Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Elliot pressed his palms to the counter, willing the world to stop spinning. The smell of tomato sauce—normally comforting—curled unpleasantly in his stomach. He swallowed hard, forcing down the wave of nausea before anyone noticed.

He straightened up quickly when Mafioso’s shadow fell across the kitchen doorway. The man’s fedora was tilted low, coat still damp from the drizzle outside. His sharp eyes scanned Elliot with a precision that made lying nearly impossible.

“You look pale,” Mafioso said simply. His voice wasn’t harsh, but it left no room to brush the words aside.

Elliot forced a laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Didn’t sleep much. Probably just the late shift catching up to me.”

Mafioso stepped closer, gloves brushing against Elliot’s sleeve as if to anchor him in place. “You’ve been dragging for days. Nodding off. Skipping meals. Don’t tell me it’s nothing.”

Elliot’s heart jumped, but he managed a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s nothing.”

Mafioso didn’t press further, but his stare lingered long after Elliot turned away, pretending to be busy with the oven.

The next morning, Elliot woke with a heaviness in his body he couldn’t shake. His head pounded, his stomach churned, and the pale reflection staring back at him in the bathroom mirror only confirmed what he already feared.

He gripped the sink so tightly his knuckles whitened.

I can’t keep pretending. I need to know.

When Mafioso left for the day—off to deal with business Elliot was never allowed too close to—Elliot slipped out. His hands trembled the entire walk to the pharmacy, every step echoing like a betrayal. He pulled his hat low over his face, avoiding every set of eyes on the street, as though the whole city could see through him.

At the counter, his voice nearly caught. “J-Just this, please.”

He slid the box forward, praying the cashier wouldn’t look too closely.

The bag felt unbearably heavy in his hand as he hurried back home, heart racing the entire way.

In the bathroom, door locked, he tore open the test with shaking fingers. Minutes felt like hours, his breath shallow as he stared at the little window. When the second line appeared, clear as day, Elliot’s knees nearly gave out.

“No,” he whispered, the word broken. “No, no, no…”

His mind spiraled.

He’ll hate me. He’ll think I ruined everything. He’ll leave. He’ll—

Elliot pressed his hands to his face, struggling to breathe past the panic rising in his chest. The truth was out, undeniable, and it felt like his world was collapsing in on itself.

After that moment, he knew he needed to pretend.

Elliot scrubbed the tears from his face, hid the test deep in the trash, and forced himself into a mask of normalcy.

When Mafioso returned that evening, Elliot met him with a smile so stiff it almost hurt. He laughed too easily at small things, brushed off Mafioso’s concerned looks, and kept busy with anything that didn’t involve standing still long enough for questions.

But Mafioso wasn’t fooled. He watched Elliot the way he always did—quiet, steady, dissecting every movement. When Elliot flinched away from a casual hand at his shoulder, Mafioso’s brow furrowed. When Elliot avoided sitting close on the couch, Mafioso’s stare lingered, heavy and searching.

“You’ve been… distant,” Mafioso said one night, voice low as though afraid of scaring him off. “What are you hiding?”

Elliot froze, the forced smile slipping. “Nothing. Really. I’m just tired.”

The lie left a bitter taste on his tongue. Mafioso tilted his head, unconvinced, but didn’t push further. Not yet. His gloved hand brushed the table, fingers flexing like he wanted to reach out, but Elliot stepped away before he could.

Behind closed doors, Elliot pressed his forehead to his pillow, muffling the quiet sobs that kept escaping. He wanted to tell him. He wanted to beg him to stay. But the fear of rejection held his throat closed like a vice.

And so, night after night, Elliot’s smiles grew hollower, while Mafioso’s worry deepened into something sharp and restless.

Until the night things finally went wrong.

Elliot had been holding himself together with frayed strings, but all it took was one small thing to unravel him. He dropped a glass while cleaning, the shatter echoing too loud in the quiet kitchen. The sound jolted something inside him, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe.

He sank to the floor, chest tight, tears spilling before he could stop them. His hands shook as he tried to gather the broken shards, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over like a prayer.

Mafioso was there in an instant, crouching down, gloves brushing Elliot’s trembling hands away from the glass.

“Stop. You’ll cut yourself.” His voice was low but edged with alarm.

