#emilio threads

They put a fucking bag over his head. Black and staticky, fabric so dark that even with his eyes, he could only make out the vaguest of shapes behind it. The zipties restraining his hands behind his back and his feet to the chair they’d shoved him into were more annoying than anything else — he could break them easy enough, after all — but with the bag over his damn head, it was difficult to tell how many people he was dealing with once he got himself free. And while Emilio might have been a little reckless from time to time, he wasn’t looking to get shot. A bullet would be an endlessly stupid way for a hunter to die, after all. 

Though, frankly, there was little about this situation that wasn’t stupid. Four of them had barged into his apartment, taking advantage of the broken lock on his door in a way that was beyond frustrating. He probably could have taken them without much issue, of course; he was trained to fight vampires, so four human men would have been no fucking problem… but they’d obviously anticipated a fight. Of all the things his mother had prepared him for, he’d never been tased before. He could still feel it, like bees crawling all over his skin. That was probably an effect he was suffering thanks to just how many hits of electricity it had taken to actually get him down. It certainly wasn’t an experience he was looking to repeat, which meant he’d need to be smart about how he played this. Best to find out what they wanted first.

A shuffling of feet pulled his attention to his left, and he turned his head despite the bag still blocking him from actually seeing anything. Something — no, someone was being dragged into the room. Hopefully that meant the ‘sit and wait’ portion of whatever these assholes had planned for him was over and done with. He was tired of sitting. 

There was a thud as the other person was presumably thrown into a chair similar to the one Emilio was restrained to, and the detective tilted his head as footsteps approached him. The bag was ripped from his head unceremoniously, and he squinted as if his eyes needed time to adjust to the light. They didn’t, of course, but a human’s would have. In doing so, he allowed himself a quick glance around the room. Lots of guys, all armed. One had a taser out and at the ready, the bruising around his eyes marking him as the one whose nose Emilio had broken in the scuffle back in his apartment. He flashed him a grin before finishing his sweep of the room, stopping on the figure in the chair beside him. When he recognized them, he bit back a groan.

“Tienes que estar bromeando conmigo.” The blank expressions on the goons’ faces told him that they probably didn’t speak Spanish. Good. They could use that. Glancing to Alan, Emilio narrowed his eyes. “This is your fault,” he said flatly. If it was Alan he was here with, this was related to the Tobias job. The storage facility, the bodies, the drugs and the weapons… He’d told the realtor that this was almost certainly gang related. What the hell had Alan done with the information?

—

He should have known better. These two didn’t look like his usual clientele, but they wanted to see that house and Alan had no reason not to show them that damn house. They never got to the house, of course. They had barely left the city center when he ended up with a gun pointed at the back of his head. 

The air was knocked right out of his lungs as he tried to explain, with both his hands up, that they got the wrong guy here, that he was just a local businessman and that he didn’t want any trouble. God knows what they did with his Maserati, but he sure hoped they weren’t planning on leaving it here on the side of the road. It was gonna get trashed in no time. People could get so jealous of others’ success. 

Of course, Alan knew why they were here. Fucking Tobias Greene. It wasn’t even his fault. Tobias would have shot him if he didn’t get to him first. Alan wasn’t precisely tempted to pull the same stunt now. There were at least two of them, probably three now, and he expected they were all armed and ready to use their weapons if need be. Joder. 

They sat Alan down in a chair, one of those uncomfortable ones they had in seminars, half metal, half cushiony upholstery that was most likely never washed. The thought brought a disgusted scowl to his face, underneath that unbreathable pitch dark bag. Well at least he could still hear everything, if he couldn’t see shit. 

Then the bag came off his head, along with an urge to fix his hair. His hands were tragically tied to the disgusting chair, and as he took a look around, Alan realized it was a good thing he didn’t try to lash out at them. His expression grew more somber as he realized who he was seated next to. ¡Vaya! 

“How dare you accuse me like that? I didn’t do anything.” The werewolf whispered back, with words only they understood. But maybe now was not a good time for lies, was it.

Shut up, the both of you, a third voice interrupted their chat, but nothing came, as if they were waiting for someone else to show up. Well fuck me. 

—

Alan looked about as pissed off as Emilio felt, which was some kind of comfort. If the realtor had been his usual smug self, Emilio might have just risked the bullet and broken himself free to punch the guy for landing them in this situation. Because it had to be Alan’s fault, didn’t it? Whatever he’d done with the information Emilio had given him had clued Tobias Greene’s friends in on the men looking into their business, and now they were both in the shit. The bonus Alan had given him for the completed job definitely wasn’t worth this. 

“You must have done something,” Emilio snapped back. “I’m tied to a pinche chair. Never got tied to a chair before I met you.” He paused a moment, considering. “Well, not unless I asked to be.” 

The man who’d spoken before, the one who’d ordered them to shut up, stepped forward to bury his fist in Emilio’s stomach, drawing a grunt from the detective. He couldn’t quite double over due to the restraints, but his body naturally tried to do so anyway. The goon with the broken nose snickered, clearly enjoying the display, and Emilio rolled his eyes.

“¡Ay, vete a la chingada! We’re having a damn conversation here. Might as well, since none of you are talking. Seems rude to drag us all the way out here just to sit, no?” 

“Then allow me to start the conversation.” A new voice entered the fray, and Emilio tensed as he turned towards it. The man entering the grungy warehouse didn’t look particularly physically imposing, though the large, burly men on either side who entered with him certainly seemed more intimidating. He was well-dressed, walked with an unnaturally straight posture. The air around him screamed money, which probably meant he was in charge. Considering the way the rest of the men in the warehouse straightened at the sight of him, he must have been pretty high up on the food chain. They’d clearly brought in the big guns for this. That didn’t bode well. 

Emilio shifted in his seat, glancing over to Alan. While Emilio was built to take a beating, he doubted Alan could handle it quite as well. And as annoying as the guy was, it was hard to convince himself that he wanted to see him get his ass kicked. Even if he was the one who’d landed them here, he didn’t deserve that. If Emilio could keep the attention on himself, he could probably spare Alan the brunt of it until he could work out a decent escape plan.

And he’d ask for another bonus after. Alan would probably give it to him.

“Okay,” he said, mind made up as he straightened in his chair, “let’s have a conversation, then. Start with what you want. I don’t think you brought us here to talk about the weather.”

—

Alan welcomed Emilio’s attempt at being thorough about his top 10 chair tying moments with a look of despair. He was about to reply when the mobster approached Emilio to punch him. Hard to tell if he was kink shaming or hitting on him in the figurative way. The businessman sighed. Now was not the time for jokes, or snorting. “The fuck’s so fucking funny, ya-” Emilio’s best friend stopped himself, right as someone new entered the room, looking significantly more important that the rest of them, Alan aside, at least. The Moncler and Tom Ford combo always was a sound way to look the part without looking like a British aristocrat. 

