Roses and Thorns

by Strange_Extension630

Summary:

"At an impasse between friendship and romance, Viktor and Ivy embrace perspective. In the backdrop of it, Freckle asserts himself, with a smidge of aid from his cousin, and Mitzi seeks to balance out the whirlwind destruction left by Viktor's moods against the profits of the speakeasy."

-Summary Courtesy of FallenBelfry

Notes:

• For FallenBelfry.

Chapter 1: Viktor

     The floorboards are damp with blood and booze. Viktor's breathing hitches, and after a coughing fit, he comes into consciousness. The lacerations to his hands and ankles burn with moonshine. It smells better than the bitters, but not by much.

     A moment passes of him lying there under the light of the chandelier. He listens and hears nothing. Just his heartbeat. Pained breathing. The glass turning to dust as he rolls onto his side. The creak of a floorboard as he sits against the cabinets, looking up at the shelf. Half the moonshine has fallen. Their last shipment. 

     'You aren't right about most things.'  

     A breath leaves him. He slumps his shoulders. Weak. Tired. Old.

     'Why do you hate it when she cries?'

     His memory flashes to a distant winter's evening. The fireplace is dim. The baby swaddled in the crib whines for warmth. They have no more wood. 

     'Why do you hate that she loves you?'

     He can picture it clearly now. A matchstick, burning his fingers, held up to a letter. The matchstick burns out. The letter doesn't catch. He hasn't the will to light another.

     'Why do you think she will abandon you?'

     A pen on paper, writing a promise. A signature. A stamp. A mailbox. 

     Returned to sender.

     'Why do you think you deserve to die?' 

     Screams. Artillery. Gunfire. Gore. 

     An unanswered call for a medic. 

     'No,' the voice amplifies. 'Why do you think you deserve to die alone?'

     He thinks. He finds nothing. 

     'Are you dead, now? Do you see Heaven? Do you see Hell?'

     "Earth is Hell," he mutters, rubbing his head. His cap is on the ground, soaked. 

     'Hell is hell, you idiot,' Ivy's voice. 'Why don't you ever listen?'

 

     No.

     A road. A horse. A honeymoon.  

     The wind in his beard. The joyous bleating of an infant. A toddler. A daughter. 

     Horns. Shovels. Mud. Trenches.

     Hell. War. 

     Suffering. 

 

     'Elsa.' 

     He blinks. His daughter's voice. 

 

     'Mitzi. Ivy.'

     He rests his head on the cabinet, looks up, and closes his eyes. 

     'Do they deserve to die alone?'

     He puts his hands to the ground and tries to stand.

     'Do they not deserve you?'

     His knees buckle, and he sinks, tumbling to his back. "Ow! Shit!"

     'Will you not help them?'

     A throbbing pain in his leg suggests a pulled muscle. 

     'Will they fall with you?'

 

     "Shut up," he whispers, lip quivering, gripping his calf. 

     'No,' the voice growls, filling his mind. 'You will listen. You are dead. You are as alone now as you ever will be.'

     The tears pool on the floorboards for him to count. 

     'Are you man or boy?' His voice. Coarse. Strong.  

     "A man," he replies, wiping his nose. 

     'You talk. Loudly. Nobody understand you.'

     "Y-yes?"

     'Why? Why talk, if they don't understand? Why try at all? Why bother, why be in pain, why suffer? Why go through Hell?'

     "I..." he swallows. "I love them."

     'A crush?'

     He shakes his head in earnest. "I don't know."

     'So, listen,' the voice fades. A door opens. Footsteps on stone. 'Understand. Talk. All at once. Like man, ty zasraný pako.'

 

     The footsteps crescendo. Now on wood. Closer. Closer.

     A shadow. A girl.

     Ivy.

     She crosses her arms, opens her mouth with a furious scowl, then hesitates, reexamining the situation. "Are you hurt, Viktor?"

     He scoffs. Then shrugs. Then nods. "Leg."

     She comes forward, wide-eyed and pale, looking at all the ruined goods. She wears the same clothes from a few hours ago. Her face is washed and her hair styled differently, a single short braid down her back. "Give me your hand."

    He does, and although it might be from his own weakness, her grip feels particularly strong. She pulls. He shouts. They re-situate; she lifts him up from his armpits. He finds a bearing and stands, leaning on the counter, tears falling down his face. "It... it hurts..."

    She purses her lips, then turns and runs off. "Hold on... stay there."

    A few moments pass. He stretches, and the pain shoots up his body, this time thankfully more manageable. 

    Ivy comes back, holding a mop. "There's two of these, right?"

    He nods. 

    She breaks it over her knee just above the spools of cloth. "Use this."

    Viktor frowns. She places the stick in his hand, unenthused. "Toughen up."

