Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED
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Lovino remembered him vaguely from childhood as being something of an oddity, but the man he'd known back then had seemed much taller, though he'd already been every bit as bald at the time. He'd come to the United States from Sicily (supposedly) when Lovino had been a toddler and had, surprisingly, managed to avoid deportation as an illegal alien ever since. If he'd ever had a visa in the first place, it had expired ages ago.
"Nice car," Big Tony remarked when Lovino climbed out of the black Porsche. The trio of tagalongs piled out a moment later.
Lovino shrugged, feeling vaguely irritated by the comment; the car was German. "Only thing I got from grandpa," he said gruffly. His unfortunate talent as a pickpocket did not count as inheritance in his mind, no matter how well his grandfather had taught him and how well his quick hands were suited to it. Feliciano had all the good talents, anyway: he was good at art and music, and he was a better cook…
"It's that one?" Big Tony said, obviously impressed, and Lovino latched onto the distraction. "Old man Rome really loved that car; it got us out of more than one tough scrape." He either missed or simply ignored Lovino's grimace, looking instead at the trio that accompanied him. "Who're they?"
Lovino almost denied any kind of friendship, camaraderie, or even acquaintance with the morons, but managed to catch himself and check his tongue. He'd come to Big Tony out of desperation, and if the man thought they were a part of the problem (never mind that they were), who knew what he'd do? They hadn't actually done anything to warrant putting a hit out on them (yet).
"Friends of mine," he finally said, trying to ignore the way Antonio's laid-back smile had brightened at the introduction. That was just the way Antonio was, he told himself. He'd be happy to be called anyone's friend; there was no special meaning for that particular bit of happiness. The change had been barely perceptible, anyway, and was certainly no reason for butterflies to spawn in the pit of Lovino's stomach.
Not that they had.
It was just hunger. Or indigestion. Or maybe both.
Big Tony smiled at the trio and said, "Any friend of Romano's…" He left the thought unfinished, and Lovino thought it sounded more like a threat than a welcome.
It probably was.
"They'll be staying with me," Lovino added, "for now." He'd have to talk to Big Tony in private later, just to make sure he wasn't planning to off them in the middle of the night. No matter how satisfying the idea seemed right now, it would (probably) just make things worse. That was a headline he did not want to ever, ever see if he was a part of it: No Honor Among Thieves? Mafia Murders Robbers for Driver. (Details inside.)
Big Tony nodded, his gaze lingering on the trio for a moment longer before he returned his attention to Lovino. He hoped they were at least sweating now that they'd tagged along all this way and were starting to see first-hand what they'd gotten him (and themselves) into. When his grandfather had died, he'd wanted nothing more than to leave the mafia and his connections to it behind him, but then Gilbert had the gall to walk in with his stupid questions and stupid plans and force him to resort to this to protect himself.
If Rome was watching from wherever he'd ended up, he was probably laughing, the bastard.
"Come on in," Big Tony said, going inside the innocuous-looking restaurant that Rome had once owned and motioning for them to follow. Lovino went first, followed by Antonio and then Gilbert and Francis.
"Hey Lovi, why did he call you 'Romano'?" Antonio asked in a whisper, leaning in close enough that his breath tickled Lovino's ear.
He blushed a bright red and stammered out, "N-none of your business, jackass!"
Big Tony led them to the basement of the restaurant. Privately, Lovino was pretty sure that basement was where he was going to die.
--
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"This is all your fault," the Mini's owner, one Arthur Kirkland, stated.
When he'd requested permission to chase after the lead of the Mini, he was already pretty sure it had been stolen by the robbers. He was also pretty sure that there had been something familiar about it, something that was tugging at his memory and wouldn't let him relax until he'd gotten to the bottom of it. If he'd realized that what was so familiar about the car was the fact that it was Arthur-"bloody"-Kirkland's, he would have left well enough alone. He would have never chased the lead, and then he would have never ended up in this situation.
"How is it my fault?" he protested, his voice sounding a little squeaky to his own ears. Damn Arthur for making him sound nervous. He wasn't nervous. He was a hero, and heroes didn't get nervous, even if they did suddenly find themselves face-to-face with ghosts from their pasts.
He shuddered at the thought. Arthur looked solid, at least, so he couldn't actually be a ghost… Hopefully. It had been years since they'd last seen each other; they'd parted on less-than-friendly terms, so Alfred honestly couldn't say what might have happened to Arthur since then. If he'd died and come back now just to haunt him…
…But he also had a car. Ghosts didn't need cars; they could fly.