If he could sense Emilio’s eyes trained on him, Alan kept his chin up high and looked the man in charge in the eyes, as if he wasn’t the one tied to that chair. He wished he’d have looked at Emilio instead, that might have kept him from opening the conversation like that. Fucksake. Shut the fuck up, he mouthed under his breath, hoping none of the new comers spoke their mothertongue. 

He might have kept staring at the big guy, he couldn’t tell if he understood what Alan had just said. Fuck. “Excuse my friend. He has no manners.” Obviously. “I’m sure we can settle this like gentlemen. How can I help you?”  

—

At least Alan seemed to have picked up that the mobsters were too stupid to understand Spanish. So long as they were both on the same page about that little tidbit, they might stand a chance at making it out of this with most of their parts intact. Though… not if they couldn’t decide who was taking the lead here. Emilio shot Alan a glare as he addressed the big man in charge, though the fact that the realtor’s eyes remained focused on the new arrival likely meant the look went largely unnoticed. 

The boss, for his part, looked thrilled at both responses. He moved in closer, positioning himself in front of the two chairs so that he could look at both men at once. The man who’d hit Emilio remained positioned next to the hunter’s chair, clearly ready to move in again if the detective got… mouthy. No hope at breaking free of the zipties without anyone noticing, then. Maldita sea. 

“You do seem to be the more sensible one in this equation,” the boss said, smiling down at Alan. Emilio’s lip curled up, though whether it was in offense to the man’s statement or in anger at the way he was looking at Alan even he wasn’t sure. Both, maybe. “I’m sure we can help each other out. See, one of my associates seems to have disappeared. I’m quite worried about his well-being. Especially after seeing security footage of shady figures snooping around in his private storage container.” 

At the last bit, the man directed his attention towards Emilio. The detective scowled, the realization washing over him. So it wasn’t entirely Alan’s fault they were here. Emilio wasn’t used to looking out for security cameras while on the job; it seemed that had bitten him in the ass this time. 

“Of course, once we looked into the situation, we found your repeated attempts to purchase some property from my associate. You’re quite relentless, aren’t you?” The man turned back to Alan, grin sharp. “No matter. You’ll find my friends can be relentless, too. But they don’t have to be.” He looked between the two men like a shark sizing up its prey. “Tell me what became of Tobias Greene. If I like your response, I’ll let you go. If I don’t, you’ll find I can make things very difficult for you. Don’t bother trying to play dumb. My men will get the truth from you, one way or another.”

“Está mintiendo,” Emilio said, looking to Alan pointedly. He’s lying. This man wasn’t going to let them go. Once he found out what he wanted to know, he’d dispose of them both. Their only shot here was to hold out until they could escape. But Emilio wasn’t sure he could trust Alan to do that. The guy didn’t seem particularly durable, after all. Gritting his teeth, Emilio turned to the man in charge, tilting his chin back. “I’m the one who took care of your associate,” he lied. “But I’m not telling you shit.” Keep the attention focused on him, and Alan might be able to think of a way out. Emilio just hoped the realtor wouldn’t leave him here.

--- 

What was it again, about this being all his fault? If Alan remained perfectly emotionless at the mention of someone having been caught on camera snooping around, he didn’t think less of it. This is all your fault, Alan. His inner monologue replicated Emilio’s voice in a ridiculously high pitched tone. This being said, the realtor was 100% convinced that it had all been his fault up to this point. It made sense. The other seemed to be used to dealing with all sorts of strange folks, if only considering the sort of neighborhood he lived in. 

“That’s correct. I don’t take no for an answer,” he replied, flatly. Alan tried to recall his training. If things got messier, it was essential he took most of the heat. If Emilio seemed like someone who had seen a lot, the werewolf was doubtful he’d be able to take as much as he could even if he was painfully aware that his curse didn’t give him an advantage while in this form. He pressed his lips together as the other revealed their options. Alan found it bore a strange resemblance with the sorts of deals he offered people when he eagerly wanted them to sell to him. 

Emilio’s comment made him smile. Alan was glad they agreed on that much. He figured that if they were going to make it out, they’d have to look like people who knew exactly what they were doing, even then, even now. No fear in your eyes, just a smug smile, or even worse, mockery in your laughter. 

As the private inspector told the big man about his involvement, Alan started laughing, as if he already knew what was about to happen. “He’s not going to survive a very long time if you don’t let us go back to his side,” his smile grew, matching the shark-like grin the other sported earlier. There was a feral light in his eyes that made him look like he was burning to tear that guy apart too. “We could draw you a plan, I suppose, but how do we know we’re going to make it out alive, mm? Insurance. Now.” He stated, plain and simple, his expression returning to its natural blank state, safe for that one light in his eyes. 

—

Alan was a fucking idiot. There was no other explanation for it, really. All that talk online about appreciating peace and quiet, and he was utterly incapable of keeping his own goddamn mouth shut. All he had to do was shut up and let Emilio take the heat. That was all. It was a pretty simple solution, yet apparently too much for Sr. Big Shot Realtor to follow. Emilio shifted in his seat again, stilling only when the goon who’d taken place beside his chair put a large, beefy hand on his shoulder and applied an uncomfortable amount of pressure to the limb. 

The man in charge spared Emilio a glance before turning his attention back to Alan. It was jarring, how quickly it happened; one moment, the man was standing with his hands behind his back and the next, his fist was connecting with Alan’s face with a resounding crack that made Emilio wince. Two broken noses in the room now, then. This wasn’t great.

“And I thought you’d be the smart one here,” the boss sighed, unclenching his fist and shaking off his hand. Emilio was mildly surprised he’d been willing to get his hands dirty but, then, he probably shouldn’t have been. You didn’t make it to a high-up position in a gang like this without getting blood under your fingernails from time to time. 

Folding his hands together behind his back, the boss strolled back to the center of the two chairs, looking between the two men with an expression that seemed almost bored. “The two of you,” he said, “are in no position to ask for insurance. You’ve caused me a great deal of inconvenience. And I am not a man who likes to be inconvenienced.” He turned, strolling over and stopping in front of Emilio’s chair. “I doubt you’re the mastermind behind this operation,” he commented. Emilio glared, clenching his jaw tightly. “But perhaps you can be convinced to be useful. I’m a man of my word. You can trust that if you tell me what I need to hear, you won’t die here.”