Elliot shook his head, unable to meet his eyes. “I can’t—” His throat locked, words tripping over themselves until they burst out raw and panicked.

“I can’t hide it anymore! I’m pregnant, and I’m scared you’ll hate me for it. That you’ll leave me.”

The silence that followed crushed Elliot’s chest. He braced for it—for Mafioso to pull away, for the disgust, the rejection. His whole body curled in on itself, as though making himself small could soften the blow.

But Mafioso didn’t move back. He froze, shocked, eyes wide beneath the shadow of his hat. The weight of Elliot’s words hung heavy between them, undeniable, irreversible.

The words seemed to echo in the room long after Elliot had spoken them.

Mafioso didn’t answer right away. His eyes, sharp as steel, stayed fixed on Elliot—too still, too unreadable. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until every second felt like it would crush Elliot where he knelt.

Elliot’s sobs grew quieter, broken hiccups against his palms. He didn’t dare look up. His chest ached with the certainty that he’d just ruined everything.

And then—Mafioso exhaled, slow and uneven, like the air had been punched out of him.

Mafioso finally moved.

He reached out, gloved fingers brushing Elliot’s wrists, firm but careful as he pulled his hands away from his face. Elliot’s red-rimmed eyes met his, wide and terrified, but Mafioso didn’t look angry.

He just looked shaken.

“Pregnant,” Mafioso repeated quietly, as if tasting the word on his tongue. He swallowed, his jaw tight. “Elliot… you thought I’d leave?”

Elliot’s voice cracked. “Why wouldn’t you? I—I ruined everything, and now you’re stuck with—”

“Stop.” Mafioso’s tone cut through the spiral like a blade, sharper than usual, but not cruel. His hands framed Elliot’s face now, steadying him.

“Leaving you is not an option. Do you understand?”

Elliot blinked, the words hitting harder than any rejection could have.

“But… you’re scared. I can see it.”

Mafioso’s lips pressed into a thin line. For once, he didn’t deny it. “Of course I am. I don’t know what the hell we’re doing. But I’m not walking away from you. Not now, not ever.”

His thumb brushed away a tear from Elliot’s cheek, softer than the steel in his voice. “We’ll face it together. No matter how hard it gets.”

Elliot choked on a shaky breath, leaning into that touch as if it were the only thing keeping him from falling apart. For the first time since the test, he let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—he wouldn’t have to carry this alone.

The storm between them slowly broke, leaving only the raw ache of relief. Elliot’s shoulders sagged as Mafioso drew him closer, pulling him into the dark fold of his coat.

For a moment, Elliot just listened—heart pounding, ears filled with the steady beat of Mafioso’s chest against his cheek.

“I don’t deserve you,” Elliot whispered, voice muffled.

Mafioso’s hand settled against the back of his head, holding him steady. “You deserve more than me,” he murmured, low and certain. “But you’ve got me anyway.”

Elliot’s lips trembled into a small, shaky smile. The fear was still there—lingering at the edges, whispering of all the things that could go wrong—but Mafioso’s presence dimmed it, quieted it.

For the first time since the truth had crashed down on him, Elliot believed it: Mafioso wasn’t going anywhere.

Together, they stepped into a future that was frightening and uncertain, but theirs all the same.

Chapter Text

Elliot lay awake, curled on his side, the silence of the night pressing too heavily on his chest. A dull cramp twisted through his stomach, sharp enough to keep him from drifting back into sleep. Hunger gnawed at him too, leaving his insides restless, but guilt pressed heavier than either pain.

He turned his head just enough to see Mafioso beside him. Even in sleep, the faint twitch of long ears betrayed his sharpness, the instinct that never truly rested. Elliot bit the inside of his cheek. Waking him felt impossible. Mafioso carried so much already; Elliot couldn’t bring himself to add midnight cravings and aching complaints to the pile.

Carefully, quietly, he slipped out of bed. His socks whispered against the floorboards as he crept down the hall, hand brushing the wall for balance. The kitchen was cold when he entered, moonlight spilling across the counters in pale strips.