    It's not so bad. He takes a step, bracing for the left leg. The pain lessens little by little as he moves. 

    "We need to clean this up before we open," Ivy's worried gaze falls to the glass. "Are you cut? Did you sleep on that?!"

    "I couldn't stand," he reminds, moving past her, out of the bar. "We need gloves."

    "Oh," a beat. She refocuses. "That's a good idea. I'll find a broom."

 

     First, she sops up as much residual moisture as she can, donning gloves and the severed mophead. It fills half a bucket, though three or four's worth fell, easily. Viktor assures her they won't notice a stain. He's dropped worse. 

     The Slav, still bruised and bleeding slightly, sweeps up the glass. Ivy takes out the bottles they had on display before and puts them back up. Thankfully, they look similar enough to be indistinguishable, if one only looks from the stools. The taste is surely different. Viktor hopes there are no customers today. 

     It takes an hour, but feels like just a few minutes. 

     Ivy looks up at him plainly as they stand face-to-face. Wordless. Idle. He cranes his neck and returns the gesture.

     Silence. A silence which they both fully understand, irrespective of their mother tongue.

 

     She helps him up the stairs, guides him home under the fading moonlight, and sits on his couch, battling off intrusive thoughts as he showers and dresses in the bathroom. 

     He takes her arm with one hand and grips the cane with the other, heading back to the speakeasy. He insists on wearing his cap, even though it’s damp. 

     "Are you bald, Viktor? Is that why?"

     "...tell no one," his tone is deathly serious. Too serious. 

     She giggles. 

     He laughs a little, too. 

Chapter 2: Freckle

     Freckle knocks on the door of the cafe. 'Closed', it says, yet the light inside is beaming. He twists the knob. Locked.

     Trying his best not to attract attention, he disappears into the alley and walks around the building. The garage greets him; the bay closed and the windows taped over. He looks over his shoulder, shuffles up to the side door, and tries the handle. It gives and pushes inward. He grins, carefully shuts it behind him, and lifts the trapdoor to the tunnel entrance. His footsteps echo as he treads into the cavern.

     He waves to Viktor, who nods his regards. After the 'pit-pit-pat' of his shoes on stone and a bit of reluctance swiftly overcome, he steps into the cafe. Ivy isn't there. The stove is cold. The faint smell of her perfume is vacant. He sighs and heads back downstairs.

     "Excuse me, sir," he comes up to the bar, hat in hands. "Have you seen Ms. Pepper this morning?"

     Viktor studies him. Young, smooth-faced, with a bit of a pubescent whine in his voice. Short, lean, though surprisingly fit for such a small boy. Definitely Rocky's cousin; Viktor has seen the unpredictable spark in his eye both in the rowdy violinist and in fellow infantrymen.

     "I did," he doesn't feel like lying. Not now, anyway. "Early ago. She not upstairs?"

     "I'm afraid not, sir," a polite boy. Finally. "The door was locked. I had to go through the tunnel."

     Viktor lets out a breath sharply. "Don't do that," he warns. "If locked, she don't want you in."

     Freckle's eyes flit to the ground, then back up. His tail shifts. "Yessir. Sorry."

     After a moment, Viktor clears his throat, and beckons him closer. "Sit. Talk. She come by soon, I am sure. Not one to miss work."

     "Well, I..." his voice trails off.

     'Scared?' Viktor tenses slightly, then notes the crease in Calvin's brow. 'No,' he relaxes. 'Nervous.'     

     "Sit," he repeats, managing a half-smile. "Is fine. Too early to fight, no?"

     The joke lands. Calvin's shoulders fall, and he lifts himself onto a stool, and sets his cap back on. "I suppose," his accent is thicker than his cousin's. "Your name is Viktor, correct, sir?"

     He grumbles, wondering if he should be addressed more formally. "Vasko, you call me. Not Viktor."

     "You've been working for Mitzi...?" 

     "Finish the sentence."

     Freckle tugs at his collar. "H-how long have you been working here?"

     "Before your relative," he answers. He leans closer, lowering his voice. "Be still. You fidget. I say-ed I not hurt you."

     "Sorry," he puts his hands by his side. "She-Ms. Pepper-has told me a lot of things about you."

     "Hm?"

     "Well, her last few boyfriends... all have broken limbs..." he winces. 

     'He has balls, bringing that up.' Viktor nods faintly, narrowing his eyes. "Bad eggs."

     "Well, that... you can see how that..." he trails off again, gesturing aimlessly.

     Viktor shrugs, mildly amused. "So? You bad egg?"

     "I hope not, Mr. Vasko."

     "You keeps the hands in your pockets?"

     Calvin blinks, and sulks into his seat slightly. "Yessir."

     "You keep your trousers on?"