Emilio leaned forward as far as his bound wrists and the tight grip on his shoulder would allow. “You’re full of shit,” he said lowly. The man smiled. It was all the warning Emilio was given before a foot made contact with his ribs, hard enough to knock his chair to the ground. He struggled for a moment before the chair was yanked upright again, pain radiating through him with every movement. “Kicking,” he said with a wheeze, struggling to catch his breath, “is sort of a weak play. Don’t you think?”

“Enough of this.” The man held out a hand, and one of his goons placed a handgun into his open palm. “One of you will tell me where Tobias Greene is. The other will get a bullet between his eyes. At this point, I have no preference which is which. I’ll let you gentlemen decide it among yourselves.”

—

So this is what a broken nose felt like, huh? Alan felt as though everything was turning to white for a few seconds. The feeling of something warm running down on his lips, his chin slowly brought him back to reality. Hard to care about the state of your white shirt when your nose stung violently and you tried to channel whatever concentration you had left on what was happening around him. 

The sound of the chair hitting the floor, weighed down by the body of the private detective, startled Alan, who had lost track of time. 

He looked calmly back at the mob boss, a trickle of blood stretching across his lips as he struggled to smile. This bunch of assholes had no idea what kind of person they were dealing with. He might have been a lot less cooperative than Emilio, he had only taken one hit so far, which made him think that this bunch of morons had managed to convince themselves that he couldn't be responsible for this disappearance. 

“Esto es una mierda,” he glanced over to finally pay Emilio a look. They made quite the broken pair now. “He’s gone. Their guy’s gone.” All because he brought a gun to a chill conversation. His mistake. “I don’t know you, but I’m getting fucking tired of his shit.” A sigh. “How are we gonna do this?” He glanced over at the mob boss, with the gun in hand. “I could lie, say I’ve been working with the giant behind you all along ? He doesn’t look bright, he’ll act up.” 

—

Emilio closed his eyes for a moment as Alan spoke, grimacing. His ribs ached — he was willing to bet at least a few of them were cracked by that last kick — and there was still a tightness to his muscles from the damn taser. Alan wasn’t looking much better, even with the smile he’d managed to plant on his face. If not for the stupid fucking gun, Emilio could have had them out of here by now. Unfortunately, bullets were one thing he’d never learned to fight against.

“What the fuck do you mean he’s gone?” He snapped in Spanish, eyes flying open as he looked back over to his companion. “The fuck did you do? I told you this was going to happen. I fucking — I said he’d probably try to kill you. You couldn’t have listened?” He didn’t look at the brute behind him for fear of giving their plan away, but it did seem a decent bet. If they could turn these guys against each other, there was a chance they could get out of this shit without any additional holes in their bodies. That was the ideal. “I just need you to distract them so I can get loose. If I can get to the asshole in charge before he pulls the trigger, I’ll —” 

He was cut off with a loud smack as the goon behind him delivered a brisk fist to his face. “Speak English, or I’ll break your jaw,” he threatened. 

Emilio worked said jaw carefully. Not broken, though he did spit blood onto the goon’s shoes. They were so dirty already that he doubted the addition would even register. “Well,” he said, “I think I’d like that better than one of your socks in my mouth, at least. You never learned Spanish? Really? It’s a pretty universal language. You’re really limiting yourself by —”

Another punch. Yeah, he probably should’ve seen that one coming. Looking back to Alan, he nodded his head. “Do it before they kill us, then.” 

—

"Well, you were right about that. Congratulations," only Alan could manage to agree to someone else being right and then try to make it look like it was a bad thing. It wasn't. He should have figured out another way to do this. Yet, even now, he didn't see exactly how else he could win without putting Tobias in front of his crimes. "I did what I had to do. Nothing more." This was the truth. His original plan was to blackmail Tobias, eventually scare him into listening. Most people didn't want to fight with a guy who could turn into a wolf: because what if he could do worse than that? 

But he lost control of the narrative, and now here they were.

He still wondered why Emilio didn't stop talking. He just had to keep opening his damn mouth. Now wasn't the time to wonder why he appreciated that stubborn daredevil in the first place, even if it could have been a moment to reflect on bad decisions. You tended to reflect on those, when you were faced with impending death, right? But no, Alan didn't do that. For all these guys wanted to show how serious they were, he found it hard to accept that as a fact. 

Maybe he simply hadn't been punched enough. He could thank Mr Pottymouth for that. 

It was now his time to give back. 

Alan cleared his throat and turned his head to look at the guy holding Emilio. Aside from hitting the PI, he hadn't done much. On their way to the warehouse, he'd overheard his name while he took a phone call. George. Of course he wasn't supposed to have heard it at all, but that was one of those days he could have a prayer for the wolf who turned him.

"Tell me George," George looked at him. Of course that look of concern was coming from Alan knowing his name, and that sure made the realtor smile. "How does it feel to turn your back on an old friend ?" He then turned toward the boss, with a mischievous air to him and the sort of smirk that could only belong to someone in charge. "Oh that's right, George here might not know where Tobias is," with a pointed look, Alan turned toward George only in time to see his fist connect with his jaw. Motherfucker, yes.

His chair tipped over and Alan's head hit the ground. As the other shouted, "shut the fuck up, you lying piece of shit," the wolf coughed, chortled, and went on. This was their only chance, so fuck the pain. He'd had worse. Fuck, every damn full moon, he had it so much worse. "As I was saying, I can tell you where Tobias is," a pause, before he raised his voice, "I killed him!" Then sing-sang,"It's me, I killed him," His laughter resumed though it came to an halt as the man in charge walked up to him to put his shoe over his throat. The thing he was willing to allow to save both their butts. His expression softened then and so did his voice, but what should have come to appease didn't "When you see what's left of him, you'll understand that you made a terrible mistake thinking I'm sensible at all." Fucking hurry Emilio, he thought to himself. And then, there was a gun pointed to his head. "Where. Is he?"

—

Emilio rolled his eyes at the snark in Alan’s tone, making a face in his general direction but not risking a response. If he took too many more hits to the head, he was going to wind up with a concussion, and those always made it so much more difficult to act. Letting Alan have the last word was probably worth saving both their lives. Probably. He might regret it later, if Alan was particularly annoying about it. 

Of course, he couldn’t shake the curiosity that clung to him. Alan had done what he had to do, but how? The realtor was physically fit, but not imposing. He certainly didn’t look like he’d be much of a match for a man who had obvious ties to a clearly dangerous group. He also seemed pretty calm, given their situation. He’d just had his nose broken, and he was still smiling. Still thinking up a plan. It didn’t quite fit with the image Emilio had built of him in his head. 

But now was no time to focus on all that. The man holding him down tightened his grip briefly as Alan spoke his name, and Emilio made a note to remark on the realtor’s ability to get that information if they survived this ordeal. Alan would probably be annoying about it, but it was worth commenting on all the same. 

