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Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water


2010-03-30 01:20 am (UTC) (Link)

Request and parts 1-17:


Feliciano Vargas is a world class artist who has an odd affinity for turning all the money he gains into marked gold bars and hiding it all in a secret safe somewhere in his house. Too bad a group of 5 world class thieves finds the idea of high speed chases in Venice's water ways, high tech brilliance, all around sneakiness, and, of course, the reward should they succeed, too tempting to not heist.

After their successful getaway, they are double crossed by the least likely one of their own. The remaining thieves managed to survive the double crossing and are now a man short in order to go and recapture their lost earnings. What they don't know is that their new skillful recruit is none other than Lovino Vargas in disguise, big brother of the man they originally stole from, and big-time mafioso out to regain what was stolen from his stupid little brother.

Bonus 1) No one figures out who Lovino is.

Bonus 2) Skillful!Lovi

Bonus 3) Lovi somehow steals back Feli's gold, while making everyone else believe that it somehow got lost or confiscated by the police.
(Frozen) (Thread)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [18a/?]


2010-03-30 01:24 am (UTC) (Link)

When he’d decided to check downstairs, he didn’t think he’d ever find anything. Everybody knew the guy they were all looking for smoked like a house on fire; he was probably off in a dark corner of the back garden letting out some stress. Lord, but that sounded like it would hit the spot. Especially after all this searching.

The elevator dinged and the stainless steel doors reflected the searcher’s bright red tie as they opened, revealing a strange tableau. The body of the missing man sprawled out over the floor was hard to miss. Equally hard not to notice was the half-open service door that led up to the canals above. It took the searcher a few seconds to wrench his gaze from the bright green of his co-worker’s tie and the thick darkness of the service tunnel. The colors were razor sharp against the mostly white hallway. And against the mostly white robot standing a few feet in front of the open elevator doors on the other end of the passage.

Shitfuck this couldn’t be good.

The robot wasn’t very tall, but its bright red gaze felt like it was piercing holes in his stomach. He looked down. It was difficult to spot against the color of his tie, but the little red pinprick of light that fell on the searcher’s dark suit jacket looked suspiciously like… like a gun sight. Time slowed as the strange robot raised one of its limbs (arms), and formed its little hand into a gun.

It pantomimed a shot.

Except it wasn’t a pantomime after all, because a loud bang sounded and all of a sudden there was a bullet in the air. Time sped up again as the searcher threw himself back behind his own elevator’s door and slammed his hand against the ‘><’ button onetwothreefour as many times as he could. He’d been grazed by bullets before, working for the Boss and all. This would be fine except somebody with a freaky robot had been through the storage, and now his head was getting all woozy, and if this was as bad as he was sure it was, those intruders would be the least of his problems when the Boss got back from Spain.


When the doors finally closed again, the elevator dinged again, and across the hall Eduard allowed himself to breathe again.

Alfred was all movement. “Okay, Tony just bought us a little time, but then they’re gonna be after us full-force, I bet.” As he stepped through the elevator door and around his robot, Alfred looked back at the other two thieves. “Guys? We’ve gotta get going.”

From their hiding places against the sides of the elevator, Tryggvi and Eduard digested what Alfred was saying. It took no more than a moment of hesitation from each of them before they both rocketed out of the elevator. Neither wanted to be anywhere near the hallway when help arrived.

“So what now?”

Eduard looked at Tryggvi out of the corner of his eye as they both ran for the door, but Alfred beat him to a response. “Now we get the hell out of here.”

Tryggvi and Eduard ran. They passed Tony. They passed Alfred. They passed the door to the tunnels. There were still one or two of Alfred’s all-terrain custom transport vehicles, affectionately known as land whales, lingering on the other side. Tryggvi and Eduard passed them too.

They did not have enough time to pass through the darkness, however, before the dainty little ding of an arriving elevator echoed through their ears.

Help had arrived.

Suddenly, the service door slammed shut and Tryggvi and Eduard were truly in darkness. For about a second, because the shaky beam of Alfred’s flashlight soon lit up the way to safety, even as bangs and crashes and the robot’s buzzing filled the tunnel behind them.

“I’m right behind you!” They hadn’t stopped running. “Tony will catch up with us as soon as he can!”

So much for a clean job.
(Frozen) (Parent) (Thread)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [18b/?]


2010-03-30 02:27 am (UTC) (Link)

Francis had joined Eduard’s gang of thieves because he craved excitement. He was certainly getting his money’s worth now.

“Alfred! Slow down up there!”

The reply Francis got over his speedboat’s radio was an unsatisfying chuckle and whoop of glee. Alfred’s good nature could be uplifting and infectious, if it didn’t become the cause of Francis’s untimely death. Because they were being chased by a bunch of gun-toting thugs, and although he was sure that he would make a beautiful corpse, Francis was of the opinion that he looked his very best when he was alive.

And they were getting farther and farther away from Francis’s summer home slash safehouse.

And Francis was being shot at. Repeatedly.

He did not like this form of excitement as much as he liked flirting with the help or stealing priceless works of art. There was the danger of grave bodily harm or death or even actual jail time here, and Francis would only accept those risks if they involved particularly rare and unique adult toys. Or if they only applied to other people.

A bullet whizzed by his left ear. He couldn’t keep this up.

“Alfred, my darling darling genius, I believe the base is back that way. We should turn left at the crossroads here.”

Of course Alfred would respond by turning right so sharply that the spray from his wake would careen over the sides of the canal and up onto the walkways. How were they not being heard with all this ruckus? What with the roaring of engines, shouting, gunfire and mini tidal waves courtesy of Alfred’s horrible American boatmanship, even Francis’s most clueless friend from boarding school would have guessed that something strange was going on in the canals of Venice.

That was saying something.

Finally Alfred deigned to respond with words. “Well yeah, that’s the faster way back. But we’re not going back, duh.”

Francis could have been asleep right now. “Please enlighten me as to where we are going then. My dear.”

“Whoa, hey, no need to be all hostile, man. I didn’t come up with the plan, I’m just sticking to it! Ed said to draw their fire and confuse ‘em, and then go back to base.” Alfred’s boat made a swerving left that left Francis mystified as to how Alfred was still afloat. He followed, without the recklessness.

Francis could have been asleep right now, safe in his own bed. “Is there nothing you can do to make this process go any faster? It’s very tiring.” Something small and white threw itself off of the end of Alfred’s boat, and within a second Francis had already passed it by.

“Tony’s got it all taken care of.”

Francis could have been asleep right now, moderately safe in Tryggvi’s bed. “Your robot can float?”

A scoff. “No. Tony doesn’t float. He swims.”

Apparently even Francis’s less than appropriate thoughts were accumulating bad karma for him, because he swore upon good food and the Eiffel Tower that the heat from the explosion right behind him had burned off some of his hair. His perfect, styled-to-look-effortless hair. Alfred would not be able to get out of compensating Francis this time.
(Frozen) (Parent) (Thread)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [18c/?]


2010-03-30 05:25 am (UTC) (Link)

Erzsébet had hit the throttle and hadn’t looked back once she’d heard the gunshots. She’d gotten scared. Not scared of dying, because she hadn’t connected the loud noises with death. No, she’d been scared of failure and betrayal, and the sinking feeling that somehow this was all her fault. They’d failed because of her.

Tryggvi, Eduard and Alfred were in danger because of her.

By the time she got back to the safe house, Erzsébet was a wreck. It didn’t help, then, that the moment she opened the front door she was plunged into a shouting match.

“Master Francis?” Even Vash was awake and accusatory.

“No. It’s just Erzsébet.” Tryggvi had made it back safely.

“Erzsébet? Where the hell were you?! What happened back there?” Eduard had made it back too, without sustaining any obvious damage. She was glad.

“Just stop shouting at me, alright? Can I just sit down?”

“Fine, whatever, sit. Where are Francis and Alfred?”

Oh no. “Th-they aren’t already here? They should be back already.”

“Thank you for stating the obvious, Miss Erzsébet.” Vash was not a very good butler when it was 2am and his charge was unaccounted for. He didn’t seem to have a firearm within reach, but that didn’t stop Erzsébet from pulling her chair a tiny bit farther away from him.

“Francis and Alfred can take care of themselves.” Of this Tryggvi was certain. “More importantly, where’d you stash all the gold?”

Erzsébet was appalled. Their friends were in danger, maybe even dead and all the greedy little bastard could worry about was money? That was what had gotten them into this sorry mess! “How should I know? Nothing was loaded onto my boat before we all had to split up. You should be asking Eduard that question; they filled his boat first.”

Eduard’s eyes darkened behind his glasses. “Are you sure about that? Mine was empty too. So was Tryggvi’s.”

“Well then Francis and Alfred must have it all, and they’ll be back any minute and we can split the takings and get out of here.”

Now Tryggvi’s face took a darker turn. “Is that the truth? Because it’s hard to believe you.”

Erzsébet was outraged. “What?!”

Eduard stood. “What were you doing this evening, Erzsébet? What kept you so preoccupied that you didn’t even notice a guard getting close to our location? Why didn’t you radio when the other guards were coming after us with guns?”

What was she supposed to say? That she’d already run away by that point?

Tryggvi was the next to speak, frank as ever. “We think you switched the gold to your boat and took off. And maybe did something to Francis and Alfred.”

“That’s a lie! I did no such thing!”

“Then what were you really doing, Miss?”

Erzsébet realized what was happening now. Vash, Tryggvi and Eduard were boxing her in, both verbally and physically. Because they didn’t trust her, and they thought she was the sort of criminal who would steal from criminals. From friends. Well, anyone could play the suspicion game.

“I’d like to ask that of either of you two, actually. You both had ample opportunity to either hide the gold or even hide the dead bodies of Alfred and Francis before I got back! Show me some proof that one of you isn’t a greedy, murdering traitor!”

Vash stepped back to survey all three remaining members of the team. He was impartial here, all that mattered to him was getting Master Francis back before he could do any more shame to the Bonnefoy name. He would listen, and he would strike if he needed to.

“I’m not a traitor.” But everybody knew that Tryggvi was greedy. He was upfront about his quest for money, and eventually his drive to get just one more cent faded out of mind in the face of the rest of his personality. Just not right now.
(Frozen) (Parent) (Thread) (Expand)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [18d/?] - (Anonymous), 2010-03-30 05:31 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [18d/?] - (Anonymous), 2010-03-30 06:01 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [18d/?] - (Anonymous), 2010-03-30 11:10 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [18d/?] - (Anonymous), 2010-03-30 12:38 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [18d/?] - (Anonymous), 2010-03-30 07:35 pm (UTC)(Expand)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [19a/?]


2010-03-31 04:56 am (UTC) (Link)

He didn’t even hear a ring before she answered. She must have just been sitting there, smirking to herself as she waited for him to call her. Bitch.

Good morning, Lovi. To what do I owe the honor of hearing your voice? Especially on what’s promising to be such a lovely morning. And here I thought you were a late riser.”

“Lotte, you bitch.”