He pressed his palms flat against the surface, bowing his head, breathing through the cramps until the world steadied. Then, with shaking hands, he opened the cupboard, searching for something—anything—that might help. Crackers, stale bread, a half-empty box of cereal. He clutched at the first thing his fingers found, forcing a small bite past the lump in his throat.

The house was still, but Elliot’s heart pounded fast, every crunch sounding too loud in the silence. He ate in tiny, guilty bites, shoulders tense, praying Mafioso wouldn’t wake.

But deep down, he knew—Mafioso always noticed.

The sudden shift in the quiet made Elliot freeze mid-bite. A shadow stretched across the doorway, impossibly tall, ears upright and alert even in the dim moonlight.

Mafioso stood there, bare feet on the cool floor, pajamas rumpled from sleep, his trench coat and fedora nowhere in sight. The faint twitch of his long, dark ears and the subtle quiver of his nose betrayed a predator’s awareness, every movement impossibly precise.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” His voice was low, steady, and calm—but the subtle thrum of tension in it made Elliot’s stomach flip. There was no harshness, but the tone left no room to lie.

Elliot jumped, nearly dropping the cracker in his hand. He forced a laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “I… I didn’t want to bother you. I was… just hungry.”

Mafioso’s gaze narrowed, sharp and unyielding, ears flicking at every sound Elliot made. The way he stood—feet grounded, arms loose but ready, tail brushing the floor—made Elliot feel pinned in place without a single hand touching him.

“You were hungry, and you didn’t wake me?” Mafioso’s head tilted slightly, ears swiveling, nose twitching. “Do you think I wouldn’t hear your stomach complaining?”

Elliot swallowed hard, cheeks heating. “I… didn’t want to disturb you…”

Mafioso stepped forward, barefoot on the tiles, each movement quiet but deliberate. He leaned against the doorframe, ears still high, shadow stretching over Elliot in a protective but commanding way. Even casual, in pajamas, he radiated that same impossible intensity.

Elliot’s hands tightened around the crackers, hesitation frozen in his chest. Before he could shove them into his mouth, Mafioso stepped closer. Barefoot, pajama-clad, ears twitching with careful attention, he reached out. His fingers brushed Elliot’s trembling hands as he gently took the food from him.

“You shouldn’t be eating like this,” Mafioso murmured, his voice low but not unkind. His ears swiveled slightly, picking up the faintest shuffle of fatigue in Elliot’s body, his nose twitching as he assessed the tension and the faint smell of unease. Even in the soft moonlight, with his short tail barely visible beneath his pajamas, he radiated the same impossible presence—commanding, protective, yet intimate.

Elliot’s protest died on his lips. “I… I didn’t want to bother you,” he whispered.

Mafioso gave the barest tilt of his head, ears flicking. “You’re not bothering me. Sit down.”

He moved with an odd grace, quiet but deliberate, retrieving a small pot from the counter. Within minutes, he had warmed water for tea, fried an egg with soft edges, and toasted bread until golden brown. The aroma wrapped around Elliot, far better than the stale crackers he had grabbed. Mafioso set the plate in front of him, the short twitch of his tail behind his back as he leaned against the counter.

“Better,” Mafioso said simply, eyes softening. “Eat this. Slowly.”

Elliot’s hands hovered over the plate, unsure if he deserved such care. But the warmth of the food, the steady presence of Mafioso, and the gentle flick of his ears drew a small, grateful breath from him.

He took the first bite, and the tension in his shoulders eased slightly, though his stomach still twisted with nerves. Mafioso remained close, ears alert, tail still, silent and watchful, as though nothing in the world could touch Elliot while he was there.

Silence hung heavy between them, the quiet only broken by the faint scrape of Elliot’s fork against the plate. Mafioso sat beside him, bare feet brushing the cool tiles, ears still high and alert, short tail twitching with a soft rhythm. His presence was steady, grounding—but not pressing. He waited, patient, letting Elliot unravel in his own time.

Elliot swallowed, trembling. His hands shook as he picked at the toast Mafioso had prepared. “I… I don’t know if I can do this,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I… I’m not… I’m not… good enough.”

He pressed a hand to his stomach, the thought catching in his throat. “This… being pregnant… it’s not what I planned. I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t plan for any of this,” he admitted, forcing the words out before the memories could creep in—before he could think too hard about the intimate night that had led to this.