     He turns a fierce, tomato red, and looks over his shoulder. The band is oblivious. "I- yes, of course, sir," the accent peaks. 'Is that Ivy's thing?'

     "You pay for meals, those she makes, upstairs?"

     He gulps and stiffens, sitting up straighter. "She... Uh, no. I don't."

     "Well, why not?" Viktor raises his voice slightly, tightening his jaw. Ivy would know he's playing it up; Freckle doesn't have the courtesy.

     Calvin furrows his brow, his ears folding backward. "It- she likes doing it, I guess. She's never asked me to."

     "You steal from me? From Mitzi?" 

     In a panicked whisper-shout; "No! Stop! I'd never!" 

     A beat. Viktor smirks. "Glad to know," he looks away, casting a harsh look at the stage. The band all start minding their own business. "Have to check. Part of work."

     Freckle seems to understand what's going on and takes a few seconds to cool down. "I didn't find it funny, to be frank."

     'Maybe too much balls .' 

     "Yeah?" Vasko raises a brow, finishing off the drink, his tone sterner. "Your loss. Never again, for you, I try to be funny. Only serious, eh?"

     A breath of silence. "Sorry."

     The Slav is pleased with that response. "Good boy, you are. You help with routes, no?"

     "I went on the last one, yessir. Not the one upstate; the funeral home."

     "You shoot?"

     Hesitation. "Yessir."

     "Good?"

     He shrugs. "Depends on the gun."

     "No, how much bullets," the bartender corrects knowingly. A machine gunner... oh, well, at least Ivy'll be on her toes. 

     "That does help," Calvin agrees, albeit a bit uneasy. "And you, Mr. Vasko?"

     "Pray you need not find out."

 

     A bit of silence, then Viktor speaks again. "You want a drink?"

     "Um," Freckle surveys the shelves for a moment, even though he's already picked the answer. "No, no, thank you."

     "At least have one," the Slav takes down a bottle of the old stuff. He fills two shot glasses while Freckle looks on warily. "Here," he places one in front of him. "What we drink to, eh?"

     "To... Ivy?" he suggests. 

     "Yes," that's not so bad, although, 'To you, sir, for your kindness and generosity!' would've been more applicable. Maybe he'll learn. "To Ivy."

     They drink. Freckle swallows, eyes watering. "Yikes," he coughs. "Is that the strong stuff?"

     "Hah-hah," Viktor collects the glasses and tosses them into the sink. "Like your communion," he teases, looking at the cafe steps. "Go upstairs and wait. She not back in half-hour, come get me. Okay?"

     They part ways.

     Viktor sighs. 'I hope I don't need breaking him.'

Chapter 3: Ivy

     It had cost her two hours and twenty dollars to make the ring into a necklace. She'd walked into that glass and marble building, decorated with paintings and sculptures, feeling like a lost puppy. The man at the counter insisted on being called Monsieur Harriet, despite lacking any accent or ornamentation to go with the associated nationality. After a fair bit of haggling and a made-up sob story regarding a late grandmother and her loving, grieving family, he reluctantly took the task as a priority, not that he'd seemed terribly busy to begin with.

     The result was pleasant and modest. A petite threaded chain of metal balls suspended the ring through two small holes drilled nearest to the top. Sleek and expensive; something her father would likely call a complete waste of money and time, but it brought her great joy, and she'd reveled in wearing it on her way back to the cafe.

     She took out her keys to unlock the door and yelped when it seemed to open on its own. Freckle's face put her at ease. "Oh, goodness! Have you been waiting all this time? I was running an errand."

     He ushers her in and shakes his head, delighted to see her. "I found things to do."

     The phrasing intrigues her; she steps behind the counter and lights the stove. Half-joking; "don't tell me you ate already, Mr. McMurray." 

     "No ma'am," he laughs. "I cook as good as I lie."

     "Can't argue with that one," she grins, greasing the pan. "What did you do, then?"

     "I, uh... I had a drink with Viktor."

     She hums. "Like, a water?"

     "No."

     "Freckle!" she spins around, dumbfounded, a spatula in her hand. "You drank?!"

     "We drank to you," he shrugs. "Besides... it wasn't a situation where I could say no. Honest."

     Her eyes widen. "Really?"

     "I think he's warming up to me-" she furrows her brow, turning back around. "-we talked, and he even smiled a little bit, I think-" it had to mean something, right? "-it's a bit hard to remember. Nerves."

     "That's interesting," she replies plainly. "He didn't threaten you? Or punch you?"

     "Only a few threats," he nods, equally surprised. "It was kind of nice, actually. He was nice."

     "So weird," she squints at the bread in the pan. "Viktor's hardly... nice to anyone."

     "I know," a bit of humor in his tone. "He's trying to get my guard down."

     "Maybe you're poisoned."

     "Then I ought to dilute it."

