Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Squalo is having a perfectly miserable day.

It’s only right, given that he has been having a truly miserable week following on the heels of an absolutely miserable month that, in all honesty, has been only the latest addition in a series of utterly miserable years.

On a related note, it has been six years, five months, one week and four days of unending misery, not that anyone outside the Varia is keeping count.

Even inside the Varia not everyone is as loyal to Boss as they should be—would be if Squalo was allowed to clean house and if Xanxus was actually fucking here to prove himself worthy of that loyalty—and the less said about the clusterfuck called CEDEF, the better.

As for the Family itself, Vongola’s main house has been a mess of split loyalties since long before Xanxus’ imprisonment. A problem that has only been exacerbated by the Ninth’s refusal to pick a fucking heir. Not that the Varia’s supposed coup has done the Family or the Varia any favors either.

No one likes to ally with the losing side.

Of course there aren’t many sides left these days, what with both of the Ninth’s oldest sons dead and buried. Federico isn’t the worst option to inherit the title of Vongola Tenth—that dubious honor would have gone to Massimo, if not for the reason most would assume—and while he isn’t Boss and that thought won’t ever not ache, Squalo could live with following him.
It helps that Federico is Xanxus’ best shot for freedom.

They are brothers, even though they have never been close. Squalo doesn’t know if it makes a difference. Has no clue if Federico at the helm of the Family will change shit for them. But what he does know is that the Ninth has had six years, five months, one week and four days to change is mind and has done jack shit with that time.

Federico can’t do worse.

And if he follows his older brothers’ into an early grave, as Vongola’s current generation seems doomed to do, well, then the Ninth won’t have any other option but to finally free his youngest son, will he? It’s not how Squalo wants to see his boss inherit—it would be an insult, couldn’t be anything else, to grudgingly hand Xanxus the title he has earned after all the other candidates have been snuffed out, deemed unworthy until and unless all other options have been crossed off—but if it’s the only way to get his Sky back then Squalo will take it.

With a smile.

Squalo’s grip tightens around his pen and his next signature almost tears the paper apart.

Fucking calm down.

He exhales. Forces himself to ease up on the pen.

He is still pissed, but Squalo is pissed off on more days than he isn’t, and while ruining the never-ending mountain of paperwork on his desk—and covering the floor in front of his desk, what the fuck—is satisfying in the short term, Squalo knows from experience that it isn’t worth the trouble it will cause him later on. Vongola’s main house likes to use any excuse the Varia gives them to drag their feet and overcomplicate what are already rage-inducingly inefficient processes that would make Mammon cry if they didn’t bill Vongola horrendous sums for every single minute of their time.

So no, he is not going to destroy another heap of important documents that someone with more training than Squalo should probably sign off on.

No matter how tempting it is.

"Officer?" One of the mooks—has to be, Squalo doesn’t recognize that voice—knocks on his door.

"What?" Squalo snaps.

The door opens slowly. The mook behind it looks ready to bolt at the first sign of movement—good instincts, might be worth keeping an eye on—and he is smart enough to call Squalo 'Officer' instead of 'Boss'.

Admittedly very few people have made that mistake since Squalo gutted the first person who called him that after the fucking Cradle Affair—and fuck does he hate that name—but it’s not like Luss didn’t put Cirrus back together again afterwards.

Eventually.

Bunch of babies, the whole lot of them.

"What?" Squalo repeats impatiently when the mook just stares at his hand, where he—

Ah, fuck.

That’s another broken pen Mammon is going to deduct from his salary.

Thankfully even with his entire hand covered in ink Squalo’s glare doesn’t seem to have lost any of his intensity because the mook—a potential Rain, he will have to remember to check up on his progress, provided the idiot doesn’t get himself killed in the next five minutes—rallies himself quickly.

"A potential client has rung our door bell, Officer."

Going by the perplexed look on the mook’s face, Squalo assumes he means that literally, otherwise there would be no need to involve him. They get plenty of new clients in a variety of ways and thanks to Mammon the Varia has protocols for all of them. Though Squalo has to admit that personal visits have fallen out of favor, given that it is much harder to deny that you are hiring an assassination squad when you are seen stopping by their headquarters.

Still. It’s rare, but not that rare.

"Housekeeping has got him settled in the blue guest room. Given the… unexpected appearance, Madam has asked that you join them at your earliest convenience."

Squalo raises his eyebrows. Now that is a surprise.

Both the location of their visitor and the thinly-veiled order from Madam himself. The Head of the Varia’s Housekeeping doesn’t tend to get involved in the daily business aspects until and unless it affects his job or people directly. Even more intriguing is that blue rooms are meant to be kept civilian-appropriate—though what situation might call for the Varia to house civilians is a question Squalo has yet to find an answer to.

Most flame actives consider them something between crazy but competent murderers and rabid dogs only barely leashed by Vongola’s might. Housing civilians doesn’t fit well into that image.

"I see."

Squalo doesn’t but it’s not like it matters. This mysterious client cannot possibly be worse than the newest budget cuts Vongola is trying to push past him. It’s like they genuinely believe having an elite assassination squad equipped to clean up their messes on constant stand-by comes cheap.

"I’ll take care of it," he says to the visible relief of the increasingly twitchy mook. Perhaps he can sense Squalo’s frustration? Some flame-users have an increased sensitivity towards detecting strong emotions.

A suspicion to follow up on another day.

"Dismissed."

Seems like Squalo has an excuse to put the paperwork off for a couple of hours after all. But first he needs to wash the ink off his hand.

Madam is waiting for him, all but guarding the door to the blue guest room with an unamused expression that would convince even the craziest mist to take their mischief elsewhere. 

Squalo comes to a stop in front of the veritable mountain of a man who is the latest in a long line of people to have taken on the official title of the Head of the Varia’s Housekeeping. He doesn’t think he has ever seen Madam this… not necessarily agitated, but restless.

It goes without saying that the man has better things to do than supervise an unknown inside their own territory. Usually, that is.

"Squalo." Madam greets him.

He has never called Squalo by anything but his name. Of course, the only authority the Head of Housekeeping answers to is the Head of the Varia—and Squalo hasn’t held that title since he handed it over to his Sky, frozen or not.

"We have a problem."

Of course they do.

"What the fuck."

It’s a kid.

A tiny kid—seriously, there is no way it comes up to Squalo’s shoulders—with a mix of European and Japanese features, who is dressed in what sure looks like a proper school uniform and is currently lying upside down on the visitor couch, his head dangling low over the ground, long, fluffy, brown hair almost brushing against the carpet, and his socked feet swinging back and forth where they are draped over the backrest.

Squalo stares.

The kid smiles.

And waves.

With so much enthusiasm that he almost topples over and off the couch.

"Hello Squalo-san, it’s an honor to meet you. My name is Sawada Tsunayoshi," it chirps in heavily accented Italian. "Please take good care of me."

"What the fuck."

Alright. He needs to get a grip. Be professional about this.

Squalo sits his ass down on a lone armchair that is conveniently facing the couch where the kid is sprawled out, watching him upside down with curious eyes.

He is young, obviously. Looks to be about ten, maybe, though Squalo has never been good at guessing children’s ages. You’d think two younger siblings and a dozen assorted cousins would help, but all his family has taught him is that children are vicious little monsters who scent weakness like sharks scent blood and will absolutely use their slighter stature and huge, teary puppy eyes against you.

So far, nothing Squalo has seen suggests that Sawada Tsunayoshi will be any different. And no, he is not thinking about that last name because if he does, Squalo will murder someone.

Probably the kid.

Which would most likely make him feel better but also definitely piss Madam off. He has Opinions™ on children.

There is a reason Varia recruits have to be twelve years old at a minimum. Belphegor is the sole exception of that rule that Squalo is aware of—in a certain definition of the term 'exception’, given that the shitty Prince bypassed the recruiting stage entirely by murdering an Officer. Even then Madam had been anything but happy.

So, no. Today is not going to be the day Squalo starts a war with Housekeeping.

…he hopes.

"What are you doing here?" is the first question Squalo finally settles on.

Because he has to start somewhere and clearly the kid is going to be no help at all, what with the way he is staring at his socked feet—and where the fuck are his shoes anyway—swinging back and forth like they are an entire revelation by themselves.

