Chapter Text
There are many things Elliot would rather be doing right now. The air is cold, and it’s not the type of cold where you simply wrap a thin coat over your shoulders or throw a scarf over your neck — no, it’s the type of cold that sends shivers down your spine and leaves a frigid feeling thrumming through your bones. And yet, here Elliot was, climbing onto a motorcycle with a pizza box in one hand and a fizzy drink in the other, desperate to complete this one delivery before the sun falls over the hills.
The snow was thick, and he cursed himself for not bringing any sort of gloves to work today. He hadn’t known the temperatures would drop to such a degree, and hadn’t even considered the thought when he left the house. His hands were numb against the handles of his motorcycle as he turned it on, skin reddening from the pooling blood that his body was attempting to manage his body heat with. He had a distant hope that maybe, somehow, getting on the road would help the freezing ache that was beginning to bloom from his fingertips, that maybe the movement of the motorcycle would do something or he’d go so fast that the winds wouldn’t be able to keep up.
It doesn’t work. If anything, it’s worse — the wind whips across his face, leaving splatters of melted snowflakes along his cheeks, and every time he exhales it’s like he’s puffing a cloud of smoke that disperses instantly as he rides through it. Despite the stiffness, he’s cautious while he’s driving, very careful not to make any wrong turns against the icy roads as he passes by the blur of the neighborhoods glowing yellow windows and the twisting trees that were blanketed by an ivory white.
There are many other things Elliot would rather be doing right now. He would rather be back in the pizza place, taking orders behind the cash register, because at least the inside of the restaurant had a working heater. He would rather be in the kitchen, rolling dough, spreading sauce, and sprinkling cheese, watching it crust by the heat of the oven's inferno. He would even rather be at home, venting to his sister about annoying customers that he would never be able to do anything about because he cares too much about others opinions on him and the pizza place.
And yet, here he was, pulling up to an apartment complex he didn’t recognize and parking his motorcycle right next to the scratched and dulled curb of the sidewalk. It’s almost painful to unglue himself from the motorcycle — his fingers hurt and so does the rest of his body. He’s rigid as he manages to stand, shuddering with each snowflake that dares to fall onto any part of his figure, and the permanent goosebumps that had stained his skin were becoming a bit harder to ignore.
For some reason, he’s now only worrying about the state of the pizza rather than the state of himself. If the pizza was cold, how would the restaurant look? How would he look? Every delivery had to be perfect, and every customer had to be satisfied. So he takes a deep breath, grabbing the box and drink with trembling hands as he trudges toward the apartment number listed on the receipt.
It’s hard to maneuver himself in a way to reach the doorbell, especially with how stiff he felt, like someone had put a pin in half of his nerves that restricted any sharp movements, but he manages to graze the dried paint of the button with the knuckle of his ring finger, forcing a wobbly smile on his red-tinged face when he hears the subtle ding-dong echo from inside.
It takes a few long, agonizing moments of him standing out in the cold like a pathetic, freezing puppy before his customer answers.
All the blood drains from his face in an instant.
The person standing before him, the one who was holding the door just a sliver of the way open, brows knit and a frown that opposed Elliot’s own smile, was a person that Elliot vividly remembered blacklisting from his restaurant so long ago. It’s the same short, dark hair, the same burger hat, and the same dark blue shirt and black jacket that Elliot never knew the appeal of.
It was 007n7. The criminal — the hacker that had ruined his restaurant with his son more times than he could count on one hand. And for a moment, Elliot couldn’t even find himself to be angry, far too deep into his customer service mode. They just stared at each other, a long awkward silence settling between them.
Was this 007n7’s home? Was that his phone that he had called Elliot from, having the nerve to ask him to deliver a pizza when he knew that he was blacklisted? But then came the fact that Elliot really didn’t know anything about 007n7’s life — not that he was interested in the slightest, but perhaps if he knew better, he could’ve seen this predicament coming. 007n7 had already ordered, and Elliot was already here, there wouldn’t be a point to turn back now and subject himself to the cold of the windy roads again with an untouched pizza still in his hand. As long as 007n7 paid, everything would be fine. Things would be fine.
