TFC Mafia AU - Pierrot, Ch. 2
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I still exist!! I am alive!! I am just deeply, deeply swamped with IRL obligations and doing my best to make sure I meet those!! I am in the fall semester of hell and it hasn't even officially started yet. Thank you all for your patience while I work on bringing you guys more Mafia!Pierrot, as well as the other Mafia!TFC monsters!! Ch. 1 of this is also getting a comic adaptation, so stay tuned!!
Pierrot's route is AFAB!Reader
2.7k words | SFW - Trigger warnings for mentions of violence, death
This blog is +18. Minors DNI
Sensation is an afterthought, when one is wholly fixated on one particular thing. Pierrot does not feel the cold bite of the rain sinking through his clothes and beading on his hair anymore. He does not hear the din of late-night traffic that eternally engulfs the city, nor does he register the blinking colors of storefronts, advertisements, grinning LED displays — the world is beyond his reach right now. Or, more accurately, he is beyond the world— entirely absorbed in his thoughts and the single sensory input that he cares about presently: the small paper cup of steaming hot tea in his hands.
The warmth of such a simple object is incredible, almost electric, and he has to temper his trembling hands from crushing the flimsy design entirely. The heat rolling off the cardboard sleeve is certainly because of the contents inside, but Pierrot chooses to delude himself a little more, and imagine the lingering heat of your hands around the cup instead. How sweet you looked, handing it directly to him with that sugary tone of yours. How compassionate, to spare this filthy, bloodstained monster a tiny capsule of warmth in such a dreary night.
How tender you smelled, notes of adrenaline spiking your scent in the air as you feigned bravery for his sake. For once, Pierrot is grateful for the lack of a mouth in his mask— he did not want you to see him salivating behind it and be frightened. And yet, in the same moment, Pierrot is disappointed once more— how is he supposed to drink the tea you bought and made for him when he cannot lift his mask and take it to his lips? Irritation almost sours Pierrot's mood completely, but it is quickly subsided when he finally takes note of his surroundings again.
He's on East and 22nd again. There's a safehouse just a few blocks away, in a seedier corner of the downtown area. If he can just make it over that way, he'll be able to enjoy the fruit of your labor (and terror) without reservation. With the wild, animal obsession causing his lips to curl and his heart to pulse in deep, erratic thrums.
The safehouse. He needs to focus on getting to the safehouse, before your tea gets cold. Before he can properly indulge himself in this rare delight— a light in the dreary, dark, bloodstained cesspit his life— his survival has become. He's grateful to have scrubbed his hands raw in the restroom before they brushed against yours— even through gloves, your hands should not be made impure by him. He had looked, for far longer than he should have, at your hands; memorizing the shape and the form— staring a little too intently when you handed him his cup of tea. You were, for the duration of his visit, positively mesmerizing, enchanting, utterly perfect in every way— it makes Pierrot dizzy to dwell on in a most delicious manner.
How deeply lucky he is, to be interrupted from the dull repetition of 'corrections' and 'warnings' and 'dealings', as the others speak of it. How incredibly fortunate Pierrot was, to stumble into the cafe you work at. How thrilling, to feel a rush once again— not hunter's delight, but something better, something sinful and sweet and deeply intoxicating! A craving that exceeds the hungers of the flesh— love! It must be love, and Pierrot knows this. Love— not at first sight— but at first gentle word, at first hesitant smile, at first cup of tea. How deeply, terribly lucky Pierrot is! Fate heard his weary indifference to the world and shined a light upon it instantly. A light he will seek out, a star to guide him, a warmth to cling to and sink into, if only time allows.
He will make time allow it. Pierrot knows he frightened you. He saw, for the briefest of moments, the same flicker of dread behind your eyes that always follows his sparse encounters with human life. Instinct flared within you, he could smell it in the rush of your blood— but your control was admirable. Endearing, even, how gracefully you carried yourself through the entire interaction. The fact you did not scream or plead or turn him away does terrible things to his poor, pathetic heart.
He will have to do whatever it takes to be in your sights and touch your gentle hands again. And again. And again.
A crosswalk signal begins to chime, and Pierrot grins under his mask once more, a shaky sound of strangled delight escaping the rain-soaked mobster. Yes, he is in love, and love is so demanding— but it is also so rewarding. What a pleasant surprise, to be reinvigorated so. He ought to return to that cozy little cafe soon— when he finishes Jester's next few jobs for him, of course. He certainly didn't leave a large enough tip for you, so of course he must return soon and rectify his insolent mistake! Yes, yes, he simply must see you again, for a proper apology, and a proper introduction. Maybe… perhaps hearing his voice will lessen the intimidating presence that makes you shiver so much. He ardently hopes to turn the glimmer of fear in your eyes into a sparkle of delight— to impress upon you an equal depth of affection and obsession. Perhaps even more than that.