The kid gives him the same look Squalo’s little sister used to shoot him that says how can you be so grown up and yet still so stupid? with an air of condescending superiority only a pre-teen can achieve. It’s not a look Squalo appreciates.

"I want to hire the Varia."

Yeah. Squalo was afraid of that.

"And for what?"

"To steal something."

Squalo blinks. That’s unexpected. Not that anything about this kid is expected, mind, but generally speaking when unfamiliar people show up out of nowhere to talk business, it’s because they are following a trail of hard-to-kill rumors and want someone dead. And badly too.

Not that the Varia only handles assassinations—there’s sabotage, kidnapping and blackmailing too, just to name a few options—but they do make up 90 percent of their missions. And, more importantly, it is what they are known for.

So to have some kid, who looks more civilian than Squalo is honestly comfortable with, show up asking them to steal something is… interesting.

"And what do you want us to steal?"

The kid’s eyes narrow. "I’m not going to just tell you that. You have to promise you’ll do it first."

Right.

"Kid." Squalo doesn’t roll his eyes, has too much self-control for that, but going by the way the kid tenses, his tone conveys the exasperation he feels just fine. "That’s not how this works. I can’t decide whether to accept a job without knowing what it entails."

"Huh." The kid sounds puzzled by Squalo’s counterargument which doesn’t bode well for this discussion.

For a long couple of seconds he stares directly into Squalo’s eyes without blinking—at the very least the boy has more guts than most Family heads seem to possess these days, not that Squalo is impressed or anything—like he is trying to read his mind. Then he proceeds to swing his feet over his head, almost rolling off the couch and slamming his elbow against the coffee table as he does so before he manages to push himself into an upright position with a huff.

"Okay," the kid says calmly like Squalo hasn’t just had to rescue an expensive crystal vase from his flailing limbs. "Then lets sign a secrecy agreement."

"A secrecy agreement," Squalo repeats, not sure whether he is impressed or amused. Or baffled. Yes, baffled fits this entire situation well enough.

"A secrecy agreement," the kid repeats patiently. "It’s a contract that says you can’t share the information I give you with anyone, whether the Varia accepts the mission or not."

"I know what a secrecy agreement is."

The doubtful look that statement earns him is entirely unwarranted but Squalo abruptly decides to not to waste his energy on this particular battle and focus on the important part. Namely whether he is going to entertain this facade for the additional ten minutes it will take him to send a mook off to Mammon to get him a copy of the Varia’s standard negotiation contract, confidentiality clause included, and then try to convince an actual ten-year-old of the trustworthiness of said contract or send the kid home like he probably should have done from the get-go.

The kid is still staring at him.

It would be unsettling if he wasn’t so— fluffy.

With a sigh he refuses to voice out loud, Squalo shoots Lussuria—by far his most trustworthy Co-Officer when it involves work-related duties he doesn’t want to pay through the nose for—a quick text.

Might as well see this through.

"So," Squalo says after five long minutes of unbroken silence while they wait for one of Lussuria’s underlings in an effort to get the kid to stop staring at him with an intense focus Squalo is more used to seeing on Levi’s face back when Boss was still around to shout orders at him. Not a comparison any sane person would be happy to make.

So far the boy hasn’t blinked once. That can’t be normal, can it?

"Where do you live?"

Inwardly he winces. On second thought, that question blurs the line between small talk and threat a little too much when the conversation involves a professional contract killer. In Squalo’s defense, he hasn’t engaged in genuinely meaningless small talk since he last attended one of his wider family functions back when he was thirteen.

He might be a tad rusty.

Thankfully the kid doesn’t seem perturbed.

"In Japan," he chirps.

Clearly smart or suspicious enough to not just hand out his home address to a stranger. Of course this is also a kid who has hunted down the Varia headquarters on his own with the intent of hiring them, so Squalo probably shouldn’t be surprised.

He still hasn’t blinked though.

"How did you even get here?" is Squalo’s next, moderately safer question. The boy looks like he came here straight from school— though admittedly a private school with a heavily Japanese-inspired uniform.

"I flew."

"You flew," Squalo repeats blankly.

The kid nods cheerfully. "With an airplane."

Like that is the part he thinks he needs to clarify.

Squalo doesn’t know why but he is suddenly certain that somewhere someone is laughing at him. It’s probably his shitty Boss.

Once the negotiation contract is signed—and credit where credit is due, the kid reads the entire three pages twice, including the small print on the back, Mammon would approve—the boy straightens from his slumped position where he has curled himself up around a surprisingly ugly decorative cushion. 

"I want you to steal my cousin. He’s been falsely imprisoned by some guy who’s pretty powerful, so I can’t get him out the legal way," the kid says solemnly. "That’s why I need you to take him. Out of the country would be best but I’ll settle for out of his prison."

With that he pulls out a small stack of carefully folded papers out of his back pocket. Squalo takes them with raised eyebrows. A quick glance shows them to be identification papers. Likely the cousin’s in question because the boy in front of him sure as shit can’t pass for sixteen.

"I don’t think…" this is a job suited for the Varia, is what Squalo should say, means to say, is absolutely going to say because there’s just something about the way the kid’s rushing the words out that makes his instincts sit up and pay attention, tells him there is more to this story than the boy wants to admit, probably some intense family drama, and the last time Squalo got tangled up in that type of bullshit he lost his Sky—

But the words stay stuck in the back of his throat.

Squalo’s gaze is frozen on the name on top of those papers.

Xander Gabbiano.

Aged sixteen.

There’s no reason to think this is anything but a coincidence. But when Squalo turns to the next page, he finds himself staring down at a poorly drawn picture of a black-haired figure with deep red eyes holding a smaller boy’s hand in a manner that Squalo knows damn well Boss would never have tolerated and—

It is a joke. A cruel joke. It has to be. That is the only explanation that makes sense.

And if it is… If it is Squalo is going to murder the kid and he doesn’t give a fuck how big his eyes are or if it’s going to start a war with Madam that he can’t hope to win.

"What the fuck is this," he says, not asks in a low voice that spells death for someone in the very immediate future.

The kid doesn’t flinch or fidget. He meets Squalo’s gaze without fear. "A mission should you accept it. I’ve included the details I’ve collected on the last page."

The page that looks like a hand-drawn floor plan of the Vongola main house. More specifically of a floor of the Ninth’s home that Squalo has never seen before and didn’t know exists. Several colorful lines symbolize alarms and security features of various kinds if the caption in the right lower corner is to be trusted and there is even a large red 'X' painted in the middle of the second last room. It looks like a treasure map for a children’s birthday party.

Except for the fact that it matches the layout of the Ninth’s headquarters perfectly.

Squalo doesn’t know whether he is trembling with shock, rage or relief as he stares at a detailed description of every obstacle between Xanxus and his Sky’s freedom mapped out with crayons and decorated with cartoonish drawings of robots in various sizes.

It’s the sheer mind-fucking impossibility of this entire situation that he blames for the brief moment when he looks up from the priceless information in his hands and could swear the kid’s eyes burn a brilliant shade of orange.

"I want him out," the boy says. His eyes are brown—of course they are, there isn’t a wisp of Sky flame in this child, nor any flame for that matter, get a fucking grip already—but for the first time since Squalo has caught sight of the child and his perplexing behavior that makes every single one of his instincts scream, there is audible steel in his voice.

"Are you going to help me or not?"

If it hadn’t been so long since Squalo has last laid eyes on his Sky—has felt Xanxus’ relentless fire burning inside his own chest, a steady homing beacon, an unapologetic possessive claim, a bond that should have only broken in death—perhaps he would have asked more questions. Demanded answers, tried to figure out the endgame of what has to be a trap or an enemy move or both. Set those damn papers on fire and this cursed kid with it.

But it’s been six years, five months, one week and four days of unrelenting Cold where his Home should be and it turns out that Squalo has long stopped caring about getting his Sky back the proper way. It’s only Xanxus’ dedication that has kept Squalo from burning Vongola to the ground to reach him so far, and even that hold grows thinner with every passing day.

All he needs at this point is an excuse.

"Sure, kid," Squalo finds himself saying through a smile as wide and filled with teeth as his namesake’s. "I don’t see why I shouldn’t."

The boy lights up like all the lightbulbs on a Christmas tree that has just been switched on. "Great!" He pulls out the saddest, saggy, little wallet that Squalo has ever seen. "Do you think 7’564 Yen will cover it?"

Chapter Text

Squalo doesn’t waste time.

