I Bet You Didn't Know That I Was Dangerous
~*~*~*~
The basement was cold, and dimly lit, and it definitely creeped him out. The almost soft expression Tobirama had worn earlier was gone, replaced by a stony glare and a scowl, but his arm was warm and heavy where it curled around his waist, his hand firmly gripping his opposite hip and keeping him close to his side.
Normally, the possessive touch would have irritated him, but right now, Tobirama and his weird tendencies were the most familiar thing about the whole situation. Familiarity didn’t exactly equal safety, but in this instance, it was somewhat soothing.
They came to a large room, closed off from the rest of the basement by heavy metal doors. Two large chairs were in the center of the room, facing each other, and about 3 feet apart. Tobirama sat down in the closest chair, slouching back against the backrest and letting his legs splay, looking for all intents and purposes like a king lounging on his throne. His selected men spread out behind him, looking relaxed and calm, but ready to spring into action.
Tobirama reached out, hooking a finger in the front of Madara’s waistband and tugging him close, and he followed wordlessly, letting Tobirama nudge him to sit on the armrest of his chair. As soon as he was situated to his liking, he looped his arm around his waist again, fingers brushing against his thigh.
“Just sit and look pretty,” he muttered, breath warm against his ear.
“I’m not a trophy,” Madara hissed back, just as quietly.
“I know, but Jiro doesn’t have to know the terms of our agreement. Just do as I say.”
Madara snorted, but leaned back, tapping his toe on the cold concrete floor. They didn’t have to wait much longer until the door on the opposite side of the room swung open, and Jiro sauntered in, followed by a group of his men. The oily haired man sat down on the chair opposite of Tobirama, a slick smile on his face. His eyes darted very briefly to Madara, taking in his stance, his perch on the armrest and his smile dropped, replaced by a look of surprise, and then morphing into irritation. Madara couldn’t help but smirk, just for the pleasure of seeing the man look taken aback and apprehensive, before he finally focused all his attention on the Senju leader.
“Good evening, Tobirama,” he greeted, crossing his legs and bowing his head. Tobirama’s expression was cold.
“You’re late.”
“My apologies. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”
“Mmph. Speak your piece, Jiro, and make it swift.”
Jiro looked annoyed at the brisk order, if the curling of his lip was any indication. “You know what I desire, sir. And I promise I can make my organization worth your while. We’ve been working under your shadow for almost three years already, and now you suddenly decide we are no longer worth your time?”
“Yes. I grow bored of dealing with you, you’re tiresome.”
Jiro’s face turned red with fury. “You-” He cut himself off abruptly, and took a deep breath to calm himself. “I understand being in charge of your syndicate is time consuming and stressful, but I’ve built my organization from the ground up for many years, and I am not willing to let it all go for nothing just because you don’t like me!”
“You choose my city to plant your roots, and if you wanted to survive, you should have chosen someplace else,” Tobirama said coldly. “I make the decisions here. I give you a word of input to make you think you have some control and keep you happy, but you are nothing here. You have no control, you have no power, and the sooner you realize this, the better. I have shown you mercy by giving you a chance to gather your organization and flee, do not tempt me to draw back my kindness.”
“What kindness?!” Jiro snapped. “You gave me no prior warning, no hinting of you changing your mind!”
“I don’t need to,” Tobirama growled, slouching back even more. His hand tightened on Madara’s waist, and Jiro’s eyes glanced down to watch the motion. His glare darkened.
“What is this,” he hissed. “Is this all just a display of power? An attempt to show off?”
“I don’t need to show off, we all know the power I hold,” Tobirama drawled back. “It’s unquestionable, isn’t it? No one denies it, and no one denies me what I want.”
He tapped a finger, hidden, on Madara’s leg. Taking the hint, Madara adjusted in his seat, swinging his legs over Tobirama’s and crossing them at the knee, shifting over to sit on Tobirama’s thigh. The Senju made no reaction to his adjustment, but he squeezed his hip tightly to show he was pleased.
Jiro looked ready to explode, gripping the armrests of his chair tighty. “This is outrageous,” he spat.
“No,” Tobirama disagreed. “What’s outrageous is your apparent imbecilic ineptitude to recognize the power differential here.” He looped both arms around Madara, tugging firmly and hauling him closer to him. In response, Madara hummed softly, carding his fingers through Tobirama’s hair, perfectly playing the role. “I’ve listened to you, Jiro, I’ve heard your request and you’ve made your case more than once. Yet, my decision remains the same. It would be in very poor taste if you continued pressing the issue.”