Elliot nearly chokes when he tries to speak. “W-What—” he splutters, but his voice wavers from the temperature and his lack of appropriate clothing for it, and he has to swallow to speak again.
He wants to summon that anger, because maybe the heat of rage would warm him up enough to talk normally, but all he can find is anxiety, and that’s nearly slipping through his fingertips as well.
He continues anyway. “You- you’ve been blacklisted. Why would you—” He fails again, and he’s unsure how to finish.
He sounds angry, but he isn’t really. He wants to be, but he’s far too exhausted and cold. However, 007n7 flinches despite the obvious strain in his voice, which meant he got his point across one way or another. The man holding the door had shrunk back into himself just the smallest amount, frown deepening and eyes now deciding to flick towards the ground rather than Elliot’s face.
“I’m sorry,” were the first words that came out of 007n7’s mouth. “I know it was wrong of me. I don’t expect you to forgive me. But it was my son’s birthday yesterday, and he wanted pizza. I thought it might be okay if we just didn’t go inside your place. I understand this was a hassle for you, especially in this cold.” While he spoke, he had taken out his wallet, shuffling through it for the pay. “I-I’ll tip you extra, and you can leave and never see me again.”
Elliot just stared at him. For all the damage 007n7 had caused — to the restaurant, to Elliot’s nerves — here he was, apologizing. In person. In the freezing cold. Had he really changed this much since Elliot had last seen him? What happened?
He needs the pizza box out of his hands. Wordlessly, he shoves it forward, and 007n7 hesitates before he opens the door a little wider, finally taking the box and drink from him, trading the money he had taken out of his wallet moments before. Elliot’s hands feel stuck in that position — awkwardly holding themselves out like that for a few moments — before he manages to take the money and put it in his pocket, eventually dropping them limply to his sides. Another puff of white breath escapes him.
007n7 must’ve noticed Elliot’s attempt at processing his words, and cautiously asks, “Are you alright?”
It’s a question with so much genuine care behind it that Elliot suddenly feels like he needs to rip out his hair, or turn and drive all the way back to the restaurant without another second spent in front of this man. Or both.
“Yes,” Elliot blurts, but it’s more because he forces himself to say something through his scrambling thoughts. “It’s… fine. Happy birthday to your son.”
007n7 just stands there, pizza box in hand, and Elliot doesn’t move either. He’s not sure why. He’s not sure why he isn’t immediately turning and making a bee-line back to his motorcycle right now, nor why he’s wasting any more of his precious time staring at someone who had haunted his past and wondering why they looked so dumbfounded at his words.
“You’re shaking,” 007n7 finally says, and moves to place both the pizza box and the drink on a small table near the door. He opened it even wider, amber light spilling out like a halo around the man’s head, and it’s such a contrast to his awkward posture and hesitant voice, as if he’s sure this will be the last time Elliot will ever talk to him. Which would have been true, if this was Elliot’s perfect world. “You… you can come in for a little. You need to warm up. I-I’ll make sure it’s quick.”
Elliot doesn’t answer immediately. Every logical part of his brain is screaming no — this was the guy who crashed the POS system several times in a month. This was the guy who hacked the menu into disturbing images while his kid tried to light things on fire and made graffiti drawings all over the brick walls of his parents' establishment.
But everything hurt. His fingertips, his ears, his nose — even his soul might as well have been frostbitten. The longer he stood out here staring, the more he could feel the ice sticking itself to the soles of his shoes, freezing him permanently to this one place: the personal hell for him that was filled with nothing but snow and a man he’d been trying to avoid for the rest of his life.
“I-I shouldn’t,” Elliot mutters, hating the way his teeth were chattering loud enough to hear.