It’s been six years, five months, one week and four days too long since he has seen his Sky alive and burning bright, and he is not waiting a second longer than he needs to now that he has the means to get him back.

"Follow me," he tells the kid and pushes the door to the Blue Room open.

It’s right around lunch, which means the hallways are mostly empty, safe for a single disinterested mist who has either sworn off interacting with reality to the point where eating actual food has become negligible or is planning to create a new headache for future Squalo to deal with. Right now, Squalo honestly doesn’t care which.

Lussuria can usually be found in his office near the infirmary at this time, given that he only eats breakfast and dinner, and prefers to use the break from his sunny assistants to catch up on his paperwork. Squalo would call bullshit but, well.

When he knocks on the door, then proceeds to pull it open in the same breath, Lussuria is actually sitting at his desk, bent over what sure looks like two solid inches of inventory lists on their medical equipment.

And, to be fair, next to him Lussuria is the most diligent Officer when it comes ato keeping up with their duties. Mammon does exactly what their employment contracts includes and not a single thing more, Levi is Levi, and nobody lets Belphegor handle documents they want to see again in one piece.

It’s a not insignificant part of the reason why Squalo has come here first.

"Squ-chan? That’s quite the entrance. Did you miss me already?" 

And that would be the reason why I considered Mammon first.  

The shitty Sun gets far too much pleasure out of annoying everyone in their immediate surroundings. A habit that has only gotten worse over the past six years, not that Squalo has noticed.

That’s not his job.

He comes to a stop right in front of Lussuria’s desk, ignoring both his fellow Officer’s fluttering eyelashes and the suddenly perfectly relaxed sprawl that, based on past experiences, only briefly precedes a vicious attack, and slams the papers down in front of the other man.

"Read it."

"What, no foreplay at all? Whoever do you take me for?" Lussuria gasps with playful scandalization—or what counts as playful between the two of them, when the thin sheet of civility barely covering their jagged edges threatens to rip at the first careless movement.

It’s fine. 

There is little Lussuria won’t forgive for a chance to help Boss. Squalo not waiting to be invited in—a Boundary the Sun takes seriously and everyone else knows better than to disrespect—doesn’t even make the list.

Still, Squalo makes a mental note of it as Lussuria scans the documents. No one embodies pettiness like the shitty Sun.

"This is-" 

Lussuria doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead he lays out the map in front of him. Trails one long, purple fingernail along the doodle of a little robot with a missing arm.

When he looks up at Squalo, his eyes burn golden like the midday sun, visible even through the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses.

"How long?"

And look, Squalo knows Lussuria wants the shitty boss back as much as anyone. Knows he is ruthless and unapologetic and the only thing that has stopped him from unleashing his wrath on Vongola is that Xanxus might bear the consequences. But this immediate, unquestioning determination is a relief nonetheless.

"Two days." At most.

Squalo hates to take even this long but they can’t afford to fuck up and risk Xanxus getting moved elsewhere. Or worse. Not when they have a veritable goldmine of intel spread out over Lussuria’s desk. Squalo is going to make sure they use it in the best possible way. For that they unfortunately need time to strategize and gather their resources.

"It’s too long." Lussuria purses his lips.

"A second more is too long," Squalo agrees because it’s true. "But we’re not taking unnecessary risks on this. Our first attempt is the only chance we’ll get, so we’re gonna do it right."

A sigh. "Why do you always have to be so terribly reasonable, Squ-chan?"

Squalo doesn’t smile. "I’m way past reasonable. That’s why we’re gonna do this."

He has already signed the contract. And had Madam sign it as the legal representative of the kid’s mother because if someone is going to raise a stink about the technicalities of accepting a job from a minor later on—and someone will—Squalo is absolutely going to make their life as hard as he possibly can.

Lussuria snorts, though the unhappy curl of his lips speaks less of amusement and more of grim acceptance.

"Agreed."

He doesn’t specify which part of Squalo’s statement he’s agreeing too, but then he doesn’t need to.

"We’re gonna need a team of twelve at least." Squalo has run the numbers in his head already. "Six on Boss’ recovery and transfer and six for clean-up and support."

"Make it eight." Lussuria traces the way from down in the cellar Boss is apparently trapped in all the way up to the Vongola Main House’s main entrance. "This place is a kill zone. If something goes wrong we’ll have to fight our way out."

"Two mists then," Squalo notes. In addition to Mammon, whose involvement is a given. "Gives us more cover. We can’t afford an outright battle."

Not with Boss out of commission.

"What if we can’t avoid it?" Lussuria stares at him through his glasses.

Squalo can’t read the Sun’s expression but he can guess where his mind has gone. After all, the last time they invaded Vongola’s Main House it didn't go well for them. 

Of course they weren’t trying to burn it to the ground then, no matter what bullshit Sawada (Senior?) likes to spew.

Squalo eyes the floor plan. Imagines being trapped in those tunnels with little cover and no way out, so close to getting Xanxus back yet unable to cross those last few meters to the finish line. Failing his Boss again. Having to face Don Vongola, should he be unlucky enough to be taken alive, and—

"No holding back," Squalo rasps. "We’ll go all-out."

Lussuria raises his perfectly plucked eyebrows at him. It’s a death sentence and they both know it. For whom, well, that’s what they’re going to find out.

"My, my, Squ-chan, I didn’t know you had it in you," Lussuria coos in what sure as fucking hell sounds like approval.

Squalo eyes the other man, who is always friendly and chatty with his underlings, whom Xanxus recruited out of Vongola’s guardian training and who as far as Squalo can tell has never said a single word against the Famiglia as a whole. Against the Ninth plenty but not against Vongola itself. And there is a difference there, even though the current management likes to act like there isn’t.

That Lussuria is…eager to see Vongola burn, to destroy the very foundation on which their entire world, their lives have been built, maybe as eager as Squalo is himself, is a strange thought. 

A worrying one too.

Unbidden another memory rises to the forefront of his mind. An old warning his mother gave him many years ago, during one of the few times where she remembered the children she has born the man she despises.

Elements don’t tend to survive the loss of their Sky, Squalo. And the ones who do… So when you choose to court one, be sure that they are strong.

Xanxus had been strong. He’d been—

Squalo cuts himself off. Wipes his trembling flesh hand on his pants.

Not now. Not when they finally have an end in sight.

"I’ve got a squad in mind," he says, pretending like the past minute never happened.

Lussuria nods, all thoughts of vengeance shoved aside for the moment. "I’ll prepare medical. We can’t be sure what to expect but it won’t hurt to be ready for hypothermia, frostbite and other related skin damage."

Squalo grimaces. 

They have looked into whatever flame technique left their Boss frozen alive over the years, but other than the name and that the fucking monstrosity was developed by Giotto himself, they haven’t had much luck. As far as Lussuria has been able to tell, no one has ever been frozen for longer than a couple of hours at most, so nobody can tell them what to expect.

Another reason why Xanxus should have been freed years ago.

"I’ll have Valhalla and Floof on standby," Lussuria decides. "They are quick thinkers and much better at integrating their Flames with other designations. We’ll need that."

Yeah, Squalo is not going to question that. Lussuria is their medical expert for a reason.

"Alright, you’ve given me a lot to do and almost no time to get it done, Squ-chan." The Sun finally sighs. "Just one more thing and then I kindly ask you to let me get everything ready."

Translation: You’ve worn out my patience. Get out or I’ll make you get out.

"What is it?"

Lussuria straightens from his previous slouch and surveys Squalo for a long moment. What the man is searching for, he doesn’t know, nor whether he finds it.

"How credible is this information?"

Of course. Squalo has expected that question much earlier if he is honest. 

It’s no secret that he wants Boss back and wants it badly. Leading a suicide mission in one last attempt to manage it… Frankly, he wouldn’t be the first.

"I’m not sure." He shrugs. "Parts of it Information will be able to verify, the rest… There’s no real telling, but my gut says to trust the kid."

"The kid." Lussuria repeats slowly. 

Tilts his head down to stare at a comic strip of a little roomba attempting to do a summersault as though he is noticing it for the first time.

"The kid brought it all, offered us a contract to kidnap Xanxus and get him out of there." Squalo waves in the general direction of said kid and takes care to speak in a reasonable tone of voice because maybe that will force the words to make more sense. "Literally rung our door bell a good hour and a half ago."

