Taking a deep breath, Mordecai lowered himself into his prescribed seat and reached for his tumbler of rum. He took a sip and kept it close.

“Yes!” Rocky called, coming closer. Him and Freckle carried a case between them, which they brought to the table. “But you also said—” he let his side of the case drop with a thunk, leaving Freckle to scramble with the other end. “—that tonight was a special celebration! Only, where are the frollickers?” Frowning, Rocky looked around the rest of the sleepy bar, where only a few dozen folk laughed and swayed alongside piano music. “I’m starting to think you’re teasing me, Ms M.”

Mordecai rubbed at a sudden twinge at his temple.

“Perhaps I’ve cast you wrong,” Rocky tilted his head. “Or picked the wrong group of players to liken you with. But, though I love a tragedy, the scenes I require—”

“Drink your elixir—” Mordecai lobbed the still-open flask. A splash of liquid caught ambient light, and Rocky jumped to catch it. “—and come here.”

“I suppose we can ad lib—”

“Rocky!” Ivy kicked at his shins, then pulled on Freckle’s sleeve.

“It’s Mordecai’s birthday, sugar,” Mitzi explained.

“Birthday?” Rocky blinked, and turned to look at Mordecai.

“We’re gonna play some poker and laugh about old times,” Mitzi patted the album she still carried. “If you think you can sit still, you’re welcome to join us. Otherwise, it might be better if you hopped up on stage to keep the other guests entertained.”

Rocky’s tail twitched, low and frantic by his ankles, as excitement seemed to roll off of him. His hands came up, but he kept himself composed. “The stillness might be a problem.”

“Come on, Rocky,” Freckle pulled on Rocky’s elbow; and was in turn tugged by Ivy. The two cousins piled around the same chair as the young lady, Freckle in her lap and Rocky at her feet.

Mordecai’s ears pressed back, and he sipped his rum.

“Who’s dealing?” Zib asked, and Sy produced a deck of cards.

“Pictures first!” Ivy demanded. “Before you get too drunk to tell the stories.”

“I don’t think we’re in any danger of that,” Mitzi snickered. “Rocky, sweetheart, move this crate.”

“Of course, Ms M,” Rocky laughed, and tugged on the case. When it barely moved, Freckle leaned to hook the end and hauled it right into his cousin’s lap. “Oof! Here we are!” the musician pried off the lid. “Perhaps we should lighten this load…”

Mitzi spread the album on the table, and Ivy shifted to get a better view. “What did you bring us, sugar?” Mitzi asked.

“Whiskey and Spirits,” Rocky sang. One by one, he removed the bottles and began placing them in a random pattern on the floor. It took Mordecai a moment to recognize a sort of wavy starburst in the line of lids, and another moment to realize he was staring.

Meanwhile, Mitzi had already flipped through the first couple of pages of the album, pointing out early photos and newspaper clippings from his years shadowing Atlas, while Sy dealt the first hand.

“Look at those shirt sleeves,” Zib snickered into Mitzi’s side.

“From when he dressed in Atlas’ hand-me-downs,” Mitzi teased, fluttering her lashes at Mordecai.

“I’ve grown up since then,” he argued, flat. 

“You wear your laurels well, sweetheart,” Mitzi winked at him and turned the page.

He rolled his eyes.

“What’s that!” Ivy pointed.

“Hm?” Mitzi perked, then laughed as she saw what had caught Ivy’s attention. “Oh, that was Rocky’s first night performing—” Mordecai tensed, and Rocky looked up from the now-empty crate. “—I’m pretty sure Atlas had already taken you home.”

“Where’d your shoe go!?” Ivy laughed, looking at Mordecai with a grin.

Frowning, he sat up to take a better look, then felt a flush wash over his face. 

“What did you say this was again?” Mordecai asked, closing one eye to try and peer into the flask. He thought he felt something plucking at his foot, but a floaty sense of wonder kept him distracted.

“A mushroom tea, mulled with spirits,” said Rocky. "Would you like some more?"

The photo showed himself and Rocky, huddled together beneath one of the Lackadaisy’s taller tables. Mordecai had slumped against the table post, both his feet in Rocky’s lap—indeed, one shoe already missing—and a flask clutched with both hands. Together they peered up at the camera flash, four eyes nearly black with dilation.

“Gone,” Mordecai answered—referring to the missing shoe. “I never found it.”

“Rocky hid it in the piano,” Zib explained.

“What?” Mordecai blinked at him.

"It might still be in the green room," Mitzi added.

“Strange,” Rocky hummed. “I’d convinced myself that was a dream.”

Ivy planted a hand on Rocky’s head, forcing him to duck as she leaned closer to the album. “How come no one told me about this?” She pouted at Mitzi and Viktor.

“There was nothing to tell,” Mordecai snipped. 

“He just doesn’t wanna remember puking in his favourite ficus,” Mitzi joked.

“Or valk of shame, next day,” Viktor added.

“It wasn’t a walk of shame,” Mordecai glared at him. “I simply… wanted to enjoy the sunrise, and got a little lost.”

Freckle looked between the active participants of the conversation as Ivy vibrated beside him. “I think I remember that!” she shouted.

“I doubt it,” Mordecai lied. 

“No, Miss Mitzi brought me ‘round to Viktor's, ‘cause she knew if you called anyone you’d call him—”

“Which he did," Mitzi nodded.

"—and we picked you up, uh—"

"Halfvay to the Missouri," Viktor supplied.

Ivy snapped her fingers. "Yes! Then we—"

"Went to the country club for brunch, yes," Mordecai glared at her, then Mitzi. "Are we through with this portion of the celebrations? I could be getting work done."

"Sorry, Sourpuss," Zib gathered his cards—prompting the rest of the party to do the same—and sat back in his chair. "Sometimes it's nice to remember you as something other than a Murderous Psychopath."

"I'm also an accountant," said Mordecai. 

Mitzi snorted.

"As I said," Zib shrugged. "A Psychopath."

"What about you, Rocky?" Ivy interrupted, ruffling the fur between Rocky’s ears. "Got anything to say about stealing Mordecai's shoe?"

"Ah?" His voice pitched a little too high, and he glanced at Mordecai before twisting to look up at Ivy. "I recall it was something of a joke—but I must confess to misremembering."

"A joke?" Ivy frowned at him.

Zib and Mitzi both broke into snickers. 

"Yes," Rocky scratched the back of his head and inched away from Ivy. "I think—it was, eventually, explained to me that I was the instrument of the joke," he snuck a peek at Mitzi, then shrugged and pulled a familiar flask from his jacket. "Something about Ol' Serious Face never letting loose?"

"We told him he wasn't officially in the band until he drank our Mordecai under the table," Mitzi elaborated. "And it was devilishly fun to be taken so literally."

"Oi—" Zib snapped his fingers at Rocky and pointed at his flask. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Perhaps," Rocky took a sip. "What do you think it is?"

"Your infamous tea?"

"It is."

"Gimme, gimme—" Zib made grabby hands, and Rocky closed the flask before tossing it to him. His aim was off, and it bounced in Mitzi's lap.

"Tea?" Ivy asked.

Flinching, Freckle wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "It's, uh—"

"An Elixir to see Other Worlds," Rocky exposed, spreading his arms wide. "Hark! And we can go anon; to see the wings of Oberon."

"Can I try?" Ivy asked.

Viktor and Mordecai both shouted, "no!"

Rocky snickered and bit his lip.

"It ain't so bad," Zib defended, taking a sip.

Mitzi took the flask next. "Dipping a little toe in can be fun."

"Just don't drink as much as Rocky," Freckle agreed.

It was Ivy’s turn to make grabby hands. The flask was passed around the circle, skipping Viktor and coming back again to Rocky. The musician laughed and took another glug, then grinned at Mordecai. "How now, spirit? Wither wander you?" 

Brows drawing together, Mordecai frowned. "What?"

Snickering, Rocky held up the infamous tea within arm's reach. "How serious is Ol' Serious Face today? Or would you be tempted to imbibe?" 

"No—" Mordecai's nose twitched, and he caught an earthy fragrance from the flask.

Time seemed to slow to an agonizing crawl as he tilted a little too far and slipped from the seat. His feet, not properly braced, pushed on the base of the chair, furthering his upset. His arms, asymmetrical, pinwheeled until he landed in Rocky’s lap.

The musician laughed.

"Ow," Mordecai deadpanned. His knee stung, but the rest of him felt fine.

"You were saying?"

"About what?"

"About the elixir not working."

"It's not working," he repeated, pushing against Rocky’s chest to right himself. Overhead, the Lackadaisy's lights seemed a little extra sparkly, and he swayed to his own seat on the ground. "That was a coincidence."

"Silly me," Rocky took another swig.

Then Mordecai stole the flask, and held it under his nose to sniff.

"—I'd rather not," Mordecai continued. "Someone has to retain control of their senses."

"That's what Viktor's for," Ivy giggled.

"Are we playing?" Mordecai deflected, taking his first proper note of his cards.