The plan seemed to be working well enough. Alan’s claims that George was working with him drew the man away from Emilio, and pulled the other men’s attention to the realtor instead of the detective. Emilio winced as Alan’s chair hit the floor, but used the sound of it to cover the noise of him yanking his wrists apart and pulling his ankles from their binds as well. The man in charge was hyperfocused on Alan, his foot resting on the realtor’s neck and his gun pointed away from Emilio. Now was the only chance he’d get.

They’d taken his knives off him when they’d grabbed him. Emilio had vague memories of one of the men commenting on the sheer number of them, making some remark that the detective must have been expecting them. Emilio hadn’t been, of course; if he had, there would have been even more blades on his person. There was one in the lining of his pants, that they’d missed, but it would take a moment to retrieve it, and he figured Alan had about thirty seconds before the man with the gun grew tired of the games and either pulled the trigger on the realtor or turned to shoot Emilio just to show how serious he was. Not enough time to fish the knife out. Improvisation was key. And Emilio had just the thing.

It was tucked into the pocket of his shirt, half as a joke and half because he’d used it to write a note just moments before the thugs in the warehouse had barged into his apartment. Emilio took it and leaped forward in one fluid moment. Within seconds, the bright, hideous pen that Alan had left on his desk after his last visit was sticking out of the armed man’s jugular, the letters RTE REALTY the only ones still visible. 

The room seemed to freeze for a moment. The man formerly in charge had wide eyes, gun clattering to the floor as his hands went to check his throat. George stood slack-jawed, eyes darting from Emilio to the chair he’d vacated. The rest of the goons seemed to be in shock, all looking at their boss with expressions ranging from horror to a hunger that came with knowing there was a sudden opening on the top of the food chain.

And then, Emilio yanked the pen free, and the room burst into life again.

Blood spewed from the man’s throat like a fountain, soaking the warehouse floor… and Alan, which Emilio was sure he’d hear about later. The man stumbled backwards, choking and sputtering as he fell, and George dove for the gun just as Emilio kicked it away. The element of surprise was lost now, clearly; this was going to be the harder part. They were still in a warehouse with several armed men, and those armed men had just remembered that they were armed. One of them pulled his gun, firing at Emilio. The hunter moved as fast as he could, ducking behind George, who was kind enough to take a few bullets for him. 

“All right, Duarte,” the hunter called, shoving George in the direction of the rest of the goons, “that was my plan. You got any ideas on us not getting shot?”

—

Is that my pen ? Alan didn’t know why he even asked himself the question. Of course it was. There was, would you believe it, something oddly satisfying in watching the guy who just punched you in the face twice, end up destroyed by something so personal, something that sealed and confirmed the fact that Emilio did like Alan’s pens. I fucking knew it, he thought to himself, while he tried to get rid of those zip ties. But his army days were far, further than Emilio’s who was one-man-armying his way through the bullets. 

He wanted to cover his ears, but all he could do was scrunch up his nose and hear Emilio urging him to do something. What the fuck was he supposed to do? Worm his way out of here, or admit that sometimes, the only option was coming out of the woods. “Huh uh, just… Don’t fucking scream. I’ll be fine and so will you,” he couldn’t promise that, but Alan wasn’t going to waste more time explaining why Emilio didn’t have to fear getting bitten by a larger-than-nature wolf. 

What was a broken nose when your entire body had to entirely change its structure, your tendons stretching impossibly, your muscles moving underneath your flesh, swelling and stretching a skin that flared up with the apparition of a thick coat of gray fur. Alan always felt the change in his skull was the most difficult. The pressure applied on his head had often caused him to lose his consciousness to the beast, but he’d trained, and he’d sacrificed too much time to blink about it now. 

What the fuck? The horror in their voices felt like winning first prize at the school fair, like a well deserved award for putting up with this charade. Did they understand, now, why he had been laughing the whole time he’d been there? 

Yellow eyes settled on the one closest to them, burning with that same glint, that same feral light. He hoped they recognized it. Claws ripped through clothes, dug into flesh, bruising, piercing, tearing it apart. 

He didn’t go for the throat, he disarmed, bit off an arm, went for the leg, and basked in their agony, their fear, as if he wanted them to know that this was all him, and not a mindless wolf tearing them apart.

When Alan sought Emilio through the room, his shoulders sank. He tucked his tail between his legs, for the room was now silent again.

—

For the first time, it occurred to Emilio that they might actually die here. There was something sort of funny about it, in a morbid kind of way. Surviving the massacre of your hometown by a group of undead monsters and living your life narrowly escaping the teeth and claws of other supernatural creatures only to die at the hand of very human gangsters with their very human guns because you’d pissed them off in your very human day job felt like some sort of huge cosmic joke. The hysterical laughter bubbling up in his chest might have been from the comedy of it all… or it could have been a stress response. Either way.

He’d hoped Alan had another trick up his sleeve but, for a startling moment, he thought he might have been wrong. The realtor was struggling with his damn restraints, and the bleeding George he’d tossed at the rest of the crew would only stop the bullets from firing for a few seconds at the most. Emilio was beginning to think he should have stayed restrained to his chair and waited for a better opening, but then Alan spoke. Don’t fucking scream. Well, that boded well.

The sound of it was the most jarring part. Even in a warehouse full of people, with bullets flying and men screaming insults and threats, the stretching tendons and snapping bones seemed to echo through the hunter’s particularly sensitive ears. His eyes widened just a little, not because he wasn’t aware that things like this were possible but because he hadn’t pegged Alan as one of them. The pretentious realtor with the ugly pens was a werewolf? Really? Emilio let out a dry laugh.

The mobsters were clearly surprised for entirely different reasons. Emilio would have thought that, living in a town like this, they’d be aware of the other side of the city’s underbelly, the part that was less ‘guns and drugs’ and more ‘werewolves and vampires.’ Judging by their reactions, though, it seemed he was wrong. They put up as valiant a fight as could have been expected, of course; a few more bullets flew, even as the men were being torn limb from limb. Emilio’s arm burned as one grazed by him, but he was no longer the primary target and bullets made from anything but silver probably wouldn’t do much against Alan in this state. Flipping the bloodied pen between his fingers, Emilio watched Alan rip through the men with a morbid curiosity. He was a slayer, not a ranger; he hadn’t seen many werewolf attacks.

It was over rather quickly, all things considered. The warehouse went from smelling of sweat and gunpowder to blood and death in a matter of minutes at the most, leaving only Emilio and the wolf still standing. There was a beat, a moment of silence where he stared at Alan and Alan stared at him. And then, Emilio let out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and shook his head. “You couldn’t have done that earlier? I’m pretty sure that pendejo broke a rib here, wey. Could have eaten him before he started hitting me.” 