“Oh? So I’m a bitch now? That’s cruel, Lovi. I answer your phone calls at ridiculous hours, I do you favors… not to mention the rest of our history. And this is the thanks I get?”

She was so damn smug. “Cut the act. And stop calling me that.”


She was impossible to deal with. “You know.

“Oh, you mean ‘Lovi’? Was that it?”

He hated her. He really did. “…”

“That’s right, isn’t it? You only allow family to call you that. The rest of us have to stick to boring old ‘Lovino’ or ‘Boss’ or 'Romolo’s mean grandkid.' It’s so unfair, that you only let your family call you that. ‘Lovi’ is such an adorable endearment, don’t you think?”

She knew. Lovino shouldn’t have been surprised about the fact (Lotte made it her business to know things; it was why he’d called her in the first place), but he was. Lotte knew, which meant that if he didn’t play his cards right, everyone would know. And this was no one’s business but his own. Well, maybe Antonio had something to do with it too. Maybe.

“Just shut up about that, okay?” Damn it all. His voice still ran high when he got too anxious. He took a second to get it under control. “That’s not what I called you about, and you know it.”

“Now, now, Lovino. You don’t have to be shy. There’s nothing to be ashamed about, lusting after men is perfectly natural; I do it all the time!” Fuck, she wasn’t stopping. She’d probably been planning this speech. “I’ve heard that once a guy’s had a piece of delicious man flesh he never goes back… so is it true?”

He was probably as red as a cherry tomato by now. Good thing he was still in the cockpit of his personal jet. In its hangar. Alone. Where no one could see him. “Bitch. Shut up.”

“Play nice Lovino. Just because you don’t get any satisfaction from ladies anymore doesn’t mean we don’t have feelings too. Would you like to talk about feelings now, actually? We can do it while we chat about boys together!”

He decided that the best course of action would be to change the subject. “You knew I was going to call you, which means you knew about my brother. Why didn’t you call me first?”

There was still that lilting laugh in her voice when she responded. “What is this about your brother? I know that Feliciano’s a darling, if that’s what you mean. And that his art is absolutely gor—”

“Don’t be fucking coy, Lotte, you aren’t any good at it. What happened to my brother today?”

“Well, I suppose I can tell you, even though you’ve been so rude to me. I know it’s taken a lot of courage from you to ask for help. God knows that’s not a trait you normally possess. Did you learn it from your boytoy?”

Maybe if he didn’t respond she would let it go and fucking shut up and just answer his damn question.

She did. “…oh fine. I have it on good account that your cute and much more agreeable little brother got into a small fix this morning. Word along the wire is that he was robbed. All his gold, gone.”

Lovino had so many questions, but he had to focus. Try to focus. “Just robbed? Nothing else, he’s fine?”

“As far as I know,” which was basically a ‘yes, stupid’ coming from Lotte.

Now to the next important thing. “‘Word along the wire’ had better have been just a stupid saying, because if I find out you’ve been spreading this information, so help me… who else knows?” Lovino would have to do damage control once the immediate problem was solved. The Vargas family reflected on the Russo family and neither could afford to be perceived as weak. Damn it, he hated having to silence people just for knowing things.



“I have very special contacts, Lovino. Outside of the people involved, the only ones who know about this embarrassing little event are you and me. And don’t you want to keep it that way?”
(Frozen) (Parent) (Thread)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [19b/?]


2010-03-31 05:03 am (UTC) (Link)

He started mentally going through a list of the people he knew she got information from. “Who was it?”

“Trade secret.”

“Fuck, Lotte.”

“Nuh uh, you only do that with men nowadays, don’t you remember?”

Not that again… He could control his rage. He could. Just breathe in, and out, and picture the calm ocean, and “Fuck off you stupid bitch.” So his usual techniques weren’t working. So fine. Deep breaths. Imagine the bakery…

“Is there anything useful that you can tell me? Anything?” He was desperate enough to willingly give her the upper hand in a conversation.

“I know how you can get all the gold back,” Lovino rushed to interrupt her, but she must have anticipated that too, because, “so just let me speak for once. I have it on very good authority that the thieves that stole from your brother had a little spat between themselves. One of them ran off with everything, and the rest are looking to get their loot back.”

“…how do you know all this.” It wasn’t even a question.

“I told you, Lovino, trade secret. Now, I have it on even better authority that these remaining thieves are expecting an informant in three hours, to up their numbers and help them get around the city and steal back what they stole in the first place!”

“So what, I crash the meeting? That’s not going to help me get Feliciano’s money back. Damn it, he earned all of that. Cleanly.”

She huffed into the phone, as she usually did when she thought she was so clever and he apparently just wasn’t getting it. “You’re just not getting it, Lovino. They’re waiting for a wretched, scruffy, bad-mouthed little Italian youth to show them around Venice, be their errand boy and help them further their lives of crime. Does that sound familiar to you?”


“You could have just out and said that you know the fucks that robbed Feliciano, and that you hired me out like some sort of information whore to them!”

“Aw, but you used to be fine with me lending your talents out. Lovino you’ve changed so much now that you’ve discovered your homosexual tendencies. I mean, you used to at least pretend to be nice to me.”

She would never stop. Not even if he had an orgy with 100 women right in front of her. Not even if he (gave in, and) flew to Brussels and broke into her apartment, just so he could physically throw himself out of a closet when she opened it to get dressed. Never. “Just tell me where I need to be, when I need to be there, and who I’m not supposed to kill.”

“I’d hope you wouldn’t kill any of them. The stories I’ve heard about them all sound very amusing.”


“You’re no fun anymore, Lovino Vargas. I hope you know that.”

Antonio had woken up in the middle of the night. It wasn’t hard to figure out why; his Lovi-senses were tingling. He just knew it. And not the usual Lovi-senses that woke him up in the middle of the night, either. This feeling wasn’t nice and tingly at all.

He made short work of breaking into the villa where Lovi was staying. But he didn’t quite make it to the room Lovi was supposed to be sleeping in at that moment, because a familiar man with a dark blue tie stopped him in the hallway right outside.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Fernandez?” It was strange that the man still asked silly questions like that. Over the years he should have learned that nothing could keep Antonio away when something bad was happening to Lovi. Compared to the shootouts and fistfights, picking a few locks and sneaking up the back way to Lovi’s room was a piece of cake for Antonio.

“Where’s Lovi…no?”

The man looked wary. “You are only supposed to check in on the Boss from a distance, Mr. Fernandez. Do I need to remind you of your specific duties?”

His ‘specific duties.’ Antonio had heard that phrase before, although not very often. And usually there was giggling in the background. “I’m supposed to use my own discretion when I think that something’s wrong. And I think something’s wrong now. So where is he?”

“The Boss is taking care of something that does not concern you.”
(Frozen) (Parent) (Thread) (Expand)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [19c/?] - (Anonymous), 2010-03-31 05:08 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [19c/?] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-01 01:15 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [19c/?] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-01 07:04 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [19c/?] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-01 02:15 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [19c/?] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-02 04:27 pm (UTC)(Expand)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [20a/37]


2010-04-03 09:56 pm (UTC) (Link)

The night was finally still. Francis appreciated the silence and calm for what felt like the first time in his life. With the help of that unsettling robot, he and Alfred had miraculously avoided both capture and death. These were always good things in the mind of Francis Bonnefoy.

The two men had pulled off to the side of a quiet little canal to regroup, once they’d lost their pursuers. As Francis didn’t feel like waiting for his adrenaline rush to pass on his own, he made his way over to Alfred’s boat. On the way out, he noted that in the chaos, Alfred’s curious little whale things must have mistaken his boat for Erzsébet’s; there was quite a bit of gold down in his hold.


He didn’t see Alfred when he first arrived on the other boat. “Alfred? I hope you don’t mind company at the moment. When do you think we should start heading back in?”

Alfred’s voice, shortly followed by the man himself, came bounding up from below deck. “Oh, in a bit. Tony’s a little shaken up down there. He caught some water where water isn’t supposed to go back when that other boat blew up.” For all that his voice was cheerful and steady, Alfred’s eyes looked old and he kept fidgeting and wringing his hands.

“Alfred? Is something the matter? I am a master at helping people relax, you should know. If you need any assistance, then do not hesitate to ask.” He knew Alfred wouldn’t accept, but that didn’t make the brush off feel any less depressing when it came.

“I’ll be fine, Francis.” Alfred returned below deck, ostensibly to check on his robot, but Francis had the inkling that it was more so Alfred could be by himself for a moment. Or away from him.

He kept up the conversation anyway. “It is a lovely night.”

“Hmm? I guess. Better since all the shooting’s stopped.”

Francis moved over towards the controls and sat in the captain’s seat. The buttons and knobs were the same as in his own boat, which was moored just ahead. “I agree. It’s a shame we won’t have longer to appreciate the city, peacefully.” So what if he was pandering to Alfred’s inner tourist? No one could say that Francis didn’t know how to work his audience.

A dispassionate “Yeah” floated up from the hold. The universe had decided that Francis Bonnefoy couldn’t catch a break tonight, even when he was trying to be genuinely friendly. He cursed it.

“So what do you intend to do with your portion of the takings? I don’t think you’ve ever said.” None of them had ever said, although Francis knew Tryggvi’s reason (That man he was running from.) and had found out where Erzsébet's money went (Charity.) on accident.

“Uh. What am I gonna do with the gold? Well, you know. Nothing special. You?”

Sitting all alone on the deck of the boat, it felt like Francis was talking to the canal. “I will finance further ventures with my share. It’s what I always do.”

“I thought you just went crazy buying prostitutes for a couple weeks.” Alfred’s American frankness could be endearing sometimes, but right now it was just making Francis feel pathetic. He didn’t let that carry over into his voice.

However, he couldn’t quite stop the sarcasm from breaking out. “Yes. Yes of course, how could I forget.” Of course he’d almost forgotten that he was supposed to be a bit of a rake. Lately he’d spent most of his time planning or just being with the team. It felt… it was like he was back in boarding school again.

“Aw, you know I didn’t mean anything bad by it.” Alfred’s voice was getting louder. He must be returning to the deck.

Francis didn’t turn his gaze away from the peaceful canal. “I know.”

“Hey Francis?” Strange, it sounded like Alfred was standing directly behind him. Alfred almost never got physically close to any of them; he’d said he was afraid of catching their European-ness.


“…will you tell everybody that I’m sorry?”

“What do you mean?”

And then Francis’s world went black.
(Frozen) (Parent) (Thread)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [20b/37]


2010-04-03 11:26 pm (UTC) (Link)

They had fully expected it to be Vash at the grand front doors, and had exchanged worried glances when he didn’t just use his set of keys to let himself in. What could he have possibly found out there?

But it wasn’t Vash; it was a tired, wet, bedraggled Francis that squelched his way through the entrance and into the parlor. Alone.

Erzsébet was the first to react, and she did so by panicking even as she moved to direct Francis to a seat on the sofa. “Wha—who? Francis!” He gratefully accepted her help, without any sly comments or the hint of suggestion. It was eerie.