There was some semblance of fanfare for most of a dozen rounds, each player betting with nickels and dimes, before the revelers started to fade. Ivy dropped out first, losing attention to instead pull the old album into her lap to leaf through. This also incapacitated Freckle, who curled into her side and closed his eyes to nod along and mumble into her ear. Then Sy slipped onto the ground to idly twitch while Mitzi and Zib stumbled to the dance floor.

Finally, Viktor threw down his cards—three aces—and stood up. "Time to take children home."

"Good luck," said Mordecai. He folded against the side of his chair to watch as Viktor edged around the table, stepped over Sy, and loomed over Ivy and Freckle.

"Up," he took them each by an arm and dragged them upright.

"Hey!" Ivy squeaked, the album falling from her lap.

Freckle blinked and smiled at Viktor. "You're nice."

"Very kind," Viktor drawled. He steered them both away, toward the garage, several feet before he had to scoop a faltering Freckle. Ivy managed on her own.

Turned away to observe the spectacle, Mordecai felt, rather than saw, a figure creep up to the edge of his chair. Sighing, he twirled the remnants of ice in his glass before shifting. And sure enough, Rocky peered, starry eyed, over the edge of the arm rest.

A glance showed no one else paying particular attention. "What is it?" Mordecai asked.

"You aren't feeling murderous, are you?" asked Rocky. His fingers drummed across the edge of the furniture, claws catching. "It's hard to tell."

Mordecai's brow twitched. "And if I were?"

"Then I'd ask who it was you felt like murdering," said Rocky. His tail twitched, wavering back and forth. 

Sighing, Mordecai found he hadn't the energy to be much more than tired. "I'm not feeling murderous."

"Oh good," Rocky grinned and bit his lip, then propped his chin on the armrest. "I feared I'd upset Oberon, by bringing up his wayward con."

"No riddles, please," Mordecai clicked his tongue. Then he took a closer look across Rocky’s face—he'd eventually tell himself it was due to the musician's physical proximity, and nothing else—to take in his, admittedly, pleasing features. The only real drawback was the one knick in his left ear, the rest was nearly symmetrical. Including a faint scar, just wide enough to be hinted at beneath Rocky’s fur; a silver straight line down the center of his brow. Without meaning to, Mordecai brought a finger up to trace it.

Rocky tensed, dilated eyes crossing to try and follow the movement.

"No one told me how you got this," said Mordecai. He had some memory of the stitches, and of the weeks it took the wound to settle. But—

"Ah, well, no one likes the stories from when you were with the Marigold," Rocky surmised with a small shrug. Though his tail movements changed—to long, steady swishes—he seemed determined to stay still beneath the ministrations. His ears flattened to the side, his eyes squinting.

Huddled together in the back seat of the borrowed car, Rocky shuddered as Mordecai pet the length of his spine. "Ah—" he huffed, and nestled close to Mordecai's chest. Then he licked at Mordecai's neck, teeth tugging at the spots where the fur transitioned from black to white.

Mordecai pulled away. 

Shoulders slumping, Rocky blinked up at him.

Mordecai cleared his throat and looked around, but no one noticed their exchange. "Seems the festivities are over, I should get back to work."

"Right," Rocky laughed, but the sound seemed strangled. "Well, Happy Birthday, Mr Serious Face."

Eyes half lidded, Mordecai indulged in one more motion and brought a hand to rake his claws properly through Rocky’s fur. The musician purred as Mordecai scratched around one ear, then ruffled the fur, much like Ivy had, before standing. Rocky listed in place, falling back to sit on the floor and stare up at Mordecai.

"Thank you, Mr Rickaby," Mordecai said formally. He chose to busy himself with straightening his vest, his glasses, his tie, anything other than absorb whatever expression Rocky maintained. "Goodnight." And he left.

He was almost halfway across the room, somewhat away from the other patrons who were preoccupied mostly with the bar and dance floor, before Rocky called a reply. "Never harm! Nor spell! Nor charm!" Singing, his voice carried, and Mordecai tensed but kept moving. "Come our lovely lady nigh! So, goodnight, with lullaby!"

16 April 1929

Early evening found Viktor and Mordecai driving through Defiance. They wound their way between farmlands, green shoots carpeting miles of fields, until they came up to the Arbogast's Funeral Home. There, Elsa and Bobby waited on the porch.

"Goodday!" Bobby greeted as they stepped out of their vehicle. "How was the drive?"

"Long," Mordecai stretched, taking the lead up the steps. "I see nothing has changed."

"Oh, perhaps more than you think," Bobby laughed, clapping Mordecai's shoulder as he passed.

Pausing, Mordecai glared.

"Ah–haha—" Bobby lifted his hand away, and stepped back to talk to Viktor.

"How's the shoulder?" Elsa asked.

"Fine." Mordecai rolled the old injury in question. "It only bothers me when it storms."

"Lucky you," Viktor gruffed, shouldering past Mordecai. His movements were stiff, and he leaned on the doorframe as he limped into the little farm house.

"I apologized!" Mordecai hissed, fur raising. "Several times!"

Inside, the table was already set for a modest dinner. Abelard sat at the top, leaving Viktor and Mordecai to be a part of the mirror image. Everyone settled, plates were laden and cups filled, and the conversation picked back up.

"How's the kid?" Abelard asked.

"Vhich one?"

"All of them, by the by," said Bobby.

"I'm sure Miss Pepper is fine," Abelard spat. "Has the funny fellow found his demise yet?"

"Rocky fine," said Viktor. "He usually stay and play at Lackadaisy."

"We never got to hear him," Elsa sighed.

"You not miss out," Viktor frowned. "All screeching, it rings and rings in ears."

"It can't be all bad," Bobby laughed. "He was full of nonsense, but there was a natural theatrics about him."

"How's his head?" Elsa asked.

"Muddled," said Mordecai. "But you're right, the patrons seem to like him on stage. The tricky part is keeping him there, where he causes less trouble."

Viktor snorted, and the others joined in a round of laughter. Mordecai shifted in his seat to look out the front window, staring absently at their car.

"Hold on—" Rocky opened the driver side door, then stood on the edge of the frame to heft some sort of case onto the roof. 

Shrugging out of his jacket, Mordecai watched Rocky’s legs worm out of sight, before casting open his own door to stumble outside. The world went abstract, smears of shadows mingling with the car's headlights, as stars and fireflies alike twinkled overhead. Blinking, he reached back inside to retrieve Rocky’s flask. 

By then, the musician had maneuvered on top of the vehicle.

"What are you doing?" Mordecai asked.

"Be whatever else that may," Rocky sang as he opened the case. "There is yet a stage to play."

"What?" Mordecai frowned.

Rocky picked up his violin and put it to his shoulder. "It's such a pretty spot, Mr Serious Face," he winked, and began tuning. "It'd be a shame to waste it."

"Pretty?" Mordecai looked at their surroundings. There were other tire treads, where people had driven in and out from the shelter of the bridge, and some old cans and bottles that had been discarded and left behind. With the moonless night overhead, most things seemed in stark contrast with the yellow headlights. "I'm not sure I see it."

"Look with your heart, silly duckling, naught your eyes," Rocky chuckled and stood. "Hold those things you've always considered pretty and beautiful up against the light, so that you might look through them and, in doing so, cast aside reality."

"I like reality," said Mordecai. He sipped at the flask, the sharp earthy taste nearly muted on his tongue, and came around to lean on the hood.

"Perhaps you could be tempted?" Rocky asked. He struck a chord. "Or the world could be cemented; in roundabout, prevented; from choosing a path more dull?" Humming, he began to play.

"More potatoes?" Elsa asked.

Blinking, Mordecai gathered his thoughts. "No, thank you. One plate was plenty."

1 May 1929

"Mordecai!" Ivy cheered as he entered the Little Daisy's Café front. "I'm going to be Hippolyta!"

"What?" He frowned at her as he shook off his overcoat. Outside, a steady rain painted the city gray, and the café was all the busier for it. Local foot traffic was taking refuge in the booths and at the windows, sipping coffee and tea while they fortified themselves to venture back into the streets.

Ivy stood behind the counter with Horatio, and Freckle sat in a stool across from her. "This is why you need to get here earlier," Ivy rolled her eyes and propped her hands on her hips. "Mitzi is letting us put on a play tonight! Or, well, part of one."

"Why would she do that?" Mordecai's brows furrowed as he approached the group.

"It was Rocky’s idea," said Freckle. And then, when Mordecai's attention landed on him, he flinched and added: "Mr Heller, sir."

Mordecai rolled his eyes.

"Just one scene," Ivy added. She held up a world worn copy of a book, the pages folded over to disguise the cover. "And most of us are reading from scripts? But Rocky got the whole band on board."

"I'm playing a wall," said Horatio.

Mordecai stared at him, until he cowered behind Ivy. "This sounds like a profound waste of time."

"Don't be such a spoil sport," Ivy sighed. "It's not like it's getting in the way of anything important—it's a Wednesday."

Mordecai shook his head, then carried on. "I'm going up."

The upstairs office was closed, but he could hear music and laughter leaking through the framework. Resigned to an afternoon of interruptions, he steeled himself before opening the door.