Lussuria continues to stare at him, which is fair.

"What kid?"

"What do you mean, what kid? That fucking…" Squalo trails off, his flesh hand still up in the air, pointing at the doorway.

The empty doorway.

"Fuck."

Squalo has lost the kid.

Less than two hours have gone by since a strange child with a suspiciously familiar last name has appeared at Varia Headquarters with detailed plans on how to free their shitty boss and a proper business contract to file said rescue under. And there is a perverse pleasure in that fact, for Squalo has full faith in the monstrosity that is Vongola’s bureaucracy. If he fills out all the proper forms, the clerks at the Main House will clear the mission and it will officially no longer be treason.

Technically.

A technicality is a fuck-load better than any other option Squalo can’t admit to have considered in the past six years.

He will ask Mammon to double-check this for him, of course, nobody knows Vongola’s processes better than their resident miser, and if they can avoid some of the political backlash in the aftermath of freeing Xanxus, they will do that. Squalo is a patient man. He has waited for half a decade for the chance to get his Sky back, he won’t waste this opportunity without exploiting every single advantage it can offer them.

After all, the problem has never just been how to get Xanxus out. As impossible as it has proven to be to find worthwhile information on Boss’ status and location, the much more pressing issue had been the whole matter of if we burn Vongola to the ground to get him back, we’ll have to salt the earth and keep on moving. 

Which would not have impressed Xanxus. At all.

A sanctioned mission is a different matter. Of course there will still be those pointing fingers and calling treason, but those voices are already sprouting bullshit to anyone who will listen now—and a lot who don’t. Besides just as many people will believe the Ninth is behind such a move himself as a way to finally let his wayward offspring off the hook without appearing soft. 

All of this means that, for the first time in longer than he cares to admit, Squalo has genuine hope to get his Sky back.

It is only fitting that the universe immediately retaliates. By letting Squalo lose the kid who is the sole cause of this sudden lifeline he has been thrown in the middle of the Varia’s well-trapped headquarters, filled to the brim with bored, insane, stir-crazy and occasionally trigger-happy assassins.

God fucking damnit. 

"You’re telling me you lost an actual child inside our headquarters." Lussuria speaks in the voice of someone who is both deeply amused and deeply horrified by the nonsense they are surrounded by.

Squalo can relate. He’s a little too busy panicking though.

"I didn’t lose him!" he snaps back. "I just don’t know where he went."

Which isn’t any better and he knows that, but if he is going to get brutally murdered by Madam, he is going to set the record straight first.

"Some would argue that that is the definition of losing someone." 

And yeah, forget everything vaguely complimentary Squalo has ever thought about Lussuria. He’s going to seriously maim that bastard. Just as soon as he figures out where the fuck the kid could have snuck off to.

Which, inside the Varia’s Main House, a purposefully difficult building to navigate, full of narrow hallways, secret passages and more or less deadly boobytraps, is pretty much anywhere.

"Maybe he got hungry?" Lussuria suggests from where the Sun is casually trailing after Squalo, ostensibly to help look for the boy. 

Squalo isn’t fooled. The asshole is here to watch Squalo get vivisected by Madam’s fury—and maybe to watch the chaos of a little pre-teen running wild inside their odd-on-a-good-day headquarters unfold.

A civilian pre-teen. 

Squalo speeds up a little.

Most Varia members' first response to stumbling upon an unknown child probably won’t be murder. He hopes. That’s not a guarantee though. And no murder leaves plenty of other bases uncovered. Not to mention the traps that range from annoying to life-threatening for trained operatives, not small children.

Fuck. Squalo really hasn’t thought this through.

At least Lussuria’s suggestion makes some sense. The promise of food is probably as good a reason as any to wander off into the unknown to a person who hasn’t developed their survival instincts yet.

Though Squalo can’t say he has ever done something so stupid. The kid might be a civilian but he knows he is surrounded by assassins.

You did cut off your dominant hand before you challenged the Head of the Varia to a death match, a nagging voice in the back of his head states.

Squalo pointedly ignores it. 

There is no hint of the kid in either the kitchens or the lunch hall, nor do they pass any poleaxed operatives who might have had a run-in with the confusing little brat.

Now that Squalo thinks about it, he should probably just follow the noise of the biggest ruckus around. A kid who has the gall to hire the Varia to retrieve their own leader from under Vongola’s nose for no reason that he can discern won’t be found anywhere else.

He checks on the training fields first—always a nice show, especially for a civilian—and interrupts two mock fights and a very real arm wrestling contest, poisoned water bottles and active blackmail threats included, but the boy is nowhere to be seen. He has even checked on Belphegor because the shitty prince absolutely would kill the kid without blinking but thankfully he’s passed out in his room, snoring so loudly Squalo can hear it from the other end of the hallway.

It makes no fucking sense.

"Someone should’ve rung the alarm by now." Lussuria’s thoughts seem to run along the same lines.

Squalo has to agree. The kid can’t have run around undetected for half an hour in the home of an entire assassination division. And if he has, they clearly need to raise their standards because this is just embarrassing.

His options are to keep searching or to ask Housekeeping for help. Which would mean confronting Madam without the kid.

Yeah, no.

Squalo is going to turn the entire building upside down if he has to. It takes time, but it’s not like there are unlimited places to hide. And who knows, maybe he’ll be lucky and find the kid curled up sleeping in a cupboard or knocked out in a non-lethal paralyzing net or something. 

Realistically speaking and disregarding the worst-case scenario any Officer worth their title automatically gravitates towards, how much trouble can one boy possibly get into right in the middle of their territory?

As though in answer to the thoughtlessly asked question, the ground underneath their feet wobbles.

Not trembles or shakes like it might if there was an actual earthquake—not likely—or a large enough explosion to do some structural damage—significantly more likely—but wobbles. Squalo staggers hard as the ground appears to move two steps to the right on its own accord before equally suddenly snapping back in place, like a rubber band that has been stretched to its limit and then released.

Lussuria looks as pale as Squalo feels, though whether that stems from the sickening sensation of having reality warp around them without warning or the immediate realization of what this means that follows right at its heels is hard to say.

Not that Squalo gives a fuck. He has already taken off running.

Generally speaking the only ones capable of literally pulling out reality from underneath your feet like it is an ugly carpet they keep meaning to replace, are Mists. While the Varia houses an entire division of overly-curious, regularly bored Mists on top of a lot of other, equally dangerous and inventive flame actives, there is only one explanation for the way the walls tremble in and out of focus for a second and that is Mammon.

They control the entirety of the Varia’s Territory. 

If they can feel the disturbances all the way over here—for forty-two seconds before reality reasserts itself which is a deeply concerning amount of time—then Squalo isn’t sure he wants to know what has upset the miser so much. He has the sinking feeling it has something to do with the missing kid though.

The door to Mammon’s office is closed and sealed shut by a reinforced mist lock that radiates enough very active Killing Intent to make Squalo flinch at first touch. And he is actually coded in with an emergency access. Even for the anti-social miser that is not a promising sign.

Steeling himself for whatever nightmare awaits him on the other side of the door, Squalo takes a controlled breath in a vain effort to shake off the unsettling aura of threat that radiates out through the wood in front of him, and opens the door.

The first thing he sees is the kid. Because of course the kid is here. Smack in the middle of the biggest ruckus it could find, just like Squalo expected.

"YOU!" Squalo shouts before he realizes that’s what he is going to do. "I told you to follow me!"

The kid has the good sense to look guilty, sinking further into the cheap but comfortable armchair—Mammon’s favorite type—he is curled up in and staring up at Squalo with unnaturally big eyes. He looks like a wet kitten that has been fished out of a river.

"I got distracted," the kid mumbles. He lowers his gaze and stares down at his lap like the glass of strawberry milk is the most fascinating thing he has ever seen.

It takes Squalo a moment to process what he is seeing. 

The kid, alive and unharmed against all odds, is sitting in Mammon’s favorite visitor chair. The one they fine any unfortunate soul who comes close enough to touch it 200 euros for. He is also drinking strawberry milk. The same strawberry milk the kitchens order for Mammon and only for Mammon. It’s one of the maybe three things the fucking miser pays for himself and god forbids anyone else have a sip.

He turns to Mammon, who should be apoplectic with rage and oh, they absolutely are, the shadows swirl and distort around them in dizzying patterns that belie the way reality has settled back into its framework outside this room. Yet somehow that rage isn’t focused on the kid committing these offenses right in front of them. It’s not not focused on the kid either, though.