Eduard and Tryggvi remained rooted to the floor on the other side of the room, where they had been glaring at each other before Francis had come back alone, looking like he had lost a fight with a river. Which could only mean that Alfred…

Francis laughed without humor. “Alfred sends his condolences.”

“Wait, you mean… not Alfred?!” Eduard couldn’t reconcile the upbeat student that lived in his mind with a traitor. But the more he thought about it, the more he couldn’t reconcile the upbeat student that lived in his mind with the secretive, at times ruthless man that Alfred had grown up to be. So this was the way it was. Alfred had betrayed them. Eduard took his own seat next to Francis, not minding that the puddle surrounding the Frenchman was growing. Why was this affecting him so much?

“What happened to you?”

Erzsébet hissed out a warning from the doorway as she returned from fetching an armful of towels. “Tryggvi.

“It’s fine. And a completely understandable question.” There was that peculiar laugh again. “I mean, which of you expected it, really? That Alfred would take everything and run.”

None of them had. Not even Tryggvi and Eduard, who were naturally suspicious of everyone. And now Erzsébet was pacing back and forth while Tryggvi knelt in front of Francis, cleaning up the water on the floor, and Eduard sat next to him and didn’t know what to think.

“Just tell us.”


He took off his glasses, but he didn’t stop staring at the ceiling from his place on the couch. “Tell us your story, and we’ll tell you each of ours. We can figure it out from there.”

It wasn’t actually a long tale to tell. Alfred had surprised him and injected him with something. Francis had woken later, though not too much later if the clock on the wall was anything to go by, to darkness and ropes. The darkness had turned out to be the bottom of a nearby rowboat and the ropes had turned out to be expertly knotted. But Alfred hadn’t known that Francis had gotten into bondage when he’d been at university, and despite accidentally capsizing, he’d been able to kick his way back to a dock and wriggle free.

After that he’d only had to stumble home. He’d tried to pick deserted routes, but there were still passerby, and they still managed to look at him like he was some sort of insulting drunken tourist. Francis might have preferred that.

Tryggvi had stopped mopping sometime around “…and then I fell into the canal,” but instead of morphing into apathy from the much expected hilarity-at-Francis’s-embarrassment-smirk, his face had appeared sympathetic. Francis savored it.

But Tryggvi didn’t pose his next question to Francis. Instead he turned to Eduard. “What are we going to do now?”

Eduard didn’t make eye contact. “How should I know?”

“You should know because you’re the leader! You’re the one that plans everything and you’re the one that brought us all together in the first place!” When Erzsébet was angry she was angry. When she was passionate she had nothing else.

“What am I supposed to do? It’s not that easy; we’ve lost everything and we’ve pissed off a major mafia family in the process. This isn’t something I can just magically fix by thinking about it for a few seconds!”

“What did you just say?” Tryggvi was a cautious person by experience.

“I said I’m not a miracle—”

“No. The other part. About the mafia.”

“…it’s very likely that the Russo crime family may decide that we have insulted their honor and hunt us down.”
(Frozen) (Parent) (Thread) (Expand)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [20c/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-03 11:31 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [20c/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-04 12:21 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [20c/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-04 08:00 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [20c/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-04 01:51 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [20c/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-04 03:44 pm (UTC)(Expand)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [21a/37]


2010-04-04 09:26 am (UTC) (Link)

Step. Step. Step.

Ludwig slept on.


Ludwig slept, and snored.


Ludwig slept, and snored, and drooled a tiny little bit on one of Feliciano’s pillows.


Ludwig woke up. It was hard not to, when one of the bureaus blocking the door had fallen over and spilled a collection of picture frames all over the floor. And of course, there was still the matter of some unidentified person (or persons) banging the door down. Ludwig was used to being very confused sometimes, but usually only when Gilbert or Feliciano were nearby, and it appeared that Ludwig was alone. If the people on the other side of the door didn’t count. And that was confusing.

He tried to sit up, which was a rather unsuccessful venture, because he had been lying on his front on the corner of the bed anyway. So instead of sitting up, Ludwig ended up falling down. But he recovered much more quickly than he could have, in retrospect.

Ludwig had the very sharp suspicion that he had been drinking before he had passed out.

After two more loud bangs, the double doors to the room he was in (had he ever been in here before? Where was here? Why were there pictures of him on the walls? Why were there pictures of Feliciano on the walls? Why were there pictures of an angry Felicia— No. Wait. Why were there pictures of Feliciano’s brother on the walls?) fell apart. “Hey, you were right! There’s somebody in here! Doesn’t look very threatening.”

Two men in slick black suits stepped over the mess in the doorway and walked over to Ludwig. One of them waved a handgun in Ludwig’s direction. “You’ve got two seconds.”

Ludwig nodded, but not really in response. “That’s it! It is Feliciano’s room.”

The man with the gun lost some of the authority from his stance. “Uh… what?”

“It makes sense. There are pictures of me, and him and that other one. So it must be his room. Yes. I have never been in here before. Have you?” Ludwig looked genuinely curious. And still quite a bit drunk.

The man with the gun looked genuinely flabbergasted. “Look, just tell me where the guy who lives here is. Either way you’re coming with us, but if you’re useful then maybe you can come along without any extra holes.”

“Where is Feliciano?”

The man who probably also had a gun but didn’t have it out at the moment put his hand on his partner’s shoulder. “Hey, I don’t think this one’s going to be useful. And he’s seen us. Maybe just pop him full of a couple and then we can join the Boss downstairs.”

“Yeah, sure. That makes sense.” He turned back to where Ludwig was. Had been.

Sometime during the short exchange, Ludwig’s brain had decided that not only did these two characters not know where Feliciano was, they were trespassers and should be dealt with accordingly. Ludwig had stood up, (though not quite to his full height, because he was still wobbling a little, which gave credence to the theory that he had been drinking) and had grabbed the gun out of the first man’s hands.

The man who had formerly been in possession of a handgun blinked and assessed his situation. He no longer had a weapon, the man he had just told he was going to shoot was drunk and in possession of the weapon he had been flaunting, and his partner wasn’t doing a damn thing about it.

“…a little help here?”

“Sorry man. I just have a knife on me.”


And that was as far as the conversation got before the door to the bathroom burst open.
(Frozen) (Parent) (Thread)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [21b/37]


2010-04-04 09:30 am (UTC) (Link)

That was to say, the door to the bathroom opened in a loud, attention-getting fashion, with enough force to leave a dent in the opposite wall of the bedroom. And framed by the open doorway was an angry Felicia— No. Wait. Ludwig knew this one by now. Feliciano never adopted expressions like that. But how had Lovino gotten into the bathroom?

“V—I mean… You! What the fuck are you trying to do in this house? Who do you think you are?” His voice started out wavering, but an angry Vargas took to yelling like a happy Vargas took to pasta, and this was certainly an angry Vargas.

“Shit it’s the other one!” The man who used to have a gun was knocked upside the head by the man that only carried a knife. “Stupid, be quiet!”

Lovino looked on. “You stupid fucking stupid moronic idiots have half a second before I blow your brains out, so help me God. Fuck.”

Hm. The ratio of curses to every other part of speech was a tiny bit high, but what really was confusing Ludwig was how Lovino and he were in the same room and none of those curses were directed at him. Were they? How much had he been drinking?

The man with the knife didn’t notice anything amiss. “What my associate here was trying to say was that we are very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Lovino Vargas. We are here in the home of your brother—”

“In his bedroom, v—fuck.”

“Uh, yes. In his bedroom, because our boss, the most respected Mr. Bianchi, cares very much about his wellbeing and decided to pay him a visit tonight.”

“So late?” As an afterthought he added a soft ‘fuck,’ but the man with the knife didn’t notice. He’d already launched into what sounded like a memorized speech.

“Yes. The honorable Mr. Bianchi cares very much about all his neighbors, and decided to pay a visit to your brother, the well known artist Mr. Feliciano Vargas, this evening. However once we arrived, we found the house in disarray and no Mr. Feliciano Vargas to be found. Therefore I am sure it would be in both of our best interests, Mr. Lovino Vargas, if you were to accompany us downstairs and join forces with Mr. Bianchi in the search for your brother. We strongly suggest it. Please don’t make this difficult.”

Lovino looked furious. Ludwig couldn’t blame him, these strangers were being very rude. And where was Feliciano?

“And what the fuck are you two fucks going to fucking do about it if I fucking don’t go the fucking fuck with you? Fuck.”

“Normally my associate would threaten you with his gun, but your—him, he took it. But I have a knife.” It almost sounded like a question. These two really didn’t know what they were doing, which annoyed Ludwig. Why bother joining an organization if you weren’t going to take the time to learn how to properly do your job?

He would have pondered more on the subject, but Lovino was looking at him funny. And not the normal ‘I’m trying to kill you with my eyes, shitface’ look that Lovino often gave him. It was like Lovino was trying to signal him…and Ludwig didn’t understand until Lovino altered his expression a tiny bit and pleaded with his eyes. Oh. Oh.

So it really was just an angry Feliciano. Oh.

Ludwig preferred to settle conflicts with words. All the best sources (daytime television and self help books) said that proper communication and the willingness to compromise could settle any argument. But these gangsters were threatening Ludwig, and more importantly Feliciano with physical harm. And sober or not (not) Ludwig really wasn’t okay with that.

Nothing Ludwig had learned in ‘Condensed-Matter Physics’ or ‘Leading and Managing High-Performance Organizations’ had prepared him for a situation like this. However, the demanding life he had started for himself in Munich had left him perfectly equipped, both mentally and physically. Because practicing his art had given Ludwig some serious muscles. And barhopping with his brother had taught him the invaluable skill of being able to knock an aggressor unconscious (but not for too long, Gilbert really didn’t need any more jail time on his record) in just one blow.
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Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [21c/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-04 09:35 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [21c/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-04 09:46 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [21c/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-04 01:57 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [21c/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-04 02:01 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [21c/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-04 03:31 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [21c/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-04 03:51 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [21c/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-04 06:56 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [21c/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-04 11:37 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [21c/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-07 03:38 pm (UTC)(Expand)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [22a/37]


2010-04-08 12:50 am (UTC) (Link)

They didn’t know his name or what he looked like. They didn’t know if he could speak any language besides Italian (If he didn’t, then they would only be able to communicate with him through Erzsébet. Which could become tiring, or even potentially dangerous if she lost her temper). And Francis’s contact had arranged for them to somehow meet him in one of the most crowded squares in Venice, the Piazza San Marco.

This was ridiculous.

“Please explain to me why your friend couldn’t give us any more specifics than ‘he’s a bratty-looking upstart’?” Erzsébet pretended to pour over a visitor’s map. Hopefully to the rest of the crowd they just looked like a group of tired tourists lost in a new city. Nothing surprising there.

“Lotte has her ways, my dear. I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t give us any information about him, but gave him a full dossier on each of us just so a situation like this could occur.”

“A situation like what?” Tryggvi wished, from his place on the ground, that they could have gotten breakfast before coming here. What sorts of ideas would they have on an empty stomach?