The music was just shy of overwhelming, jazzy horns playing through an ornate phonograph set up on Atlas's desk, and accompanied by plumes of smoke. It appeared that someone had upended the entire contents of Mitzi's closet across the carpet, and Mordecai's little table had been commandeered to hold a variety of sewing things. But it was the occupants of the room that made Mordecai pause in the doorway. Or, more accurately, one particular occupant.

Rocky, standing on a stool in the middle of the chaos, looked up from undoing his buttons.

"Mordecai, sweetie, there you are," said Mitzi. She stood next to Rocky with a long gauzy shawl draped between her hands. "We still need a Demetrius."

"Ha!" Zib laughed from where he sat, feet up on Atlas's desk. He balanced a cigarette between his lips, and worked on stitching something together. "I'd pay to see that."

"I'm not participating in whatever this is," he snapped the door shut, and perhaps leaned a little too heavily on the handle.

"Shame," Mitzi sighed. "I bet it'd be good for you. Rocky, sugar, finish taking that off."

"Course," Rocky chuckled, and picked up where he'd stopped. "I have a few ideas on who might play our final couples. But, if no one volunteers, we could pluck our players from the audience."

"A fun idea," Mitzi nodded.

Mordecai began picking his way around the room. "I presume this is going to take all day?"

"You presume correct," said Zib, pausing his work to flick ash into a mug on the desk. Then, something catching his eye, he whistled. "Rocky! Kid, I don't remember that ."

"I wouldn't worry about it," Rocky said. Letting his shirt fall to the floor, he slipped out of his suspenders. "I'm constantly misremembering."

"Hm?" Mitzi looked back at Zib, who flourished his cigarette at Rocky's exposed shoulder. 

"Quite the love bite to forget," Zib teased.

Flushing, Mordecai stared at the accounts ledger, buried on his desk.

"Ah—?" Rocky pivoted toward Mitzi and Zib, one hand coming up to his shoulder while his tail wagged between his legs. He craned his head, but couldn't see it. "Is it still—?" He touched where his fur was thinner around the jagged impression of teeth, nearly on the back of his neck.

"No—" Mordecai pushed Rocky away, to the full extension of his arms, crowding the musician against the space between seats.

"Sorry!" Rocky raised his hands automatically, surrendering with a flail. 

Vision crossing, Mordecai reached for Rocky’s opposite shoulder, then pulled. The musician flinched into the movement, legs slipping as he landed, face first, against the upholstered seat. Then Mordecai dug his claws into Rocky’s scruff.

"Don't do that," he elaborated. He rubbed his free hand along his neck, feeling the dampness Rocky had left there.

"Ah, haha! Um—" Rocky squirmed and tried to move his head, but Mordecai tightened his grip and pushed. Muffled, Rocky continued: "If I, somehow, have offended; think but this, and all is—"

Leaning close, Mordecai bit into Rocky’s shoulder, causing the musician to gasp and stutter into nonsense. He felt Rocky shudder, claws digging into the seat and tail coiling up and around Mordecai's waist. Letting go of Rocky's scruff, Mordecai raked his nails down Rocky's sides—

"I keep forgetting it's there," Rocky admitted. "Out of sight, out of mind."

"It looks somewhat frightful," Mitzi frowned at it.

"Is it that bad?" Rocky worried, turning a little further in a useless attempt to see. "It kept opening while it was healing."

"It looks like quite a story," said Zib. "Did you fight someone off in an alley?"

"Zib!" Mitzi admonished, glaring at her friend.

Mordecai tripped over a pile of shoes and landed, heavy, on the corner of his desk. Hissing quietly, he abandoned his damp overcoat on the back of the chair then dug for the ledger. 

"There was no, ah— fighting, involved. If that's what you're worried about." Rocky scratched at his neck, then shook out his hands by his sides.

"See?" Zib pointed at him, but spoke to Mitzi. "It's fine."

"You can't just say—"

Zib cut her off, looking at Rocky. "You gonna give us the details, kid?" He wagged his brows.

Extracting the books, Mordecai cleared his throat. "Could you refrain from gossip? At least until I don't have to hear it."

"Don't lie, Mordecai," Mitzi fluttered her lashes at him. "You love some good gossip."

"When it's useful," he deadpanned. Turning toward the door, he caught another accidental glimpse of Rocky's exposed neck. It wasn't so noticeable at a distance, but there was a definite patch different from the rest. "I fail to see how any—" he stumbled, over a feather boa as well as the singular intended subject of his sentence, and redirected. "How any of the staffs' personal lives might be important to business."

"Come on now, use your imagination," Mitzi shook her head at him, then started draping the gauzy fabric across Rocky’s shoulders. It obscured the scar from sight. "Everyone knows not to expect Zib to play a whole set when Wick comes around."

"Hurtful," Zib sighed. "But true."

Mitzi laughed, then winked at Rocky. "Well, sugar? What kinda person drives you to distraction?"

"Uh?" Rocky tapped his fingers together and glanced toward the door—Mordecai blamed coincidence that Rocky looked just as he was about to leave. "Anyone who'll hug me?"

"That's a little sad," said Zib.

Mitzi nodded agreement. "Raise the bar a little, sugar, and maybe you'll find someone who doesn’t bite."

Mordecai let the door slam behind him.

In the basement, the rest of the band were joking on stage, pulling around chairs and crates and lengths of fabric. Two thrones were situated on a mock pedestal with four more lined up just in front, the entirety of which was sequestered to stage left. Ignoring all of it, Mordecai swung behind the bar to commandeer a teapot and boil water. He found the little stash of Earl Grey beside the sink, then made camp in a back corner of the main hall. His work station, next to his favourite ficus, was mostly arranged before he remembered precisely where he was.

"So, you decided to drug me," Mordecai drawled as he eyed the blue cocktail. He leaned back in his seat.

Still on the floor, Rocky pouted. "When you put it that way, it sounds nefarious."

"How else would it be meant?"

Sighing, Rocky tipped back his drink. "Apologies," he wiped a hand across his chin, then put the empty glass aside. "I meant no offense, especially with such a small amount. Please, allow me—" and he held his hand towards Mordecai.

"What are you doing?"

"Finishing your drink, of course!" Rocky raised his brows, expectant. "Trust me, no one will bat an eye when ol' Rocky rolls across the floor to the tune of his subconscious."

Mordecai's nose curled in disgust. "Why would you roll on the floor?"

"The general joviality of it," Rocky shrugged, and waved his hand.

"I already drank from it," Mordecai held the drink higher. "You've already drugged me."

"But such a small sip of such a tiny splash could have no significant effect," Rocky flailed. "A tiny sip of liquid perception, to colour your eyes with roses and maybe make you amenable to not killing me."

Mordecai quirked a brow.

Rocky continued: "several people thought to tell me to be careful of putting you into a murderous mood. Which, I must impress, I do not want. This is—uh—" Frowning, Rocky pulled his elbows in. "I'm seeing, now, that perhaps this wasn't the best approach."

Snorting, Mordecai shook his head and gave the cocktail another look. "It can't be worse than anything JJ has made." He copied Rocky’s example, tipping back the rest of the drink in one go. And when he looked again, Rocky’s eyes had gone wide and a grin crossed his face. "Congratulations, you're part of the band."

Biting his lip, Rocky leaned forwards and wagged his brows. "There was nothing under-the-table about that, Mr Heller."

The numbers lined up neatly, if slower than usual, while the band worked through the afternoon. Occasionally, Ivy or Horatio or Rocky ventured down to help with the set or practice lines or just to take a break with the band, but no one disturbed Mordecai. Eventually, Viktor slipped behind the bar to take up his place on a corner stool, where he could sling beers from the tap and be generally out of the way for the newer bartender to manage the fancier drinks, and the doors opened to the public underground.

Before the after-dinner crowd began to file in, Mordecai packed up his work to put away in the armoury vault, which he supposed to be a safe enough alternative. Additionally, it served as a perfect pretense to escape through the tunnels and out the garage. At least, it would have.

"Mordecai!" Ivy's voice caught him before he'd made it halfway around the room; he tensed. "You better not be leaving!"

"I'm putting the ledger away," he adjusted his glasses and turned to look at her. 

"Ahuh," she crossed her arms over her costume, which resembled one of Mitzi's old stage dresses. Behind her stood Freckle, done up neatly with a top hat and a cane, and Horatio, wearing some sort of sac. Ivy continued: "And marching your butt right back into a seat. Right?"

They glared at each other, ears and tails twitching, while Freckle and Horatio edged away. She raised her brows when he narrowed his eyes, he lifted his chin when she hunched her shoulders.

On stage, Mitzi pulled back a side curtain to poke her head out and yell. "Mordecai, sweetheart, just sit at the bar and suffer through it. Would you?"

Growling, his fur stood on end and he gripped the ledger tighter. "Fine," he hissed.

Immediately, Ivy smiled. "Thank you!" And she jumped up to hug him. Rolling his eyes, he kept still and waited out the affection, and in doing so spotted Rocky staring at them.

At the edge of the stage, where Mitzi had disappeared, the musician's eyes were wistfully wide. He blinked and bit his lip, head tilting.

