Chapter Text
Squalo is having a perfectly miserable day.
It’s only right, given that he has been having a truly miserable week following on the heels of an absolutely miserable month that, in all honesty, has been only the latest addition in a series of utterly miserable years.
On a related note, it has been six years, five months, one week and four days of unending misery, not that anyone outside the Varia is keeping count.
Even inside the Varia not everyone is as loyal to Boss as they should be—would be if Squalo was allowed to clean house and if Xanxus was actually fucking here to prove himself worthy of that loyalty—and the less said about the clusterfuck called CEDEF, the better.
As for the Family itself, Vongola’s main house has been a mess of split loyalties since long before Xanxus’ imprisonment. A problem that has only been exacerbated by the Ninth’s refusal to pick a fucking heir. Not that the Varia’s supposed coup has done the Family or the Varia any favors either.
No one likes to ally with the losing side.
Of course there aren’t many sides left these days, what with both of the Ninth’s oldest sons dead and buried. Federico isn’t the worst option to inherit the title of Vongola Tenth—that dubious honor would have gone to Massimo, if not for the reason most would assume—and while he isn’t Boss and that thought won’t ever not ache, Squalo could live with following him.
It helps that Federico is Xanxus’ best shot for freedom.
They are brothers, even though they have never been close. Squalo doesn’t know if it makes a difference. Has no clue if Federico at the helm of the Family will change shit for them. But what he does know is that the Ninth has had six years, five months, one week and four days to change is mind and has done jack shit with that time.
Federico can’t do worse.
And if he follows his older brothers’ into an early grave, as Vongola’s current generation seems doomed to do, well, then the Ninth won’t have any other option but to finally free his youngest son, will he? It’s not how Squalo wants to see his boss inherit—it would be an insult, couldn’t be anything else, to grudgingly hand Xanxus the title he has earned after all the other candidates have been snuffed out, deemed unworthy until and unless all other options have been crossed off—but if it’s the only way to get his Sky back then Squalo will take it.
With a smile.
Squalo’s grip tightens around his pen and his next signature almost tears the paper apart.
Fucking calm down.
He exhales. Forces himself to ease up on the pen.
He is still pissed, but Squalo is pissed off on more days than he isn’t, and while ruining the never-ending mountain of paperwork on his desk—and covering the floor in front of his desk, what the fuck—is satisfying in the short term, Squalo knows from experience that it isn’t worth the trouble it will cause him later on. Vongola’s main house likes to use any excuse the Varia gives them to drag their feet and overcomplicate what are already rage-inducingly inefficient processes that would make Mammon cry if they didn’t bill Vongola horrendous sums for every single minute of their time.
So no, he is not going to destroy another heap of important documents that someone with more training than Squalo should probably sign off on.
No matter how tempting it is.
"Officer?" One of the mooks—has to be, Squalo doesn’t recognize that voice—knocks on his door.
"What?" Squalo snaps.
The door opens slowly. The mook behind it looks ready to bolt at the first sign of movement—good instincts, might be worth keeping an eye on—and he is smart enough to call Squalo 'Officer' instead of 'Boss'.
Admittedly very few people have made that mistake since Squalo gutted the first person who called him that after the fucking Cradle Affair—and fuck does he hate that name—but it’s not like Luss didn’t put Cirrus back together again afterwards.
Eventually.
Bunch of babies, the whole lot of them.
"What?" Squalo repeats impatiently when the mook just stares at his hand, where he—
Ah, fuck.
That’s another broken pen Mammon is going to deduct from his salary.
Thankfully even with his entire hand covered in ink Squalo’s glare doesn’t seem to have lost any of his intensity because the mook—a potential Rain, he will have to remember to check up on his progress, provided the idiot doesn’t get himself killed in the next five minutes—rallies himself quickly.
"A potential client has rung our door bell, Officer."
Going by the perplexed look on the mook’s face, Squalo assumes he means that literally, otherwise there would be no need to involve him. They get plenty of new clients in a variety of ways and thanks to Mammon the Varia has protocols for all of them. Though Squalo has to admit that personal visits have fallen out of favor, given that it is much harder to deny that you are hiring an assassination squad when you are seen stopping by their headquarters.
Still. It’s rare, but not that rare.