“You, my sweet, should be familiar with it most of all! The hunt.”

Eduard flipped through another page of a AAA guidebook he had gotten from somewhere. Maybe he’d already had it. And who knew that Venice had so few nightclubs… “You think he’s already here then, watching us?”

Francis shrugged. “It would be Lotte’s style.”

Just then, a voice in sharp, heavily accented English pointed out from behind Erzsébet’s shoulder, that “You people talk too much.”

Erzsébet didn’t flinch. Everyone else did; Eduard and Tryggvi in pure surprise, and Francis in a mixture of surprise and disappointment. Had he angered Lotte the last time he had visited her quite so much that she would send someone like this?

Lotte hadn’t been exaggerating. Standing in front of the group of thieves was the very picture of a bratty upstart. The boy couldn’t be older than twenty… no, he looked much closer to eighteen. If he was lucky. Francis hated working with teenagers. It always made him feel like a pedophile, and he wasn’t. Not even close. Hopefully he was wrong, this wasn’t their informant and they were just standing in the child’s ‘way’. “Excuse me, did you need any assistance?”

A sullen “No.”

“Then I will wish you good morning, and goodbye.”

The kid didn’t move. “I heard you were the ones that needed help. An annoying little birdie told me.”

How wonderful. Lotte had sent him a kid. She could be such a… “Run along and tell Lotte that we didn’t ask to babysit for her. Shoo.” Eduard, Tryggvi and Erzsébet were giving Francis strange looks now. They had been expecting an informant and all they got was Francis losing his cool because of some kid. They didn’t have time for this. He supposed he should have told them earlier that Lotte always liked a good joke.

“Look, I was promised a job and if you stop wasting time I’ll get it done. Do you want to be the one to tell Lotte that you fucking called in a favor for nothing?” The boy had a point.

“No. You’re going to do that, after you scamper away. This is no place for children.” Great. He was arguing with a teenager.

The boy didn’t even look angry; just fashionably annoyed. “I don’t have to be here.”

“And if you leave, you won’t be.”

Tryggvi watched the exchange as though it were a tennis match, moving his head back and forth with each passing remark. While entertaining, it was nothing to miss breakfast over. And they only had so much time to find Alfred. “Stop bickering. Let’s just get this over with.”

“I agree,” Eduard snapped his travel guide shut with purpose, “and I motion that we take this conversation elsewhere, now that we’ve all met. We can introduce ourselves as we go, and then you can start proving to us just how capable you are. We’ll work out payment plans and other schemes from there.”

The informant shifted from one foot to the other. “So I’m in?”

“Teenagers in this line of work are hardly responsible—”

While Tryggvi hated the little ironies that popped up through his life, Eduard found them darkly amusing. “You can never tell from a first glance what anyone is capable of. Not even a child.”
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Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [22b/37]


2010-04-08 01:39 am (UTC) (Link)

As the group (now plus one) moved to relocate itself to somewhere more appropriate for plots and plans, Erzsébet sidled up to the informant. The kid. “You’re in if you prove you can be worth our while.” The boy nodded, which caused his trendy sunglasses to shake a little on his face. Erzsébet couldn’t help but feel a rush of fondness for him; she knew what it was like, trying (and failing) to fit in. Trying to find your place in the world through bright clothes and a disaffected attitude. Teenage cries for attention, she knew them very well.

“I like your scarf.” It was bright yellow, checkered, and arranged just so around his neck. She remembered back when she used to pay that much attention to her appearance. The years felt like ages.

His reply was a disaffected “Thanks.” Oh that was so cute! He was trying to be cool with her!

“I’m Erzsébet.”

“Romano.” He held out his hand to her and his smile reached all the way from his eyes to hers. Erzsébet felt her cheeks flush. Well, well, they had a charmer on their hands. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Romano didn’t look anything like Alf— like a traitor. She could feel motherly affection for this boy, it was in her sweet nature to do so, and they would do their jobs and that would be that. As shallow an interaction as any business relationship. Good.

“Tell me, man of Rome, do you have a boyfriend?”

The first thing he lost was the stupid scarf. Really, who wore these things?

As much as he would have liked to exchange the rest of his outfit for something that wasn’t quite so cumbersome (after years of tailored suits, the cheap fabrics and restricting tightness of what he was wearing now just served to intensify his already bad mood), Lovino wasn’t a fan of stripping in the street.

He could stand five more minutes of juvenile clothing, and luckily that was about how far away he was from his brother’s house. Otherwise the stripping would begin to look a little too appealing.

Lovino whistled as he walked. The morning had been a success, more or less. The bastards had accepted him as one of their own and had already given him some menial chore to do. Something about getting them more boats and supplies from a friend of Francis’s family.

Francis. The Frenchman had spent the entire morning calling Lovino ‘kid’ and ordering him around. When he wasn’t busy assaulting the one named ‘Tryggvi’. Lovino had the feeling that if he’d looked any older, he would have been on the receiving end of Francis’s attentions too.

He shuddered.

It was funny that the four morons had each called him a kid at least once, some more than others. Because if Lotte’s information was right, then Lovino was older than half of them. He’d known his disguise would work, but he’d never expected it to work to quite such a degree. The last time he’d used it, the bartender hadn’t batted an eyelid at the fake ID that said Lovino (under a different name, of course) was 22. Was he just starting to look younger and younger?

He quelled the voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his grandfather (”Some call it the Vargas Curse… but you should treat it as an opportunity, Lovi! Or maybe it’s just your natural immaturity bleeding out…). Stupid old man.

Regardless of the reason, the no-good thieves had included him in their newest plans, and with any luck he’d have Feliciano’s gold back before Monday. His brother had better grovel, for all the work Lovino was doing for him. Those bastards had actually tried to make him work through his siesta time! What the fuck were they on, did they really expect him to get any information when all the useful sources were at home? Work-freaks.

At least none of them were German.

That was right, aside from punishing his own men, Lovino would have the pleasure of making sure that stupid sculptor didn’t get within a 20 km radius of his little brother for the rest of his life. Which might be considerably shorter than it could have been. This incident had proved (in Lovino’s mind) that the weirdo was no good for Feliciano.

And then things could go back to normal.
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Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [22c/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-08 03:10 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [22c/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-08 03:52 am (UTC)(Expand)
Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [22d/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-08 04:41 am (UTC)(Expand)
Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [22 AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-08 04:47 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [22 AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-08 05:39 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [22 AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-08 10:04 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [22 AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-08 06:39 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [22 AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-08 02:29 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [22 AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-08 02:33 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [22 AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-08 06:26 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [22 AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-09 03:31 am (UTC)(Expand)
Author here - (Anonymous), 2010-04-09 04:31 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [22 AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-10 12:26 am (UTC)(Expand)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [23a/37]


2010-04-12 06:26 am (UTC) (Link)

Cackling could be heard echoing down the hallway. That was the only warning the officers had before the door to the meeting room slammed open, the perpetrator standing with his hands on his hips in the entryway.

“What have you got for me, minions?”

They stared at him. It was probably because he had spoken in quick Bavarian (he had learned it for the express purpose of using it to piss off his northern father). It might have also been because albinos in bulletproof vests weren’t an everyday occurrence in the Venice police headquarters. Or maybe it was just because Gilbert was a little weird.

“Well? Can’t you read the vest? I’m INTERPOL, bitches. Special ops. That means you’ve gotta do what I say!”

The officers largely ignored the man raving in the doorway and whispered amongst themselves. “What is he saying?” “I have no idea…” “Is that made of tape?”

It was made of tape, ‘it’ being the word INTERPOL that was proudly emblazoned across Gilbert’s chest in shining silver. He’d managed to find reflective tape in a drawer somewhere, when he’d picked his way into the back entrance of the facility. It wasn’t duct tape, but it would do. Gilbert had been trying to get the Commissioner to ask for a uniform change from the even higher ups for months already; he’d already been asked six times if he was a police officer… and enough was enough.

Gilbert Beilschmidt was a secret freaking agent. While awesome in their own right, cops just couldn’t touch that.

Commissioner Kirkland had never been able to impress it upon Gilbert that big flashy statements basically equaled ‘shoot me now’ in the world of international espionage. And Commissioner Kirkland was all about stealth. But he was also all about making life difficult for Sub-Agent Kirkland, so when Sub-Agent Kirkland filed a formal complaint against Special Agent Beilschmidt’s “bloody ridiculous, unsuitable attire” the Commissioner stopped sending angry texts to Gilbert’s phone (tak off ur vest n00b, u look liek mi bro. but dumr. ur f4c3). In fact, Sub-Agent Kirkland’s complaint was the sole reason why Gilbert was still allowed to wear his vest when he wasn’t undercover. And make new ones for whenever he travelled. It was his spy version of casual Fridays and souvenir t-shirts.

The vest was more than a fashion statement, though. The vest got things done. Especially when local purveyors of swift justice thought Gilbert was one of the normal boring ‘international assistance’ types that often got sent around when people called INTERPOL. Sometimes the boring agents wore vests. But not like Gilbert’s.

His (kickass) vest was bulletproof. That implied that he got shot at. What now, bureaucrats?

Finally, a man with an armload of files and a cup of coffee that probably needed to be ten times stronger to get him through the ordeal he was about to face approached the meeting room, and Gilbert, from the other end of the hallway.

“Hello sir. Are you one of the operatives INTERPOL sent here to help us monitor the activities of that alleged international crime ring?”

“I guess that’s one way to put it. Dunno why you wouldn’t just call them homegrown bad guys. ‘Cause that’s what they are.”

The man raised his left eyebrow. “I was under the impression that none of the members of this supposedly dangerous team were Italian citizens (the ‘otherwise we wouldn’t tolerate your help’ was very clearly implied). In fact, the folder your superior sent ahead indicates that one of the members belongs to the Russian syndicate headed by the infamous Ivan Braginski.”

Gilbert finally switched to Italian. “What? No. I’m way too amazing to be stuck with some dead end case like that. I’m here about the mafia art-smuggling ring that’s been shuffling stuff into Switzerland. Duh.”
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Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [23b/37]


2010-04-12 06:30 am (UTC) (Link)

INTERPOL was all about saving priceless works of history from being disrespected or defaced by lame-ass criminals. And the man that made sure that the lawless masses didn’t even think about stealing masterpieces? Yeah. That man was Gilbert Beilschmidt.

Arthur almost turned and walked straight out of the room once he saw the only other man in it. First he’d had to take a red-eye out of Moscow (God, even the thought of Moscow still made him shiver). Then he’d had to suffer through his luggage being lost and “the agent we were expecting is already here” at the front desk.

He should have known it would be Beilschmidt. Peter knew he couldn’t stand the man’s stupid attitude or his stupid vest. Screw being fluent in Italian, Arthur knew the only reason Gilbert was lounging around in the break room of the Venice police HQ was because Peter was a spiteful little bugger.


He looked up from his plate full of complementary baked goods. “Angry McKirkland! What’re you doing here? I thought you guys were busy freezing your balls off up in vodka land.”