"Whatever you spiked my drink with, I don't think it's working."

"Hm?" Rocky peered up from where he had laid out on the floor, rolling onto his back to tilt his head at Mordecai. His tail wrapped around his waist, wiggling; his pupils, glossy, were impossibly large; and he bit his lip.

Mordecai blinked, slowly, and remembered his point. "The thing you added to the cocktail."

"The elixir," Rocky nodded, then lifted his legs to try and leverage himself into a seated position. It took him three tries before he rolled instead to his side, awkwardly crawling to his knees. Shaking his head, Rocky re-centered himself to face Mordecai correctly. He wasn't quite under the table anymore, but still very much committed to the bit. "Does it count, if you knew what you were taking?"

"Not before I sipped it."

"Ah, but before you truly imbibed," glancing around the room, Rocky waved at Mitzi and Zib; the pair, still conspiring at the bar, toasted back before ordering something from the bartender.

Observing, Mordecai rested his chin in his palm. "Be careful listening to Mitzi. The last person she pushed at me ended up in the Mississippi with a dozen new holes in his chest." His eyes were heavy.

Rocky’s brows quirked, his smile growing until his fangs were on display. "That might explain Ol' Viktor's condolences." He felt his jacket, groping for something not there, and twisted until he found his flask.

Humour twitched across Mordecai’s face. "But you risked drinking with me anyway?"

Rocky shrugged and took a sip. "I'm very motivated."

"To join the band," Mordecai iterated.

"Now you've got it," Rocky wagged his brows, flailed an arm, and waved the flask.

The movement seemed, to Mordecai, slow and deliberate, though later reflection would write a more plausible hypotheses on the effects of the elixir. Reaching out to grab Rocky’s wrist—he meant only to take the flask to investigate—Mordecai fell out of his chair. 

"I'm going now," said Mordecai, looking up at the ceiling. 

"Ahuh," Ivy squeezed him tighter, but let go. Walking backwards to the stage, she narrowed her eyes at him. "Stick around or I'll be upset!"

Waving off her threats, he ventured into the backrooms and wasted time hiding out in the armoury. He stashed the ledger, dusted the shelves, and cleaned his pistol before he heard the echo of an announcement. Then, with annoyance darkening his mood, he stalked back out to the main room of the Lackadaisy.

The lights dimmed as he sat down across from Viktor, and Zib sauntered to a center stage spotlight. "Evening, ladies and gents," he winked at the limited audience. "We've got a special opening act for you tonight. We just need a couple of volunteers—"

"Did you know about this?" Mordecai asked Viktor.

He shook his head. "No one tells me anything."

There was some bustle as a couple of people climbed on stage, but Mordecai turned his back to it. "We have a schedule for a reason," he complained. "One shouldn't just, change plans willy nilly."

"Is not so bad," Viktor scratched beneath his eye patch. "Ivy seem happy. And it Vednesday, vhat else ve do on Vednesday?"

A cheer from the audience interrupted Mordecai's glare, and he peered back to see what had happened. The lights adjusted on stage, opening up the space to show the audience the abstraction of a throne room. Someone had decorated an arch with flowers and tulle, and through it stepped Ivy and Freckle. Together, they ambled towards their elevated seats, followed by a dumpy busboy dressed in their usual uniform.

"Tis strange, my Theseus—" Ivy performed from memory. "—that these lovers speak of."

Freckle cleared his throat and read from a script; but his voice was clear and concise. "More strange than true—"

Mordecai tuned them out as Viktor set two little shot glasses of something clear on the bar top. "What's this?" He asked.

"Patience," Viktor grumbled. He picked up one of the glasses and waited for Mordecai to toast.

"I thought it wasn't so bad?" Mordecai's brow lifted.

"Ivy, not so bad," Viktor agreed. "Rocky… cocky."

Snorting, Mordecai accepted the other shot. They tinked their glasses, knocked back the drinks, and winced at the taste. Then Viktor was flagged to fill an order, and Mordecai reluctantly paid attention to the wouldbe actors.

Freckle managed a speech as he helped Ivy up onto the disguised crates and into a throne. He stumbled over a couple words here or there, especially around the page turns, and Ivy gave him fond looks as she responded. Then Zib and Mitzi sauntered forward with their volunteers, all of them passing through the nuptials arch on their way to their seats, before the busboy faltered forward to present Ivy and Freckle with a list. At length, one of the band came forward—Ben—to introduce the rest of the actors, and the couples gossiped and heckled the band off stage again, leaving Horatio to read aloud his monologue.

And then there was Rocky.

Entering after a que from Freckle—"Pyramus draws near the wall, silence"—Rocky cartwheeled across the stage to stand next to Horatio.

"O, grim-look'd night!" Rocky flourished. He paced a line at the front of the stage, never passing in front of Horatio as he spoke to the air above the audience. "O night with hue so black! O night, whichever art, when day is not! O night, О night!" He sighed and drew out a silence, then moved to look over Horatio's shoulder. "Alack, alack, alack! I fear my Thisby's promise is forgot!" With another sigh he kicked at the stage floor, then moved to plead something with Horatio.

Distracted, Mordecai's gaze settled on Rocky’s covered neck.

"I could be tempted," he said.

From where he sat, cross legged on the roof of the car, Rocky tilted his head. His whole body followed the movement, and he swayed with his violin in his lap, like a ukulele. "Tempted to what?" He asked.

Mordecai took another swig from the flask, then sealed it. Planting his hands on the hood, Mordecai climbed up onto the vehicle to teeter in front of Rocky. "Tempted from," he answered.

Rocky grinned and began strumming a chord progression. "You're brain-addled, my friend. Without thought to where and when. Its—ah—" his rhythm broke as Mordecai leaned against the windshield to edge into his space. "Perhaps it's time to stop imbibing?"

"Brain-addled may be correct," Mordecai nodded, then shook his head as the world sloshed and morphed. Things seemed too-bright beneath the dim of the bridge, and he crawled onto the roof of the car to lay out beside the musician. It was there, staring up at the light reflected onto steel and cement, that he realized just how far he'd deviated from normal. He blinked. "The headlights are still on."

"All the better to see you with," Rocky hummed.

"I can see you just fine."

"Ah, but you have spectacles to help you."

"You can't see me?"

Changing his fingering, Rocky played a slower chord. His voice softened to match. "You're hard to miss, Mr Serious Face."

Viktor dropped two glasses of something amber on the bartop, and snickered when Mordecai startled.

“No more patience for me, thanks,” Mordecai declined. “But I'll take another tea, if you’re so inclined.”

“Vhat do I look like?” Viktor frowned at him, then started the first drink. 

“It hardly matters what you look like,” Mordecai rolled his eyes. “You’re employed as a bartender.”

“Go make own tea.”

“Some help you are,” Mordecai huffed, then looked again at the stage. Another band member had come out, cross dressed in one of Mitzi’s simpler dresses with a wig and make up. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

Viktor peered at the stage, then lifted a brow at Mordecai. “Vhat’s not to understand? They do play.” He gulped back the first drink and started on the next.

“Why is there an audience on stage?” Mordecai questioned, gesturing as Mitzi and Zib bounced lines back and forth. “Are they not acting the same scene as the band? And why put Mozzie in a dress?”

“Is Shakespeare,” Viktor shrugged. “Men in dress is part of joke.”

"Then why not put Zib in the dress?" Mordecai puzzled. "At least he knows how to carry himself. This is—" he waved at the stage again, frowning.

"Is not joke vhen Zib vears dress," said Viktor. "Even I know that."

"All I'm saying, is that it's a bad joke," Mordecai crossed his arms.

"You bad joke."

"That's rude. And not very clever."

"Maybe funnier if you vere smarter."

"Ha ha. You used to be nice."

"I'm nice," Viktor toasted his drink toward the stage, drawing attention to a change of players. Rocky and Mozzie had both exited the stage, replaced by the last two band members—Sy and JJ. "Just other day, McMurray call me nice."

On stage, Freckle dropped his script and fumbled his lines. Mordecai scoffed: "McMurray is afraid of you."

"Good," Viktor growled.

The play continued. Rocky returned, pantomimed suicide, then twitched idly while Mozzie followed suit. Freckle had one more speech as Rocky sat up. Then, abruptly, the whole tone of the play changed as Mozzie's piano was pushed out of the wing.

One by one, the band found their instruments, minus Zib. He and the rest of the Stage Couples broke into an easy dance. There was a bit of a spectacle as the crowd cheered.

"Ridiculous," Mordecai complained.

"Not so bad," Viktor said again.

The lights dimmed as the actors danced off stage, and the room hushed into a quiet. Some patrons took it as a sign to get up from their seats, and a queue formed at the bar. Mordecai was just about comfortable with the assumption that the unnecessary dose of Shakespeare was over when Rocky, again, stepped into the spotlight. All across the room heads turned to see what was about to happen.

There had been a costume change, and now Rocky stood in a shimmery toga-tunic, in the same shade as the gauzy shawl from upstairs. A crown of leaves and feathers circled his ears.