"Housekeeping has got him settled in the blue guest room. Given the… unexpected appearance, Madam has asked that you join them at your earliest convenience."
Squalo raises his eyebrows. Now that is a surprise.
Both the location of their visitor and the thinly-veiled order from Madam himself. The Head of the Varia’s Housekeeping doesn’t tend to get involved in the daily business aspects until and unless it affects his job or people directly. Even more intriguing is that blue rooms are meant to be kept civilian-appropriate—though what situation might call for the Varia to house civilians is a question Squalo has yet to find an answer to.
Most flame actives consider them something between crazy but competent murderers and rabid dogs only barely leashed by Vongola’s might. Housing civilians doesn’t fit well into that image.
"I see."
Squalo doesn’t but it’s not like it matters. This mysterious client cannot possibly be worse than the newest budget cuts Vongola is trying to push past him. It’s like they genuinely believe having an elite assassination squad equipped to clean up their messes on constant stand-by comes cheap.
"I’ll take care of it," he says to the visible relief of the increasingly twitchy mook. Perhaps he can sense Squalo’s frustration? Some flame-users have an increased sensitivity towards detecting strong emotions.
A suspicion to follow up on another day.
"Dismissed."
Seems like Squalo has an excuse to put the paperwork off for a couple of hours after all. But first he needs to wash the ink off his hand.
Madam is waiting for him, all but guarding the door to the blue guest room with an unamused expression that would convince even the craziest mist to take their mischief elsewhere.
Squalo comes to a stop in front of the veritable mountain of a man who is the latest in a long line of people to have taken on the official title of the Head of the Varia’s Housekeeping. He doesn’t think he has ever seen Madam this… not necessarily agitated, but restless.
It goes without saying that the man has better things to do than supervise an unknown inside their own territory. Usually, that is.
"Squalo." Madam greets him.
He has never called Squalo by anything but his name. Of course, the only authority the Head of Housekeeping answers to is the Head of the Varia—and Squalo hasn’t held that title since he handed it over to his Sky, frozen or not.
"We have a problem."
Of course they do.
"What the fuck."
It’s a kid.
A tiny kid—seriously, there is no way it comes up to Squalo’s shoulders—with a mix of European and Japanese features, who is dressed in what sure looks like a proper school uniform and is currently lying upside down on the visitor couch, his head dangling low over the ground, long, fluffy, brown hair almost brushing against the carpet, and his socked feet swinging back and forth where they are draped over the backrest.
Squalo stares.
The kid smiles.
And waves.
With so much enthusiasm that he almost topples over and off the couch.
"Hello Squalo-san, it’s an honor to meet you. My name is Sawada Tsunayoshi," it chirps in heavily accented Italian. "Please take good care of me."
"What the fuck."
Alright. He needs to get a grip. Be professional about this.
Squalo sits his ass down on a lone armchair that is conveniently facing the couch where the kid is sprawled out, watching him upside down with curious eyes.
He is young, obviously. Looks to be about ten, maybe, though Squalo has never been good at guessing children’s ages. You’d think two younger siblings and a dozen assorted cousins would help, but all his family has taught him is that children are vicious little monsters who scent weakness like sharks scent blood and will absolutely use their slighter stature and huge, teary puppy eyes against you.
So far, nothing Squalo has seen suggests that Sawada Tsunayoshi will be any different. And no, he is not thinking about that last name because if he does, Squalo will murder someone.
Probably the kid.
Which would most likely make him feel better but also definitely piss Madam off. He has Opinions™ on children.
There is a reason Varia recruits have to be twelve years old at a minimum. Belphegor is the sole exception of that rule that Squalo is aware of—in a certain definition of the term 'exception’, given that the shitty Prince bypassed the recruiting stage entirely by murdering an Officer. Even then Madam had been anything but happy.
So, no. Today is not going to be the day Squalo starts a war with Housekeeping.
…he hopes.
"What are you doing here?" is the first question Squalo finally settles on.
Because he has to start somewhere and clearly the kid is going to be no help at all, what with the way he is staring at his socked feet—and where the fuck are his shoes anyway—swinging back and forth like they are an entire revelation by themselves.