“But… I don’t regret it,” he said softly, a tremor in his voice. “I… I don’t mind having your child. I want… I want us to be okay. I just… I don’t know if I can do it.”

The fear built in his chest, raw and unrelenting. “What if I fail? What if the kid… hates me? What if I mess everything up and you… regret this?” His voice broke, tears slipping despite himself.

Mafioso remained still, ears swiveling slightly, nose twitching with quiet assessment. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t judge. He just let Elliot spill everything, the panic and the fear laid bare, the tiny fragments of hope clinging to the edges.

Finally, Elliot’s breath hitched, and the weight of the unspoken pressed down on him. He looked up briefly, shame and terror in his eyes, trying to read Mafioso’s expression beneath the shadow of his ears.

Mafioso remained still for a moment, ears twitching faintly, watching Elliot tremble over the plate. The kitchen felt impossibly quiet, the moonlight catching the soft curve of his short tail, the faint fur along his wrists brushing the edge of the counter. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t scold. He just listened, letting every word, every tremor of fear, reach him.

Then, slowly, he reached out. Gloved fingers brushed Elliot’s wrist, grounding him against the panic spiraling in his chest. The warmth of Mafioso’s touch anchored him, subtle but undeniable, as if saying: I am here. You are not alone.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Mafioso said quietly, voice low but steady, ears flicking with faint emphasis. “Leaving you… is not an option. We’re in this together.”

Elliot’s breath hitched, eyes wide, unsure if he deserved this calm certainty. Mafioso’s gaze softened, ears lowering just slightly, the faintest twitch in his tail betraying a subtle warmth. “I’m scared too,” he admitted, the words catching in his throat, raw and honest. “And… I should’ve been more careful. I’m responsible for this. But none of that changes what I want. None of it changes you.”

He shifted closer, short tail brushing against Elliot’s side, hand still firm on his wrist. “I love you… for you, every part of you. And this,” he pressed his other hand gently to Elliot’s stomach, “this little family we’re making—it’s worth everything. You’re worth everything.”

Elliot’s lips trembled, the tension in his shoulders loosening slightly, the lump in his chest softening for the first time in days. Mafioso’s presence, steady, unwavering, carried a promise far stronger than fear: we will face this together, and I will never let go.

Mafioso helped Elliot to his feet, careful not to jostle him too much, ears twitching softly as he supported him. Every step toward the bedroom was deliberate, quiet, the soft pad of bare feet and the faint brush of his short tail grounding Elliot like an anchor.

Once on the bed, Mafioso tucked Elliot in gently, smoothing the blankets over him with gloved hands. He pressed a hand to Elliot’s stomach, firm but tender, letting him feel the steady warmth of his presence.

Then came the kisses—soft, comforting, almost ritualistic. One to the temple, one to the cheek, one to the tip of Elliot’s nose, each one lingering a little longer, wordless promises of safety and devotion. Elliot’s body relaxed against him, shoulders loosening, eyelids drooping, the tension in his chest melting away.

“Sleep,” Mafioso murmured, ears flicking as he nuzzled the side of Elliot’s head. “I’m here. Always.”

Elliot let out a small, sleepy sigh, curling closer, feeling the steady press of Mafioso’s hand, the quiet rhythm of his chest beneath him. Comfort settled in every nerve, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he believed it: he wasn’t alone.

Mafioso stayed beside him, awake in the dark, ears alert even as his breathing slowed. His gloved hand remained firm over Elliot’s stomach, protective without words. The short tail twitched faintly, a subtle signature of vigilance. In the silence, his vow remained unspoken, absolute and unyielding: whatever the future holds, he would never let Elliot face it alone.

Chapter Text

Elliot woke up slowly—like someone had turned the world’s brightness down to a soft glow just for him. Four months in, the worst of the morning sickness had finally passed, but he still felt heavier, sleepier. His body moved a bit slower now, and the blankets felt twice as comfortable as before.

But what really pulled him from sleep wasn’t the morning light.

It was warmth.
A familiar scent.
A breath against his cheek.

Then—soft, careful kisses.

First on his jaw.
Then on his cheek.
Then one right between his eyebrows, where Mafioso always kissed him when he wanted Elliot awake but not startled.