Rocky started: "Now the hungry lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon; whilst the heavy ploughman snores, all with weary task fordone."

Fur raising, Mordecai shivered.

Overhead, wolves danced around a golden sliver of moon, only to be chased away by Abelard's tractor. Someone fired silent pistols, which exploded into multi-coloured fireworks. Shimmering, it washed out Mordecai's vision.

"Now the wasted brands do glow—" Rocky muttered into his ear.

Purring, deep and low in his chest, Mordecai tilted his head until he felt Rocky’s nose against his temple. He lost some of the speech to visuals when fingers started combing back his hair. A shadowy bird swooped, catching his leaping heart as a darkness spread like ink dripped on paper. Then a whispering meteor shower built a temple on a hillside.

Rocky’s nails scraped a little harder, leaving a tingling trail that pulled Mordecai back into reality. 

"And we fairies that do run," Rocky spoke in sing-song. The fireworks cleared into the last of the winking fireflies, clinging to the bottom of the bridge. "By the triple Hecate's team, from the presence of the sun, following darkness like a dream. Now are frolic; not a mouse shall disturb this hallow'd house!"

"Everything is moving," said Mordecai.

"That's always been true," Rocky laughed. The sound rumbled into Mordecai's body, and it took him a moment to realize they were laid out, side by side on the car roof. "Now shush, else the last lines will leave me."

"I am sent, with broom, before—" With a long pause, Rocky mimicked sweeping the stage, pretending to gather something at his feet. He looked over his shoulder as he finished, first left then right, and figures stepped out of the wings. It was Mitzi and Zib, both now changed into long translucent robes and flower crowns. "—to sweep the dust behind the door." Winking and bowing, Rocky backed up to yield the spotlight.

Then the doors of the Lackadaisy burst open in chaos.

Several things happened in quick succession. A clang rang out as the doors hit the wall, followed by a spray of gunfire. Someone—or everyone, it was hard to tell—screamed, and Mitzi's favourite chandelier cracked and exploded into a thousand tiny pieces. Viktor and Mordecai both, on either side of the counter, ducked as a small gang waltzed in to the tune of a Tommy gun.

"Six people," Mordecai called, just loud enough. All across the room patrons were either taking cover behind tables and chairs and columns, or else running to try and find safety. He drew his pistol.

"Ivy?" Viktor called back, punctuated by the familiar click of a shotgun being armed.

On stage, Rocky and Zib were both covering a frantic Mitzi, trying to corral her behind the props and curtains. While Mordecai appreciated the two musicians attempts, he couldn't help but sigh; of the three of them, Mitzi was the most useful in a firefight. "I can't see her," Mordecai answered. "But she'll be with McMurray."

"Good," said Viktor. Then he stood and began a familiar routine, firing two rounds to break the rhythm of the gunfight before having to duck down again.

Taking his cue, Mordecai pressed forward to the nearest table, firing several shots before flipping it on its side. A nearby patron scrambled close to share the cover, but Mordecai ignored them. He waited, watching as Viktor stood again to fire two rounds, before ducking out to take an aimed shot.

One of the invading gang members fell with a new, bloody, hole between their eyes.

On stage, Rocky stepped back into the spotlight. At first he went unnoticed in the upheaval, but then he opened his lungs to bellow. "If we shadows have offended, think but this, and all is mended—" he managed before half the gunmen turned. One of them aimed at the stage, firing in an indiscriminate diagonal that roused another chorus of screams and tore chunks of limestone from the ceiling. Still reciting, Rocky bounded behind the line of thrones. "—you have but slumber'd here! While these visions did appear!"

Growling, Mordecai pulled behind the cover and checked the rest of the room. People were still scurrying about, easy targets that went unnoticed for the fool dancing on stage. He didn't have time to complain, and instinct sent him ducking and weaving between tables to skirt the open area before the stage, mostly void now that everyone was hiding. Mordecai managed to take out another gunman as he approached stage left, and Viktor took out a third. 

"Gentles!" Rocky called. "Do not reprehend! If you pardon, we will mend!" He disappeared, briefly, as another spray of gunfire decorated the chairs; Ivy’s vacated throne fell backwards off of its pedestal.

There was another break in the fight, and Viktor's shotgun rang. Mordecai took the opportunity to scale the stage edge, just in time to see Rocky take a deep breath and stand.

"And, as I am an honest Puck!" He yelled, manic. "If we have unearned luck—!"

Darting, Mordecai side-tackled him to the floor as the fire fight restarted. He flinched overtop Rocky’s body, claws digging into the shoulder of his gauzy tunic as the backs of the makeshift thrones disintegrated above them. Mordecai squinted out between the chair legs, but the stage lights cast the entire audience into an abstracted silhouette.

Rocky tried to rise; Mordecai grabbed the back of his neck and shoved him, face first, into the stage. "Don't move," he hissed, still glaring out into the indiscernible room. His claws tightened in Rocky’s scruff.

And then, the best-worst outcome.

"Ahahahahahahahahahahaha!" Familiar laughter accompanied the repeating ricochet of a model 19 Thompson. Mordecai crouched somewhat closer to Rocky as he peered between two of the chairs, just making out the shapes of several figures coming from the Lackadaisy’s backrooms.

Rocky snickered, tail wagging. "Nothing left to fear, my good—"

"Quiet," Mordecai growled at him. 

There was more automatic fire from both sides, accompanied at regular intervals by Viktor's shotgun, until finally everything went quiet. The silence seemed to ring, and Mordecai took notice of his own elevated heart rate, of the quiet whimpering of the audience, of Rocky's tail wrapping around his waist. 

Then, Viktor called: "Clear!"

Shoulders slumping, Mordecai sighed and lowered his pistol. He let go of Rocky as Mitzi wandered back onto the stage. 

"That was unsettling," she laughed to her patrons. There was a general muttering as people extracted themselves from their hiding places.  "Next round’s on us; anyone needing stitches can get them at the bar." And she moved to hop down from the front of the stage.

Sitting up, Rocky knocked his shoulder into Mordecai's. "I suppose thanks are in order?" He raised his brows at Mordecai, and touched one of the bullet holes in the chair they were situated behind. 

"If you'd stayed put, there wouldn't need to be," Mordecai glared at him. 

Rocky just hummed, gesturing at Mordecai's pistol. "Looks to me like you jumped to the rescue."

Shoving to a stand, Mordecai holstered the pistol. "You'd better check to see if anyone backstage is bleeding out because of your foolishness," he clipped. Though, he doubted Mitzi would've been quite so cavalier if that had been the case. 

It still caused Rocky’s eyes to widen. Lungs squeezing, Mordecai took note of the blood dripping from the musician's nose, likely from when it had collided with the stage. He took another look over Rocky’s figure, but that was the only obvious injury. Then he decided he hated the Puck costume—it was too asymmetrical.

Rocky scrambled up, already turning away as he rushed off stage to check on the rest of the band, and Mordecai sighed in relief.

20 May 1929

The lull in business lasted longer than anyone would've liked, but there was little else to be expected. But, by rote or will, nearly half the usual crowd were present come Monday's celebrations. Dragged, arm-in-arm with Mitzi, Mordecai glared at the balloons and streamers that decorated the bar.

"I put your name on a necklace," said Mitzi. She tugged him toward the same cluster of chairs and tables where they had played cards and—everyone else, at least—imbibed mushroom tea, currently empty.

"l already bought a gift.”

"I know, sugar, but lvy doesn't need another gun," she sat him down in the middle of a couch, then stepped away. There was something overly familiar about the motion, and a sense of deja vu washed over him.

“I feel fine,” he whined, feet faltering.

“I know, sugar,” Mitzi soothed. She rubbed his arms as she guided him into an improvised seat at the bottom of a staircase. “But no one needs you throwing up again. Now—”

"Now, wait here and try not to scare anyone."

Blinking, he smoothed down his dress jacket and fumbled with his pocket watch. "No promises."

Scoffing, she left him alone.

The band had started an early set, some easy listening for a group of gentlemen who had sequestered a corner of the bar to themselves. There were a few dancers already, but the crowd was thin enough that Mordecai could easily spy them all. The atmosphere was somewhat dim, since the chandeliers had yet to be replaced, but Mitzi made up for it by lighting candles on every table. An idle queue lined up at the bar, the service moving somewhat slower without Viktor to assist with beer. On stage, Rocky danced while he played, extra rambunctious in his efforts to make the rest of the band laugh and mess up their parts. To their credit, they recovered each falter with a new improvisation.

Across the room, the main doors opened. Giggling with a handful of her friends, Ivy took a few steps then paused to point out the bar and the dance floor. Before the small group could disperse—she’d brought along four girls, all whom Mordecai recognized from Ivy’s school days—Mitzi rounded them up. The Matron called something to the staff at the bar then looped her arm through Ivy’s to guide her along, much as she had for Mordecai.

“Here we are,” Mitzi sat Ivy at the head of the table, alone in an armchair, and her friends started settling into the nearest seats. One of them slipped into the spot next to Mordecai, offering a small smile—and then flinched into the armrest when he narrowed his eyes at her. Mitzi continued: “We’re just waiting on a couple more people. You girls chat, I’ll be right back.”