The kid gives him the same look Squalo’s little sister used to shoot him that says how can you be so grown up and yet still so stupid? with an air of condescending superiority only a pre-teen can achieve. It’s not a look Squalo appreciates.
"I want to hire the Varia."
Yeah. Squalo was afraid of that.
"And for what?"
"To steal something."
Squalo blinks. That’s unexpected. Not that anything about this kid is expected, mind, but generally speaking when unfamiliar people show up out of nowhere to talk business, it’s because they are following a trail of hard-to-kill rumors and want someone dead. And badly too.
Not that the Varia only handles assassinations—there’s sabotage, kidnapping and blackmailing too, just to name a few options—but they do make up 90 percent of their missions. And, more importantly, it is what they are known for.
So to have some kid, who looks more civilian than Squalo is honestly comfortable with, show up asking them to steal something is… interesting.
"And what do you want us to steal?"
The kid’s eyes narrow. "I’m not going to just tell you that. You have to promise you’ll do it first."
Right.
"Kid." Squalo doesn’t roll his eyes, has too much self-control for that, but going by the way the kid tenses, his tone conveys the exasperation he feels just fine. "That’s not how this works. I can’t decide whether to accept a job without knowing what it entails."
"Huh." The kid sounds puzzled by Squalo’s counterargument which doesn’t bode well for this discussion.
For a long couple of seconds he stares directly into Squalo’s eyes without blinking—at the very least the boy has more guts than most Family heads seem to possess these days, not that Squalo is impressed or anything—like he is trying to read his mind. Then he proceeds to swing his feet over his head, almost rolling off the couch and slamming his elbow against the coffee table as he does so before he manages to push himself into an upright position with a huff.
"Okay," the kid says calmly like Squalo hasn’t just had to rescue an expensive crystal vase from his flailing limbs. "Then lets sign a secrecy agreement."
"A secrecy agreement," Squalo repeats, not sure whether he is impressed or amused. Or baffled. Yes, baffled fits this entire situation well enough.
"A secrecy agreement," the kid repeats patiently. "It’s a contract that says you can’t share the information I give you with anyone, whether the Varia accepts the mission or not."
"I know what a secrecy agreement is."
The doubtful look that statement earns him is entirely unwarranted but Squalo abruptly decides to not to waste his energy on this particular battle and focus on the important part. Namely whether he is going to entertain this facade for the additional ten minutes it will take him to send a mook off to Mammon to get him a copy of the Varia’s standard negotiation contract, confidentiality clause included, and then try to convince an actual ten-year-old of the trustworthiness of said contract or send the kid home like he probably should have done from the get-go.
The kid is still staring at him.
It would be unsettling if he wasn’t so— fluffy.
With a sigh he refuses to voice out loud, Squalo shoots Lussuria—by far his most trustworthy Co-Officer when it involves work-related duties he doesn’t want to pay through the nose for—a quick text.
Might as well see this through.
"So," Squalo says after five long minutes of unbroken silence while they wait for one of Lussuria’s underlings in an effort to get the kid to stop staring at him with an intense focus Squalo is more used to seeing on Levi’s face back when Boss was still around to shout orders at him. Not a comparison any sane person would be happy to make.
So far the boy hasn’t blinked once. That can’t be normal, can it?
"Where do you live?"
Inwardly he winces. On second thought, that question blurs the line between small talk and threat a little too much when the conversation involves a professional contract killer. In Squalo’s defense, he hasn’t engaged in genuinely meaningless small talk since he last attended one of his wider family functions back when he was thirteen.
He might be a tad rusty.
Thankfully the kid doesn’t seem perturbed.
"In Japan," he chirps.
Clearly smart or suspicious enough to not just hand out his home address to a stranger. Of course this is also a kid who has hunted down the Varia headquarters on his own with the intent of hiring them, so Squalo probably shouldn’t be surprised.
He still hasn’t blinked though.
"How did you even get here?" is Squalo’s next, moderately safer question. The boy looks like he came here straight from school— though admittedly a private school with a heavily Japanese-inspired uniform.
"I flew."
"You flew," Squalo repeats blankly.
The kid nods cheerfully. "With an airplane."
Like that is the part he thinks he needs to clarify.
Squalo doesn’t know why but he is suddenly certain that somewhere someone is laughing at him. It’s probably his shitty Boss.