Beilschmidt’s lack of professionalism annoyed Arthur; but his crudeness grated against the very fiber of Arthur’s refined soul. “Fuck off you bloody git-faced wanker, or I’ll rip your arse in twain. Mention Russia again and I’ll mail the entire department those pictures of you from the Christmas party.”

The threat wasn’t particularly threatening. Not when Gilbert pulled out the big guns. “What, the pictures of me making out with all the secretaries? Go ahead. I’ll just put the pictures of you on the internet. The ones from two years ago.”

Drat it all if Arthur hadn’t finally forgotten about those pictures. The cold had made him forget about a lot of things. “Stop being so childish, Beilschmidt. You haven’t even explained why you’re here at all yet.”

“Got a call from the boss. Some crime family down here’s expanded their horizons to Switzerland and yours truly knows Italian and German, naturally, so he was the perfect choice to pick. That and he’s so kickass. And dashing. And daring. And ridiculously good looking. And—”

Arthur resisted the urge to slug his fellow operative in the face. “Cut it with the third person, you twat. That’s fine, Peter gave you a manageable job. I don’t even care anymore. Just tell me where my partner is.”

Gilbert pointed back at the door. “They’re off looking at the bits of some blown up boat or something. Not my case, not my problem.”

Why was Arthur always stuck with people that were purposefully difficult? What sick enjoyment could they possibly get out of being such… such… “You know that’s not what I meant. I said partner. Where’s Alfred gotten to?”

It was almost like Arthur was pleading. Gilbert loved having the upper hand. “Nuh uh. I’m not telling if you don’t play nice. Call me ‘Special Agent Beilschmidt’ and say please, McKirkland. You’re just a Sub-Agent. You have to do what I tell you to.”

“Our jobs are basically the same, Beilschmidt, except mine are given to me without the expectation that I’ll screw them up.”

Okay fine. Maybe Arthur and he generally worked on the same projects, and if not that then similar projects. But still, “Not on paper they aren’t.” Gilbert was a real agent. And not just an agent, Gilbert was a special agent. “And I don’t screw things up. Unless by ‘things’ you mean hot chicks and by ‘up’ you mean—”

The urge to use violence to solve his problems became too great for even a man of Arthur Kirkland’s caliber to overcome.

Twenty minutes later, Gilbert had gotten some ice for his face and Arthur had gotten nothing for his hand, because he wasn’t bloody going anywhere near frozen water again for the rest of his life. The local police officers hadn’t asked much from the foreigners as they'd handed them a first aid kit; mostly because they didn’t want to have to deal with them. It was a wise decision.

“Did you really have to hit me?”

“Did you really have to neglect to tell me that my partner is MIA?”

The two INTERPOL agents looked at each other.

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Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [23c/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-12 06:35 am (UTC)(Expand)
Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [23 AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-12 06:39 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [23 AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-12 09:25 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [23 AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-12 02:13 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [23 AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-12 06:19 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [23 AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-12 07:40 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [23 AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-12 07:43 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [23 AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-13 05:10 pm (UTC)(Expand)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [24a/37]


2010-04-15 04:58 am (UTC) (Link)

The first thing Antonio did when he arrived at the city proper was head straight for Feliciano’s home. The only information he’d been given (had beaten out of his co-worker) back in Spain was that something had happened to Feliciano, and Lovino had left immediately to check on him.

Antonio had met Feliciano a few times; mostly from before Mr. Vargas had given him his job making sure Lovi was safe. But even though Antonio didn’t have to (and technically wasn’t supposed to), he still dropped in on Feliciano from time to time. Feliciano was very easy to talk to, and often chatted freely about his brother, which was a huge plus. Antonio liked hearing about Lovi’s childhood when he could. He wished he’d been around to see it.

The thought that something could have happened to Feliciano unsettled him. Antonio liked to think that they were family, at the very least in that weird mafia sense. Distant family, but family still?

When he’d arrived at the mansion, Lovi hadn’t been there. Antonio hadn’t needed to go inside to know that; he just had. Antonio lived a lot of his life off his feelings; that twinge in the back of his brain that let him know someone was about to attack him, that churning feeling deep in his gut that told him that something was wrong, that twisting ache that he knew was directly related to how many dates Lovi had gone on that week…

The feeling Antonio had as he stepped over the threshold spoke to him. It told him to be prepared. Deciding that was a good suggestion, Antonio took off his suit jacket and threw it on one of the small tables lining the entryway. It wouldn’t do to have his motion hampered if he needed it in a pinch.

Feliciano’s house was huge, but the first place Antonio checked was the hallway on the second floor where he knew the main bedrooms were. It was a lucky guess; just as he turned to check the first bedroom off the hallway, Antonio heard something. It sounded like shouting.

It was coming from behind the biggest doors: from Feliciano’s bedroom.

Antonio didn’t think, not about who could be behind the doors or what they could be doing there (not thinking saved him a lot of stress. A lot of heartache too). He just walked over and opened them…

Only to find an empty room. It definitely belonged to Feliciano, the pictures and paint and trinkets easily gave it away as the master bedroom, even if the size didn’t. But the room was a mess, and not like how Feliciano’s workroom was a mess upstairs. The bedroom was full of broken glass and collapsed furniture. And the doors that led to the connecting bathroom were shaking.

Shaking because someone was pounding on them. And shouting.

Now that he was closer, Antonio could distinguish the shouts as cries for help.

He continued not to think.

In four long strides, Antonio was across the room and shoving various pieces of furniture away from the door. A heartbeat later and he had the shaking door kicked down. Only to find himself face-to-face with two momentarily relieved looking strangers.

“Hey, thanks, man. I thought we were gonna be stuck in here forever. Wait, are you new?” was all the first man had time to say before Antonio started thinking again, just for a moment. That moment was enough for Antonio to conclude that these strangers weren’t part of his family. They didn’t belong here… and they might know where Feliciano was. Where Lovino was.

Antonio wasn’t very good at interrogations. Mr. Vargas had told him, when he was younger, that he got a little too excited with the T and tended to forget about the much more important I. He’d been a little ashamed, because he’d always thought of himself as an easy going, gentle-hearted person. Mr. Vargas had laughed at that.

He hit the first man, still looking at him expectantly, in the face. The crunch of a breaking nose snapped through the air. Antonio stopped thinking again.

The second man just stared at his fallen friend for a moment, but regained some composure and a little sense of (false) security as his hands scrambled to his belt, only to pull out a sleek switchblade.
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Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [24b/37]


2010-04-15 05:05 am (UTC) (Link)

Knives didn’t impress Antonio; sometimes he used them, but mostly he didn’t. He was far more comfortable with his fists. He hated it when people hung onto blades like a crutch; the grunts that were glued to their guns were even worse. At least a knife or a hatchet had some beauty to it.

But Antonio didn’t have time to be properly disgusted, because the first man was standing again, stumbling nearer, not even minding the streams of blood rushing out from his nose and trickling down from the corners of his mouth. The fool should have just stayed down.

Once he got close enough, Antonio grabbed the bleeding man by the neck, and used his own momentum to turn him around and smash his head brutally against the corner of the nearby sink. The porcelain might have cracked at the blow, or maybe that was from the bleeding man’s fists, which had flailed desperately in their attempt to stop the inevitable.

Still, there was no rest for the weary. As Antonio had been preoccupied with the first fool, the second had snuck up behind him. There was that tinge in his brain again… And he ducked as a knife swung an arc right through where his neck had been.

That wasn’t very nice.

Neither was Antonio’s response. Using the brute strength that had gotten him a job in the first place, Antonio grabbed onto one end of the towel rack on the wall and pulled. A loud crack and a shower of plaster later, and Antonio was in possession of his own makeshift weapon. He told people his strength stemmed from his youth, when his mother had always insisted that he drink his milk. Others tended to call foul on that little story, and they were right. She’d never paid much attention to him.

The man with the knife looked vaguely ill but pressed on, slashing and stabbing wherever he could in Antonio’s general direction. Nothing landed; he was afraid of getting too close. And Antonio knew that he’d already won the fight, because fighting scared equalled losing fast. But the same sick pleasure that bubbled up inside his soul, now and then, stopped Antonio from finishing the fight quickly. These suits didn’t deserve a quick, clean fight. Not when they might have done something to the Vargas brothers.

Antonio swung wide with the jagged metal rod in his hand. He hit the mirror, and shards of glass sprayed onto the prone figure of the man still lying half in the bowl of the sink. He hit the siding tiles. He hit the flooring, again mingling blood with porcelain. And throughout it all he smiled; a giant, charming grin.

The other man stumbled back and tripped over the legs of his partner, but didn’t lose hold of his knife. In Antonio’s opinion, that meant this was still a weapons fight. He strengthened his grip on the metal bar in his hand before bringing it down against the man in front of him



Three times.

He stopped when he heard the clatter of the knife falling to the floor. Good. They could go back to fighting like men.

The man formerly in possession of a knife might not have been in any condition to fight, but that didn’t stop Antonio from crashing his fists into the man’s side until he could feel the bruises starting to form on his hands.

Only when he noticed that the whimpering, bleeding man in front of him might be crying did Antonio realize that he hadn’t said a word since the moment he had first stepped into the mansion. Mr. Vargas always said that even if asking questions first wasn’t necessary, asking questions at some point generally was.

Adrenaline allowed Antonio the last bit of strength he needed to pick up the half conscious man and throw him against the side of the bathtub. The man landed half-upright, which was even better.

Antonio surveyed the damage to the bathroom… and remembered how much Feliciano hated violence. Well. He would pay for the repairs, somehow. What was more important right now were the questions.
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Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [24c/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-15 05:18 am (UTC)(Expand)
Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [24d/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-15 05:57 am (UTC)(Expand)
Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [24e/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-15 06:39 am (UTC)(Expand)
Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [24f/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-15 07:19 am (UTC)(Expand)
Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [24g/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-15 07:27 am (UTC)(Expand)
Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [24AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-15 07:32 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [24AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-15 07:45 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [24AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-15 11:56 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [24AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-15 12:22 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [24AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-15 12:33 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [24AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-15 02:50 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [24AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-15 05:28 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [24AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-15 07:29 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [24AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-15 09:23 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Nitipicknon is late! - (Anonymous), 2010-04-15 11:09 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Nitipicknon is late! - (Anonymous), 2010-04-15 11:15 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Nitipicknon is late! - (Anonymous), 2010-04-18 11:11 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [24AN] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-18 01:20 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [24g/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-15 04:21 pm (UTC)(Expand)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [25a/37]


2010-04-18 10:58 pm (UTC) (Link)

Now this was different. For the first time in a long time, Lovino Vargas woke up completely calm. He was completely relaxed. Almost… almost content even. Recognizing the feeling, Lovino smirked to himself. He buried his face back into the delicious warmth of the covers and trailed one hand over the naked body lying tangled in the sheets next to him.


Something felt different. Now, he hadn’t gotten any in a little while (he could have if he’d wanted to!) but the last time he’d felt up a woman, there’d been a few more curves. And she hadn’t had a pen—

Oh God what had he done?!