Ivy shimmied to the front of her seat as Mitzi left. “Mordecai! Have you seen Freckle?”

Holding in a sigh as all the young ladies looked at him, Mordecai leveled a stare at Ivy. “I assumed Mr McMurray would be coming with you.”

Looking past him, she perked. “Nevermind! I see him—” and she launched out of her seat.

The group left behind shifted awkwardly, and this time Mordecai did sigh. Following suit, he stood. “I’ll get some drinks,” he managed not to grind his teeth as he stepped away from the ladies. When his back was to them, he heard them lean close and start to mutter and laugh. Ears flattening, he ignored them.

Forgoing the queue, he slipped behind the bar and found a bottle of champagne. Guessing from the number of available seats, he took his time hanging a selection of glass flutes from his fingers. While loitering, he watched as Ivy introduced a shy Freckle to her friends, then scanned the bar again. Mitzi was standing with the group of gentlemen in the corner, laughing as she angled away—no doubt trapped in the conversation. Rolling his eyes, Mordecai caught another look of Rocky and the band; the violinist was backing off stage.

Managing to draw out his return, Mordecai lost his spot on the couch to Freckle and Ivy. Freckle was shrunken into a corner as Ivy giggled with her friends.

“Are we having a usual celebration?” Mordecai asked as he carefully set the champagne and flutes on the low table between everyone.

“Yes!” Ivy vibrated.

“I suppose Mr McMurray is getting the first dance?”

“Ah?” Freckle looked up, pupils narrowing as he squirmed.

“Nuh uh,” Ivy laughed and pointed at Mordecai. “Don’t think you can get out of dancing, just because I’m going steady! Nope, you’re up first, Mordecai.”

“Joy,” he drawled.

Then he stumbled as a weight collided against his back. Fur standing on end, he ducked to slip away from the arm that slung around his shoulder. Pivoting, he moved to wrack his claws against his wouldbe-attacker’s face, only to realize who it was just in time to freeze.

“Sorry, sorry,” Rocky laughed, hands raised to placate as he shuffled back a step. “I forgot, Mr Serious likes his personal space.”

Tail twitching low, Mordecai tugged his vest straight and held back a hiss. “I suppose it’s no surprise you’ve yet to learn any lessons, Mr Rickaby.”

“Ooo—” Rocky wagged his brows. “Are we being extra formal today? What d’you think, Miss Pepper—” he turned, bracing against the couch opposite where Ivy sat. “—how should we shuck the boundaries of expectations? I think I saw—no, I KNOW I saw some buckets of paint backstage. We could paint the town blue?"

A couple of the girls snickered, and Ivy rolled her eyes, grinning. "Wrong colour, Rocky."

"Yellow then."

“Don’t be absurd,” said Mordecai. “That paint is for repairs, as you would do well to know.”

“Ah, but how does one do well ?” Rocky glanced at him with the question, then turned to soliloquy at Ivy’s friends. “I’m feeling well, does that mean I’m doing well? Or should we be spreading wellness, like jam across toast. Or is well not viscous enough to spread? Should I—”

“Enough,” Mordecai rubbed at his suddenly tense brow. “You cannot spread ideological ideas like condiments.” 

“Mordecai,” Ivy laughed. “Don’t encourage him.”

“Too late—” Rocky started. Still braced against the couch, Rocky gave Mordecai a lingering look. His attention seemed to catch on the couple bits of metal that adorned Mordecai’s clothes: the blackstone cufflinks, the gold chain of the pocket watch, the arch of glasses.

Biting his lip, Rocky’s eyes hooded half-closed as he leaned a little closer. He still loomed over Mordecai, balanced on an elbow as the opposite hand traced over the pattern of Mordecai’s brows. 

Something pleasant and warm vibrated deep in Mordecai’s chest, a slow drip of dopamine that scribbled past the linework of reality to recontextualize his sensate awareness. The world behind Rocky seemed to shimmer and sparkle in Mordecai’s periphery, a distraction from the musician’s blue blue eyes. 

“—I am encouraged,” Rocky’s grin twitched. He rearranged the line of his body, a subtle shift missed by the entirety of the seated party, and lifted a hand to press to his chest. “I do entreat your grace to pardon me. I know not by what power I am made bold. Nor how it may concern my modesty, in such a presence here, to plead my thoughts.”

Frowning, Mordecai tried to parse the change of tone alongside the rhythm of the words.

“Rocky!” Ivy hissed over the giggling chorus of her friends. Rocky winked at her.

Beside her, Freckle tilted his head. “If he’s the Duke—” Freckle gestured at Mordecai, but spoke to his cousin. “—who are you supposed to be flirting with?”

Heat burst across Mordecai’s face as all Ivy’s friends laughed, and his hands clenched. 

“Flirting?” Rocky managed to stumble as he stood upright, facing his cousin. “Who’s flirting? You mistake an availability and inclination towards prose with any sense of premeditation, dear cousin. Sometimes, one must abstract the words from their context to express something—uh—” eyes flashing, he glanced at Mordecai for a moment. “—impactful.”

Never able to contain himself from philosophical nonsense, Mordecai pushed up his glasses. “Your suppositions contradict themselves. Without premeditation it’s difficult, if not impossible, to create impact. For instance, a boxer must plant their feet and follow through to knock out their opponent.”

“You know a lot about boxing?”

“Enough not to get knocked out.”

Low where no one else could see, Rocky’s tail wavered. His brows quirked, grin growing to show off his back teeth as he exhaled with a puff of a laugh. Inhaling, his whole body rose up to join the debate.

Only to be interrupted by a returning Mitzi. "Boys!" She called as she approached, alongside Viktor. Carrying an album, she had one dainty hand tucked into his elbow as he managed an armful of presents. "I trust we have been behaving?"

Flailing, Rocky turned toward her. "Always, Ms M!"

"It would depend on your definition of behaving," said Mordecai. For a moment he kept his attention on Rocky, watching the way the musician reset his stance and leaned toward Mitzi.

"Sweetheart," Mitzi sighed. She came to a stop between Rocky and Mordecai, letting Viktor continue on to deposit the presents alongside the champagne. Propping her hands on her hips, she looked between them. "Usually I'd define it as getting along."

"Me and Mr Serious get along great!" Rocky boasted. A swaying step put him in range to swing an arm up around Mordecai's shoulders. 

Which Mordecai dodged. "The verdict is still out."

"Ahuh," Mitzi raised a brow at him, then shook her head and looked at the musician. "Rocky, sugar, I hate to ask—"

A brief frown disappeared beneath a thousand watt smile. "Ask anything, Ms May, and I'll move the moon to bring it to you."

Something sour curled Mordecai's tongue, and he grit his teeth to keep his composure. In need of distraction, he pulled out his pocket watch. Behind them, the girls had sobered as Ivy gushed at Viktor. There was a pop as someone—Freckle—opened the champagne to fill the flutes, and Horatio crept up to join the party.

None of it phased Mitzi, who pressed her freehand to Rocky’s shoulder. "Someone was asking about you."

One of Mordecai's ears twitched.

"Oh?" Rocky tilted his head, expression flickering between surprise and confusion before settling on amusement. "Not another trainhopper, I hope? Might be easier just to lie and say I'm dead."

"That is… an unexpected turn in conversation," Mitzi's lips pursed. "But no. It's one of the new gentlemen patrons—" and she angled to point at the group in the corner, several of whom were glancing at the celebrating party. Mordecai narrowed his eyes at them. "—the one with the blue handkerchief? He wanted to talk about your playing. Said something about, ah—paninis?"

"Paganini," Rocky corrected. Rocking on his heels, he followed her gesture. Then, gaze skimming past Mordecai, he looked at Ivy and her friends. "I may have played a few motifs."

"Sure thing, sugar," Mitzi nodded, pretending to understand. "It never hurts to play nice with money, but I understand if—"

"No no," pulling his jacket straight, Rocky grinned at her. "I can play nice. Give me two minutes with the guy."

Mitzi winced, and Mordecai tempered back a growl. "You may need more than two minutes," and she reached up to fluff his fringe and neaten his tie. "I got the impression he wanted to talk."

"Yes?" Rocky frowned at her ministrations, even as his tail wagged at the attention. "You said that."

"Yes, but I mean…" she raised her brows and leaned forward, tone dripping low. "... talk."

"Ah?" Rocky scratched the back of his neck, one finger probing beneath his collar. 

"Flirting, sugar."

"Ah." Rocky’s shoulders dropped as Mordecai tensed. He looked again at the group of gentlemen in the corner. "Are you sure?"

"Well, he was understandably cagey about the whole proposal," Mitzi admitted, stepping aside. "But I recognized the look in his eyes, and he was very insistent."

"This is a bad idea," said Mordecai. 

Both Rocky and Mitzi turned to him, Rocky with a small grin and Mitzi with a puzzled frown. Then Rocky laughed, pivoting as he moved so he still addressed the both of them. "The bad ideas are usually the best ones."

"No they aren't!" Mordecai called as Rocky stepped out of a comfortable conversing range.

