Flea

Chapter Sixty Three

Dabi winced as Mama dabbed powdered foundation over a bruise above his brow she'd sworn she wouldn't give. Not because of a false sense of maternal guilt. The meeting was today and Greyhound wanted to keep all marks of her unique affection out of sight. With any luck out of mind as well: It was better the buyers didn't know he was damaged goods.

Dabi should stop calling them that. Himself that. Accidentally voicing those thoughts aloud were what gave him the bruise in the first place; they were wicked and he wanted to be good. Needed to be.

"These pricks are actually sending a car. Living the high life, eh, Flea?  Chauffeurs, what next, champagne and tasteful porn on entry? I should work with the Yakuza more often," Greyhound snorted. Dabi chose not to say anything. Mama was sober, which meant she preferred quiet and was less likely to punish him for not answering unanswerable questions.

"Well, they won't notice if they don't look too closely at you. I think you're plain enough that won't be an issue, love. Hairbrush."

Dabi passed her a comb with several missing teeth, and Mama didn't hesitate to yank mercilessly at mats that hadn't been touched in months. He was wearing a blue dress the likes of which he'd never seen in his life, and white stockings that scratched at his ankles uncomfortably.

"You had to inherit your father's hair, didn't you?" Greyhound growled, and Dabi forced himself not to stiffen in fear. Showing discomfort only provoked her further. Luckily, this was a unique day, and she moved on. Dabi supposed something good had to come out of the circumstances.

Mama finished plaiting his dark hair with a bow, and a stranger stared back at Dabi out of the mirror. He felt nearly pretty, like the time Sara made him a bracelet and told him he looked like a princess.

"Let's hope your betrothed finds you less hideous than I do," Greyhound smirked, and patted Dabi to get up from his stool. Fat Jimbo loped in from the hall and the doorframe captured him like a Picasso painting. Every time Dabi tried to read through the book of art he'd hidden beneath floorboards upstairs, he needed to skip the cubism.

"They're here," the villain announced, his own wisps of hair combed over his scalp in a way that made him look like an egg with chicken feathers still clinging to its shell.

"Now, what are the rules?" Greyhound asked, hand resting on Dabi's shoulder in a way nobody spying through windows would suspect was threatening.

"Don't speak unless spoken to. No smart comments. Don't mention Trigger and tell people I'm 7. Don't let anyone touch me except The Bosses son."

"We wish, Flea, we wish. The wretch is just trash he picked up off the street, but you never know... he might be your prince charming, and he's certainly the best business deal I've ever scrounged up," Greyhound chuckled. Dabi couldn't help but feel a tiny spark of hope, in spite of his mother's sarcasm. This could be his way out. He'd worn the single picture book about a princess rescued from a witches tower down to its glue bones.

The car ride was quiet. Mama chose to focus her attention on unnerving the Chauffeur, who she clearly didn't believe had hurried to open their car door quickly enough. Dabi focussed on attempting to stretch his legs down to touch the floor. Once through hearty security, they were lead through a maze of a complex to emerge into a room overlooking enormous gardens, with a stately looking gentleman perched on one of several couches.

"Greyhound, it is a pleasure to meet someone whose reputation precedes them so strongly. Please, take a seat," He said smoothly, and Dabi liked the way his eyes crinkled with smile lines. He also liked the potentially double sided compliment. This was going to be interesting, if not fun.