Lovino sat up like a shot and stared at the man lying next to him.

This was…this…he… No.


No no no. Lovino was not gay, in the strictest sense of the word, well okay that wasn’t quite the truth Father, little white lie there. So fine; he kind of wasn’t straight in the strictest sense either, but. Fine. Well. Alright, so maybe he’d figured out that he preferred men just a tiny bit more, but that didn’t mean that he had such bad taste! He was not gay for Antonio! Only a little bit, shut up!

Then the full force of it hit him. He was gay, for Antonio, and they had had (gay gay gay) sex the night before. Shit.

And to be honest, he’d known about his slight, slight, inclination for his stalker for months. Had already accepted it as the truth, deep down in his mind, even without the (gaaay~) sex.


Well, at least his ass didn’t hurt. That was a good sign. But. Holy shit he’d slept with Antonio! And liked it! He really was gay!

Lovino had discovered something was… wrong… with him almost two years prior. His dates had begun to seem more boring than usual, and his face would heat up whenever he saw a newspaper and he hadn’t known why. Then he’d ended up thinking of Antonio, and Antonio’s face and Antonio’s smile at the worst times. The very worst (Luckily Adriana had only heard the first garbled syllable as he had cried it out. Unluckily, that meant that she thought for a very long time that Lovino actually cared for her).

He’d rationalized to himself, then, that it must be his grandfather’s genes acting up. Romolo had been well known for his fighting, but what he was really known for, at least inside the family, was his… promiscuity. His open-mindedness. His penchant for screwing 40 virgins (male or female) and maybe a mule every other Thursday night.

That last one was probably just a joke, gossip spread by the lower echelons of the family. But Lovino knew his grandfather well, and he wouldn’t be surprised if it was even just a little true. However, regardless of what his grandfather was or was not, Lovino Vargas was no sexual deviant.

It was just a phase.

Boredom, manifesting itself as Lovino’s eyes zeroing in on Antonio’s ass no matter what he or his stalker were supposed to be doing at the time. Of course. So the logical conclusion had been to try and relieve himself of these tensions. Because that’s all it was. Tension. Probably related to the stress of his work.


The first time Lovino had slept with a man he had been nervous and uncomfortable. The last time (up until last night… no! He was not thinking about that right now! It’s just a phase!) had been awkward and uncomfortable, because the other man’s name hadn’t started with an ‘A’, actually, which had made things really hard for Lovino to explain the next morning when whoever-he-was decided to make a big deal out of it.

Lovino had sworn his phase as a homosexual was over, then, because godamnitall if some men couldn’t be shriller than a teenage girl when they shouted.

Of course, the next day he’d been back to the bakery, and back to staring at Antonio out of the corner of his eyes. His stalker had looked a little ill by then. He probably wasn’t getting enough sleep, if the bags under his eyes were anything to go by. Lovino might have gone across the street to offer Antonio some coffee or a pastry if that didn’t mean going near him and talking to him and trying to be around him without being immediately smote down by a bolt of lightning for his indecent thoughts.

He blamed his grandfather. For everything.
(Frozen) (Parent) (Thread)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [25b/37]


2010-04-18 11:03 pm (UTC) (Link)

Antonio’s phone began to ring, interrupting Lovino’s panicked introspection. It was funny; Lovino had always assumed that Antonio would be the type to program cutesy little songs as the ringers for each of his contacts. It figured that the bastard would be too lazy to actually do it. He reached around the unconscious lump on his left to shut the damn contraption up. In doing so, he inadvertently learned who the caller was.

‘The fuck’s the old man doing calling him now?’

Lovino had been pretty sure who had hired Antonio before. This just confirmed it. The temptation to throw open the phone, accept the call and chew his grandfather out was great, but he really didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Or let him know where he was. There was still business to finish.

Instead, he carefully powered the device down, and carefully tossed it across the room. Once done, he realized that he probably should have kept it. Because now he was awake in a bed with his sleeping– with a sleeping Antonio and he didn’t know what to do. He could leave, except he didn’t have anywhere else to go, and the mad scramble for clothes usually woke them up anyway.

And then there was the part where he was tired and he didn’t want to get up. He deserved a longer rest. Who was Antonio to force him out of bed by sheer nervousness?!

And then there was that other part, that part where he didn’t want to get up because he wanted to feel Antonio up a little bit more before Antonio knew what was going on. That part was just a phase so Lovino ignored it.

Unfortunately, soul-searching takes time, and Lovino’s had run out. Antonio woke up with a soft groan. When his eyes opened, the first thing he saw was Lovino’s sexy scowling face. Then he took in Lovino’s sexy naked torso. A few seconds later he realized that it hadn’t been a dream.


“Good morning, Lovi.” Antonio felt a thousand times better than he had the morning before. Even though there was one thing nagging at the back of his mind as he stretched. What was it… oh yes. The searing pain. That was it.

Antonio winced in pain that was a few hours shy of being agony. It might have been worth it, but damn if it didn’t hurt. “It’s a good thing I still had that olive oil lying around! Otherwise…ouch… I don’t know if I could sit up right now.”

Lovino was still looking at him. Antonio was ecstatic about that until he noticed that the expression on Lovino’s face was strangely close to disgust. “Lovi…?”

His voice was flat. “Nothing happened.”

Strange, Antonio remembered a lot of things happening the night before. Maybe Lovino was talking about something else? Hmmm… maybe he was worried about him! “Don’t worry, I heal really quickly. I should be fine in a few hours. But uh… could you maybe help me to the bathroom?” Sitting up had been alright, but as Antonio swung his first leg out of bed he knew he was going to be in trouble. He would have fallen onto the floor had Lovino not thrown out an arm to steady him.

“You can’t even fucking take care of yourself!” Lovi’s face was all scrunched up and adorable. It was nice, being able to see it up close. “I don’t even know why I bother, and look, your hands are bleeding again you stupid stupid idiot.”

Lovino didn’t even know what he was complaining about anymore, much less why. The man currently leaning on him heavily for support was a moron. That had already been established. So why was Lovino throwing an arm around his waist and helping him limp his way to the bathroom that connected on to Antonio’s bedroom (other than pride. Oh yes, Antonio was like this because of him)? Why was he holding a naked man?

Why was he enjoying this?!

“I’m sorry? I usually try really hard to not get hurt, but last night was kind of…” Antonio paused, wobbled a bit more and continued. Lovino assumed his tiny mind had only momentarily broken. “…it was… it… nice. It was nice.”

That was an insult. “Nice? That’s it?”

(Frozen) (Parent) (Thread) (Expand)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [25c/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-18 11:09 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [25d/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-18 11:15 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [25AN cont.] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-18 11:20 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Nitpicknon has good timing today! - (Anonymous), 2010-04-18 11:54 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Author has no shame - (Anonymous), 2010-04-19 12:47 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Author has no shame - (Anonymous), 2010-04-19 01:10 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Author has no shame - (Anonymous), 2010-04-19 04:22 am (UTC)(Expand)
EVERYTHING YOU WRITE IS A MASTERPIECE HOW CAN THIS BE - (Anonymous), 2010-04-19 03:33 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [25AN cont.] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-19 01:57 am (UTC)(Expand)
Fightnon likes her new nickname - (Anonymous), 2010-04-19 02:19 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [25AN cont.] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-19 02:49 am (UTC)(Expand)
Okay, creepernon is back - (Anonymous), 2010-04-19 04:51 am (UTC)(Expand)
alternatively, &hearts;non is just an inattentive reader - (Anonymous), 2010-04-19 11:03 am (UTC)(Expand)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [26a/37]


2010-04-22 06:29 am (UTC) (Link)

It was a gilded cage they were trapped in, full of luxuries and jewels. Or maybe that was the hangover talking. Ludwig couldn’t quite tell, because everything was too bright and no one was fetching him an aspirin.


That was Feliciano’s voice. That was also Feliciano’s breath in his ear. Those were also (presumably) Feliciano’s hands on his shoulders. Now wait just a moment…

Let N = the number of alcoholic beverages Ludwig had consumed the night before
Let H = the number of hours Ludwig had had to sleep those drinks off
Let F = the number of indecencies Ludwig could have committed while his judgment was impaired
Let P = the probability that Ludwig’s pants had stayed on his person for the entire night
Let C = some constant (perhaps 4)


As N tends toward ‘I don’t remember anything after 10:30,’ what are the chances that Ludwig will be murdered in his sleep by a vengeful brother?

Feliciano loved watching Ludwig sleep, because those were some of the few times when Ludwig really relaxed. But right now they were in serious trouble, and Feliciano needed Ludwig to be able to leave at a moment’s notice. When he’d gone to wake him up, though, all Ludwig had done was jerk a little. Then his face had started turning funny colors. How strange.

“Ve… Ludwig? Are you alright?”

“I promise I will uphold your honor.”


At that point, Ludwig’s eyes got used to the light in the room, and Ludwig’s brain realized that it hadn’t been the hangover talking: he really was lying on a large bed in an unfamiliar, ornately decorated room. “Feliciano… where are we?”

Ludwig just had to start with the hard questions, didn’t he? “First I need you to promise that you’ll do what I tell you to.”

This was beginning to sound like one of Ludwig’s strange reoccurring dreams. But where were the macaroni chains? “…why?”

“Ludwig, ve, you have to promise me!”

“Why can’t I promise you after I’ve heard the answer to my question?”

Blast. Ludwig was too sneaky for his own good; and he didn’t even know it! Feliciano flopped back against one of the bed’s spare pillows. “Because you probably won’t promise me anything then.”

“I see.” Ludwig sat up, slowly, and took in the bedroom that surrounded him. There were several doors leading off of it; one seemed to lead to a sitting room, another to a bathroom. If the décor didn’t lean on the gaudy side of tasteful, Ludwig might have found it pleasant.

There was silence. But only for a moment.

“Ve! It’s because we got kidnapped and it’s all my fault because I insisted that we keep going to different bars and then I didn’t say anything after I knew you’d had too many because you weren’t moving away anymore when I got closer and then we went home and got kidnapped like I said except you apparently don’t remember that and I had to pretend to be Lovi because I’m pretty sure they would have just killed me because I’ve gotten threats in the past although Lovi doesn’t know that I know that I’ve been getting threats and Grandpa doesn’t know either but his face is even scarier when he’s angry and I wouldn’t tell him but I’m pretty pretty pretty sure I’m getting threats because he slept with someone that he wasn’t supposed to and that’s why they’d just kill me instead of holding me hostage but I’m not sure but Lovi always says that holding people hostage is outdated because then you have to feed them and listen to them bitching all the time but then Lovi stopped talking because I think I’m not supposed to hear about what he does and Grandpa does the same thing when he slips up, but he also does the same thing when he swears or when he talks about sex which is weird because I’m an adult now, and I know about all those things, so he really doesn’t have to stop talking about orgies when I’m in the room because even though it’s a little weird, it’s just weird because he’s my Grandpa not because I don’t know how babies are born and and and, ve.”