"Where's Rocky going?" Ivy asked, drawing Mitzi and Mordecai's attention.

The matron continued on to the group, rearranging the album she carried to hold in front of her. "Just a little bit of shmoozing, dear. Are you ready to get started?"

"Yes!" Squirming, Ivy jumped up. She giggled at her friends, commanding them to stay as she kissed Freckle's cheek and rounded out of the center of the group. At speed, she grabbed Mordecai's arm to drag him toward the dance floor.

"Must we?" Mordecai sighed, the air of annoyance coming easier as he spied Rocky sitting on the arm of a gentleman's chair. "Could I bribe you to change your mind?"

"No," Ivy laughed.

Someone in the band must have noticed their arrival on the dancefloor, for the music came to an improvised end before Zib started up a quick number. There were a handful of other dancers to maneuver between, and then they were in the middle of the meager crowd. Then, just as Ivy arranged herself into a starting position—she gave Mordecai's arms a reprimanding tug, as if to remind him to take the activity seriously—he caught a glimpse of Rocky speaking into a gentleman's ear.

Whiskers tickled the side of his face as a nose nuzzled into his ear. "Heads up, buttercup—" Rocky sang. "Your friends are headed this way."

"No funny business!" Ivy warned, prompting him to blink and look at her pouting face. She took his hands in a loose hold. "I'm not one of those ladies you're trying to get rid of, so dance properly!"

"Naturally," he ground out. Then he loosened his limbs to lead, pulling a laughing Ivy into a series of quick steps and spins. Not with the same level of talent or flair of some of the other Lackadaisy residents—Zib was the self proclaimed virtuoso, but Viktor always managed a surprising amount of poise—but proficient enough to keep the birthday girl happy and occupied.

On stage, Zib and Sy steadily increased the rhythm until Mordecai felt flushed and had to fight against panting. Glaring over Ivy’s shoulder, he caught them and the rest of the band grinning and snickering around their instruments. Unfortunately, he could see no real harm in their antics; it had been years since they were last able to torture Mordecai through one of his least favourite activities. Though, truth be told, with Ivy it was bearable. 

Eventually, the music tapered to an end. 

“Thank you!” Ivy closed the space between them to wrap him up in a hug.

Expecting it, Mordecai placed one awkward hand on her shoulder blade and the other on her head. Petting her hair, he relaxed to the tune of her purring and thought, briefly, of his sisters back in New York. Then he made the mistake of looking up, his attention drifting to Rocky without his conscious permission.

Still seated on the arm of the gentleman’s chair, Rocky stared back. Mouth agape, his eyes were wide; at least, they were until the gentleman asked for his attention again. Then the musician turned back to his charge, grin in place around whatever flowery words he spouted.

Mordecai tensed. “I trust this was enough?” he asked.

Pulling back to look up at him, Ivy squinted and pursed her lips as if to contemplate.

Mordecai rolled his eyes and raised his brows at her as the next song started.

“Fiiine,” Ivy relented with a smile. “I release you.”

Scoffing, Mordecai led her back towards her party of friends. “Mitzi put my name on a necklace for you,” he told her. “But your real present is up in the office.”

Vibrating, she bounced closer. “Is it—?”

He interrupted. “The rifle you wanted? Yes.”

19 August 1929

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

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

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

“Mordecai Elijah Heller, open this door!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pieces,” Rocky corrected. 

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

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

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

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

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

"Nothing you aren't already aware of."

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

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

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

“No promises!" said Mitzi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure thing, Ms M.”

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

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

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

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

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

Mordecai squinted from his seat on the stairs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I held her purse."

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

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

"Ah—" Rocky grimaced. "Sor—"

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

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

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

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

"What?"

"The rhyme."

"That hardly counts as poetry."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're always bragging about panini—"

"Paganini."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mordecai sighed. "Just get dressed."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jacket next," Mordecai instructed.

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

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

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

"That's nonsense."

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

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

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

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

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

Mordecai squinted at him. 

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

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

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

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

Rocky perked, looking. "Compromise?"

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

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

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

"Dreamah-vu," Rocky muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, you know Viktor…"

"There's an elevator."

"He's just a little sore."

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

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

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

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

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

"You von't—"

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

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

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

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

"Fine," Viktor gruffed.

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

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

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

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

“Can I have some?” Rocky asked.

“Mordecai’s reading Shakespeare,” said Mitzi.

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

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

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

"Freckle?" Rocky leaned forward to interject.

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

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

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

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

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

"Can you blame me?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

“I thought it might make a convenient projectile.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why me?" Mordecai growled.

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

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

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

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

"Fine," Mordecai ground out.

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

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

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

Rocky slumped, ears drooping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'M fine—"

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

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

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

"I know."

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

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

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

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

"Oh, you know. Around."

"How reassuring."

"Awe, cher! He missed you too."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nico leaned back on his heels to bark with laughter.

"Remy?" Rocky asked.

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

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

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

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

“Nah, never.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You aren’t helping,” Mordecai intoned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who?” Mordecai’s eyes narrowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, he found a deserted stairwell and stopped.

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

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

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

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

"I didn't think it mattered?"

"So you would."

"Would what?"

"Sleep with him."

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

"Yes," Mordecai growled.

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

"Stop talking—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hush—” and Mordecai tried kissing him again.

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

“Certain.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mordecai hummed and nosed deeper into Rocky’s scruff.

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

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

"You told me to stop?" Rocky prompted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the world split in two and glazed over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

25 September 1929

Shut in a dim office full of whispering people, leaning back in a chair with a damp cloth draped over his eyes, Mordecai's mind was at home in his apartment. Nothing particularly exciting had happened, or would be happening, there. The previous month hadn't been graced with any particular visitors—thou Ivy and Mitzi occasionally came around to check on him outside of working hours—and there had been no renovations or alterations needed. The only thing different was a single button down shirt, discarded before a party and apparently forgotten when the owner of said shirt had, seemingly, gathered the rest of his clothes whilst leaving a conspicuously inebriated Mordecai to drool into his pillows. 

In spite of Mitzi and Zib muttering in his ear, he could still picture that shirt, crumpled and kicked under his bed. He hadn't noticed it for most of a day, too busy vomiting away a disproportionate hangover to do much more than putter around groaning at his plants. And when he did finally notice, it took another day for him to work up the nerve to pick it up and add it to his laundry. Since then, it had been ironed and hung in his closet, with a tag around the hanger which read Return to Rocky. He had yet to return it to Rocky.

"Here—" Zib whispered, and a cool glass tapped Mordecai's cheek.

Sighing, Mordecai shifted into a more upright position and pulled the cloth from his face. His eyes throbbed as he opened them, and faint auras radiated from the open window and the tip of Zib’s cigarette. Without his glasses, Zib's figure duplicated and overlapped itself; but the old cat also held a glass of water, which Mordecai took. "Thank you."

"Sure I can't convince you on weed?" Zib raised a brow. "Might help."

"I'm sure," Mordecai closed his eyes and took a sip.

Mitzi came and sat on the arm of Mordecai's chair, and softly laid a hand on his shoulder. "It's all sorted. Wick will be around to pick us up shortly, and Horatio knows to only bother you in an emergency."

"It's a headache," he cracked open one eye to stare at her. "I'm not dying."

“Still, sugar. There shouldn’t be any problems.”

“Mm,” he rubbed at the tension in his brow and took another sip of water. “As long as JJ stays away from the bar.”

Zib snorted. “That’s a hard sell, but I’ll remind him.”

Mitzi clicked her tongue and prodded Mordecai’s shoulder. “Shift over—” she maneuvered him a quarter turn towards Zib, so that she could wedge a little closer and rub circles at his temples. 

Reluctantly grateful, Mordecai relaxed against her knee.

Zib snickered. “I think he’s purring.”

“Shut up,” Mordecai couldn’t manage a scowl.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Mitzi leaned to speak over Mordecai’s head; he could almost hear her eyes batting at Zib. “I’ll rub your feet later.”

“You can’t afford me,” Zib teased.

“You can’t,” Mordecai agreed. “We barely broke even last month.”

“Hush you,” Mitzi ruffled his hair, then resumed her ministrations. “I’m tryin’ to be nice.”

“You’re as bad as Wick,” Zib sighed. 

“No one’s as bad as Wick,” Mitzi chuckled. “I’m tellin’ you, honey, he’s bein’ intentionally obtuse.”

Eyes still closed, Mordecai asked: “Does that mean you’re backdating the pool?”

“That only seems fair,” Mitzi nodded as Zib groaned.

“Well, then I’ll have to say the first day of Chanukah, last year.”

Mitzi made an interested noise, but the door opened before she could attempt an interrogation. A slice of incandescent light cut behind Mordecai’s eyelids; he hissed and flinched into the chair.

“Everything is ready!” Rocky shouted with a flourish. 

Half a dozen people sounded off: “Shhhhh!”

“Sorry,” Rocky whisper-shouted. “Why are all the lights off?”

Biting his tongue, Mordecai squinted his eyes open. 