How deeply, terribly unlucky you are for having crossed paths with him.
…
Usually, a closing shift doesn't take this much out of you. Usually, you don't have to deal with a creepy, mute Dell'arte goon giving you a multitude of mini-heart attacks in the span of ten minutes.
You really, really hope that, to whoever's listening, this will not become another usual aspect of your daily routine.
You also really hope that the rain doesn't last all week, because you were really wanting to take Milo out to the park on your singular day off. Plus— your clothes are soaked, and the radiator is broken, so you can't risk a phenomenal fire hazard to avoid shelling out a heap of change to the laundromat's shitty dryers downstairs. Perhaps a trip to the thrift store for a raincoat is in order— if you have enough left over this month to make it happen.
Somehow, in the rain, the four-block walk from the cafe to your apartment feels like the voyage from Troy to Ithaca, a vengeful Poseidon mocking your earlier brush with death in masked form by chilling you to the very marrow in your bones— soaking your hair to your scalp in sticky ringlets, cars splashing the puddles up to your knees as you stride quickly across the concrete. The rusty gate— the one in the alleyway that pretends to guard the slummy complex you currently reside in— juts out onto the walkway with little warning, swinging wildly into the wind as you speed up your steps. Exhaling in relief, you turn the corner, finally finding a little reprieve from the downpour under an awning that hasn't seen repair in far too long.
You made it, somehow. And hopefully not late enough for Carol to prod at your for extra money you don't have. You're tired, and your ankles hurt, and you really need a shower— you quietly hope the hot water isn't acting up again. One hand on the slick metal railing, you start to climb the stairs in cautious steps, avoiding the deeper puddles and blindly searching for your keys in your bag with your other hand. The jingling of your keyring taunts you for a bit, but eventually you grasp the serrated end of your apartment key and stop in front of the familiar numbers that you reluctantly call home.
218, marked by three iron numbers that were screwed onto the door ages ago and stained it with the awful orange pigment of rust. You don't bother to look up and grimace at the worsening of the drippy stains with the torrential downpour— your focus is on jamming your keys in the lock and turning it open quickly, already sliding your sneakers off to toss them by the door once you're inside. No sooner do you have the door shut behind you, before you jump out of your skin for the second time tonight— Carol is right there, arms crossed, shoes on, bag slung over her shoulder.
"Well, I'm glad to see you're still in one piece. I almost thought you got run over on the way here— it certainly took you long enough to get back." There's not even an attempt made to filter the obvious contempt you're being held in— Carol's brows are pinched, her lips pulled into a frown that clearly damns you for daring to inconvenience an equally-broke-as-you college student.
"Carol! I'm— sorry, I really am." A weary sigh escapes you, your shoulders sagging as you meet the girl's stern gaze. "I got held up at the cafe, and— is Milo—?"
"He's in his little bouncy-chair-thing. I couldn't get him to fall asleep, so he's your problem now."
A grimace tugs at your lips— it seems your son is intent on prolonging the already horribly long night this has been. Excellent. "…ah. Well, thank you, Carol. Let me just get you your money—"
"Are you going to pay up for the extra half-an-hour I had to wait here for you to remember I have places to be?" Each word is punctuated by an impatient, arrhythmic tapping of Carol's foot— a sound so deeply annoying that you're almost tempted to shove her out the door and leave the girl to her own devices in the rain— but the slim presence of two hastily-folded ten-dollar bills in your pocket prevents the incredibly tempting act from occurring.
"…You know what? Yeah— I can. I'm sorry I made you wait, Carol. Thank you for staying with Milo while I was gone." The words taste a little sour leaving your mouth, humbling when you'd like nothing more than to snap at her in exhaustion, or keep the whole fortunate tip to yourself— but they feel necessary. You accomplish nothing by scorning the only person who conveniently lives nearby and is willing to take staggeringly low amounts of cash to keep your son cared for when you have to work late shifts.
And perhaps Carol knows this, because her lips purse as she accepts the crisp ten dollars you hand her with a slightly cooled demeanor— maybe she wasn't really expecting you to pay her, when usually you can barely afford to have her around at all.