—

The wolf shook his head, in an all too human manner. Though it was impossible for Alan to smile then, there wasn’t much his eyes couldn’t say. Letting out a small bark, he walked up to one of the guys on the floor, picking up his body gently in his jaw. He would have rather taken the Armani off the boss’ back, but it was now stained with liters of blood, and that wasn’t a look fit for the first days of May. Bloodstained suits for Spring? Groundbreaking. 

There weren’t a lot of hiding places in this warehouse, and a pillar would have to do its work blocking out any of those gruesome sounds, the usual whimpers and whatever dignity he still clung to after so many years as a werewolf. Alan then began the detested part which consisted of stripping a man off of his pants. He had a change in his car, but if they didn't bring it with them, what was he supposed to do? Shift again to get back to it ? Pass. 

Now clad in a suit that was tainted by the presence of polyester in its blend, Alan plucked out hairs he knew for a fact belonged to his wolf form and walked out of his hiding spot at last. "If you had let me do the talking," he pointed out though interrupted himself to offer Emilio a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry," apologies were rare, but it was the very least Alan could offer then. "Let's get out of here. I have all you need to patch yourself up at home, and I'll even make you lunch."

—

There was a certain level of humanity to the wolf that was almost uncomfortable, notes of Alan in the very human expression on the very animalistic face. Emilio tried not to think of Juliana, who had taken down more than a few werewolves in their time together. It was easier, he thought, with the undead. They didn’t shift into a monster and then go back to human after the fact; they were always what they were. It felt so much more straightforward.

He turned away, politely averting his eyes even as Alan crouched behind the beam to shift and change into the dead man’s suit. He was a little relieved that there were plenty of outfits for his companion to choose from. Otherwise, he might have felt obligated to strip down to his skivvies to wear, and he got the feeling they both would have hated that.

When Alan rejoined him, he raised a brow at the outfit. It certainly didn’t look like anything the realtor would normally wear, even to someone like Emilio who found that all suits tended to look the same. A faint hint of amusement ghosted his face as Alan spoke. “If I’d known you had that trick up your sleeve, I might have. I thought you were human, man.” Though, even if he’d known, he didn’t think he’d have let Alan take a beating for him. It wasn’t in his nature to let someone else make the sacrifice play. Hunters were bred to die. If Emilio did so in a dusty warehouse with a bullet in his skin, he was only doing what he was meant to do. “Eh, you can make it up to me with a drink,” he replied with a shrug, tilting his head towards the door. “C’mon, man. This place smells like dog.” 

“That’s great news Andrea, excellent work,” now all he needed was to get just enough dirt on Tobias Greene and the whole apartment building would be for Alan to dispose of, anyway he saw fit. Ideally, he’d tear it down and build over it something he could rent for a more profitable price. He had the green light from the bank, contacted the contractors, and after Greene was out, it would be like flying first class. Easy and comfortable. “Ahem, anyway, if you don’t hear from me again, I just arrived at the P.I.’s office. Such a charming neighborhood this is,” he hated this corner of town, but he figured that this would be discreet, at least. He had heard everything and anything regarding that guy, but what he’d decided to pluck out of those pieces of information was that the man seemed efficient though absolutely unsympathetic. 

Alan didn’t mind that. The less he spent chatting, the better. He didn't come here to crochet or bake sourdough after all. 

A knock on the door, and the businessman took another look at his surroundings, pressing on his keys to make sure he’d locked the car.

—

There was a sticky note on the bedroom door when Emilio dragged himself off the mattress in the center of the floor after a rare few hours of sleep. It was Javi’s doing, that much was clear enough; no one else had been in his bedroom. The note must have been one the necromancer brought from somewhere, which was a little annoying. The writing on it was similarly irritating: You have a meeting with a client. Hire a fucking secretary, dude. Xoxo. 

Emilio rolled his eyes as he ripped the note off the door, wondering absently if he’d scheduled a meeting and forgotten about it or if Javier was taking the time to fill Emilio’s calendar along with his fridge now. Both options seemed equally concerning. He checked the time on his cracked phone screen, sighing as he shoved the bedroom door open and stepped into his ‘office’ just in time to hear scuffling out in the hall. No time for a morning drink, then. Today already fucking sucked.

Grumbling under his breath, the hunter limped over to the door, yanking it open and squinting at the ‘client’ on the other side. Too well dressed to be from this neighborhood, that much was for certain. In fact, he looked a little uncomfortable just being here. That was a great sign already, wasn’t it? 

“What?” Emilio asked in place of a greeting, ready to get down to business without any pleasantries. The sooner he got this guy out of his apartment, the better. From across the room, Perro poked his head up, tail wagging at the sight of the stranger. Emilio’s eyes narrowed further, suspicion clear in his expression. 

—

“What?” Alan replied with a stern look on his face. It would take a lot more than unpleasantness to get him out of here now that he had the marvelous chance of standing in such an outstanding neighborhood. Sticking his hands in his silk lined pockets, the realtor finally brought his commercial worthy smile and leaned back on his heels. “I called earlier. We have an appointment,” he began, eyes darting toward the movement in the back and his smile growing at the sight of a dog. He wasn’t precisely an animal person, but they always had dogs when he grew up, and though he didn’t have one at home, he still considered changing that every now and then. 

Alan then glanced back at the investigator, eyebrows darting up as he wondered if, perhaps, the other was going to eventually let him in. He could have attempted small talk. He hated that, but if it gave him any sort of advantage, he could sacrifice some of his sanity for the cause (the cause always being his wallet). While he questioned the other silently, his affable smile remained, his hands definitely getting cozy in the warmth of his pockets. At last, he pointed toward the inside of the flat with his forehead, his patience’s limitations unfortunately having been reached already.

If he was being honest, part of Emilio had hoped that the man standing on the other side of the door wasn’t the client Javi had warned him about. He looked like he had money, sure — that was always helpful when someone was expected to pay you — but he also looked like the kind of guy who’d be pretty damn picky. Hard to please clients tended to be the most annoying ones. But any hopes that his actual client might be someone who looked a bit more… laid back than this man were dashed when he spoke, alluding to a call Emilio didn’t remember taking. He probably hadn’t been sober for it; he wasn’t even entirely sober now. 