And then—

Tiny, barely-there nuzzles against his stomach.
Mafioso’s long, fluffy bunny ears brushed over Elliot’s shirt, slow and affectionate, as if greeting the baby too.

Elliot made a small sound—something between a sigh and a giggle.
“Maf… that tickles…”

Mafioso didn’t stop. If anything, he doubled down with softer kisses along Elliot’s stomach, his gloved hands bracing either side of Elliot’s waist to keep his touches steady.
“Sorry, amore… wake-up kisses are important.”

Elliot blinked groggily. “For… who?”

“You. And our baby.” Mafioso’s voice was quiet, almost shy. His ears twitched as he rested his forehead lightly against Elliot’s belly. “Four months. The little one deserves a ‘good morning.’”

Elliot’s face reddened instantly.

Before he could bury himself back under the covers, Mafioso gently coaxed him upright, one arm around his back, the other under his elbow. Elliot leaned into him—mostly because he loved him, partly because pregnancy made standing feel like a full-body quest.

“Slow… slow,” Mafioso murmured, helping him sit fully.
“I am slow,” Elliot mumbled sleepily. “Gravity hits different now.”

Mafioso chuckled under his breath. “Then I’ll hold you up.”

And he did.

He helped Elliot slide out of bed, guided him to the mirror, and picked up the brush without needing to be asked. Elliot stood there, eyes half-lidded, leaning back against Mafioso’s chest while gentle strokes smoothed through his hair.

“More tired today?” Mafioso asked.

“Mm-hmm. Baby’s stealing my energy.”

“Our child can have mine,” Mafioso said instantly, ears perking with determination.

Elliot let out a sleepy laugh. “That’s not how that works.”

“Then our child can have Soldier’s. He won’t mind.”

Elliot snorted, which made Mafioso smile triumphantly.

By the time Elliot was dressed—slowly, carefully, with Mafioso helping him pull his shirt over the little bump—they were ready for the appointment.

“Today’s the day,” Mafioso whispered, resting a hand on Elliot’s belly.

“Yeah,” Elliot said softly, excitement fluttering through him. “Today we finally find out.”

The drive to the clinic was… interesting.

Mafioso tried to look calm—hands steady on the wheel, posture straight, breathing controlled.

But his ears?

His ears betrayed him completely.

They twitched every two seconds.

Every. Two. Seconds.

At one point Elliot reached over and gently held one down.

It immediately flicked back up.

“Are you nervous?” Elliot asked, amused.

“No,” Mafioso lied. His tail thumped the seat exactly once. “I am… anticipating.”

Elliot smiled softly. “You’re nervous.”

“…I am anticipating very intensely.”

When they finally checked in and were led into the dim ultrasound room, Mafioso took a seat beside the bed—but only for two seconds before he stood again. Then sat. Then stood. Then hovered.

His ears twitched the entire time.

Elliot lay back, shirt lifted to reveal the soft curve of his bump. The cold gel made him flinch.

Mafioso flinched with him.

Then the wand touched Elliot’s skin, and the screen came alive in blurry, moving grays.

At first—random shapes.

Then—

Movement.

A tiny curl of limbs.

A little flicker of light—

Elliot gasped. “That’s— that’s its heartbeat?”

The doctor smiled. “Exactly.”

Mafioso froze.

His pupils went wide, glossy and huge, like someone had switched his instincts from predator to overwhelmed dad mode.

He grabbed Elliot’s hand with both of his own, clutching it like he was anchoring himself to earth.

Then the image shifted and—

“…Um,” the doctor said.

Mafioso leaned forward slightly, ears stiff and tall.

Elliot blinked. “…Is that—?”

“Yes,” the doctor confirmed. “I believe those are… bunny ears.”

Mafioso made a noise Elliot had never heard before. Something between a gasp, a hiccup, and a tiny squeak. His tail shot straight up behind him like a startled cat.

But the doctor wasn’t done.

“Well,” she said with a warm smile, “I can also confidently tell you… she’s a girl.”

Elliot’s breath caught.

A girl.

Their baby.

His eyes filled instantly, tears slipping down before he could stop them. “She’s… she’s really… she’s—”

Mafioso had no words.

None.