Once the negotiation contract is signed—and credit where credit is due, the kid reads the entire three pages twice, including the small print on the back, Mammon would approve—the boy straightens from his slumped position where he has curled himself up around a surprisingly ugly decorative cushion.
"I want you to steal my cousin. He’s been falsely imprisoned by some guy who’s pretty powerful, so I can’t get him out the legal way," the kid says solemnly. "That’s why I need you to take him. Out of the country would be best but I’ll settle for out of his prison."
With that he pulls out a small stack of carefully folded papers out of his back pocket. Squalo takes them with raised eyebrows. A quick glance shows them to be identification papers. Likely the cousin’s in question because the boy in front of him sure as shit can’t pass for sixteen.
"I don’t think…" this is a job suited for the Varia, is what Squalo should say, means to say, is absolutely going to say because there’s just something about the way the kid’s rushing the words out that makes his instincts sit up and pay attention, tells him there is more to this story than the boy wants to admit, probably some intense family drama, and the last time Squalo got tangled up in that type of bullshit he lost his Sky—
But the words stay stuck in the back of his throat.
Squalo’s gaze is frozen on the name on top of those papers.
Xander Gabbiano.
Aged sixteen.
There’s no reason to think this is anything but a coincidence. But when Squalo turns to the next page, he finds himself staring down at a poorly drawn picture of a black-haired figure with deep red eyes holding a smaller boy’s hand in a manner that Squalo knows damn well Boss would never have tolerated and—
It is a joke. A cruel joke. It has to be. That is the only explanation that makes sense.
And if it is… If it is Squalo is going to murder the kid and he doesn’t give a fuck how big his eyes are or if it’s going to start a war with Madam that he can’t hope to win.
"What the fuck is this," he says, not asks in a low voice that spells death for someone in the very immediate future.
The kid doesn’t flinch or fidget. He meets Squalo’s gaze without fear. "A mission should you accept it. I’ve included the details I’ve collected on the last page."
The page that looks like a hand-drawn floor plan of the Vongola main house. More specifically of a floor of the Ninth’s home that Squalo has never seen before and didn’t know exists. Several colorful lines symbolize alarms and security features of various kinds if the caption in the right lower corner is to be trusted and there is even a large red 'X' painted in the middle of the second last room. It looks like a treasure map for a children’s birthday party.
Except for the fact that it matches the layout of the Ninth’s headquarters perfectly.
Squalo doesn’t know whether he is trembling with shock, rage or relief as he stares at a detailed description of every obstacle between Xanxus and his Sky’s freedom mapped out with crayons and decorated with cartoonish drawings of robots in various sizes.
It’s the sheer mind-fucking impossibility of this entire situation that he blames for the brief moment when he looks up from the priceless information in his hands and could swear the kid’s eyes burn a brilliant shade of orange.
"I want him out," the boy says. His eyes are brown—of course they are, there isn’t a wisp of Sky flame in this child, nor any flame for that matter, get a fucking grip already—but for the first time since Squalo has caught sight of the child and his perplexing behavior that makes every single one of his instincts scream, there is audible steel in his voice.
"Are you going to help me or not?"
If it hadn’t been so long since Squalo has last laid eyes on his Sky—has felt Xanxus’ relentless fire burning inside his own chest, a steady homing beacon, an unapologetic possessive claim, a bond that should have only broken in death—perhaps he would have asked more questions. Demanded answers, tried to figure out the endgame of what has to be a trap or an enemy move or both. Set those damn papers on fire and this cursed kid with it.
But it’s been six years, five months, one week and four days of unrelenting Cold where his Home should be and it turns out that Squalo has long stopped caring about getting his Sky back the proper way. It’s only Xanxus’ dedication that has kept Squalo from burning Vongola to the ground to reach him so far, and even that hold grows thinner with every passing day.
All he needs at this point is an excuse.
"Sure, kid," Squalo finds himself saying through a smile as wide and filled with teeth as his namesake’s. "I don’t see why I shouldn’t."
The boy lights up like all the lightbulbs on a Christmas tree that has just been switched on. "Great!" He pulls out the saddest, saggy, little wallet that Squalo has ever seen. "Do you think 7’564 Yen will cover it?"