But, the guy was already here. And he did look like he could pay. If Emilio was smart about it, he might even be able to hike up his usual prices a little, feign some inconvenience to justify the increase. Maybe it’d be enough to keep him from having to take another annoying client next week. Grumbling under his breath, he stepped aside and motioned for the man to come in with a lazy wave of his hand. Perro hopped down from his spot on the couch, trotting over cheerily to greet the man. Emilio sighed, bending down to scoop up the dog and carrying him over to the bedroom and shutting him inside. It’d be better, he thought, to have this meeting without the dog interrupting. With Perro secure, he walked over to his desk and took a seat, still eyeing the client warily. “Tell me what you want, then.”

—

Stepping inside, Alan’s first instinct led him to look around, for recording devices, people and the general aesthetic of the place (and not necessarily in that order). Needless to say that this wasn’t going to be a feng shui award winning apartment any time soon. Not that he personally minded. He didn’t care. The thought of his grandmother commenting on the state of this place, however, brought a fond, yet mainly amused air to his face which he tried to conceal through pressed lips. Yet, in the end, what mattered was this was supposed to be an efficient man, and this was what he came here for. 

If it was a disappointment to see the dog disappear behind a door, Alan preferred not to show it, and instead approached the desk, taking a look at the chair he was meant to sit on, and deciding to just put his forearms on its back instead, leveling a little with the other without really stooping to his level either. One would think whatever one wished about that. 

If he appreciated the other’s no bullshit attitude, Alan wouldn’t let go of his personal bullshit for it, and instead kept his distance, the chair serving as a frail wall between the two. His polished appearance already clashed more than enough with the decor, and he even dared give himself a reminder to wear denim the next time he’d have to come here. “I need information on someone,” he began. He didn’t try to stall, to give himself a good reason to need dirt on anyone. Alan did have a good reason to be here, let it be clear, but he was also not one to waste his time or anyone’s. “And I need to acquire it through discreet means.” Which would be why he needed to rely on someone like Mister Cortez. “It’s quite simple really. It has to be the sort of … intel that this guy doesn’t want to see aired out. Maybe he’s a cheat, maybe he’s cheated on his SATs. I don’t care, but the more embarrassing, the better.” 

Paranoia was an old friend. It had lived in Emilio’s chest since long before the massacre of his hometown, clawed its way to the surface when that blood stained the streets and left him empty of most everything else. It whispered in his ear now, pointed out everything this client did and assigned some sinister intention to it. Was that faint smile on his face present because he’d just managed to track down the last Cortez? Was he subtly refusing to sit in order to give him the upper hand when he took the first swing? Was his disappointment at Perro’s removal from the room due to the fact that he’d have one less piece of leverage left easily accessible to him? 

The slayer’s fingers tapped against his knee, body tense and ready to burst into movement at the slightest sign of trouble. But instead of attacking, the client started talking. Describing a case that, while it didn’t sound entirely above board, was hardly the sketchiest thing that had been asked of Axis Investigations. The tension didn’t leave Emilio’s shoulders, but he made some attempt to quell the paranoid thoughts tugging at his mind. If this man wanted to attack him, he probably wouldn’t have called and made an appointment. Emilio knew from experience that most murderers didn’t leave a paper trail when they could help it. 

“Who’s the guy?” He didn’t ask why, even if the question was at the forefront of his mind. You got paid more for not asking certain questions. And besides, the why usually became clear enough once the investigation kicked off. When you started looking into every aspect of a person’s life, it usually became pretty obvious why someone wanted you to do so. 

—

He could hear the other tap his fingers on his knee, even if he didn’t see it. What was making the other so nervous? As a reflex, Alan looked over his shoulder, half expecting to see someone there in an attempt to ambush him. That was perhaps a tad paranoid of him, but he had done enough questionable things to be suspicious of strangers. This man was a stranger, even if he hired him.  

“Tobias Greene,” Alan paused, “that’s Tango, Osca-” With the same courteous smile, he leaned forward to grab a post-it note from the desk, and reached into his pocket for a pen. This one bore the address and phone number to his business on the side, and once he was done writing the name and the address on paper, stuck it to the desk and left the pen on top. In just a minute, he let the other know that he had been in the military at some point, and that he wasn’t one bit scared of telling him exactly where to find him, with a smile. 

“How long shall it take you?” Standing up straight, the werewolf put his hands on his hips and looked down at the P.I. “I don’t want a precise date. A broad time frame will do.” 

The client looked over his shoulder like he thought something might be coming, and the suspicion in Emilio’s gut only grew. Was he nervous there may be a witness on the way? Was he expecting backup and wondering where they might be? Was he — No. No, Emilio was being paranoid again. If this guy was here to kill him, he would have made his move already. Wouldn’t he? There was no need to let Emilio grow used to his presence, no sense in allowing him to map out his weaknesses when he could have just attacked him at the door. He was a man who needed an investigator. It didn’t matter that Perro didn’t growl at him, didn’t matter that he looked remarkably out of place here, didn’t matter that he carried himself with a stiffness that spoke of certain skills. What mattered was his wallet, and Emilio got the sense that that was pretty damn full.

That didn’t make him any less strange, though. Emilio, of course, was not familiar enough with the United States military to recognize the phonetic alphabet for what it was; to him, the client’s spelling tactics served only as another oddity to add to the pile. It was enough to make him tense even further when the man leaned forward, relaxing only ever so slightly when he only grabbed one of the post-its that had been undoubtedly left by Javi. Emilio glanced down to the paper briefly as the client wrote, but not for longer than a heartbeat. His eyes, for the most part, remained glued to the other man in the room. Ready to make a move the second making a move became necessary. 

“Depends on how open the guy is,” he replied, reaching across the desk to take the post-it and sticking it to the table in front of him without really looking at it. “Some people make it easy to uncover their shit. Others make it harder. A week, maybe. Two if he knows what he’s doing. I’ll need some of the money up front. Never know if you can trust someone to pay you after.” He’d been shorted more than once by clients who didn’t like what he found out. He’d learned to take whatever he could get before the work started as a result. “And your name, too. Didn’t catch it on the phone.” He wasn’t sure, still, if he’d been the one to take the call or if Javi had gone behind his back and done it. Either way, he didn’t remember the client’s name now.

—

Standing by the chair, Alan observed Mr Cortez with curiosity, like you would an animal in the wilderness. Most people didn’t value silence anymore. The werewolf certainly appreciated meeting with someone so quiet. If anything, it made him appreciate the guy quite a lot already, and his review, should his work be of quality, would be the type that brought in more customers. With a smile, he clasped his hands together. A week? That was marvelous. He expected it to take longer. Maybe two weeks, or three. That was good news.

“I’ll give you half today, and the rest after,” with a bonus if he was happy with what the other found. Normal amount if he was not. Arms crossed over his chest, Alan bit on the inside of his cheek as the other asked for his name. He had introduced himself over the phone, but now that he thought of it, he may have not heard that voice then. “Alan Duarte,” a pause, “Duarte Real Estate, on Main Street,” a legit business, in a nice neighborhood. 