“Mordecai’s head hurts, dear,” Mitzi replied quietly. Standing up, she approached Rocky. “Is Wick here?”

“Uh—” Rocky looked from Mitzi, to Mordecai, and back again. “Yes?”

“Wonderful, everyone—” Standing station at the door, Mitzi waved the room forward to leave. A few of the loiterers muttered goodbyes to Mordecai, including a silent Viktor who squeezed Mordecai’s shoulder on his way past.

Zib propped himself on the back of Mordecai’s chair. “Last year, huh?”

“When Mitzi had you selling Christmas kisses,” Mordecai explained as he retrieved his glasses from his jacket pocket. “It’s the only time I’ve seen him actually drunk.”

“I don’t remember that,” Zib narrowed his eyes.

“It raised enough profits to keep the bar stocked for months,” Mordecai added. “I don’t think I saw you sober until the New Year.”

“Not helpful,” Zib sighed as he stood. Then he ruffled Mordecai’s hair. “Drink your water.”

Mordecai exaggerated a snarl at his retreating form, and saw Rocky still lingered by the door. The musician squinted at Mordecai, until Mitzi started closing the door. “Come on, Rocky,” she said. “Good night, Mordecai.”

“Happy Birthday,” said Mordecai.

Grinning, Mitzi winked as she closed the door.

Leaving Mordecai blissfully alone. Slumping, he tested the damp cloth over his eyes; but it had warmed to room temperature and did nothing to soothe the lingering ache. Instead, he perched the heel of the water glass on his forehead and let out a long breath. It was cool on his brow, a sharp point of focus to distract him from pain.

Though the world curdled on the back of Mordecai’s tongue, it was spinning less. Some combination of too many drinks—he could almost taste the strawberry daiquiri Mitzi had brought—and whatever had been in the flask had emptied the contents of Mordecai’s stomach; though he was still doubtful of the musician’s libations. Slumping back, he propped his elbows on the stairs behind him and called out: "I can see you."

Rocky leaned further out from the doorframe. "I thought Zib was lying."

"I's habitual," Mordecai slurred. Drifting, his shoulder touched the wall. "Wha'd he lie about this time?"

Slinking forward, Rocky managed to stick to the shadows as he approached. His eyes glowed in the darkness. "Would you like the fibs or the truths?"

"Both."

Biting his smile, Rocky crawled up the steps beside Mordecai. "He said you were no fun."

"I'm not," Mordecai agreed with a nod.

Snorting, Rocky slotted himself next to Mordecai. Their shoulders brushed, nudging. "I'm sorry I got you drunk."

"A-leggedly."

Rocky snickered.

Mordecai tried again. "Barely. Paussssibly a little. Not 'nough for anyone to notice."

"You threw up," Rocky pointed out. "Into a plant."

Mordecai's nose scrunched. "Tha' doesn' mean anyone noticed."

Rocky huffed a smile, then sobered. His ears lowered and he looked down. "Still, I'm sorry. I wanted to make a good impression, instead I messed up again."

Much, much later Mordecai would admit to himself that, yes, his inhibitions were lower than normal. In the moment he leaned closer, voice rumbling with a wayward purr. "You’ll have to make it up to me."

Hissing at the memory, Mordecai removed the glass from his head to chug the last of the water. Then, placing it on the floor, he rearranged himself to sprawl lower in the chair with his legs hanging over an armrest. 

Distracting himself with trivial math, he fought to keep his mind clear and unfocused on the rhythmic throbbing of his brain. For a while it worked, an unknown amount of time bleeding into unconsciousness as his breath slowed with his heart rate. Drifting, he thought he heard music.

“It’s not really anything,” said Rocky. From atop the car, he performed a rudimentary scale, first with an up bow and then with pizzicato. “Just whatever comes to mind.”

Mordecai took another sip of elixir, then tapped the flask against the car’s hood. “And you perform that way?”

“Yea?” Rocky laughed. “For being the-one-to-impress, you don’t know a whole lot about jazz.”

“Someone lied to you.”

“We covered that.” Turning in place, Rocky spiraled into a seated position and crossed his legs. “It’s a lie I’d like to believe.”

Mordecai frowned, squinting. “You shouldn’t want to believe a lie.”

Placing the violin bow beside him, Rocky shrugged. “But I want to impress you.”

Rushed footsteps caused Mordecai’s ears to twitch, and he realized he had napped. His headache, while still present, had somewhat lessened, but the room was near full dark when he opened his eyes. 

Then the doors threw open again, and a panting Horatio stumbled in. “Fire!” he yelled.

Scrambling upright, Mordecai tripped over the armrest and hopped on one foot as he regained his balance. “Where?”

“The stage—”

“Evacuate the guests,” Mordecai pushed Horatio out the door first. “Out the garage if you can.”

Horatio started down the stairs, one hand grabbing the railing to keep himself steady. “Mozzie already started.”

“What happened?” 

Fumbling over the last step, Horatio crashed into the open door of the Lackadaisy. Hazy smoke trickled through the ingress, tendrils snaking along the ceiling. “Rocky—”

“What?” He interrupted, tensing. “Didn’t he go on the cruise?”

“No?” Horatio's voice hitched higher. “He said—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mordecai growled. “Get the guests and get out.”

The main room of the bar was a spectacle of chaos that simultaneously settled the worst of Mordecai’s fears and stood all his fur on end. Mozzie and JJ were both corralling gawking patrons, trying to convince a crowd to stop spectating the disaster unfolding on the stage. A flickering orange glow cast everything in an eerie light, throwing moving shadows across the bar and ceiling. The piano was on fire.

As Horatio joined the losing battle with the guests, Mordecai stalked to the bar. He found and filled an ice bucket with water, carried it to the stage, and doused the flames. The smoke sputtered to a stop—it made it easier to see the smoldering pile of detritus that remained of the piano, somewhat misshapen with mysterious objects—and the murmuring crowd went quiet for a moment. Then the room erupted in cheers.

The curtains swung aside as Rocky stumbled onto the stage with a fire extinguisher. “Here!” He yelled, then paused to blink at Mordecai. Mordecai glared back at him. “Oh—you fixed it.”

Sighing, Mordecai shook his head and walked out to center stage. He raised his voice to address the crowd and squinted in the spotlight; numbly, it occurred to him that adrenaline had dulled the rest of his headache down to a mild twinge. “If everyone could please evacuate while we check for damage, there will be a round of cocktails served in the garage. On the house.”

Someone whistled and the crowd started listening to directions. Mordecai jumped down from the stage.

Something thunked, and Rocky scrambled to follow him. “It took forever to find the fire extinguisher! A moment sooner and you wouldn’t’ve had to come down from your rest—”

Mordecai bit his cheek.

From across the room, JJ jogged close. “Are we really serving—?”

“Of course,” said Mordecai. He beelined toward the bar, bucket still in hand. “If it was just the piano, we should be fine to continue operating. But we need to look at the stage, and someone should check if Mozzie swallowed smoke.”

“He was looking a little green,” JJ nodded.

“Guests first; there might still be some champagne leftover from Mitzi’s order,” Mordecai rounded into the bartending station and waved JJ to follow. “Make some of those disgusting brunch things you and Zib like so much. But not as strong, please.”

“Some orange tonic for the nerves,” JJ winked and chuckled, but his hands were shaking as he moved to find the needed ingredients.

“What happened?”

“Ah…” JJ cringed a little, and looked at Rocky.

Staying on the client side, Rocky sidled between two stools and drummed his claws on the bartop. “It was supposed to be a simple trick,” said Rocky; JJ snorted.

Mordecai narrowed his eyes at the violinist.

“I’ve performed it hundreds of times,” Rocky continued. “A balancing act of sorts, with a flaming hoop—”

Here, JJ interjected: “you never said anything about fire.”

“Didn’t I?” Rocky squinted and scratched his neck. “It’s what makes the trick exciting.”

Sighing, Mordecai rubbed his head and looked at JJ. “I thought only you and Mozzie were staying behind; everyone else was to be entertainment on the boat.”

“Uh—” frowning, JJ carefully picked up a couple bottles of champagne as he looked between Mordecai and Rocky.

“Zib and the rest have it covered,” Rocky waved a hand to emphasize. “I figured the bar needed more help than a pleasure cruise. What could go wrong on a pleasure cruise? The fun is right there in the name!”

The ice bucket clanged as Mordecai tossed it into the sink, and all three of them flinched—albeit for slightly different reasons. Still facing JJ, Mordecai pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. “JJ, send Mr Rickaby home; then help Mozzie and Horatio with the guests.” It was nearly one, still early for a typical Wednesday but late enough that a frazzled regular might forgive them. But the song and dance would have to continue. “I’ll check the stage.”

Rocky slumped until only his eyes peered above the bar, ears angling low. 

“Um…” JJ looked between them again.

“Perfect,” said Mordecai. Turning on his heel, he proceeded to the stage.

19 December 1929

Sprawled across two booths in the Little Daisy Café, 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 café: “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 café. 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 Little Daisy Café, 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 Little Daisy, 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 doorframe 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 fueled 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. Cradling 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 again 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-sandwich, 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."