     "Ugh," she rolls her eyes. "I'm working." 

     "Take your time," maybe it's the shot, or the placebo therein; "I like watching you."

     She blushes, shifting her feet. "I ought to tell your mother you said that."

     "Sorry," he stretches. "Please don't. She'll hang me out to dry."

     "I'll tell Viktor, too."

     He huffs. "I can't rightly dance with a snapped leg."

     "Nonsense, silly. It's just more difficult. You can hobble; it's close enough to what you do, already."

     A beat of silence. "Speaking of," he sighs. "Rocky is my 'wingman' now."

     "Your what?"

     "Co-pilot," he clarifies, sounding equally confused. "For... our relationship."

     "What does that entail? Is he going to yell at you and me every few minutes, or is it something more subtle?"

     "I have no idea."

     "Sounds like I should set some traps!" she cheers, stacking the ingredients. "Ham and cheese?"

     "Works for me," he salivates. "No traps. I need him."

     "No, you don't. Anybody would've taught you to dance. He only jumped out of the woodwork to spite you."

     "I had a talk with him about that," he says proudly. "Still, I'm hopeless without him."

     "You're a terrible liar," she winks, setting the plate in front of him. "Dilute away."

     He eats. She cleans. They enjoy the silence. 

     

     "So," Ivy takes his empty plate. "You had a talk?"

     "With Rocky, you mean?" he sips his water, napkin in collar. 

     "You seem as shocked as I do."

     "Oh," he shrugs. "It wasn't so bad."

     "What did you say?"

     He turns pale. "Nothing I'd repeat to a lady."

     She roars. "You're kidding! You really talked to him, huh?"

     "Yep. I guess."

     "What did you say?"

     "I... told him to stay out of this," he points between himself and her. "It did fairly well."

     "Is that why he's your wingman now?"

     "I... see the point," he grumbles. "He promised to be more helpful."

     "You might have messed up."

     "Maybe," he shrugs. "Sorry."

     "I'm proud of you."

     "Thank you."

     "Do you think Rocky would suggest you ask for a kiss now that the odds are swayed by your newfound bravery?"

     He leans closer. "I can do that all by myself, I hope." 

 

     Footsteps on stone cuts their kiss short; they pull away, with Freckle leaning on the counter nonchalantly and Ivy whistling to herself by the coffee machine.

     "Well, well," it's Mozzie, who approaches the register. "Any chance I could get an egg over-easy, hun?"

     Ivy faces him and narrows her eyes. Freckle tries not to intervene.

     "I only know how to make them scrambled and raw. Those are your two options."

     "Scrambled, then," he takes the seat next to Freckle. "So... does it get boring up here?"

     "No. I'm quite busy." 

     "Really, eh?" he looks around the empty restaurant. "Lotta ghosts like their raw eggs and coffee?"

     She cracks a beaten egg into a small pan. It hisses. "That's a real good one," she murmurs. "I bet your girlfriend is absolutely vexed by your humor."

     "Different jokes for different folks, or however you say it," he grins. "I'm in the market, actually."

     "I'm taken."

     "Oh, no, no. A girl as pretty and well-kept as you is far outta my league. I was wondering if you had an older sister or cousin I could meet up with. Besides," he nudges Freckle with his elbow; the boy flinches. "Is this the best you can do? What is this guy, a hundred pounds soakin' wet?" 

     "You look to be about two hundred bone dry," she jabs, plating the underdone egg, drowning it with salt and pepper. A pleading look finds Freckle; he is unable to respond appropriately. "Enjoy your meal. It was my pleasure."

     "No need to get snappy, Ivy," he puts up his hands in surrender. "Can't a man browse? Ain't it fair, in this world? I said I wasn't lookin' for you."

     "It doesn't seem that way," Freckle squeaks. "Would you mind... toning it down a bit?"

     "I don't remember you had a mouth," the pianist frowns. "All of a sudden you has one and you's usin' it?"

     "Don't make me mad," Freckle says blankly. "Stop talking like that."

     "And you stop picking on my Freckle," Ivy adds, hands-on-hips. "I'm glad I never met you before now. Does Mitzi know she has wolves working for her?"

     He seems hurt. "Hey, I'll go," he stands up, talking quietly, leaving a dollar on the counter. "Christ. Girls are somethin' else, nowadays."

     They watch him leave, his coattails flapping behind him. 

     Ivy huffs, red-faced. "What a-"

     "-piece of work," Freckle agrees, shakily. "I've never-"

     "-me either," she sighs, tossing the plate in the bin, delighted to hear it shatter. "Gladly so. Goodness me. I ought to talk to Mitzi."

     "Has he been...?"

     "I don't know. Maybe. I'll... ask, I guess," she shakes her head, then looks up abruptly. "Wait, does Viktor know I came in early?"