With all those details being sorted out, the wolf offered the other his hand to shake. “Do we have a deal?” If so, he’d write a first check in the second. 

—

It was more than most people offered. Most people, in fact, were offended at best when Emilio requested any kind of payment upfront. Getting paid half his fees before doing any work was a much better deal than he was typically offered, and he returned the client’s words with a curt nod of agreement. “I don’t care where you work,” he said dryly, tapping his fingers against his knee again. Despite his words, he made note of the new information. The guy owned his own real estate business, on the side of town that wasn’t known for its unusually high crime rate. It was good to know.

Leaning forward in his chair, Emilio nodded again. “Tenemos un trato. We have a deal. Half now, half later.”

—

“Okay,” Alan scoffed, as if taken slightly aback by the other’s honesty. It was quite unsettling, for someone like himself, who was used to having to read through people’s words to get to the truth, but in the end, he found it more refreshing than he found it shocking in any way. 

“Excelente. La mitad hoy, el resto al final.” He agreed with a shake of hands. Glancing back at the chair, he reluctantly sat down on it, unbuttoning his jacket for comfort, and smoothing down his tie to align it with his shirt. “How much are you going to cost me then?” His leather checkbook cover sitting against his leg, the wolf reached over to grab back his pen for the moment, glancing over at Emilio Cortez, if only to check whether he was still acting cranky. 

—

When the client — Alan — finally sat down, a little more tension bled out of Emilio’s shoulders. Better. The use of Spanish, too, served to put him a little less on edge, make him a little more comfortable. He nodded, satisfied with the ‘transaction.’ As far as cases went, he’d had far worse things asked of him by far more suspicious clients. 

Glancing to the checkbook, Emilio took a moment to consider his rates before writing down a number on one of the sticky notes and slapping it onto the desk in front of Alan. It was higher than his usual rate, but only because it seemed like the guy could afford it. “There might be expenses, too,” he warned. “Just depends on how the case goes. If I get stabbed getting your shit, I charge for it. If you hit me, there’s a fee. Standard stuff.”

—

“That’s fine,” it was a tad more expensive than he expected (considering the state of this place), but Alan didn’t consider it entirely unjustified either. In the end, he would make a lot of money if he managed to kick that motherfucker out of the way, and Mr Cortez would make it happen, right? Everyone had dirty laundry they wished to hide from the world. “If I hit you? That happens often, heh?” That was enough to make him genuinely laugh out loud. Ah, this he could relate to. “Deal. You don’t hit me, I don’t hit you,” guffawing some more, he signed the check and handed it to the other, holding onto it as he leaned forward. “This being said, if I get the slightest impression that I’m being fucked with, you’re going to hear from me,” and he could do a lot worse than punch him in the face, though that was a little secret he kept for now. 

Letting go of the check, Alan stood up, buttoned his jacket closed and offered a thin lipped smile. 

—

Alan accepted the proposal easily enough and, for a moment, Emilio regretted not trying to drain him of a little more of his funds. It wasn’t as if the detective needed a lot of money to keep up his lifestyle, but it was always better to have more than less. But… what was done was done. Alan had agreed to more than what he’d expected, and that was a win. “More often than you’d think,” he replied with a faint smile, shrugging a shoulder. “Part of the job is telling people things they don’t want to hear, sometimes. Some react better than others. I try not to hit them back.” Whether or not he always succeeded in that was another matter entirely, of course.

Despite the twinge in his knee, Emilio stood when Alan did. He eyed the man a little suspiciously at the threat, shrugging a shoulder. “Not planning on fucking with you. I said I’d get you what you need, I’ll get you what you need. You just worry about the money.” He stuck out a hand, raising his brows. “Great doing business with you.”

—

“I’ve read the reviews,” he commented - he clearly didn’t seem one bit impressed by what he’d read - while putting his company’s pen into the pen holder that stood on the desk. “Your clients are quite the tough crowd to please,” Alan liked to consider himself to be the opposite of that, and to be someone who chose to indulge in anything that struck his fancy while he could. In the end, he probably would have lived a life just as fulfilling in a cabin by a lake, in flannel shirts and hiking boots. This being said, he wouldn’t spit on the comfort he enjoyed now. 

The answers he’d uncovered about Alan Duarte’s business rival weren’t entirely what Emilio had been expecting. In all honesty, most of the shit he found out on cases like this one were incredibly boring. Everyone was always hiding something, but it was usually something mundane. A mistress, a lovechild, a decades-old accidental crime. Enough to make them do what you wanted them to do, but never enough to actually entertain.

Tobias was different.

The secret bank account had been interesting, though not necessarily a smoking gun. With Javi’s help, Emilio had managed to gain access to the records from that account, a list of charges that led him to a storage facility in Worm Row. Still not too terribly exciting… until he’d opened the container. Weapons, drugs, and a freezer full of shit that might have made someone with a weaker stomach than Emilio a little sick. But to him… it felt like a damn jackpot.

He wasted little time in calling Alan to Axis, feet propped on his desk and a smug expression on his face. When the other man entered the room, Emilio tossed him a sealed folder. “There’s your leverage,” he said. “Should be plenty enough to give you what you need. Photos, bank records, even some shit from his cell phone. Think you mentioned something about a bonus?”

—

“Good morning to you too,” the werewolf slipped a hand in his pocket, his nose wrinkling while he looked around the flat. No dog again (which was a true shame), but the place was still a damn mess. Smoothing out the fabric of his woolen navy suit, the realtor pulled a chair forward, removing his jacket before he took a seat. “I see your memory is quite impressive,” the dry comment came as Alan tugged onto the wax seal, breaking it off. “Let’s see what we got, and then we’ll see about that bonus.” 

There didn’t seem to be copies of his marriage certificates, which was more of a relief than he’d care to admit. He didn’t want people digging into his personal history, he didn’t want people looking at him, because it was unlikely they’d like what they’d see. Rubbing at his cheek, Alan tried to conceal his relief, and directed his attention toward those bank records the other collected. It all seemed normal enough until you looked long enough at the details, the bank account numbers, the repeated patterns. Huh. That wasn’t right.

As he began inspecting the photographs, Alan took a second too much to realize what he was looking at. Fuck. What the actual fuck was that. Sure, the guy was shady but this was a whole other level of fucked up. Putting his hand to his mouth, he glanced away, his eyes staring into the void in front of him (or rather the stain on the floor) while he collected his thoughts and tried to keep his stomach’s content under control. “What the… This is from his place ?” He didn’t want to buy a crime scene, that was always complicated, especially as he planned to tear the building down. “What are we talking about here? Is he some sort of hitman? Do these even exist?” It felt a bit ridiculous but why not. Apparently werewolves existed, hitmen weren’t such a shocking thought. “What does it mean?” 

