heathys fic

"Puck..." whispered the fab, keeping their voice purposefully low. "If you're gonna attend our meets, you can't tell a soul." Puck nodded his head with vigour, realising the deadly serious tone in the Fab's voice. "Good, good. Now... We know you're Tree. But we can work 'round this, see?"

The Arsonist had already swung by, draped a cloak around the tree to keep it from getting cold. Hah. Ironic, huh?

The Fab leaned in close, suddenly, and Puck felt his heart speed up: faces close to one another, noses almost touching... The fab wet their lips, but at that minute, the door burst open. The Gramps, again, the cranky old guy.

"That TRACKER visited ME!" he grumbled, voice coming out at a varying pitch. The old guy knew how to get a job done, but hadn't gotten a hold on his indoor voice yet.

"The... T-Tracker?" squeaked the tailor. Shit. She wanted to kill and suit the celeb, but... Getting caught? Too dangerous.

They all turned to look at Puck, and he suddenly felt very small. In this meeting of dangerous minds, where did he slot in?

Well, between the Silencer and Fiddler, usually.

No, dawn was fast approaching... And with a tracker in town -- a tracker Puck knew, but... You can't rat that out to the maf.

Suddenly, soft lips were pressed to his cheek: a promise, to pick up where they left off tomorrow night, for sure.

The mafia filed out their meeting room quickly, dispersing in every direction as to avoid detection.

The "Gunsmith" went his way, to the far left. Puck caught his eye just before rounding the corner: beautiful, blue, tears... Close to spilling over...