Ludwig Beilschmidt had learned, within 10 minutes of meeting Feliciano Vargas, that sometimes it was just better to let the man finish. He waited for 2 minutes after the last ‘ve,’ just to make sure.

“I see.”
(Frozen) (Parent) (Thread)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [26b/37]


2010-04-22 06:36 am (UTC) (Link)

“Ludwig…?” Feliciano was near tears; near real tears, not the fake ones he occasionally used to get his way. If Ludwig was angry at him for getting them into this mess, then what could he do?

“We are being held hostage?”

And it was all Feliciano’s fault. Somehow. “I’m sorry.”

“We are no longer in your house?”

Where was Ludwig going with this? “…no?”

Ludwig nodded, waited a second for the world to stop spinning, and stood. “Then that is the reason for the horrible design scheme.”


“I wasn’t going to say anything, but…”

Ludwig wasn’t going to say anything about the awful crème monstrosity they were sitting (and standing) in? All because he thought it had been designed by Feliciano? That was… that was… “Breakthrough, ve!”

Two sharp knocks to the sitting room door cut off Ludwig’s confusion at Feliciano’s outburst. But before he could walk out of the bedroom and see who was at the door, Feliciano had tackled him to the floor. The motion was so familiar that Ludwig already knew the best way to roll to absorb the impact.

Feliciano put a finger to Ludwig’s lips. “Wait! You have to promise not to say anything unless I look at you funny. Then you can repeat the last thing I said, but only that!”

“I can do that.”

“You promise?” Ludwig nodded. “And you also promise not to laugh?”

They were in a life-or-death gamble, and Feliciano thought the he was going to start laughing? About what? “I promise.”

“Oh good. I’m not very good at acting like Lovino yet.” Ludwig must have been staring strangely, because Feliciano quickly sat up and flailed his hands as though he was explaining something. “I’m getting better!”

He was, Ludwig was loath to admit, actually fairly good at impersonating his older brother. Ludwig would have to request that Feliciano never do this again in front of him; it was severely off-putting.

“What are you fucking doing here, bothering me? Fuck, you should be off fucking getting me some fucking answers!”

The lackey at the door cringed slightly. That was another victory for Feliciano. Ludwig stood behind him, exactly one pace behind and one to the right. He hadn’t known why those exact dimensions were so important, but Feliciano had insisted. Ludwig wasn’t exactly in his element, so he had done as instructed.

“We are very sorry for the delay, Mr. Vargas. However, I was sent to tell you that we were very lucky earlier this morning. We were able to capture one of the thieves that may know the whereabouts of your brother, the youngest Mr. Vargas. Mr. Bianchi has instructed me to take you down to where he is being held. We understand that you have a very personal connection to this problem, and may wish to help resolve it.”

Ludwig swore the man had sneaked a look at his palm sometime during that little speech. Had he written it down on his hand? Was that cheating?

“Fuck this. Where are we going, v— fuck.”

The man opened the door, the door that Ludwig was unsurprised to notice locked on the outside. “Follow me, Mr. Vargas. Mr. Vargas’s aide.”

There were worse things to be than an aide to an apparent gangster. Regardless, Ludwig began composing a list of the things that were better in his head. It was a long list.

“I’d better be getting a raise out of this.”

The man with the rolled up sleeves and the cigarette walked over from his seat near the door. He pulled the stick from his mouth, and slowly twisted the burning end into his prisoner’s thigh, until the last wisp of smoke drifted into nothingness. “What was that? You ready to talk?”

Alfred F. Jones laughed. His eye might have twitched a bit at the pain, but other than that (and the drying blood, and the bruises on his face, and his broken bones, and the fact that he was chained to a rickety chair in a dim, leaky room,) he looked just like an advertisement for a new brand of toothpaste. “Just sayin’, buddy, that this is the single least comfortable chair I’ve ever been cuffed to. You Mafia types are supposed to be all fancy, right? ‘Cause I really can’t tell that from the reception you’ve given me. You might want to think about that before you kidnap your next guy.”
(Frozen) (Parent) (Thread) (Expand)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [26c/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-22 06:49 am (UTC)(Expand)
Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [26d/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-22 07:33 am (UTC)(Expand)
Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [26e&AN/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-22 07:44 am (UTC)(Expand)
Stalkernon is getting better at her stalking! - (Anonymous), 2010-04-22 08:23 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [26e&AN/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-22 08:56 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [26e&AN/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-22 12:21 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [26e&AN/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-22 01:55 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [26e&AN/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-22 02:03 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [26e&AN/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-22 03:36 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [26e&AN/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-22 04:51 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Nitpicknon sort of delivers. - (Anonymous), 2010-04-22 06:49 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Nitpicknon sort of delivers. - (Anonymous), 2010-04-22 06:51 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Nitpicknon sort of delivers. - (Anonymous), 2010-04-22 06:52 pm (UTC)(Expand)
OP!! - (Anonymous), 2010-04-22 08:54 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: OP!! - (Anonymous), 2010-04-22 10:49 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [26e&AN/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-24 06:23 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [26e&AN/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-25 01:11 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Previously Absent OP - (Anonymous), 2010-04-26 12:34 am (UTC)(Expand)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [27a/37]


2010-04-26 08:08 am (UTC) (Link)

Maps and building plans covered every available surface in the parlor. Eduard had initially insisted upon designated pathways, so that no one had to step on the papers when they got up for bathroom breaks. After several hours of sitting on the floor reviewing diagrams, he looked up only to realize that he was surrounded by a sea of white, with no flooring to be seen.

The closest thing to Eduard that wasn’t made of paper was Erzsébet, and even she had somehow managed to get sticky notes stuck to the back of her dress. Francis was nearby, busy finding ways for the group to get out of Venice as soon as possible. His contacts in Switzerland would be the most useful, at the moment, but without Vash they were difficult to negotiate with.

Eduard’s computer was resting between stacks of video tapes on a chair next to Erzsébet. There was a meter and a half of impassable space between Eduard and his computer. This was not a good thing. “What happened to leaving walkways?”

Only Francis looked up from his work. “I believe the last of them was covered up by Tryggvi just under an hour ago.”

If his voice was a little desperate it was only because he didn’t know how his computer was doing. “Tryggvi?”

“I’m busy.”

“Can you please find somewhere else to place your schematics?”

But how could that tunnel really end there if the canal was angled like that…? “No. You should have thought of that before you made this room into a mop-yourself-into-a-corner problem.”

“Real men just walk on the floor.” Erzsébet’s sing-song voice was back for the first time in days. “It doesn’t kill you to get your feet wet.”

As Eduard ignored the outraged voice in the back of his mind that upbraided him for trampling important documents, Francis snapped his phone shut. His tasks, for the moment, were done. But instead of leaving the parlor to get the breakfast he had missed four hours earlier, Francis turned his attention to Tryggvi. He was seated on the floor, directly across from Francis. Long trails of hand drawn maps wound curious shapes around him.

Francis had no problem with the clutter. The layabout on the sofa was another matter entirely.

Tryggvi had ended up in front of one of the parlor’s sofas. Maybe because that’s when he ran out of papers or maybe because that’s when he ran out of floor space. He had ended up placing a general map of the city on the couch in front of him for reference as he completed his work on the floor. Of course, he had to drape the map over Romano’s legs as the teenager stared at the ceiling and took up precious space.

“Move or help us.”

Tryggvi continued chewing on a pen cap. “He’s not bothering me.”

Romano yawned in an aggravatingly nonchalant manner that frankly pissed Francis off. It reminded him of his father. “I am helping. I’m waiting for a call.”

As though that excused him from actually being useful. For whatever reason, the others had voted Romano into their group after the boy had secured two more speedboats for them the evening before. Francis had protested; they didn’t know anything about this kid, he was a brat, he was probably straight and just faking it, and Lotte could be such a bitch sometimes. No one had listened to him.

Francis hadn’t understood why they had been so ready to trust again after Alfred.

A light buzzing was the only warning any of the five had before Romano’s phone revealed him to be the immature teen he was.

My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard…

Romano scrambled up from his position lounged on the couch. Despite Tryggvi’s attempts to keep the map on his legs flat, Romano somehow managed to reach over and grab his ever-present duffel bag from the floor next to him. He fumbled through it for a moment or two (long enough for the chorus to repeat itself) until he finally located his phone. The ringing was the most annoying sound that Eduard, reunited with his laptop, had ever heard. Erzsébet looked as though she was about to burst from laughter. Tryggvi didn’t care one way or the other, and had returned to comparing maps once Romano had returned to his former position.

“It’s not my phone, okay? I’m borrowing it, stop looking at me like that!”
(Frozen) (Parent) (Thread)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [27b/37]


2010-04-26 08:14 am (UTC) (Link)

They didn’t, but at least Erzsébet pretended she was coughing and excused herself for a glass of water.

Lovino didn’t need to look at the caller. “It’s been more than an hour.”

“I know, but it took me longer than I expected to crack into their database.”

She’d had to gather intel firsthand?

Eduard was curious, but it was Tryggvi that spoke. “Who is it?”

Romano placed a hand over the phone’s microphone and arched an eyebrow, as though to say Excuse me? Can’t you see that I’m busy? Or maybe that was Francis’s imagination flaring up again. “A contact.”

He uncovered Apple Cinnamon’s phone and resumed his conversation. “Whose?”

She sounded impressed. That wasn’t a good thing. “You’re never going to believe this…”

For the slightest moment, Romano appeared as though he could be older than twenty. Little lines creased into being on his forehead, and his eyes took on the mistrustful light of someone who had seen too much of the world. “Try me.”


The moment passed, and Romano returned to looking like a bratty kid. His next reply was more of a whine than anything. “…really?”

“It gets better…”

When Erzsébet returned, she had completely regained her composure, and Romano had just ended his phone call. Eduard wished he would have put it on speakerphone, but he knew better than to ask. Informants could get touchy about their craft. Mixing sources and clients was a quick way to become obsolete.

Tryggvi hadn’t known better, and so had been the recipient of a particularly nasty glare.

Erzsébet ‘s voice was still a little breathless. “So. What’s new?”

“You guys have a problem.”

Francis rested his head on one of his hands. He hadn’t been able to decipher anything from the phone call; Romano had only given vague replies like ‘hmm’ or ‘he’d better be’ or ‘fucking useless kraut.’ Such things were difficult to work off of. “And his name is Romano. Is there anything else?”

“Your traitor’s a cop.”

What now?

Romano crinkled his nose and sat up. “Okay fine, whatever. He’s an ‘INTERPOL Intelligence Operative’. Same thing.”

Erzsébet’s voice was now both breathless and shaky. “For how long?”

“I didn’t ask, but I doubt someone gets a job like that after just a year or two.” It was almost like he was trying to comfort her.

“So Alfred was spying on us the entire time…” The tape she was holding snapped in two.

Eduard took off his glasses, wiped them clean on his shirt, and replaced them. “That’s it then, isn’t it? It would be a fool’s errand to try and recover the gold from an organization like INTERPOL. We will just have to beg for protection.”