—

“When I need it to be.” In all honesty, Emilio liked Alan. Most of his clients were annoying; Alan wasn’t so bad. There was the added bonus, of course, that he could be an ass to the realtor and not have to worry about Alan getting his feelings hurt because of it. Instead, the man was an ass back. It was a much preferable result than what most people went with. “I think you’ll like what you see.” At least, he was pretty sure. Alan had wanted leverage against his rival, and this would certainly give him that. What he did with it after the fact was of little concern to Emilio. 

He watched Alan react to the photos. It was a little jarring, if he was being honest. Up until now, everything Alan had done — every action, every reaction — had been the picture of control. This was different. He seemed… affected by the photos. It served as a strange reminder that not everyone lived a life like Emilio’s, where gore and death were commonplace. When he’d stumbled upon the storage container, he’d barely even blinked. Other people were different. 

Removing his feet from his desk, the detective leaned forward. “Not his house,” he replied. “Storage container, not far from here. If I had to guess, I’d say gang related. Seems like more of a fixer than a hitman, I think. Hitmen don’t care if somebody finds the bodies.” Of course, this was still a little out of Emilio’s wheelhouse. The kind of crime he dealt with was usually a little less… human than all this. But no matter what species the perpetrator was, the concept was the same. The only difference, he figured, was that Tobias probably wasn’t eating anyone. “It means I did my job. Take it to the police and get it arrested, take it to him and use it against him, I don’t care. Just leave my name out of it.” He paused for a moment, then added, “But he’ll probably kill you, if you go to him. So maybe don’t do that.”

—

He pressed his palm against his cheek, as if he expected the warmth to bring color back to it. Tossing the photographs back into the envelope, Alan looked at the private investigator. He generally tried to give the impression that he was in charge, but worry was hard to hide then. Whatever it was Alan would have to deal with, it was a lot more than nostalgia or family heirlooms. With a sigh meant to let him recover and regain composure, the wolf sat up in his chair and set the kraft envelope on his thighs, linking his fingers together. 

“Gang related,” he repeated, like it suddenly made a lot more sense. It didn’t make fucking sense. Sure, their town wasn’t a small one, and they were close to the Canadian Border, but a fucking mob? “Dios mío, qué es esta locura,” he was not too unfamiliar with what people were capable of, but this wasn’t something he ever had to deal with. In the military, violence was a matter of homeland safety or so they said, never a matter of making money (ha, right). Legal violence, he called it now. “I wasn’t planning on mentioning my sources,” he commented, matter of factly. Alan played with his cards close to his chest, and he wasn’t chatty, not unless that would play to his advantage. “Oh, he’ll most likely try to kill me,” the correction was not made on purpose, but the realtor was so convinced of not being such an easy kill that he let his slip. “I’ll be careful,” he added, reaching into his jacket for his cheque book. “In the meantime, what was promised is now due to you,” he pulled out a new pen from his jacket, making it click with more pizzazz than needed, if only to annoy the other a little. “I figured you’d want a new one,” his lips stretched into a playful smirk while he filled out the blanks, adding 15% more to the bill, for the swift work. “That’s for you,” the pen went to the penholder, and the cheque on the desk. “I’ll add a little comment on Yelp when this all is settled.” Discretion was needed, after all.

—

Huh. So, in spite of his clear unease about what he’d seen in those photos, Alan still wasn’t convinced that this less-than-harmless business rival would be able to successfully kill him. There was something undeniably interesting about that, though Emilio was careful not to let the intrigue show on his face. The realtor remained something of a mystery, and Emilio would be lying if he said he wasn’t itching to solve it. Just… maybe not right now. And definitely not in a way Alan would be aware of. If this particular case had taught him anything, it was that you never knew what someone might be hiding. The last thing he wanted was to give Alan a reason to try to kill him. He’d never get repeat business that way.

“Like I said, as long as my name stays out of it, I don’t care what you do. I have enough trouble without inviting whatever this is into it.” He didn’t have time to worry about gangs or mobs when he was busy trying to take out clans and hoards. The latter was something he at least knew how to deal with. Something trying to take a bite out of you was a lot more familiar than something taking a shot at you instead, when you lived a life like Emilio’s. Raising a brow as Alan produced a new pen from his pocket, Emilio let loose a half-amused huff of air. “Uglier than the last one,” he commented. “I don’t know how you’re making them worse.” But he was glad to be getting his paycheck without any kind of a fuss. The news certainly wasn’t what Alan had been expecting; sometimes, people tried to use that as an excuse not to pay. “Great. What would I do without a Yalp comment?” He picked up the check, taking a quick glance to make sure the amount was right (or, more than what they’d agreed upon; Alan wasn’t lying about that bonus) before slipping it into his pocket. “Pleasure doing business with you. Feel free to keep Axis in mind for all your detective needs.” His voice was dry, a parody of an advertisement. He thought Alan might find it funny, at least.

—

"I hear you loud and clear," considering who Alan was now dealing with, it seemed out of the question to have anything to connect poor Tobias' fate to him in any way, including the detective. The way things had been going, he was confident he could trust the other's ability to keep his mouth shut. 

"I picked it specifically for you," he didn't. He had a box sitting in his trunk and he always made sure to carry one with him, but he wanted to indulge the other with another joke. Call it a branch from the olive tree. He liked the other's discretion and knowing how efficient he was made it all the more interesting to Alan, who would make sure to keep him in mind should the need arise again.

"Likewise." The cheesy catchphrase made him pause, and he pressed his lips together, tongue in cheek as if to give him the silent, judgemental treatment for that, before letting his lips relax into a small yet amused grin. "Alright, I better leave before you reveal all your comedic talent to me," with a scoff, he snatched the envelope from his lap and grabbed the jacket from the chair, heading toward the front door. "If there's a next time, let your dog out for me, huh? This is criminal, Cortez." 

—

“Great.” He was confident Alan would adhere to the agreement. If nothing else, the realtor had proven that he could be discreet when he needed to be. And in this case? He probably realized he needed to be. If Tobias was connected to some gang that would seek vengeance when Alan acted on the information Emilio had provided him with, it’d be a lot easier to track Alan down through Axis. Keeping Emilio’s name out of the mix would cover both their asses. Alan had to be smart enough to realize that.

Though not smart enough to pick out decent pens. Real shame, that. Emilio snorted, rolling his eyes as he plucked the pen from the cup and made a show of inspecting it. “It’s terrible,” he declared, dropping it back into the cup.