     "Yeah. He didn't seem to mind."

     "Good," she breathes out. "Perfect."

     "Where were you?"

     "Hm?"

     "The errand," he elaborates. "What was it?"

     She points to her necklace. "You haven't noticed it?"

     "Uh, no."

     "Well, that was the errand."

     "You bought a necklace? That's a bit random."

     "Do I need a reason to treat myself?"

     "...no, ma'am. I like it. It's... it brings out your eyes."

     "My eyes are hazel."

     He shrugs, unsure how to recover. He wished Rocky were here. "Yep."

 

 

     

     

Chapter 4: Viktor

     English was not Viktor's strongest language, but he knew enough to determine that after Mozzie returned from his excursion upstairs, a formal throttling would be necessary. 

     He'd had a drink or two, and seemed to be fairly lightweight, so it came as no surprise when he started airing on and on to his bandmates. They'd all lined the bar for the lack of customers and seemed to have tastebuds too tobacco-stained to notice that one drink differed from another. Either that, or they didn't care. 

     At first, it had been innocent. Then, he recanted Ivy's retreat from the bartender a few nights past, a few additional comments were made, and it spun into a joke, a dare, then, finally, a wager. If Viktor wasn't tired and still in pain, he'd have jumped the counter at the first mention of Ivy's name and torn Mozzie's throat out. He settled on letting the young man incriminate himself first, and then give him a straightening out. Presently, the band pleads for their companion's case; 

     "...I didn't think he'd do it."

     "Yeah, shit... I didn't think he'd do it, either."

     "Viktor, darling, we can't just grab guys off the sidewalk, right? He's our keys, our harmony. Take it easy."

     The Slav crushes a shot glass between his fingers, casting an unwavering glare towards the stone steps. If they were wood, they'd surely burst into flames. "No easy."

     "It was our fault."

     "Honest. Don't single him out; we thought he was yappin' along. He ain't old or stupid or nothin'. You can still get the idea to him with words, fine enough."

     "Even finer, even. C'mon, Viktor," Sy flashes a smile, resting his elbow on the bartop. "Don't kill our guy just because of her. There's no way in hell she'll let him... you know."

     Viktor growls, spinning around. "I know what?"

     Sy gulps, retreating. 

     "She's got the kid," Zib shrugs, answering for Sy, swirling the liquid in his glass. "Got him by the neck. Like a viper."

     Silence. The bartender turns his way, raising a brow. Zib clears his throat. "Not a metaphor, gang. Lighten up. Stay cool."

     "He has a point."

     "He does have a point," Ben looks up to Viktor. "Mozzie's about as good at keeping time as he is making sweet-talk."

     A hum. Then, laughter. "If that ain't the truth..."

 

     Mozzie comes down the steps, hands-in-pockets, scowling. He trudges to the bar, lights a cigarette, and takes a seat. "Nope."

     "Nothing?"

     "Nothin'," he sighs. The barkeep hobbles over. "Ah. Can I have-"

     "Stand," Viktor instructs, pointing the cane at him. "Stand up."

     "Pardon?"

     "Vstaňte!" he barks, leaving the bar. "You stand and listen."

     Mozzie gets up, fists clenched at his sides, tossing his cigarette aside. "You serious?"

     The band clear the stools, making a semicircle around them, invested yet cautious. Viktor is known to send teeth through the air like arrowheads. 

     "Yes," the Slav fumes with vitriol, every breath deep and measured, every word dripping with passionate hatred. "You don't talk to Ivy Pepper. Understood?"

     "What-"

     "No goddamn words," he hisses, stamping the cane on the ground, approaching. "Do you understood?"

     The pianist, 5'11" on a good day, a hundred and sixty pounds naked and starving, looks up at Viktor-a brick wall with the mercy of mustard gas-donning the sincerest expression of defiance one will ever live to immediately regret. "Why don't we-" 

     Viktor drops the makeshift spear and stomps forward, ears ringing. Rage, rage, rage. Kill, kill, kill. He grips Mozzie's throat and drags him back to the bar kicking and grunting, flinging him helplessly against the legs of a stool. 

     A pin could drop and everyone would flinch. Mozzie coughs, clutching his neck, trying and failing to stand. He ceases moving, craning to look up, up, up, until he meets Viktor's gaze.  

     "I hear you say the name," he warns, pointing to the stairs, trembling with restraint and desire and tumultuousness. "You die."

     The pianist nods. 

     "You understand? She not worth for you. Too precious."

     Another nod. More frantic.

     "I need break leg for to remember?"

     Vigorous head-shaking and a whimper-y; "Hm-mm! Hm-mm!"

     "Fine," Viktor clears his throat, getting his cane and walking off. The band all stare at Mozzie, dumbfounded for one reason or another. 