"You shot my car," the Brit said, looking rather irritated.
"Well, yes," Alfred agreed, regretting that he'd already admitted to that detail when he'd found the car and its owner. It had been awkward to suddenly see Arthur again after so long and what he'd meant as a pleasant (if strained) "Hello, Arthur" came out instead as "I shot your car, Arthur!" He swallowed, and continued, "I guess you could say that. But I wasn't shooting the car as much as the people who were in the car…"
"Your bullet still hit my car. That's why it's your fault, git," Arthur replied.
Alfred smiled pleasantly. "Won't happen again," he said, looking for an opening for a (tactical) retreat. The Mini was obviously a dead end, and he really did not want to deal with Arthur right now.
Or ever, really. But not dealing with him at this moment was higher on his priority list than not dealing with him later on.
Besides, Arthur was studying him rather intently now. Alfred fidgeted.
"What are you up to?" the Englishman asked, tilting his head just enough that it seemed as though he was looking down on Alfred, despite the agent being the taller of the two.
Alfred felt his stomach start to churn. "Nothing! What makes you think I'd be up to something?" he lied, his words tumbling out hurriedly. Arthur's eyes narrowed.
"Gun, car, bullet," Arthur reminded him. "You came all the way out here just to find the car you shot."
"Right," Alfred agreed begrudgingly, refusing to meet Arthur's gaze.
"You're chasing whoever stole it, aren't you?"
Alfred didn't want to answer, but this was Arthur. In the end, it would have been worse not to; Arthur would just try to torture it out of him, and death by scones wasn't on his to-do list today.
He settled for giving a small nod in affirmation, and then Arthur said the last thing Alfred expected.
"I'm coming with you."
--
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He'd decided to make the most of it, starting by ignoring them.
"So, this Tony guy," Gilbert said.
"Big Tony," Lovino amended offhandedly. He cursed a moment later; he was supposed to be ignoring the idiots, and that meant ignoring their stupid questions, too.
"Right, Big Tony. He a relative or something?"
Lovino kept his mouth shut.
"Your uncle, perhaps?" Francis suggested.
Antonio laughed. "Oh, I know! He's a cousin, right?"
He could feel his blood pressure rising. "No, he's not a relative!" Lovino snapped, glaring at the trio, or Antonio. Mostly Antonio. "He's not my uncle, and he's not my goddamn cousin. He's just a friend of the family!"
"Oh," Gilbert concluded. "He's mafia. So that name he called you-Romano? Is that your mafia name?"
Lovino stomped away to the far corner of the basement, searching his bags for headphones or anything that he could use to tune the morons out for the duration of the day, if not the duration of the stay.
--
"Absolutely not," Alfred had said. "You're not coming. I'm a federal agent, Arthur; I can't just bring a civilian with me while I chase criminals."
That's what he'd said, at least. And he'd thought Arthur had understood, up until five minutes ago, when he realized that the Englishman was in the same café that he'd stopped at to catch a bite, over two hundred miles from where they'd talked that morning.
Apparently Arthur hadn't understood after all.
"What are you doing here?" Alfred hissed, glaring over the back of the seat at the man who was settled into the booth behind him.
"Having a nice cup of tea," Arthur responded, stirring said tea before lifting the cup to his lips. "What does it look like I'm doing?"
"It looks like you're following me," Alfred shot back. "I meant it when I said I couldn't bring you with me, Arthur."
"You didn't bring me," Arthur said, placing his cup back on its saucer before glancing at Alfred. "I just happened to be going in the same direction as you."
"Bullshit."
"I-it has nothing to do with you, git!" Arthur huffed, his composure faltering in his hurry to explain. "I'm not following you, so don't misunderstand!"
Alfred frowned. "You have no idea what you're getting into, Arthur."
"I'm not getting into anything! I'm just out for a nice, leisurely drive and a cup of tea."
Really, Alfred should have expected the constant stream of denials the moment he noticed Arthur was there. Arguing with the Brit had always been a bit like talking to a brick wall… only the brick wall wouldn't have tried to claim that it was neither a wall nor made of brick.
"And even if I were here because of you-which I am not-I'm not sure why you're making such a fuss about it," Arthur continued. "The way you're reacting, I'd almost say you're worried I'll catch your thieves first."
Alfred rose from his seat in a heartbeat, banging a fist against the table. "I am not!"
Slowly and deliberately, one of Arthur's (massive) eyebrows quirked upward. "Aren't you?"