He just leaned forward, forehead nearly touching Elliot’s shoulder, squeezing his hand with both of his. His ears slowly folded down—not in fear, but something warm, gentle, overflowing.

His voice came out low, shaken:

“A… a daughter…”

Elliot laughed through his tears, brushing Mafioso’s cheek. “Yeah… we’re having a daughter.”

Mafioso didn’t move for a long moment. He just breathed, slow and uneven, staring at the tiny ears on the screen—like the universe had just delivered him a perfect miracle wrapped in fuzz.

When the doctor printed out the photos, Mafioso immediately took them like they were crown jewels.

She handed him three.

He asked—politely—for six more “just in case.”

They left with a whole folder of them.

Some to keep.

Some to cry over.

And absolutely some to cause chaos back at the base.

Elliot wiped his eyes as they approached the car.

Mafioso opened the door for him, ears still wobbling from emotional overload.

“We are… showing them these,” he said with heavy seriousness.

Elliot grinned. “Oh, definitely.”

The mafialings were not ready.

Back at the base, the atmosphere was calm.

Peaceful.

Quiet.

Which, of course, meant it was the perfect time to create absolute chaos.

Mafioso placed one—just one—ultrasound photo on a central table in the common room.

Not hidden.

Not tucked away.

Just sitting there.

Like bait.

Like a trap.

Elliot blinked. “Are you… sure this is a good idea?”

Mafioso’s ears tilted back with smug satisfaction. “No.”

Elliot blinked again. “…Maf.”

“They will find it,” Mafioso murmured, tail swaying. “And their reactions will be… educational.”

“Educational?” Elliot raised a brow.

“In assessing their crisis-management skills.”

“…They have none.”

“Exactly.”

He stepped back to admire his own setup like an artist admiring a masterpiece.

The single ultrasound photo—the one showing both the baby and her tiny bunny ears—lay perfectly centered as if framed by destiny.

Mafioso’s smirk softened slightly as he looked at Elliot.

“You ready to go home?”

Elliot nodded, touching his small bump with a warm, tired smile. “Yeah… I kinda wanna nap.”

Mafioso immediately scooped up the remaining folder of ultrasound photos like they were priceless relics, tucked them under his arm, and guided Elliot out with a hand at his lower back.

But before leaving, he gave the photo one last satisfied glance.

His last thought as he closed the door:

They’ll probably find it in ten minutes.

He was wrong.

It only took four.

Back at home, Elliot curled onto the couch, sleep tugging at him. Mafioso covered him with a blanket, kissed his forehead, and settled beside him with a book.

Peace.

Quiet.

No screaming—

…yet.

But at the base?

They had no idea a bomb was waiting on the table.

And Mafioso knew exactly what he’d done.

Soldier and Contractee were in the common room, having what could generously be described as a conversation.

More accurately: Contractee was talking, Soldier was listening without listening.

“Okay but hear me out—what if socks are just foot prisons?” Contractee declared, waving his hands like a philosopher mid-breakdown.

Soldier didn’t look up from polishing his rifle. “Socks are warm.”

“Prisons can be warm too! That doesn’t make it right, Soldier!”

Soldier blinked slowly. “…Huh.”

Contractee was about to go on a full TED Talk when something on the nearby desk caught his eye.

A small glossy rectangle.

A picture.

A picture of something mysterious.

Something round.

Something vaguely alien-shaped.

Contractee stopped mid-sentence.

Squinted.

Leaned in.

Face inches from the photo.

His eyes widened.

His soul left his body.

“—SOLDIER.”

Soldier didn’t even look up. “Hm.”

“SOLDIER.”

“…What.”

“SOLDIER.”

Now he looked.

Right in time for Contractee to inhale—

—and unleash a scream so loud and sharp it bounced off the walls like a ricocheting bullet.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—”

Several things happened at once:

• Soldier flinched just slightly (which for him was basically a jump scare).

• The lights flickered.

• Somewhere down the hall, an alarm that wasn’t even connected to anything went off.

Eunoia, Caporegime, and Consigliere BURST through the door armed to the teeth:

—Caporegime with a pistol in each hand

—Consigliere wielding a clipboard like a weapon of authority

—Eunoia with a taser, calm but READY

“WHO’S DEAD?!” Caporegime barked.

