Below The Surface - A Lackadaisy Fanfiction

Rest

After a couple hours, Mordecai woke up with another cup of hot tea on his nightstand, and now a plate of toast. He raised a brow, sitting up to see Mr. Sweet, sitting on the edge of his bed.

"How're you doin', Mordecai?" Mr. Sweet asked him gently. "I heard you were feelin' under the weather."

Mordecai opened his mouth to speak, but words failed to come out. He sighed. "I feel alright."

"I think that's a lie." Mr. Sweet continued to speak in that gentle tone: it was a stark contrast to his usual, booming voice. "Tell me: did the latest murder set you off?"

"...quite a bit."

"Is that why you passed out in Rocky's arms?"

Mordecai's ears flattened. "I don't need to be reminded."

"Are you embarrassed because of that? Because I found it rather enlightening." Mr. Sweet chuckled.

"Elaborate." Mordecai raised a brow.

"Riddle me this," Mr. Sweet leaned forward, clasping his hands together, "famous hatchetman Mordecai Heller, hit with a cold, and comfortable enough to pass out in the arms of a former rival...how does that happen?"

"I was simply overwhelmed." Mordecai sat up straighter.

"Serafine thinks otherwise," Mr. Sweet grinned.

"You told her?!" Mordecai exclaimed, his fur standing up on edge. Mr. Sweet howled with laughter after his reaction.

"Of course I did! She was upset that she and Nico didn't see their little...heh, 'Peekon', yet." He sighed, giving a smaller chuckle, his shoulders shaking with every laugh he let out.

"Please refrain from calling me that." Mordecai frowned deeply, brows furrowed. Mr. Sweet grinned, holding his hands up.

"Alright, alright...but they're worried for ya. The rest of the group." He informed.

"Oh?"

"Especially with your 'friend' you were snuggling up to."

Mordecai's face paled in horror at Mr. Sweet's smug grin and tone. "It–it is not what you think," He tried defending himself, and his boss couldn't help but laugh more.

"Oh Mordecai," He sighed, rubbing a tear from his eye, "you are very oblivious to that boy's feelings."

"I am not. I just..." Mordecai faltered, in hopes of finding a valid answer. "...just,"

"Just what? Hmm?" Mr. Sweet leaned forward. Mordecai quickly took his cup of tea, eyes narrowed. The fragrance calmed him once more, and it was an amazing warmth that soothed his anxious feelings.

"...it's a mutual agreement of an alliance. That–that's merely work ethic." Mordecai sipped his tea.

"I think you're lyin' to yourself."

"I can assure you, I am not. I suggest dropping this conversation."

"Fine, fine," Mr. Sweet grinned more, but it faded into something more subtle, "...I told you not to work yourself to death. Yet here we are: you being sicker than a dog and burning hot." He felt the tuxedo cat's forehead. "Son...what did I tell you?"

Mordecai remained quiet. "...you have too much potential to overwork yourself until death..." He repeated softly.

"Yet here we are," Mr. Sweet gave him a stern gaze.

"I do believe that I told you I could not promise such a thing." Mordecai retorted calmly.

"Son, you need to look out for yourself more than just focusing on the murders. This newest one made you pass out! How is that not alarming to you?!" Mr. Sweet spoke up, louder this time.

"Sir," Mordecai then muttered, "I'm not your son,"

"This decline in hotel residents and overall population is enough with the Rose Brigade and their infighting, but it is not worth giving up your health for!" Mr. Sweet continued.

"I ended up shooting Mandisa as a warning, right in the ear." Mordecai replied. His eyes narrowed.

"You solved nothing by doing that, it aggravated Lacrimosa!" Mr. Sweet exclaimed, growing frustrated.

"You are correct: I should have shot her in the mouth instead, maybe that would have ceased her yammering." Mordecai stiffened, his tail flicking around in anger, thumping against the mattress.

"Son,"

"I am not your son,"

"Watch your tone when speaking to me,"

"Why must you be so persistent with me? I assumed you were uncaring,"

"I have grown to appreciate your company, though I do not appreciate your tone when I'm trying to help you."

There was a brief pause before Mordecai spoke up again, "I have done what I needed to: though it is not completed, and I am obligated to finish what I started, I could kill without remorse and end the Rose Brigade's reign of terror,"

"No," Mr. Sweet began to scold him.

"I have been through enough to know what to do and what not to do, sir." Mordecai quipped once more, his pupils slitting at a violent rate. He gripped the mattress, his nails digging into it.

"That could lead to you dying," Mr. Sweet lowered his voice seethingly, "this is reckless from you, your group needs you alive, Rocky needs you alive, son, I need you alive—"

By this time, Mordecai had enough, and his ears flattened. He let out a growl, scowling now.

"Call me son one more time." He threatened, and everything went still. Mr. Sweet gazed at him with that same stern look, but there seemed to be more than just a scolding glare.

"...you stay here for today and tonight: I don't want you moving about with a raging fever. I'll have the others go on about investigating the abandoned factory out of town. The one you hate." Despite seeming angry, there was a paternal tone in his voice, something that was signified as warmth. Before Mordecai could even retort

"The one I hate? Which one?" Mordecai asked him, confusion lacing in his voice.

"The one on the end of Brooks Avenue."

"...I see."

"You said it smelt like mayonnaise in some parts?"

"It was horrendous."

Mr. Sweet huffed out a laugh, shaking his head: "You never fail to amuse me."

"That is not my aim. I am not your trained circus clown." Mordecai hissed out.

"That's true: but y'know what else you are?"

"...what."

"You're like the second son I never had, Mordecai. You're family to me."

Well, that was a roundhouse slap from reality. Mordecai stared at Mr. Sweet with a dumbfounded gaze.

"I—oh...I see." Mordecai whispered. He went quiet, before suggesting, "I think I should escort you out now...I do not wish to make you fall ill."

"...alright. But do not go out. You're allowed to walk around the hotel, but you cannot leave. Is that clear?"

"...yes sir," Mordecai nodded, "I understand."

Mr. Sweet got up. "Good: now, I want you to relax. Alright? Don't be all uptight on me."

"I cannot make any promises, you know this." Mordecai deadpanned. Another silence, then a nod from Mr. Sweet. He left wordlessly, shutting the door.

Mordecai eyed the toast on the nightstand, giving a little hum. He silently appreciated the gesture...but right now he really just wanted some rest.

...maybe sleep didn't sound so bad after all.