     The pianist laughs nervously, hardly breathing from this cocktail of booze and terror and relief. "Can... can I have... a hand?"

     They help him up and he immediately goes home, bruised and teary-eyed and shaking. Ben calls after him; "You owe me a dollar."

     Mozzie flips him the bird.

   

---

     

     Awkward and confused, knowing they nearly witnessed a murder by Viktor, who didn't normally just attempt such things, the band goes to the stage and starts a number. One which doesn't call for any keys. The sound fills the air and after a long spell of song and jazz and melody, the atmosphere somewhat returns to normal. Viktor cleans the glasses, wipes the bar, rights the stools, has a drink to himself, and idly awaits his next customer. 

     Mitzi May struts down the stairs and comes forward. He stiffens. "Mitzi."

     "Viktor," she regards flatly, smiling in a way where her brow doesn't wrinkle. "Mind pouring me a glass?"

     He does as he is told. She sips. She frowns. "What is this?"

     "Alcohol."

     Unimpressed. "Viktor."

     "Yes?"

     "Don't 'yes' me, baby. What is this?"

     He shifts. "How do you mean?"

     "Need I say it another way?"

     "Yes?"

     She huffs. "Show me the bottle you poured this from."

     He picks up a bottle, then panics. One eye will only do you so good when depth is involved; the older bottles are slightly thinner. He takes his chances and hands her the bottle.

     Incorrect choice. "This is all wrong, honey. I told you to switch these out."

     "We did."

     "So what the hell is it doing here, Viktor?" 

     He scratches the back of his neck. "I fell."

     She eyes the cane. "I see."

     "Some bottles... fell, too."

     A beat. Her eyes widen slightly, darting from him to the shelf. "Viktor...?"

     "Half," he exhales.

     "Half?" she whispers.

     He nods solemnly. "Half."

     "Half!?" her voice rises.

     Viktor winces. "Half. Yes."

     "Did... where is it?"

     "Cleaned up."

     "You saved nothing?!"

     "No! I... I fell... asleep. On it. Ruined. Fell."

     She blinks, then laughs. "Damn."

     "Sorry."

     She shakes her head and sets the bottle down, staring at the bartop gravely. "We can't be open today."

     He takes a breath. "Spill too much?"

     She smiles, faintly, genuinely. "We all deserve a break. Not that I am not furious at you. Who helped you clean?"

     "I..." a lie bubbles at the back of his throat, but he swallows it. "Ivy. Not her fault. Not her punishment."

     A bit of doubt in her eyes, and then it's gone, replaced by scorn. "Well, Viktor, I am afraid I have to send you home. You won't be paid for today."

     "Yes."

     She dismounts the stool and walks into the cafe; she's gone for several minutes. The band heard the exchange between Viktor and Mitzi, and, already so eager to leave, they pack up and do so. 

     Viktor takes the cane and waits. Ivy comes into the cavern. "She found out?"

     He nods, pointing to the tunnel. "We leave."

     "Need help?"

     A nod, and he taps his cane on the ground. "I feel like blind man."

     She snickers, taking his arm. "You're halfway there."

     The comment doesn't please him. "Not funny."

     "Not to you; that's why it's funny," she explains, helping him up the steps. They leave through the garage's side door, spilling out into the sunlight, into the alleyway, then onto the sidewalk. A few odd glances find them as they head to Viktor's house.

     "We..." he stutters, turning to her, his porch a few dozen feet away. "You stay. We talk."

     She swallows, a wave of heat rising through her body. "O-okay," she replies, following him inside. He sits in his living room chair; Ivy takes a seat on the couch by the window. He sets his cane down. She takes the necklace out of her pocket.

     He blinks. "You...?"

     "Yep! Isn't it wonderful?" she explodes, jumping up and putting it on and bounding towards him. "Isn't it?"

     He studies it for a moment. Unreadable. "Is... good. I like it."

     Her smile fades, and she creases her brow. "You don't... sound the part, frankly."

     "It's not mine no more. You like it?"

     "Obviously, but-"

     "Ah!" he cuts her off. "It's good. Great. Wonderful. Look very nice."

     "Not a distraction anymore?"

     He thinks for a moment, confused, and then his cheeks get a red tint in them. "No."

     "Good! I will only be wearing skirts and lace and stockings from now on," she beams. "And I am perfectly allowed to, because it isn't your ring anymore!"

     He rolls his eyes. "Very good. Fine."

     

     A beat. Their minds settle on the same subject. She speaks first.

     "I'm sorry about last night."

     He nods, gesturing to the sofa. "You sit down, now. Okay?"

     Concerned and hesitant, she sits on the couch, hands in her lap and necklace glinting in the midday sunlight. 

     Viktor clears his throat, hanging his head. "You really care about me like that? A... crush?"