“IS THE BASE BREACHED?!” Consigliere added.

“Identify the threat,” Eunoia requested politely.

Contractee did not point at a person.

He pointed at the desk.

Specifically:

At the ultrasound photo.

Still screaming.

“WHAT IS THAT? WHO DID THIS? WHO PUT—WHO PUT A CREATURE IN ONE OF US?!”

Consigliere froze.

Soldier, finally moving, walked over, picked up the photo, and examined it with all the interest of looking at a piece of toast.

“It is an ultrasound,” he said calmly.

Contractee whipped around. “WHAT’S AN ULTRA-SOUND?!”

Soldier blinked. “…A baby picture.”

Contractee gasped like he had been SHOT.

Contractee gasped like someone had just set off a grenade under his feet.

He staggered back, clutching his chest, eyes bulging, breath hitching in a rapid, dramatic spiral.

“A… a BABY picture…?” he whispered, horrified.

He stared at Soldier.

Then at the photo.

Then at the ceiling as if asking the universe for answers.

Then he froze.

Very, very slowly, he turned…

Head swiveling like a possessed marionette…

And pointed one trembling finger straight at Consigliere.

“You,” he breathed, scandalized.

Consigliere’s eyes went wide. “A—A what?” His voice wobbled, like the floor had just shifted beneath him.

Caporegime smirked, his gaze flicking to Consi with a mischievous glint. “Interesting,” he murmured, clearly enjoying the moment far too much.

“No. No. None of that,” Consigliere sputtered, waving his hands frantically. “Put that face away!”

Contractee, still pointing at the ultrasound photo as if it were a weapon, went full-on detective mode. “It’s one of you! I knew it! It’s you two! Consi got pregnant and you didn’t tell me—”

“What—no—absolutely not—” Consigliere squeaked, flustered beyond belief, cheeks burning bright red.

Caporegime leaned back slightly, smirking even wider. “We could try,” he said casually, clearly loving the chaos he’d stirred.

Consigliere’s red deepened, almost matching the shade of his panic. “Capo! Do not say that in front of—the child—or anyone—”

Contractee, undeterred, jabbed at them both with a dramatic flair. “See??? They did do it!”

Eunoia, calm as ever, tilted her head and analyzed the scene. “Analysis: Consigliere is not pregnant.”

“How do you know?!” Contractee shouted, incredulous, eyes darting back and forth.

“Because that is not how human biology functions,” Eunoia replied, entirely matter-of-fact.

Contractee froze, then flopped dramatically against a nearby chair. “Wh—well—what if I’m pregnant?!”

The room went silent. Even Soldier, usually the calmest of them all, raised a brow.

“You are not,” he said flatly.

“Are you sure?” Contractee pressed, still flailing slightly.

“Yes,” Soldier repeated, unamused.

“But—” Contractee tried again, only to be shut down immediately.

“Yes,” Soldier said once more, final and unyielding.

Contractee deflated for a moment, looking like he’d lost his personal war. Then, as if remembering he was the king of panic, he snapped upright again. “Then who did this?! Who’s the parent?! Which one of you—wait, wait, hold on!”

He snatched the ultrasound photo back from Soldier, holding it up to the light like it contained forbidden lore.

His squint deepened.

His pupils shrank.

“…Are those… ears?” he whispered.

Soldier leaned in again. “Yes.”

“Like… bunny ears?” Contractee croaked.

Soldier blinked. “Also yes.”

A silence fell. Heavy. Electric.

They all stared at the image.

Everyone froze, eyes flicking from one to another, silent panic blooming like wildfire.

Caporegime muttered, “There’s only one person around here with bunny ears.”

Consigliere stiffened. “And he is not here right now.”

Eunoia folded her hands behind her back. “Logical conclusion: the child belongs to Mafioso.”

Contractee’s mouth dropped open like a collapsing bridge.

“OH. MY. GOSH.”

He slapped the photo to his chest dramatically.

“WE’RE GONNA BE UNCLES—AUNTIES—WHATEVER—SOMETHING!”

“…We should go,” Consigliere muttered finally, voice low and still flustered.

“Yeah,” Caporegime agreed, smirk still playing at the corners of his mouth.

