—*. Late Night Call . . . ☏
ᯓ★ ◟◟ʀᴏʙ ʟᴜᴄᴄɪ × ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ◟◟
ᯓ★ ◟◟ᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ, ɪɴꜰᴏʀᴍᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ɪꜱ ɪɴᴀᴄᴄᴜʀᴀᴛᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ɴᴏᴡ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜱᴛᴏᴘᴘɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ ʜɪꜱ ᴏꜰꜰɪᴄᴇ ᴀᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴀ ꜱɪɴɢʟᴇ ᴘʜᴏɴᴇ ᴄᴀʟʟ. ◟◟
ᯓ★ wc: 765 ᝰ.ᐟ
ᯓ★ dividers by @cursed-carmine ᝰ.ᐟ
ᝰ. a/n: awoop! Jumpscaree~ 💅
— Lucci is, by no means, just a man. He is a man whose presence demands respect, his gaze demands silence, and his disapproval strikes fear. Most of all, he certainly isn't a man known for weakness.
However, behind those curtains hides a man only one has the privilege of knowing.
A lover. A devoted one at that. And currently, somewhat desperate.
This is the third time the Den Den has not connected, once again, leaving an empty line and a close-eyed Den Den, and further frustrating the Cipher Pol agent. It's two at midnight, he's well-aware she would not be awake at this ungodly hour, but for a minute or two, he needed to hear her voice.
These past few missions have been leaving him more and more, shall we say, stressed. Intel team messing up the very intel they were tasked to retrieve, paperwork piling up, and an assassination nearly gone wrong.
For a man of control, these inconsistencies have been grating on a few nerves too many, and if the one individual capable of calming him down with a mere whisper didn't pick up soon, he might pummel Jabra into the ground.
Hattori, perched on the curtained windowsill, cooed worriedly at the sight of his increasingly irritated master once again working the Den Den Mushi to contact the specific individual. One would think the pigeon is attuned to its master's emotional state, and while he is, it most certainly isn't a common sight for the poor thing.
Heavens have mercy on the unfortunate pieces of furniture caught in the path of his frustration.
With a frustrated sigh and a gulp of his whiskey, Lucci tried once again, turning the numbers on the Den Den and waiting (impatiently) for the line to connect.
Just as all hope for a connection seemed lost, the Den Den's eyes finally opened and the line connected, much to his relief.
"Hello…?" an all too drowsy voice croaked from the other side of the line, sleep clearly interrupted by the unexpected call.
"Dear," Lucci spoke with slight firmness that gave way to his irritation.
Immediately, the voice, however drowsy it remained, perked up, "Rob?" she answered, voice laced with sleepy joy.
"Yeah, uh—hey... How are you, love? It's been a... bit."
Lucci could hear her fight off the sleep threatening to take her again. It almost amused him. Almost. For now, his ears revelled in the sound of her drowsy, croaking voice.
"It has. How are you holding up?"
He could picture her. Bedhead, eyes red from the rude awakening, lines on her face for having slept in one position for too long, her pleasant, soft scent. He could picture himself with her in their shared bed, beneath the covers, the feel of her skin beneath his calloused hands or better yet — the weight of her body on his.
"Good, good... aside from.. missing you," slowly, marginally, could he feel the tension release from his shoulders and the tension in his temporals fade. The burgeoning irritation simmered down, and slowly but surely, his body began to gain a semblance of peace.
"Mm..."
"When will you be back...?"
"Uncertain. Operations have been... inconsistent, paperwork that demands my attention is piling up, and few too many pieces of information have been inconsistent."
"You sound stressed..."
"I am."
"Want to talk?"
He would like nothing more. After all, that was the entire reasoning for his call.
Lucci listened to her talk, "Yesterday was jam-packed. By the end of it, things were nearly sold out," taking in every word she said, listening to how she described her having accidentally burned the caramel because she forgot the butter margin and how it pained her to clean up the pot with hardened caramel stuck on it.
He remained silent as he gazed into the navy horizon decorated by glowing pinpricks, listening to her voice fill the once-tense silence.
"I've been thinking about getting some new clothes—"
"The flour stash has been low lately—"
And on she went about her puff pastries turning out perfectly or a particularly rude customer she had to deal with the other week or how she sprained her wrist because she mixed a little too hard with the hand whisk.
"I'll greet you with a warm treat and drink once you get home, love."
"Will you now?"
"Bland croissant and black coffee. Bit boring, if you ask me. I'll drip a little bit of chocolate on there, liven things up a bit."
"I'd prefer it."
Indeed. After a long few months away like this, he'd prefer a bit of sweet liveliness.
ೀ a/n: Finally was able to wrack something after months. You're welcome ✨️