     She hesitates, not out of doubt or nerves, but out of terror. Her lips part. Firmer than she was expecting; "Yes."

     He sighs. "Love... is very..." he pauses, thinking, hoping, praying for the right words to find him. "Difficult. Complicated. Uncomfortable."

     A nod, from her, albeit an uneasy one. He continues. "It is also greatest thing in life, love is. It is... it makes... tolerable. Easier, I suppose. Love is like water for pills. Goes better."

     She takes a deep breath, then exhales, trying not to tear up. "You don't love me."

     It hurts him to his core, more than a bullet or a scalpel or a burn, to hear it aloud. His eyes tear up; he bites his tongue until he tastes blood; his breath ceases. Finally, he draws in air. "What makes you think so?"

     "You... you... well..." she stammers. "You yelled at me. You told me you didn't want me around. You..."

     "I'm so sorry, Ivy," he suddenly cries, covering his face, shaking with grief. She stands and comes to his side, horrified. "I... I didn't..."

     "Shh," she whispers, putting a finger on his mouth. She brims over with relief, hugging him, rubbing his back as the tears and snot fall to the floor in clumps and bits and pieces. "Quiet, Viktor. I know you love me. I know it. I'm sorry."

     "It was so wrong," he coughs. "I was so mad for not being a crush... I knew you be so upset..."

     "It's okay," she hums, hugging tighter, enjoying the way he relaxes as she does, the way his crying slowly ceases. "I know you love me."

     "I'm sorry."

     "I know."

     "I understand if you hate me."

     "I forgive you."

     "I know," he wipes his face, rocked with regret and relief and rage, all mixed into one, all swirling through him. "Handkerchief in bedroom..."

 

     She gets the tissue; he cleans himself up a bit. "I don't love you like 'crush'."

     "I know."

     "Better that way."

     She sighs, going back to sit down, a bit lightheaded. "Probably."

     "Yes," he insists. "The boy is better for you."

     "Freckle? Honest?"

     He laughs. "He will be alive longer than me," he says. "More fast, too. More younger, in all of the ways."

     She smiles. "I'm sure he'd love to hear that himself," she replies, crossing her legs. "So... are we... made up?"

     "Sure. I am sorry. I... might not think to deserve you," Viktor shifts in his seat, sitting up a bit straighter. "But is wrong... cruel... to not let you love me. I love you, anyway. All works out."

     "Am I..." she glances down at her necklace, then back up. "A daughter to you?"

     He cringes. "No. I have daughter."

     "Not a crush, though?"

     "I... no. Not like schoolboy. We... I want you to be happy. If you have crush," he grunts. "Why I tell you not to? Why I make grief of you?"

     "I see," she says, not quite understanding. "Does this fall in line with the 'love is complicated' shpiel?"

     "Yes," he says. "You understand?"

     'I'll figure it out eventually.' "Yep! Clear as rain. So, I shouldn't go around-"

     "No."

     "Not even a-"

     "No," he says, a bit less playful. "If they know you have crush? Think of Freckle, then of Rocky. Band. Me. Mitzi. All goes to hell," he explains. "No one know."

     "Okay, okay," now she thinks she's got it. "A secret relationship?"

     "No."

     "A hidden fling?"

     "No. Nothing. Friends. Family."

     "Romantic friends?"

     He gives up. "Fine. Yes."

     "Good," she nods, satisfied. "Well-"

     "Why the crush?" he interjects in a perplexed tone.

     "Excuse me?"

     "Why you have crush on me?" he elaborates, narrowing his eyes slightly, leaning back in the chair. "I am brute. 'Surly Slovak', they say. Ox."

 

     "Well..." she sweats, looking at her shoes, knowing that Vikor is watching every movement, her lips, her eyes, her tail. Maybe not her tail; that'd be hypocritical. "You are big." 

     "Mhm?"

     "Strong."

     'Oh, like the boy,' he concurs. "Accent?"

     She flinches. "Hm?"

     "Like the boy. Accent. Foreigner. You like?"

     She wants to hide. Her silence is enough. 

     "A-hah-hah," he roars. "What? Too much? Now, so quiet?"

     "I dunno," she sulks.

     "No, say," he urges. "Is funny. And... kind."

     "You're handsome," she admits. "Normal handsome. Strong. You... are intelligent, speaking so many languages, knowing what to do for the bar, for me, for Mitzi..."

     He is impressed and flattered, smiling broadly. He looks up at the ceiling, picturing this version of himself; smart, crafty, carved of marble. "You kid me," he scoffs. 

     "No, really," she presses through a headache and her clammy, shaking frame. "I... that's why. You're very complicated. I... I like that."

     "What about the boy?"

     "He's complicated in his own way," she acknowledges. "I love him. A lot."