The gesture seems to have taken the wind out of the young woman's sails, silence briefly filling the little entryway as she tucks the money in her back pocket. You're not really sure what to say until Carol speaks up again, very pointedly avoiding eye contact with you.
"I'm free next week if you need me to sit again, but the kid's been getting fussy and I— I'll be free. You know where to find me."
The words she says are brusque— tinged with just a hint of embarrassment, but honest, at the very least. Carol needs your money just as badly as you need a safe person to watch after your son— the daycare down the street only does so much, and she takes a wage any professional caregiver would scoff at. Desperation is familiar to you both, so you swallow your annoyance when she brushes past you to depart— shutting the door firmly behind her.
Now, it's only you and your son left in this dreary place.
Well, you think, dreary isn't quite the right word for it anymore. You had cleaned it up as best as you could before even taking Milo inside for the first time. The shoe rack you slide your sneakers on was taken from outside a dumpster on a rainy night not unlike this one. The side table you throw your wet bag and keys on was dragged inside by your own hands when a neighbor said they didn't want it anymore. The rug at your feet was carefully purchased from a thrift store after a discount day sale— your apartment is cozy, in the way an antique store with mismatched decor and an odd, musty smell covered up by scented wax warmers is cozy. It only feels dreary again because you have been so thoroughly demoralized and exhausted that even this feels like another of your long string of failures.
That feeling quickly leaves you when you round the corner and see your son.
Milo is an incredibly happy kid— the doctor told you as much when you brought him back for his last month's check-in. Hardly fussy, hardly prone to crying or being difficult to put to sleep. The problem with all these sentiments being that Milo is only these things when he's constantly in your arms. The minute your velcro baby loses sight of you or isn't being held… you get the temper tantrums and screaming that Carol has learned to either tune out , quiet with a bottle, or solve with turning on a Baby Einsteins DVD and leaving Milo in his favorite bouncer in the living room.
Conversely, this also means Milo is very excited to see you when you do return to his sights, the four-and-a-half-month-old baby squealing with delight when he sees his mama approach the squeaky bouncing chair and kneel down to his level. His motor skills are still in the works, but he's capable of raising his arms and wiggling around until you unbuckle him from his bouncy restraints and scoop him up into your damp arms. There goes your plans to shower first and then put Milo down for bed— he won't be happy if you try to reverse the order of things now, and… you also don't particularly care how soaked you are now. Milo is, in the most literal sense of the phrase, a bundle of joy— tiny fingers attempting to curl around your wet locks of hair, happy coos and babbles escaping him as he nuzzles his round little head into your shoulder.
It's healing to hold him, almost. Something about the innocent, unfiltered love in such a tiny person is making the stress of the night practically melt out of you. You turn your head to press a kiss against Milo's forehead, and start to laugh as he reaches reflexively for the spot with his chubby little hand— as if he could grasp the gesture of affection between his fingers, and his slow bewilderment when he can't is positively adorable.
This is why you put up with the shitty customers at work and the long hours. This is why you scrape together every cent you can to pay back debts that aren't even yours. This is why you suffer, and struggle, and work yourself to the bone— this is why you deal with surprise mafioso customers coming in after closing and terrorizing your poor nerves. This is the star of your heart, the only person in your life left to love, so he's getting all of it. Milo would get every star in the sky if you could reach up and pull them down for him— but for now, the sticker ones you put up in his corner of your room will have to do.
Your shower can wait a little bit longer. You can deal with the outside world tomorrow. For right now, the Dell'artes and the people at work and the uncaring bastards who put you in this position can all go fuck themselves. You've got more important things to worry about— namely, your son, who is now trying to fit your nametag in his mouth for the 80th time.
With any luck, this too shall pass, and you'll never see another of those masked nightmares again. Tonight was a fluke, surely, and you'll go back to counting tips and hoarding what little savings you can accrue until your account is settled, and you never have to even think about the Dell'artes again.
…
It really is a shame that your luck is so phenomenally terrible, because you only make it to a little over a week before that pale-masked freak is back in your workplace. What divine entity did you piss off so horrifically that you've met a member of the mafia twice now— and that he keeps showing up after you've already closed up for the night!!
I'm... so very tired... crunched this out between IRL stuff in the span of three days, rewrote a bunch... I need more energy drink, but I don't want my heart to explode. Chapter 3 might take a minute, but I'll try to post more mini comics and doodles to make up for it. Thank you for sticking with me for this long! (P.S. Pierrot definitely burnt his tongue on the tea when he drank it a little too eagerly-- and baby Milo is about 4 or 5 months old. Child development is hard to write naturally guys ;;)