Mentally, he’s still refusing the offer a thousand times over. But his body has already accepted. He needs warmth, and if standing out here any longer meant hypothermia, then maybe he could suffer a little indignity to keep his fingers attached to his hands.
007n7 steps back, holding the door open wider, like he already knows. Like somehow, beneath all the layers of resentment Elliot’s trying so hard to hold onto, he can still see that tiny crack of weakness — the one that said: you will collapse if you don't step inside.
So Elliot steps inside, crossing the threshold with a shuddering sigh.
The warmth hits him like a wall. It was like he was back at the pizza place, opening one of the ovens and shoving himself in instead of one of the pizzas. His heart jolts back to life, blood surging faster through his limbs as he takes it all in; the heat, the smell of food, 007n7 standing beside him.
007n7’s apartment was nice. It was a little plain, but it was lived-in, and Elliot could see the traces of the man’s son that were left scattered in crayon drawings on the fridge and toys strewn across the ground. Elliot’s arms remained pinned to his sides, however, as he was unsure how to exist in this room. He was never meant to be here, and he was starting to wish his mind won over his body, as it would’ve been so much easier to face a thousand more snowstorms than sit in a warm room with a guy he swore he'd never see again for another uncomfortable second.
But the warmth is nice. It’s nice.
007n7 pauses like he’s unsure whether to shut the door behind Elliot or not. He hesitates, then shuts the door with a quiet click, and Elliot has a brief, traitorous thought: I’m trapped. Every sign points to how incredibly stupid he’s been. He imagines the headlines: Local pizza guy kidnapped by vengeful hacker-turned-serial-killer in elaborate revenge plot. Builder Brothers Pizza in ruins again.
Though, all 007n7 does is turn, walk a few steps down the hallway, and call out, “Kid, the pizza’s here!”
Elliot freezes as the sound of scrambling feet echoes through the apartment. 007n7 glances back at him and offers a weary, almost apologetic smile, and Elliot can’t help but think again — I really know nothing about this guy.
c00lkidd bursts through one of the left doors of the hall, grinning wide as he cheers. It looks like there was a pencil in his hand. He must've been drawing in there. Elliot’s chest tightens — for a second, it's not this kid in front of him, but his little sister, at the kitchen table, humming as she fills a paper with flowers and pandas.
“Now, remember what I told you,” 007n7 says, voice switching to something firmer, parental. c00lkidd stops in his tracks, his smile faltering a little. “And put that down. We’re going to eat.” Obediently, the kid dashes to the table and drops the pencil with a clatter.
Afterward, c00lkidd bounces up to Elliot, his grin wide again. “Hello, pizza guy!” He drawls, excitedly giggling as he rocks back and forth on his heels. “I remember you!”
And it’s such a strange feeling to be remembered by this kid, not out of malice, but pure, innocent excitement. There are drawings on the fridge that aren’t graffiti. His smile is genuine and not sadistic.
Elliot offers a hoarse, “I remember you too.”
c00lkidd makes a delighted sound and scurries over to pick up the pizza box from the table.
“Don’t bug him too much, kid,” 007n7 was already rushing to c00lkidd’s side, expression shifting behind his glasses, “And be careful with that!” He tries to take the box from c00lkidd, but the kid just sticks out his tongue and dances away, trotting proudly to the dinner table.
“I’m not a little kid anymore! I can do it!” c00lkidd says, licking his cracked lips. “I’m ten now!”
And for a moment, Elliot watches 007n7 with a reluctant amount of curiosity. The man looks exhausted and worn out, but when he watches his son, there’s an unmistakable sparkle of pride in his dark eyes. He cares. Deeply.