"No!" he said, loudly enough that (especially after his outburst a moment ago) the entire café was staring at him. He swallowed, and then smiled sweetly. "Of course not. I'm just worried about an old man like you being in danger."
Arthur's cheeks were turning red. "W-would you look at the time?" he said hurriedly, fetching a few bills from his wallet. "I'd best be going."
As Arthur left the café, Alfred popped the last of his fries into his mouth and smiled. It tasted like victory.
It wasn't until long after he'd finished lunch that he realized that the game wasn't over. In fact, it had only just begun.
There on the freeway, not the length of five cars in front of him, was a Mini with a bullet hole in its bumper.
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If it hadn't been for the fact that he'd sworn on his grandfather's grave that he'd never let himself get drawn into the mafia business, by the end of the first full day cooped up in the basement Lovino would have gladly murdered someone. His only reprieve from idiocy had been when Big Tony asked him to help in the kitchen, but then Antonio had come along and offered to help as well.
Francis and Gilbert had stayed in the basement, and Lovino tried not to think about what they might be up to. He just hoped Big Tony didn't keep anything dangerous (or illegal) down there.
"Lovi, you never actually answered," Antonio said as he carefully cut a tomato in slow, smooth motions. "Why did Big Tony call you 'Romano'?"
He was tired. Tired, and worn out from the day, and it just wasn't worth yelling at Antonio (again) that it wasn't his business, because the Spaniard was too dense to comprehend that he didn't want to talk about it anyway. That was his story, at least, and he was sticking to it.
"It's what Gramps used to call me," he admitted, staring at the sauce he was stirring. "I was Romano, and my brother was Veneziano. But ever since he bit it, only the old friends of the family still call us that."
"Oh," Antonio said. "Do you miss him?"
"Sometimes," was Lovino's answer.
…Or that's what Lovino's answer would have been, if it hadn't been for the sudden noise that had erupted outside the kitchen then. It sounded suspiciously like a table had been upturned, complete with shattering glasses and plates.
"You two: basement, now!" Big Tony roared, bursting into the kitchen a second later. "If the cops show up, I don't want them anywhere near one of Rome's boys! Spic, you'd better protect Romano with your goddamn life."
Lovino acted on reflex, starting to yell that he could protect himself, dammit!, only to be shocked into silence by the unusually serious look on Antonio's face as he clamped a hand on his shoulder. By the time he'd gathered his wits back together, they were already halfway down the stairs, and Gilbert was charging past them, chanting something that sounded suspiciously like "Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!"
He wondered what he'd ever done to deserve this.
…Other than participate in a robbery, of course.
--
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Apparently the agent had forgotten that Arthur still had a key for "Old Reliable," or he'd never have let the files out of his sight.
He flipped through the pages quickly, studying them with narrowed eyes. It seemed there were three important facts to the case, but Arthur was less concerned with identifying the robbers involved as the serial perpetrators than he was with the timing of it all. Alfred had only been undercover on this case since last year, but he'd disappeared from Arthur's life nearly three years ago…
The file said nothing, unfortunately, about what Alfred had been doing other than his year undercover, and even that was vague and mostly full of mundane details about his fellow employees at the bank and frequent or noteworthy customers. Even if he'd been assigned to the case since the first time the "Venetian Robbers" had struck-he checked the file again-two years ago, where had he been? Why hadn't he come back?
And that was to say nothing of the case itself. Codenames, masks and military dress, a terrible getaway driver… Why in God's name had the robbers stolen his car this time and then abandon it, anyway? He didn't even live in the same town as the bank they'd robbed!
The familiar sound of an engine on the verge of death caught Arthur's attention, and he tossed the file into the front passenger seat. Alfred had finally caught up to him, and it was time to let him know that he wouldn't be rid of Arthur Kirkland so easily.
If he hadn't been so focused on showing Alfred up, perhaps he would have noticed a particular pair of pictures on the last page of Alfred's notes: one "Francis Bonnefoy," who had been barred from entering the bank ever again, and one "Antonio Fernandez Carriedo," a friendly young man who had gotten to know everyone but didn't have an account.
If he'd seen them, perhaps one of his questions would have been answered.
Notes:
Apologies for the wait, language, and the general lack of the bad friends in this update. Next chapter should readjust the focus back to the trio!
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Oh ho, I like the way where this is going, anon. And I'm loving the tiny Spain/Romano hints that keep showing up.
Keep up the brilliant work. o;
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More soon, please? :D
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Stalker Arthur = love
update = love
re captcha: $60,000 hussars (?!)
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