Yeah, the best thing to do is to get the kid out of this room before he gets turned into a smear on the wall and then figure out what he has done to upset Mammon. 

Damage control can wait. And if that isn’t a statement for the way this day is going, Squalo doesn’t know what is.

Squalo doesn’t take more than two steps towards the boy before he, in a move displaying a glorious lack of sense of self-preservation, takes a sip from his strawberry milk. And hums.

Mammon stills. The shadows around them still. Squalo could swear the fucking IKEA clock on the wall stills.

Every single shadow in the room seems to become second and turn its attention onto the kid with unnerving intensity.

The kid doesn’t seem to notice. He’s staring contemplatively at his glass. 

"It’s not bad," he says. "I think I like blueberry better though."

Then, apparently remembering Squalo’s presence, the kid turns towards him. "Do you want some too? We can share."

"No, thanks," Squalo says on autopilot. Mammon still hasn’t moved. "How about we go visit the kitchen and find out if they have something for you to eat, huh?"

Because Lussuria’s idea hadn’t been a bad one. And if it gets them out of here so Mammon can have their breakdown in peace, all the better.

"Okay." The clueless idiot fucking beams. 

He carefully climbs out of the chair and instead of doing the sane thing and ignoring the Mist in the middle of a mental breakdown, he waves and chirps "Bye Officer Mammon!" like wants to be dropped into an illusion that will crack his sanity like an uncooked egg.

Squalo hurriedly shoves him out of the room and kicks the door shut behind him. Five corners and an entire wing away from that office, he can still feel the weight of the shadows’ stares.

"Alright, kid, time to fess up," Squalo announces once they have safely made it to the kitchen, where a confused cook has happily served the kid chicken nuggets. 

It’s the most normal thing the boy has done so far, which is probably why it’s so unsettling. Squalo eyes the little dinosaur shaped pieces suspiciously but decides to focus on the more pressing issue. For now.

"What did you tell Mammon?"

The boy looks up from where he is attempting to drown his crisp fries in a nauseating amount of ketchup. 

"What do you mean?" He appears honestly confused.

"Kid." Squalo doesn’t know what to say. "Mammon literally dissolved into an aggressive, shape-shifting ball of shadows right in front of you."

"I know." The kid nods so hard, his hair flies up in every direction. "I just figured they do that sometimes? And that it would be impolite to point it out?" 

Squalo squints suspiciously because even though the kid looks sincere, there is just something nagging at him that he can’t quite pinpoint.

Lussuria, being no help at all, coos.

"You did wonderful, darling," he insists.

The kid accepts that and goes back to turning his fries into a mashed mess. 

Squalo refuses to give up so easily though.

"How did you even end up on the other side of the mansion?" He still can’t wrap his head around the fact that the kid made it all the way to the other wing and two floors up without running into any other trouble. 

Clearly their security needs an update.

"I got lost looking for you." The boy answers easily, showing much less concern at the apparent flaws he has inadvertently exposed in their security. As well he should, given that fixing it will be Squalo’s headache, not his. 

"Then I ran into Officer Mammon. They said I could wait in their office and they would send someone to come get you as soon as you pay a finder’s fee," the kid continues his explanation.

He doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that he was essentially taken for ransom. But he’s also ran away from home to seek out professional assassins, so maybe that part doesn’t register as worrisome to him.

At least that part of the story sounds like the ruthless miser Squalo knows.

"Then we talked for a bit and then you showed up."

Squalo bites his tongue to swallow down a heartfelt curse. Why is it that Sawada Tsunayoshi is perfectly accommodating to everything he asks and yet no help? What the hell is going on with this kid?

"What did you talk about then? With Officer Mammon?" Squalo can’t believe he says those words unironically.

"Nothing much." The kid shrugs, apparently having lost interest in the conversation when he can brutalize his meal instead. Eh. Maybe he fits in better with the Varia than Squalo would have expected. "I asked how finder’s fees worked and then he complained about his colleagues and then we talked about hobbies."

"Hobbies." 

Squalo exchanges a disbelieving glance with Lussuria over the kid’s head. Mammon does not have hobbies.

"Everyone should have a hobby," the kid says with an unshakeable conviction that would not be out of place in a cult leader. "I suggested glass blowing."

"Glass blowing," Lussuria mouths, baffled.

"There’s a lot of things you can build out of glass if you know what you’re doing," the kid continues, undisturbed by the gaping assassins on both of his sides. He sounds like he is repeating a commercial or documentation of some kind. "A lot of things you can contain too, when you use the right materials."

"And that way they can make something better than that clunky pacifier too," the boy adds and stabs a t-rex shaped nugget with his fork. "They don’t seem to like it much, so it seemed like a good idea."

Lussuria chokes on his cocktail.

Never let it be said that Squalo doesn’t learn from his mistakes. 

After the kid as finished decimating his disgusting meal, Squalo personally accompanies him to a guest room he is 90 percent sure has never been made use of until today and settles the kid in with strict orders not to leave without an Officer to watch over him.

The kid doesn’t argue—which from what little Squalo knows of children is suspicious—and instead yawns so hard, it looks like he’s splitting his face in half, which should give them around seven to nine hours to figure out how to deal with that problem.

Until then, Squalo returns to his own office that has so far remained completely untouched from the madness that has arrived on their doorstep today. The couch in the left corner is as comfortable as he remembers, though the off-white ceiling fails to provide any answers to the chaotic mess he calls his life.

Nothing new there.

"What the fuck." Squalo says.

It feels like an accurate summary of the day.

Lussuria, who has invited himself along on the grounds of Squalo overstaying his welcome in his office too and also because he probably as things to say he doesn’t want any curious operatives to hear, and is currently checking out his bar makes an unhelpful hum.

At least reality is stable around them, so Mammon must have calmed down by now. Squalo is going to wait a few more hours to check on them though. 

Just in case.

"He’s an interesting client for sure," Lussuria states once he has finished expertly mixing himself a cosmopolitan. "And you think his information is legit."

Squalo…hesitates.

The truth is, he shouldn’t believe the kid. It makes no fucking sense that some civilian pre-teen from Japan somehow has access to the information their best operatives have failed to get their hands on for the past six years—in large parts thanks to Vongola’s and the CEDEF’s watchful interference, who can apparently be competent when sufficiently motivated—and then decides to hand-deliver them to the Varia. Something is off about this child. Squalo’s instincts practically scream it at him.

Sawada Tsunayoshi, as he has introduced himself to Lussuria with a respectful bow and an unassuming smile, has no reason to be here and even less reason to be invested in Xanxus’ fate.

Common sense says this is exactly the ridiculous sort of trap certain people at the CEDEF would try to spin to finally provoke them into a move the Varia won’t come back from.

But.

Squalo hasn’t chosen his path as a Varia assassin and second-in-command at fourteen with one limb voluntarily down because of common sense.

"Kid says he wants Boss out," is what he settles on. "I believe him."

Lussuria sips on his fruity cocktail instead of arguing, which is as good as an agreement. Puts his glass down with a very deliberate delicate motion.

"He looks like Primo," he says apropos nothing.

Squalo grunts. He’s been trying not to think about that.

"His last name is Sawada," Lussuria continues evenly.

Yeah. Squalo has been trying not to think about that too.

"Better than Vongola," he shoots back with a dry smirk he doesn’t feel.

I’m willing to risk it, he doesn’t say.

Lussuria watches him for a long moment. His body language gives nothing away. Squalo wonders if he’s going to have to smuggle the kid out in a true cloak-and-dagger-operation to spare him an especially unpleasant death. Surprises himself with the realization that he might do that.

"Well, I can’t argue with that." Lussuria reaches for one of Squalo’s best whiskey bottles and a glass, and offers him both.

Squalo takes the bottle.

The Sun laughs with genuine glee. "This should be interesting. Very interesting indeed, Squ-chan."

The worst part is that the dramatic bastard’s words feel like an understatement.

Chapter Text

Squalo doesn’t tear his own hair out but it takes more self-control than he likes. Or can afford to spend on such inconsequential things, what with how heavily he relies on his ever-fraying patience to get through the day. Now more than ever.

Going by the increase of lingering glances from his Rains and several of the more out-spoken squad leaders, his sudden temper hasn’t gone unnoticed. 