He should turn, grab the doorknob, yank it open, and disappear back into the snowstorm where things make sense and he doesn’t have to wrestle with weirdly complicated feelings about someone he’s supposed to hate. Behind that neutral deadpan he was forcing himself to hold, there were two sides that kept battling in his brain — one that was telling him to get as far away from this man as possible, and the other saying that this was nice and he should stay here for just a bit longer, because a little warmth and rumination never hurt anybody.
At the table, 007n7 is opening the pizza box, letting steam waft into the air. Meanwhile, c00lkidd bounces into the kitchen, grabbing plates and napkins. Peeking back around the corner, the kid calls, “Is pizza man going to eat with us too?”
“He has a name.” 007n7 says sharply without looking up.
Elliot can’t help but turn his attention down to the nametag clinging to his chest. Right. He had almost forgotten that these people knew who he was, and a flicker of bitterness writhed within his stomach.
c00lkidd groans, “Is Elliot going to eat with us? Dad?”
007n7 glances at Elliot. But there was no way Elliot was going this far, not with these two. So Elliot forces another small customer-service smile and shakes his head. He was just here to warm up. He’d leave as soon as the goosebumps went away. 007n7 hums and turns back to the kid, answering, “No, kid. Sorry.”
c00lkidd doesn’t seem that disappointed. He only chirps, “Okay!” and returns to the table quickly with two plates and about two-dozen napkins. He places them down, but he’s gone back into the kitchen immediately, and now 007n7 looks nearly as puzzled as Elliot.
007n7 opens his mouth to say something, maybe to call c00lkidd back or maybe to say something to Elliot, but c00lkidd returns once more, a slightly crinkled paper in his hands. He walks up to Elliot, holding it up proudly — a drawing that he made, most likely.
Elliot takes a good look at it. He doesn’t really want to touch it, not because of any reason other than his fingers still had that frostbitten ache and he didn’t want to make the effort to move them. The drawing was crude, but one thing was clear; it was a drawing of him. A drawing of Elliot. Scribbles of black crayon that was barely comprehensible enough to make a figure, but the yellow and red coloring was plainly reminiscent of himself.
But then begged the question why the kid even drew something like this? If he had gone to the kitchen to retrieve it, was this hung up on the fridge as well? Elliot hadn’t been paying attention, suddenly aware of the fact he had been far too focused on 007n7’s expression. It was a little embarrassing.
“It’s you!” c00lkidd beams, before continuing a little more sheepishly, “I drew it a while ago, ehe… so it’s not that good. But you can keep it! As an apology! ‘Cuz dad said I shouldn’t be mean to your food place anymore.” He steps forward, shoving the paper towards Elliot’s stomach.
For a few moments, Elliot can’t find himself to move. Every opinion he’s ever made of this family was tangling in on itself, and both 007n7 and his son apologizing in their own way was throwing Elliot a bit off balance. At first, he doesn’t want to take the drawing — it would’ve just reminded him far too much of the past every time he looked at it. If he let his eyes blur, he could visualize the burning pizza place behind that crude little drawing of himself, and maybe the picture-Elliot’s little smile was shifting into a frown... but when he looks at c00lkidd, the boy is staring at him so happily, though every stretching moment that he wasn’t taking the drawing was shifting the kids expression little by little into something more nervous.
In an act that felt like desperation, he raises his head to make eye contact with 007n7 by the table, but the man says nothing. Elliot was helpless.
He can’t take the drawing. It isn’t about the reminders anymore, and instead the fact his mind had drifted to the thought of the paper getting ruined by the snowstorm outside or flying away from the harsh winds, and he’d rather do anything but fold such a meaningful piece of art to shove carelessly in his pocket with the money. So he takes a deep breath. “Y-You can keep it. If I take it, it’ll get ruined outside.”
That makes c00lkidd frown. A small, “Oh.” leaves the kid’s lips, and Elliot finds himself feeling bad. Sympathy for one of the few people who had changed his life for the worst. Then he brightens again, saying, “It’s okay! I’ll give it to you next time,”
As if there would be a next time, and the way 007n7 gave a breathy, anxious chuckle from where he stood told Elliot that he was aware of his thoughts. Once Elliot left, he would never return.