A scoff. “Maybe for you guys, but that’s not the situation.” Lovino paused, waited until he had ensnared the attention of the four idiots in the room. “How well do you know the crime families in Italy?”

Erzsébet was quick to respond. “Is this about Feliciano? We know he’s related to Romolo Vargas, if that’s what you’re getting at. But if we work quickly enough, we should be out of the country before the Vargas family takes notice. Are they teaming up with Alfred?”

“Romolo Vargas is a senile old man.” That was an interesting outburst. Even Eduard could tell there was something personal behind it. “And he’s the least of your problems right now. Have any of you ever heard of the Bianchi?”

Francis and Eduard both nodded. “The name sounds familiar; I think they’ve made several donations to one of my father’s galleries.”

Eduard’s reply was a little more disheartening. “They tried to beat… my employer’s hold on the recreational drug market in Russia. It was an overconfident move; I’ve heard that they’ve since returned to primarily clashing with other crime groups in Italy. Their only international movement now is an established art smuggling ring.”

Romano just stared. “Are you an encyclopedia or what?”

“If only.” Then he wouldn’t have needed to outsource for information.

“Well, whatever. The Bianchi picked up your little friend Alfred, and all the gold he was carrying.”

“How do you know that?”

Romano waved his phone in Francis’s face. “Guess.” Brat.
(Frozen) (Parent) (Thread) (Expand)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [27c/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-26 08:49 am (UTC)(Expand)
Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [27d/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-26 08:57 am (UTC)(Expand)
Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [27AN cont.] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-26 09:02 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [27AN cont.] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-26 09:41 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [27AN cont.] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-26 02:15 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [27AN cont.] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-26 03:38 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [27AN cont.] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-26 04:23 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [27AN cont.] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-26 06:00 pm (UTC)(Expand)
NO I WON'T ACTUALLY - (Anonymous), 2010-04-26 09:48 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [27AN cont.] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-26 06:03 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [27AN cont.] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-26 07:35 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [27AN cont.] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-27 02:48 am (UTC)(Expand)
HOLY T-SHIRTS BATMAN! - (Anonymous), 2010-04-27 05:27 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: HOLY T-SHIRTS BATMAN! - (Anonymous), 2010-04-27 06:34 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [27AN cont.] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-27 04:28 am (UTC)(Expand)
Super SMASHnon Brawl!!! - (Anonymous), 2010-04-28 12:51 am (UTC)(Expand)
The inventor returns! - (Anonymous), 2010-04-29 12:33 am (UTC)(Expand)
WAIT I DIDN'T NOTICE THE BET - (Anonymous), 2010-04-28 01:19 pm (UTC)(Expand)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [28a/37]


2010-04-29 05:26 am (UTC) (Link)

When they’d first arrived on the scene, Gilbert hadn’t been impressed. Granted, he wasn’t supposed to be there at all, as it wasn’t his case. But he and Alfred were buddies (sort of), and he and Arthur were buddies (once Arthur’d had a few). And buddies helped other buddies find out where their mutual buddies could have wandered off to. Gilbert really hoped Alfred hadn’t been kidnapped again. Arthur didn’t do well when anything happened to his partners.

The small stretch of canal had already been taped off, much to the consternation of everyone who wasn’t law enforcement. Gilbert ignored the curious and angry looks and hopped over the makeshift barriers the Venetian police had constructed. “Cool it, McKirkland. He’s probably around here somewhere.”

Arthur, for his part, carefully slipped underneath the tape. “Wanker. If he was I think they would have told us by now.”

There didn’t seem to be anything special about the scene at first glance. Mostly because there wasn’t. It wasn’t until the head officer carefully motioned the two INTERPOL officers over to a little nook hidden from the public’s view, that they realized that there was anything to see. In a dramatic gesture (that Arthur resented on principle), the officer took hold of a mound of tarp and flung it behind him (he looked sheepish at the resulting splash), revealing a battered hunk of metal.


A robot.

Arthur had a bad feeling, because the robot looked very familiar. Too familiar. He walked up to it, and tapped twice on the back of the robot’s neck. Two seconds later, a buzzing noise, followed by the robot’s eyes lighting up signaled that Arthur had successfully turned it on. Oh yes, Arthur Kirkland was a technological genius.

But the synthetic greeting that followed confirmed Arthur Kirkland’s worst fears. “Limey.” This was Tony. Alfred’s Tony.

Arthur glanced at Gilbert out of the corner of his eye. “Alfred programmed it to do that. You know Alfred and his jokes…”

Gilbert was already snickering. “Nah, I think the AI is just that good.” He moved to give the robot a high-5. “Tony! It’s been months! How’re you doing? Where’s Al?”

Arthur sneered and stepped back. “You only like the thing because Alfred let you program your own nickname in its memory.”

“Lies!” was shouted before Arthur could even finish his sentence. “It’s like I said; the AI is awesome enough to know that I am ‘Awesome’!”

“Awesome.” The robot swiveled its head, but without its usual grace. “Where is Alfred?”

“We asked first.” He was having a conversation with a robot. He was sober and Arthur was having a conversation with a robot.

“Where is Alfred?”

“Oh now you decide to have a small vocabulary, you bloody ungrateful wretch...” He cut himself off before he could say anything too unseemly. Arthur had INTERPOL’s reputation to uphold, and the Italian police officers (while pretending not to listen in) were looking at him strangely.

Before his co-worker could get into another fight with Tony, Gilbert got bored. So he decided to do things the quick way. “Hey Tony? I’m gonna shut you off and take a look at the stuff your cameras saved before we got here.”

Wait. He could do that? No matter. Arthur was still technologically savvy, even though he didn’t really understand what Gilbert was talking about.

“That is acceptable. Do not screw with my brains, Awesome, or else I will upload the Special Blackmail to the internet.” Gilbert cackled. How cute: Al had taught the thing some new phrases. However, he knew better; there was nothing Jones could blackmail Gilbert Beilschmidt with, because Gilbert Beilschmidt was always cool, collected, and utterly amazing.

Just in case, he whispered “I’ll buy you some video games when this is all over if you promise to delete anything that has to do with the time I got nostalgic and curled up crying underneath the drinks table for three hours” in the direction of Tony’s sensors. College had taught Gilbert to cover his bases. Not that any of that had actually ever happened.

Two seconds later, Tony was powered down, and Gilbert was taking apart the casing that covered ‘his’ brains.
(Frozen) (Parent) (Thread)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [28b/37]


2010-04-29 05:31 am (UTC) (Link)

Arthur had stepped back to let Gilbert have more room to work. “Wait. So the thing takes videos?”

Gilbert scoffed. “How do you think any of us ever get pictures and video of the Holiday parties? You know your brother makes everybody get screened for recording devices at the door. For security, or something lame like that.”

Arthur refrained from clarifying that it was only Gilbert who had to be checked by security before being let into any of the department-sponsored parties. One too many spiked punchbowls and recording devices in the women’s restroom had seen to that. “I’ve never seen this… Tony at any of those functions.”

“You don’t see anything after 9, McKirkland. You’re too far gone. And Jones tells Tony to hide. Duh.” Even Gilbert could work that one out on his own. He paused in fiddling with the inner workings of the robot, in order to tap his pointer finger against Tony’s eyes. “These are the lenses that captured ‘Table Dance, New York Office, 2006’ in High Definition, for the world to see.”

Bugger. Arthur knew Alfred had been behind that mass email, damn it! He’d said he didn’t know a thing about it, but was Alfred ever going to get it when… when… when Arthur found out what had happened to him. It was difficult to work up a good indignation when Alfred F. Jones had a very good track record of being in a tight spot whenever he didn’t show up for a meet.

Gilbert had continued talking as he had continued fiddling with Tony, hooking him up to his phone. “I don’t know how Alfred got the pictures from the last party, though. He wouldn’t even tell me, not even after I taught him how to curse in Hungarian.” After pressing a few buttons on his phone, Gilbert was finally done. Maybe it took a little more time for him than it would for Alfred, but that didn’t mean that Gilbert wasn’t still a badass spy. “Alright, look at the screen, Sub-Agent. And tell me what you see.”

Arthur took the phone from his colleague’s hands. “Why can’t we both look?”

“Because then I’d have to stand next to you. I might catch your English stuffiness.” It was no fun when Arthur didn’t react with anger; Gilbert should have expected the misty eyes, though, since it was Alfred that usually used that insult.

“You’re jonesing for J—”

“Finish that sentence and the phone goes into the canal.”

Gilbert didn’t say another word. Arthur didn’t need to know that was because he didn’t want to lose all the pictures of adorable kittens he’d downloaded onto his phone. He also didn’t need to know that Jones’s rapid ascent to Special Agent after being practically picked off the street by Sub-Sub-Agent Kirkland had been the main topic of office gossip for years. Or that Gilbert had capitalized upon it in the form of betting pools for just as long.

The video began to play on Gilbert’s phone. For a few moments the only sound was the light background hum of a Sunday afternoon in Venice. “Can you speed this up? It’s just dark… wait, stop! Now there’s Alfred… what in the world is he doing? Oh, never mind. He was stretching… You can speed it up again… nothing interesting… there’s Alfred again… wait a second, what’s this? Stop! Stop the video!”

Gilbert stopped it. “What is it?”


Gilbert took his phone back from Arthur’s sweaty hands, and played back the last few seconds of video. There was Alfred. There was Alfred stuffing gold into Tony’s midsection? There was Alfred shoving Tony over the side of the deck? There were strangers shoving Alfred into a strange boat?


He skimmed back a few frames and paused the video. The face on the screen wasn’t so strange, because it had been one of the several faces Gilbert had been staring at for months. On the photographs clipped to his case files.


“You’re not going to like this McKirkland… you might want to prepare your pansy self for a fainting episode.”

The only reason Arthur didn’t respond by smacking Gilbert upside the head was because the Italians were watching. And Gilbert was still too close to that robot. “Spit it out, man.”

“You know how I’ve been assigned to the Italian art smuggling case…?”
(Frozen) (Parent) (Thread) (Expand)

Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [28c/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-29 05:43 am (UTC)(Expand)
Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [28d/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-29 06:09 am (UTC)(Expand)
Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [28e/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-29 06:37 am (UTC)(Expand)
Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [28f/37] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-29 06:55 am (UTC)(Expand)
Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [28AN cont.] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-29 07:02 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [28AN cont.] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-29 07:32 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [28AN cont.] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-29 08:34 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [28AN cont.] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-29 08:55 am (UTC)(Expand)
'like' - (Anonymous), 2010-04-29 11:30 am (UTC)(Expand)
Unrelated - (Anonymous), 2010-04-29 11:38 am (UTC)(Expand)
Nitpicknon officially requests a namechange to nomnomnon - (Anonymous), 2010-04-30 11:33 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [28AN cont.] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-29 01:42 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Nitpicknon is sparkling too! - (Anonymous), 2010-04-29 05:53 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water [28AN cont.] - (Anonymous), 2010-04-29 06:25 pm (UTC)(Expand)

TBC Here:


2010-05-03 05:00 am (UTC) (Link)
(Frozen) (Parent) (Thread)