Thankfully—for a given meaning of the word—mood swings are nothing unusual among the Varia’s elite these days. Or ever, probably, but they have become all but after losing Xanxus they’ve become all but normal. No one, not even his oldest, most experienced Rains, will question it. 

Squalo tries to take some satisfaction in that—the way Nono has created the perfect environment to create his worst fears—but the sentiment rings hollow.

Every day he doesn’t storm the Iron Fort weighs on him. It was torture before, when Squalo didn’t know where Xanxus was kept, how to reach him, could only rage in helpless fury at the injustice of it all. But now? Now that Squalo has the information he needs, now that he is perfectly capable of getting his Sky back, every day he doesn’t act on it feels like a personal failure. 

Lussuria is similarly restless, though the Sun expresses it in different ways. Namely by busying himself with overhauling the entire infirmary and reevaluating every single one of his minions while he is at it.

Ottavio tried to kick up a fuss about that second part, on accounts of the anonymous complaints of several Suns that have supposedly reached him. He failed spectacularly, of course. Squalo has no idea what the Cloud Officer was thinking. An Officer’s authority is absolute. Their rule only structured by the rules the Varia have been built on and still adhere to, in as much as is deemed wise and tolerable. 

Only the Head of the Varia can overrule an Officer. As the Varia’s Head has been out of commission but never officially or unofficially removed from his position, only tradition, habits and their shared overall objective has kept the Varia from fracturing into torn-up, bloody pieces.

The sole other option to overrule an Officer’s decision is to kill them, and only an element under their purview is allowed to do so.

Well, they or an uninvolved third-party, as the shitty Prince’s overnight promotion has proven. But that sort of talent and will is rare and should there have been even a hint of suspicion that his victory had been orchestrated by another Officer, there would have been hell to pay. In blood.

That’s the way the Varia works. Has always worked.

And Ottavio damn well knows it.

That waste-of-time temper tantrum of his is not the main reason why Squalo has decided to keep the Cloud Officer out-of-the-loop until he has his Sky back, but it certainly hasn’t made him want to reconsider the decision.

Nor has it endeared the man to Lussuria, which is never a good thing. 

The shitty Sun does a good job of pretending to comply with the Varia’s rules but Squalo has no illusions. Lussuria only adhere to the words, never mind the spirit, if and when it suits him. If there is an Officer who has no qualms to kill Ottavio for overstepping, it is the Sun.

Belphegor doesn’t have the patience to pull it off, Mammon can’t be bothered and Levi, more than any of them—in no small part thanks to what some high-handed fuckwits call 'lightening training’ and Squalo knows to be abuse—has been raised on the sanctity of rules to the point that it would never occur to him to circumvent one.

Squalo doesn’t doubt any of their loyalty to Boss—but.

But.

Acting on the information, the excuse Tsunayoshi has given them—and it is an excuse, nothing more, nothing less, and whatever happens in the aftermath of this mission, whether they succeed or fail, people will know it—is to act against Nono. Against Vongola.

The Varia has never officially belonged to Vongola. This has been a deliberate decision that benefited both parties at the time of the organization’s founding, had enabled the Varia to act when the Vongola Family couldn’t be seen involving itself, had freed them to accept missions and be approached by those outside Vongola’s immediate sphere of influence. 

But even before Xanxus—especially before Xanxus, and maybe that is on Squalo or maybe that is on Nono, at this point he honestly doesn’t give a fuck who started it—they have always been loyal.

If they fail to free Xanxus, Squalo’s life is forfeit. It wouldn’t even matter if he wasn’t the one behind it, if it wasn’t his signature on Tsunayoshi’s request, because he is the Varia’s substitute Head. The closest to a leader they have and can accept and so the responsibility falls on him. 

Similarly, Lussuria’s involvement isn’t optional. Hasn’t been a spur-of-the-moment decision. Should they free Xanxus, his Sky will need a healer and Lussuria is the only Sun Squalo would trust with that job. Grudgingly. On account of the strained wisps of smoke that could have solidified into a proper bond given time before.

Before.

Squalo shakes his head. 

Focus.

Squalo has hand-picked every single person involved in the mission four days ago and been going through every single one of their files with a fine-haired comb ever since. Just in case. None of them will be briefed until they are ready to act, the risk is simply too high. That, however, means that they cannot afford a single misstep. Everyone involved needs to to their job, be suited and well-prepared for said job and, most importantly, possess not even a hint of divided loyalties.

That last one, of course, being the most problematic one.

Squalo has made sure to have three fallback options lined up but that will inevitably fuck up not just their timing but also the whole team’s confidence, so he is trying to ensure it won’t come to that.

The Rains Squalo is as confident about as he can be. Lussuria has similarly assured him of the Suns. Considering the dangerous glint in his eyes, Squalo has elected not to question him. Not once his own research failed to drag any red flags to light, at least. The Storms and Mists should be fine as well. Belphegor doesn’t suffer idiots and Squalo refuses to believe that there is a single train of thought in any of the Mists that Mammon doesn’t know about, not that that has stopped him from reevaluating them trice.

From the Lightenings, only Levi’s second-in-command is capable enough of wielding his Flames and lying into someone’s face without flinching for Squalo to even consider anyone else. If Benzin doesn’t work out, much as it aches to admit, they will have to get by without Lightening. It’s why he has one Rain with a secondary Lightening Flame listed as back-up.

He hopes it won’t come to that—whatever else Benzin can be accused of, a fondness for Vongola won’t be it. 

Squalo doesn’t know the story behind it but he does know that Benzin wouldn’t be here if the choice for any Flame-active in Italy with ambition of any kind wasn’t between the Vongola Guardian Training and the Varia. Their choice couldn’t be a surprise for anyone who spends more than five minutes in their company. Especially if a topic even tangentially related to an underground political issue is mentioned in that time.

Squalo is counting on that same low-simmering fury to work in their favor, but he won’t stack the entire mission on it.

The true headache, though, are the Clouds. As is in their nature. 

Ideally, they would take four but despite his best attempts Squalo cannot bring himself to clear more than the initial three that stood out to him. And… He is less willing to take risks with Clouds than with any other aspect.

Not because Squalo doesn’t like Ottavio but because Clouds are obstinate and strong-willed by design. Any who deem saving Boss—betraying Vongola—against their personal code or even their own interest will do their best to sabotage the mission.

As much as it irks Squalo, they might have to make do with just the three. 

On the bright side, he is confident in those three. And the rest of his selection, truth be told.

No way to know for sure until we brief them.

That said… Squalo likes their odds.

Even better is the coded message Lussuria sent him right before lunch. Everything is ready. All they need now is a time and a proper distraction.

"Fucking what?!"

It’s the fourth time in the last half an hour that insistent knocking interrupts him. Squalo has put his more questionable planning aside after the first disruption, leery of drawing attention, especially since his office door is usually open in the early afternoon.

Someone among the upper management of the Varia needs to be somewhat accessible, and it’s not gonna be Xanxus, is it.

"Sorry for the disruption, Officer." A thin waif of a person steps through the narrow gap and immediately closes the door behind them again.

It takes Squalo a moment to place the heart-shaped face with those ridiculous blonde curls and precise bubblegum pink lipstick. Cicici, he finally recalls. One of Ottavio’s brood, withdrawn even among their fellow Clouds.

They gained their Name on a mission in Brazil that went to hell before they even set foot in the country, led through a high-speed chase across three borders and ended in a shoot-out that, despite the clean-up crew’s best efforts, made international headlines. Half the squad didn’t make it, and of the three that did one retired right away, one lost a fucking hand and one was sent out as a rookie on loan for field-experience and came back Named and field-promoted as the de-facto squad leader.

Squalo personally interviewed all three of the survivors and studied their detailed mission reports on top of it, but he doesn’t fool himself into thinking even half the relevant experiences have made it into the paperwork. He asked Eucalyptus about the background on Cicici’s name once and got hysterical laughter and a barely comprehensible stutter of 'wind chimes, fucking wind chimes' for his effort.

Squalo didn’t ask again. Just accepted Cicici’s promotion, Hades’ retirement and sent Eucalyptus off to medical for a proper assessment. 

As far as he knows, Cicici hasn’t caused any trouble since. Nor have there been any complaints about their abilities. If not for the singular clusterfuck that took months to untangle, he probably wouldn’t have remembered their Name’s backstory or what little he knows of it at all.