“Are you going to keep bugging him, or are we going to eat?” 007n7 finally says, taking out a slice of the cheese pizza and placing it gently onto one of the plates c00lkidd had brought out before.
The kid puffs out his cheeks, and once again, Elliot finds the banter between them domestic. c00lkidd shakes his head and says, “I have one more thing to give him!” and rushes back into the hallway, paper still in his hands.
007n7 gives the hallway a disapproving look, before sighing, turning back towards Elliot. “I’m sorry he’s so excitable. We don’t get many visitors.”
And there’s that pang of what Elliot thinks is sympathy again, mentally cursing himself for even bothering with these feelings towards these people and why such a lifestyle was affecting him this badly. Because there 007n7 was, apologizing to Elliot again, this time for something out of his control. He really had mellowed out over the time he’d been banned, hadn’t he? It had only been a few minutes — Elliot shouldn’t be debating with himself as harshly as he was about removing 007n7 and his son from the blacklist.
He couldn’t whitelist 007n7 just like that. He reasons with himself that this was a trap, that maybe this was premeditated and scripted to make him think they changed. Maybe their end goal was to get unbanned, just so they could wreak more havoc inside of the walls of Builder Brothers Pizza once again. These two were still as untrustworthy as ever, and Elliot doesn’t know why he has to keep reminding himself.
Elliot opens his mouth to respond, but c00lkidd was already rushing back over, this time something cloth or fabric held tightly in his hands. He presents it with a childish flourish when he stops in front of him again — two dark red woolen gloves, each with intricate black designs embedded in the palm and fingertips.
They are… far too small for Elliot. Something in his heart tightens.
“I saw you shaking, and I know it’s really snowy outside, so I thought you might need these if you go back to work!” c00lkidd bubbles, and again, he tries to shove the items into Elliot’s hands.
This time, almost instinctively, Elliot takes them. Maybe it would satisfy the kid if he’d just… play along. They wouldn’t fit, that was obvious, but worse than that — they felt like something meant for a future version of him. One that didn’t exist. One that wasn’t ice cold and hollowed out by resentment. He supposes that maybe after a few months of not having to worry about any damage done to the restaurant, he’d gone soft.
“Thanks…” Elliot replies slowly, and c00lkidd gives him a big, toothy grin — he recoils a little at the fangs in the kids mouth, but he supposes c00lkidd had always looked a little odd than other kids he’d met — before he skips over to the dining table with his dad.
He has to leave. Now.
Elliot stiffens, straightens, and avoids the urge to look anywhere near 007n7’s face again. There’s too much risk in meeting his eyes, too much risk that something stupid like gratitude or forgiveness might crack through the walls Elliot built up so carefully over the years.
“Thanks, for…” Elliot starts, his throat tightening around the words. He clutches the tiny gloves hard enough that the stitches strain under the pressure. The anger is flaring again now, sparking hot and bitter beneath his ribs — and he needs it. He needs it to get out of here. “For letting me warm up here. I’ll be on my way now.”
He doesn't dare to wait for a response. He just moves, crossing the room with quick, mechanical steps, pulling the door open wide enough for the freezing air to bite back at his skin.
Behind him, c00lkidd’s voice pipes up brightly, “Bye-bye!” and whatever vile feeling that was snaking through his body dims just the slightest amount.
The door clicks shut behind him with finality. The cold bites harder than before.
He makes his way to his motorcycle, climbing onto it as he manages to bunch the gloves into his pants pocket. He turns it on, swinging his leg over the bike and gripping onto the handles, not minding the fresh sting in his hands as he pulls away from the side of the curb and begins to drive away as quickly as he had arrived.
He’d make sure to block the number that called to make that delivery when he gets back, and also make sure to avoid this apartment complex entirely on any route he takes.