     "You only crush on me," he finishes. "Difference?"

     "Difference."

     "Mhm," he scratches his beard. "So... now what?"

     She shrugs, running the necklace through her fingers. "I need to do a double-shift to make up for this... I was hoping to put it in today, but... maybe one of the janitors at the school will let me wash the windows or something."

     "It was... expensive?"

     "Twenty dollars."

     "...for that?"

     "I knew you didn't like it," she frowns. 

     Viktor hums, then points to the desk in the corner. "In there. You take it."

     Intrigued, she walks over to the desk and opens the drawer. A wad of bills, not any more than ten or eleven dollars, lies inside. "Quite the haggler, eh?"

     He grunts. "Take it and earn the rest. Headstart. Get going."

     She pockets the money and turns to leave. She pauses. An idea rattles around her brain. "Can I ask a favor?"

     "No."

     "Can I kiss you?"

     Viktor scrunches his face, purely perplexed. "Why?"

     "To see if I like it."

     "Is being handsome and ox-like, is not enough?"

     If she could physically get any more red in the face and neck, she would, but her body knows that if it pulls any more blood away from her knees, they will give out. "Fine," she rolls her eyes, turning the knob. "That's fine. You're right."

     He blinks. She stands there, staring at him blankly, hand on the knob. 

     "Okay," he whispers, defeated, though not sorely so. "One kiss."

     Ivy nearly jumps out of her skin. Two steps later, she's by his side and sizing him up. "On the lips?"

     "Before I change my mind," he nods. 

     "Now?"

     "Did you not hear?"

     "Right," she leans in, he tilts his head, and their lips connect. Briefly. Gently. She pulls away, feeling renewed. Spirited. Her eyes have a shine in them; colors seem brighter. "Oh..."

     He is less impressed, wiping his maw. "That... what is that?"

     "Oh. Sorry," she snaps to. "I... liked it."

      Viktor chuckles. "That was wrong."

      The words and the tone do not match. She figures it out; he finds it amusing. "Why is it funny?"

     "That was like peck on cheek, but on mouth," he says matter-of-factly. "You kiss the boy like this? Oye, here I am too worried over nothing, those broom closets and backstage for little nips..."

     "Okay," she crosses her arms. "Show me."

     He raises a brow. "Hm?"

     "Teach me how to kiss."

     A beat of silence. Viktor stares. Clears his throat. Grabs his cane. Stands. Loosens his tie. Beckons her closer...

 

---

 

Two Days Later

 

     Presently, Mozzie sits at the piano, traumatized, not even glancing at Ivy, staring at his feet and fingers as they press pedals and keys. The band doesn't mind; it keeps him on tempo.

     Ivy and Freckle dance. A Waltz, only the tempo is much too fast, and both parties struggle and laugh and sneak kisses. Proper kisses. Kisses that make Freckle's eyes unsteady, that fill him with warmth, that drive his feet and his legs and his rhythm. 

     Viktor tends to the bar. Mitzi calmed down, allowing for the old bottles and the newer ones to mingle. She sits next to Mr. Sable, leaning on his shoulder with a drink in her hand. On stage, Zib and Sy are locked in a duet of call and response.

     The song ends. Freckle goes home. Rocky lingers, trying to impress a few patrons in the frontmost row with a rowdy cadenza. Ivy walks off the stage and turns to leave. 

     On occasion, briefly and hiding in plain sight, she will look at him, and he will tip his cap at her. It isn't a salute, or a warning, or a go-ahead signal, like anyone levelheaded would first assume. It means 'I love you'. Not as a friend, not as a daughter, not as a crush, but as something in between and yet equally meaningful. 

     Rocky furrows his brow, stops his showboating, and saunters over to her. He taps on her shoulder. “Is there something you’ve neglected to tell me?”

     She turns and glances to the bar. Viktor reads her face and makes a cutthroat gesture. Blush fills her cheeks against her will. “Pardon?” 

     The violinist pauses, then laughs, shaking his head. “Oh, you should see your face! You must have quite the constitution to keep on your feet, all things considered.”

     “A-hah,” she laughs along. “Very funny.”

     “I mean, what type of wingman would I be if I thought my client’s dame was struggle-buggying with the barkeep?”

     “Not a very good one,” she agrees, giving a discreet thumbs-up to Viktor. “See you around.”

     “Have a good evening, Ms. Pepper,” he agrees, winking at her, galloping to the bar. Viktor watches her leave, then pours a shot for himself and Rocky.

     The two wingmen toast, and as the music kicks back up-a piano’s ivory drawl and the soft rumble of horns-they raise their glasses and clear their heads of any residual doubt. A job well earned, well kept, and well serviced. 

    

 

     

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of The SS Ivasko (Canon-Adjacent)