"What do you need?" He doesn’t waste time on pleasantries.

Cicici straightens under his gaze but doesn’t otherwise shift in place. "I realize it’s not my place to speak up," they say steadily.

Not a good start.

No, it probably isn’t, lies on the tip of Squalo’s tongue. He keeps the words locked behind his teeth out of habit as much as practicality. It is easier to get rid off annoyances when he gives them enough rope to hang themselves with.

"But Primus caught your little duckling in the armory."

Squalo twitches at that, suitably alarmed. There is only one person Cicici can be referring to as Squalo’s duckling, and while Squalo makes a mental note to track down the one who first came up with that moniker, experience over the last week has taught him that he has bigger things to worry about someone comments on Tsunayoshi’s behavior.

Either because it is concerning—for a Varia member’s definition of concerning, which is frankly its own horror—or because it is disturbing—again, for a member of an international assassination squad—or both.

"The armory." Squalo drags a hand over his face and tries very hard not to picture the kid with a sword sticking out of one of his feet. Or his gut. "How the hell did he get in there."

It’s not a real question. At the same time it very much is.

A day may come when the inability of some of his best grown and trained infiltrators to keep an eye on a twelve-year-old civilian child stops troubling Squalo, but it is not this day.

Cicici must read some of the annoyance—it can’t be despair, Squalo refuses to feel anything more than a twinge of frustration for the brat that cannot let a day go by without trying to give him a heart-attack—on his face because they shrug expressively.

"Apparently, there was a training accident that has kept the Sun Officer occupied and the kid got bored and wandered off."

Of course he did. 

Damn it, I thought we got it under control.

After the disastrous first day, Squalo has sat Tsunayoshi down and taken care to explain in very small words that the Varia Headquarters are not child-friendly in any shape or form and that he is to never walk around unsupervised.

He’d made the kid promise not to run off on his own. They fucking pinky-swore and god if that didn’t remind him of his little sister in the most painful way—because Squalo wasn’t born yesterday and Tsunayoshi may have big, brown bambi eyes but there is just something about the way he smiles sometimes, soft and so achingly sweet, that has Squalo convinced the kid is laughing at him as much as with him.

No child capable of hunting down the Varia and hiring them to steal a high-profile hostage from right under Vongola Nono’s nose can be as clueless as Tsunayoshi appears. 

Squalo hasn’t questioned the kid much because he doesn’t want to, not yet, not without his Sky back where he belongs, but he knows there is more to the child than he wants to admit. Knows, too, that Tsunayoshi understood why he can’t just treat the Varia Headquarters as his personal playground. And fuck. He is pretty sure Tsunayoshi meant it, when he promised Squalo that he would follow the rules.

Go nowhere without a Varia operative who has been explicitly charged by an Officer to keep watch over him. Not leave the visitor areas without the explicit permission of an Officer.

So it’s not that Tsunayoshi is obstinate on purpose or that he goes out of his way to give Squalo a heart-attack or grey hair far beyond his time—and no, his hair isn’t already grey, fuck what the shitty Prince says, it’s fucking silver now drop it—it’s just that the kid…forgets.

Or is made to forget, Squalo honestly isn’t sure.

He’s seen it happen once. Saw Tsunayoshi skip down the hallway in the direction of the kitchen, happily humming an unfamiliar tune under his breath while Cthullu, one of Squalo’s more melodramatic Rains, was neck-deep in a heated argument with Zucca, only to stumble to a stop suddenly, as though someone had grabbed a hold of the back of his borrowed sweatshirt and held him in place. 

But there was no one there.

Tsunayoshi’s had tilted his head, face turned away from Squalo, gaze fixed on one among many closed doors as though there was a hidden message carved into its wood, and then he turned on his heels and walked away, a far-away look in his eyes, still a carefree grin on his lips.

He’d walked right into Squalo. 

As in he had walked a good five steps before they had collided. Even distracted by whatever sudden realization had been sparked inside him, Tsunayoshi should have seen him, should have instinctively attempted to evade the obstacle in his path. He hadn’t.

He had stumbled back, would have fallen if Squalo hadn’t caught him by his shoulders, the skinny bones feeling far too breakable under his hands for comfort.

"Oh, hi." The kid had breathed, surprised, delighted.

"You’re going in the wrong direction," Squalo had snapped, more confused than angry. "No slipping away, remember?"

And the little shit had giggled and nodded, no hint of chagrin or defiance, and blinked up at Squalo with molten eyes, gaze so warm it must have been made out of liquid sunlight. 

"Thank you, big Shark."  

A small wave. Sweet. Honest.

So much sentiment it made Squalo grit his teeth against whatever is brewing inside his chest. But the kid had obeyed his prompting and continued to trail after Cthullu. For a while.

From what his underlings have been telling him, that incident hasn’t been an isolated occurrence. The kid is perfectly well-behaved, content to listen to whoever is put in charge of him on a given day, right up until he doesn’t. And when he doesn’t, it’s never the loud kind of rebellion that Squalo is sort of used to from the shitty Prince’s temper-tantrums.

Tsunayoshi doesn’t scream or rage, he grows quiet. Fades into the background until even the sensors have trouble picking up on his presence—though the complete lack of even a hint of Flames probably helps with that. He is always caught, sometimes sooner, sometimes later, and he never seems to mind when he is. Just goes along with his current babysitter, accepts the rebuke and moves on.

It’s troubling.

More than Squalo wants to admit. Because then he would have to do something about it. And he can’t have that, not yet, can he.

"Why the armory?" Squalo asks Cicici brusquely instead of continuing to follow that unsettling line of thought.

"He was searching for a dagger. Apparently he’s trying to make friends." They shrug, this time with a familiar air of nonchalant what-can-you-do that comes with spending your formative years inside a madhouse where weapons, poison and death threats are considered acts of affection as often as they are taken as threats.

It’s maybe no surprise that Tsunayoshi has picked up on that. If nothing else the kid is sharp. 

"Anyway." Cicici shakes their head as though to clear it. "The point is that Primus dragged your duckling to the closest available Officer, as per your orders."

Which is good news, except for how it cannot be. Good news would not end with a perpetually uninvolved Cloud standing in his office, getting involved. 

"Which Officer?" Squalo asks because he’s never been accused of being slow on the uptake.

It could be Ottavio, would make sense even with Cicici here, except for the fact that the Cloud Officer may be a pretentious scumbag who puts too much stock in playing politics but he won’t actually kill a civilian kid under Madam’s protection inside their Headquarters. Not when he has nothing to gain from it.

Levi on the other hand can’t be accused of making sane choices on a good day. And it’s been a long time since the man has had a good day.

"His Officer." Cicici raises their eyebrows as though the answer should be obvious.

Which means-

Squalo groans. "The shitty Prince had better read the missive."

If he hasn’t, if he has somehow failed to learn about Tsunayoshi’s presence and decided to take it out in the kid or—admittedly more likely—Primus, Squalo will find a way to make him pay. Officer or not.

Belphegor’s disregard for paperwork of any kind is legendary. As is his second-in-command’s priceless efficiency. Say what you want about the shitty Prince but he’s picked his minions well.

"He did," Cicici thankfully confirms. "Wasn’t impressed by your duckling, but Sahara was there, so I figured the kid would survive it."

Fair.

"Besides your duckling seemed…" Cicici pauses for a moment, uncharacteristically hesitant. "Attached," she finally settles on. "So it will probably be fine."

Attached echoes through Squalo’s head like his mind has been turned into a haunted house. He is not sure why that worries him but, oh, it does.

"What exactly will probably be fine?" It’s been a while since Squalo has heard such an ominous sentence.

"Well." Cicici dithers for a moment. Squalo has never seen the unflappable Cloud look so genuinely uncomfortable. "The Storm Officer has signed himself and the duckling out for the day. Apparently they have gone on a, and I quote, bonding trip."

Squalo stares at them.

Tries to comprehend the words.

Tries to picture any world in which Belphegor would lower himself to such a pointless activity with a flameless civilian kid with no hint of Royal blood and strong ties to the head of the CEDEF that the shitty Prince rightfully despises.

Dismisses those attempts as useless and instead tries to picture what someone like Belphegor might consider a bonding trip.