“A wise choice,” Eunoia added, nodding once.

Contractee, however, was not done. “I still think Consi’s hiding a bump—”

“CONTRACTEE! I WILL END YOU!” Consigliere shouted, lunging toward him in a mix of panic and horror.

Caporegime only chuckled. Chaos, after all, had officially arrived.

Mafioso sat on the couch, one gloved hand holding the book open while Elliot leaned half-asleep against him, soft snores brushing against the sleeve of his coat. The quiet hum of the apartment was interrupted by a sharp, impatient knock at the door.

Mafioso sighed and rose, brushing a hand along Elliot’s back to wake him gently. “I’ll get it,” he murmured, opening the door.

Contractee practically lunged through the threshold, holding the ultrasound photo like it was evidence of the century. “IT’S YOU!” he shouted, voice bouncing off the walls.

Elliot stirred, blinking sleepily, a small smile tugging at his lips. “No… it’s me,” he said softly, stepping forward to take the photo from Contractee’s frantic grip.

The moment everyone’s eyes landed on the small curve under Elliot’s shirt, reality hit. Contractee’s eyes went wide. His panic detonated like a bomb, every thought tumbling out at once: “WHAT— YOU— BABY— WHEN— HOW— WHO— WHY— AHHHHH—”

Eunoia, ever composed, stepped forward with a small smile. “Congratulations,” she said warmly, the calm in her voice cutting through some of the chaos.

Soldier reached out, resting a firm hand on Elliot’s shoulder. His expression was rare—soft, steady, a smile that made Elliot’s heart squeeze.

Consigliere let out a long, exasperated sigh, relief flooding his features. He didn’t need to say anything; the tension that had been coiled in his chest finally loosened.

Caporegime, however, smirked like he’d just won a game. His eyes flicked to Consigliere. “So… we’re off the hook,” he teased.

Consigliere’s glare could have carved steel. “Capo,” he said, voice low but lethal, “I will end you.”

Contractee, still bouncing from one foot to the other, refused to calm down. But even as he flailed, the others crowded closer, offering congratulations, pats on the back, and soft words. The room became a mix of laughter, sighs, and warm chaos.

Caporegime, ever the planner, was already scheming. “Baby-sized combat training gear?” he suggested casually.

“Mini coat?”

“Or… maybe a weapon?”

The room collectively groaned. “Denied,” everyone chorused, glaring at him. Capo only smirked wider, clearly already imagining the mischief to come.

Meanwhile, Mafioso wrapped an arm around Elliot, pulling him close, letting the warmth of his presence shield them from the storm of excitement and panic in the room. Elliot leaned against him, smiling softly, finally feeling the weight of love and family pressing gently around him.

Chaos, as always, had its place—but right now, it was filled with joy.

Later that evening, Elliot tapped on his phone, bringing up a video call.

“Elli, buddy! Long time! How ya been?” Chance’s face appeared, calm and casual, a cup of something steaming in one hand and his signature shades perched perfectly.

Elliot didn’t say a word. Instead, he slowly lifted the cleaned-up pregnancy test toward the camera, holding it there with a faint, sleepy smile.

Chance’s calm demeanor shattered instantly. His eyes—behind the shades—went wide, jaw dropping as his free hand flew to his head. “Huh? What’s that—WAIT. WAIT. WAIT. WAIT—WHAT?!”

He began flailing, waving his arms as if trying to shake the information out of the screen, voice rising in pitch. “Elli—BUDDY! NO. THIS—HOW?! WHEN?! WHAT—AHHHHH—”

Elliot blinked, amused and exhausted, lowering the test slightly but keeping it visible, his lips twitching with the tiniest smirk.

Chance’s screaming continued off-screen, a perfect blend of panic and excitement, until the call abruptly ended with him still losing it, leaving Elliot and Mafioso chuckling quietly together.

Mafioso’s gloved hand rested over Elliot’s stomach. “Well,” he murmured, voice low and amused, “that went well.”

Elliot snuggled closer, eyes soft. “He’ll need time.”

Mafioso’s ears twitched, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Patience… and maybe a helmet.”

Elliot laughed softly, letting the warmth of Mafioso and the chaos of the day settle around him. For the first time in months, everything felt… right.