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The pads of Dante’s fingertips touched each other in front as they sat at their desk inside their office. A contemplative tick sounded as they mulled over what to do. A scuffed-tanned face in a mail hauberk sits across from him in an armchair, eyes on the floor. Dante could scarcely believe that this person, who had his head lowered before them of all people, was Heathcliff.
“<Heathcliff, if you don’t mind me asking…>”
Dante started slowly, pausing now and then to check on him. But whenever Dante looked over, he found Heathcliff still in the same position, hesitant to interrupt or even lift his head to observe the office around him. Meek-- worried to displease. It was a far cry from the shameless man they knew him as. Dante thought it upsetting to see him in such a state.
“<... Say, how are you doing? Do you like things here in the company?>” Dante instead chooses to ask, unable to help to treat this Heathcliff as another person. It’ll be okay-- Heathcliff will return to normal eventually. But the anxiety in their chest swelled as the normally boisterous, vulgar man’s head sunk from battling lack of sleep, only to flinch with a start.
“S-- sorry.” Heathcliff choked out in his hand, straightening up at once. He didn’t pry his eyes from Dante like he wanted to communicate that he was listening. After this, Heathcliff took a moment to gather his bearings. Dante could see the panic rise in him as suddenly he clambered for a response.
“Yeah. Things are…” His eyes shift under Dante’s gaze, “better here. Glad I get a touch more sleep.”
Heathcliff was careful with his wording, and Dante wouldn’t blame him: despite that, they had mixed feelings about it because while it was nice having Heathcliff be attentive to their words, it was also horribly, horribly wrong.
Dante waited a moment longer, but Heathcliff didn’t say anything else. Likely, he didn’t want to. They could vaguely reason why.
The manager mustered the warmest voice(? ticking?) they could. “<That’s good to hear,>” they said. After, Dante was a bit troubled. They had to continue this somehow.
“<Aren’t you uncomfortable in there? Would you like to change out?>? They asked, gesturing to the suit of armor, to Heathcliff’s surprise.
“A little,” Heathcliff admitted, “I mean a little warm. I could, if you’d like... ”
For some reason, hearing that really upset Dante.
“<Yes, please-- err, I’d like that.>”
Silence soon followed after it was clear Heathcliff wasn’t sure what to do next.
Dante cleared his throat. “<You can leave to change.>” On second thought, they added: “and please come back once you’re done.”
Heathcliff silently got up. It isn’t long before he returns in a crumpled shirt and stained pants, and Dante could piece together he only took off the armor. Heathcliff seats himself back in the same spot.
Dante wasn’t sure if this was the right thing to do as the manager. They weren’t sure if they were doing anything right; if their efforts would even help. But what Dante knew was they had to do something as the manager, even if they weren’t on the greatest of terms with Heathcliff. They would feel uncomfortable otherwise.
“<How are you feeling now?>” Dante asked, leaning in their desk’s office chair, letting the wood creak.
Heathcliff swallowed hard. “I’m feelin’ alright. Bit better, if that’s what you wanted t’hear.” The man gathers the fabric of his pants, fingers sinking in the folds, his eyes suspiciously lifting to the clock-faced manager he knew.
“<That’s a relief. Say, do you have any complaints about-->”
“-- Why are you asking me all this?”
The clockhead’s hands clasped, and their head rattled from the shock. “<Why, I-->“
Heathcliff’s hands balled into fists, the area around his eyes twitching.
“Being all concerned. Calling me in here in the first place--” he began to shout-- “ tell me why you’re doing all this in the first place! I don’t get it! ” Heathcliff hollered between gritted teeth, standing up with a start.
“<I just wanted to make sure you’re-->”
“ I’m -- what? I can’t fucking tell if you mean a damn thing, with that fucking mask--! ” He spat, and in moments stood in front of Dante’s desk.
“<Heathcliff!>”
“ I can’t tell-- ”
Dante’s up too in an instant, backing away. Fists slam onto what used to be his desk, with things crashing and shattering. “<HEATHCLIFF!>”
“-- you from…” The desk gives forward, and Heathcliff yells, “heretic!”
Their hands shielded their face, collapsed in their swiveling office chair. Dante wanted to scream out for help, backup-- scream for Vergilius, Gregor-- or even Faust. They would know what to do. And they prepare to be caught in the middle of Heathcliff’s rage-induced carnage due to their incompetence because they can’t seem to be able to do something right for once.
Which never comes.
Confusedly, they lift their hands. Out of the corner of their vision, they watch speechless; Heathcliff, whose hands were planted on the ruined desk. Heathcliff, who was breathing in and out heavily, trembling.
They watch the tears that fall.
“I don’t get it-- I… Don’t get it at all,” said Heathcliff weakly, his eyes widening as he raised his hands to his face. Confused, he was saying things he didn’t mean. Wondering if this meant anything about him. “Why’d I say…” A shudder runs through his shoulders, overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions. A certain grief afflicted his face, plagued by what ifs and what could’ve been, intermingled with the body’s exhaustion. What he lost that day.
Out of the vaguely lucid part of his mind, he said: “I want… to go home.”
It all became too clear to Dante now what they were seeing-- not anything personal-- but Heathcliff being vulnerable.
“<Heathcliff…>”
Dante rises from his seat, seeing him eye to eye now.
“Cathy…” Heathcliff chokes out, the tears streaking his face. His hand frantically gripped his face. Something in him had broken. He was wrong, and he didn’t know how or what was wrong with him or what was happening lately. He was tired, and he didn’t want to do the things he was being told to, he didn’t want to eat mush or recite or-- he just wanted to go home to sleep. Heathcliff just knew that he was fucked up, but he didn’t know how to fix him. Fix this. Pained sobs racked his chest over and over in waves like a wounded, howling animal.
Heathcliff missed her.
Dante still didn’t know if they were doing anything right, but they were determined to make this right. They made their way towards Heathcliff, who fought to keep himself together.
Offering a pair of outstretched arms, Dante waited. After a bit of no response, Dante slowly wraps their arms around Heathcliff.
Heathcliff doesn’t reject it.
“Bloody… I must’ve gone mad. Talking about some Cathy-- with clockface, out of all people… Must be, ‘cause I’m here.” Heathcliff murmured, allowing himself to feel warm-- for just this once.
All intention of a heart-to-heart leaves Dante. There wasn't any need to, this said more than anything they could've.
Heathcliff will return to normal sooner or later, but for now, Dante feels they can do something right with this Heathcliff.