Squalo doesn’t know what would be worse, for Belphegor to decide to get rid of the pest that Tsunayoshi could easily be perceived as or for him to genuinely want to bond. Either way it is sure to end in deep-seated psychological trauma at best and generous applications of murder and torture at worst.

"When did they leave? And where?"

Cicici grimaces. "Three hours ago. And I don’t know, the Officer didn’t share his plans."

No, Belphegor never does. The shitty Prince is notorious for doing whatever he wants whenever he wants and it tends to be in the best interest of everyone involved to not have too many paper trails concerning his questionable activities around. Makes denial a hell of a lot easier, which has become more necessary in recent years. 

Still. Three hours. And no one on duty on the activity roster has seen it fit to inform him.

Probably because no one in this fucking building has the common sense to understand that just because Belphegor is an Officer does not make him suitable supervision for an actual living child in any way. 

Squalo curses creatively.

Cicici nods in wordless agreement. "I only heard about it once Balu took a break, but I figured you would want to know."

To prepare, they don’t say.

It’s too late to send Trackers after them now. Well, Squalo could, but that would draw attention. More attention than the presence of a civilian minor already has.

It’s not the first time Squalo prioritizes Xanxus over the kid’s own safety and sanity but he dislikes the unwelcome feeling of something resembling guilt writhing restlessly in his lower stomach. Steels himself against it.

Exhales.

"You thought right. Tell the receptionist to let me know the second they step through the door," he orders. "Dismissed."

Cicici inclines their head and is gone from his office as swiftly and unobtrusively as they first entered it. Squalo’s glance remains stuck on the clock for a moment. Ten minutes.

It’s been ten minutes and he feels several years older.

Fucking Sawadas.

If the kid survives Belphegor’s idea of a friendly outing, Squalo is going to skin him alive. And ground him, possibly until he’s thirty but at the very least until his Sky is back and Squalo can drop this bullshit on Xanxus’ lap to deal with.

It would serve his stupid Sky right.

Belphegor and Tsunayoshi don’t return for six more hours. When they finally do—three hours after dinner, which was the point at which Lussuria caught on to Tsunayoshi’s disappearance, fun times for everyone involved—Squalo doesn’t need the receptionist on duty to call for him.

He has been pacing up and down the entrance hall for the past thirty-six minutes, getting more restless with every turn that failed to magically produce the two people whose return he is waiting for. And they better be returning. Both of them. Unharmed.

Squalo won’t ask for unchanged, he’s not that much of an optimist, but with any luck it won’t be anything a couple of decades in therapy and some serious Mist-fuckery won’t be able to fix.

So Squalo is there when the entrance door is pushed open with more force than necessary. There to hear the end—or possibly start—of an all too familiar, haughty voice ranting, "-has done His Royal Duty, whatever may be left to do is for the peasants to decide but a Prince’s Word is not lightly given-"

The shitty Prince’s mouth snaps shut the moment he steps through the entrance and catches sight of whatever expression Squalo wears. Probably a murderous one.

Squalo doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about much of anything right now. Because Belphegor? Belphegor is fucking drenched in blood. And Squalo doesn’t use that expression lightly. 

Wores, he is intimately familiar with the spray of cut arteries and bloody murders. Knows from experience that the grime and innards painted across the Storm Officer’s previously pristine uniform speaks not simply of murder—because no single death would make such a mess, not even multiple ones, not when Belphegor is more than capable of killing quickly and getting rid of the evidence with his Flames—but a massacre.

A violent, horrific slaughter that leaves walls and ceilings dripping with blood, bodies torn into so many pieces you can’t hope to sort out which limb belonged to which torso and there is something visceral about the bright red glow lighting up the Prince’s eyes. Something close to the high of a particularly successful hunt, of the satisfaction that comes with a hard-earned reward.

It is Belphegor with all his masks stripped away, still arrogant, still so much surer of himself than his age should allow for, still so violent it feels like there lives a storm under his skin, howling relentlessly, and yet less somehow.

Prince the Ripper.

Squalo doesn’t allow himself to swallow, to let even a hint of unease slip past his iron self-control. The little lunatic has a nose for weakness but like this he is a three-fold terror and Squalo refuses to give him so much as an inch. He hasn’t been scared of the shitty Prince since he slaughtered his way into the Varia, when he was younger, more cherubic and even more disturbing to look at, and he won’t start now.

Besides it isn’t fear this side of him evokes. It’s genuine shock.

Squalo knows the signs to watch out for—taught himself, once Xanxus wasn’t around to do it anymore because someone had to stabilize the Prince, the youngest Element in their midst—and he is usually the first one to notice when Belphegor is teetering on the brink of madness, pushed and pulled too hard at every turn to be reconciled. 

That’s when the most violent missions, the statements find there way onto the Storm Officer’s desk. That’s when Belphegor disappears, only shadowed by two or three of his most trusted, and doesn’t return until the vibrations under his skin have settled into something approaching ease and new whispers of his deeds spread through the Underworld like fire through a summer-dry forest.

But as far as Squalo has been able to tell, the Prince has been good these last couple of weeks. There had been no forewarnings, no signs, and there always are when it comes to Belphegor because the last thing the shitty Prince is is subtle.

And now here he is, back from a massacre he must have taken pride in, for he wouldn’t have worn the evidence of it so blatantly otherwise, stubborn and unapologetic, mouth already drawing into a hard line that promises a merciless fight on top of this already far too long day.

Then, before Squalo has a chance to regain his equilibrium, to say anything—though he still has no idea what he is supposed to say, what might lower Belphegor’s hackles, what part of this literal mess he needs to tackle first—Tsunayoshi follows the shitty Prince through the door.

Seeing him is a relief, but only at first glance.

The kid is almost as covered in blood as the Prince is. It’s not his, he wouldn’t be walking if it was, but the picture it paints is disturbing in an entirely different way. Tsunayoshi didn’t just witness the aftermath, he was there for all of it.

And instead of sitting curled up in a corner, he is following at Belphegor’s heels, appearing fundamentally at ease with the close proximity of a spree killer.

Squalo knows trained operatives who haven’t handled Belphegor at his worst as well. Tsunayoshi’s complete lack of fear isn’t reassuring, it’s disturbing. More than anything it makes him question the boy’s self-preservation instincts. Again.

As if the situation isn’t complicated enough, Tsunayoshi isn’t the only one to follow Belphegor through the door. Behind him a gaggle of haggard, worse-for-wear looking children with pale faces and suspicious eyes crowds into the entrance room, all of them dressed in dirty, bloody clothes, at least half of them clutching knives, a hammer and a fucking scalpel in their little hands like they are about to enter the fight of their lives.

Or barely made it through it and still can’t believe they survived the experience.

Which, actually, is a much more reasonable reaction to Belphegor’s everything than the calm curiosity Tsunayoshi is displaying.

The tallest of this new bunch of children invading the Varia’s Territory is standing so close to Tsunayoshi he could melt into his shadow and there is something distinctly unsteady about this one that draws Squalo’s attention immediately. Makes him zero in on the most likely threat.

It’s an instinctual reaction. And going by the way the teen—because he can’t be older than Tsunayoshi by more than a handful of years—bares his teeth, heterochromatic eyes burning blue and red, Squalo doesn’t think he is the only one following his gut.

With the way the stranger crowds closer around Tsunayoshi as reality flickers in and out of focus, shadows circling the children possessively, Squalo is reminded uncannily of a desperate, half-mad Mist defending his Sky. And while the analogy doesn’t quite work for what they have here, Squalo figures it is close enough.

So he squashes his first instinct—to grab Belphegor by the back of his neck and shake some sense into him—and his second and third, and he crosses his arms in front of his chest demonstratively, keeps his hands easy to see and as far from his swords as he is willing to go in the presence of this many unknowns and he eyes the way Belphegor draws himself up to his full height, the slightly-guilty, mostly-stubborn expression on little Tsunayoshi’s face, the snarl on his newly-acquired protector, the wary distrust of their companions, and he pinches the back of his nose with a soul-deep sigh. 

It does nothing to soothe the stress headache he can already feel pounding against his temples.

"Where the fuck have you been."

Tsunayoshi, either immune or deaf to the toneless rage in Squalo’s voice, beams.

"Look, Squalo-san! Look!" He waves the unresisting, skeletal hand of his new shadow around wildly, uncaring about the blood covering them both and the shadows that cling to his skin. "I made a friend!"