“You brat,” Jiro said venomously, leaping to his feet and stalking closer, too close for comfort. “You’re nothing but a fraud! Ever since you took over for your father you’ve been trying so very hard to be the ruthless man we know you’re not! You are weak, a coward who only cares about protecting his damn ego! The only fucking reason any of your useless subordinates follow you is because they feel like they have to to honour your fathers footsteps! You are not worthy of his title, his crown! Your sham of an empire will crumble down around you!”
While he spoke, Madara felt Tobirama’s hand tightening, squeezing as his rage mounted. Madara watched Jiro’s hand move with his ranting, eyes trailing down his arm to where his sleeve was rolled up above his elbows. Automatically, he zeroed in on the common flexor tendon close to the elbow, where most of the muscles controlling the hand, wrist, and fingers originated. He could almost picture it; peeling back layers of skin, fascia, imagining the blood vessels, the nerves, the ropey tendons of the muscles. Jiro’s voice, loud and angry, faded into the background of his senses as his thoughts shifted, finding a new priority to focus on. He tuned out the man's ravings, struck by what was probably a very bad idea.
The new, cool weight of the scalpel blades Tobirama gifted him weighed down against his skin, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see the tiny glint of the top of the hilt of the one nearest to his reach.
As Jiro stepped closer, still yelling, his hand flashing forward to point an accusing finger at Tobirama, he acted before he could second guess his instincts.
The scalpel blade responded smoothly, beautifully, to him as he flicked the blade out of its hidden sheath in his boot. He swept it out in a wide, arching strike, and his aim was flawless.
With the ease of a hot knife in butter, the scalpel sliced through Jiro’s forearm, severing the many tendons connected at the common flexor point.
All done in the blink of an eye, without Madara moving from his perch on Tobirama’s lap, or even uncrossing his legs.
Jiro screeched with pain, flinging himself a few steps back and cradling his arm to him. Blood gushed from the wound, flowing down his arm, his fingers, pooling onto the floor. Mhm, he must have hit a nearby artery too.
Startled, his men stepped towards their boss in a delayed attempt to defend him, and Tobirama laughed, squeezing Madara’s waist tightly. His own men inched closer, ready to act if Jiro or his lackeys made any wrong moves.
“Oh, Jiro,” Tobirma mocked, his red eyes gleaming with delight as Madara flicked the blood off his blade. Chuya silently stepped forward, handing him a dark red cloth, and he took it, using it to wipe the blade clean before sliding it back into its sheath. “There is more to my rule than tyranny and fear. This city is mine, and that means I protect it, particularly from scum like you. I’ve let you fester and grow, but your presence here is a disease, rotting away in your little corner of our beautiful city. I like to keep my home clean, so that’s why trash like you must be removed so our city can remain beautiful and untainted. My men here realize that, they understand it, and they feel the same way. That is why they follow me.”
Jiro snarled, his eyes practically blazing with hate, his uninjured arm clutching his bleeding one tightly. “Bastard,” he hissed, his glare turning to Madara. “Control your damn dog.”
Madara smirked, amused when Jiro turned slightly paler and took half a step back. “I find him much more cat-like,” Tobirama mused, running a hand up Madara’s back, then toying with a strand of his hair, winding it around his fingers. “I don’t control him, he does as he pleases. Although, I am almost regretful that I didn’t get the chance to cut you open myself. Consider this a warning, Jiro, one that I will not repeat.” He leaned forward, as much as he could with Madara still sprawled out on his lap.
“Get out of my city.”
Something about his tone of voice; the dark, icy edge to it, had Jiro offering up no more argument. Instead, he just glared at them all, cradling his arm into his abdomen, and stormed out of the room. His men followed silently, and the door slammed shut behind them.
For a brief moment, it was quiet. Madara started to shift, sliding off of Tobirama’s lap, but the Senju’s hands immediately clamped down on his waist, keeping him there. When Madara twisted to scowl at him, his eyes were bright with something Madara couldn’t identify.
“I wasn’t expecting you of all people, to lash out so randomly,” Chuya commented, taking back the bloodied cloth and shoving it into his pocket, giving him an appreciative look Madara frowned at him.
“It wasn’t random, it was flawlessly accurate,” he grumbled. “I got him exactly where I wanted to.”
Hashirama raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Personally I would have gone with something more vital or long lasting and significant. Like somewhere on his chest or abdomen or throat, or something.”
Madara glared at him, indignant. “Believe me, he’ll be feeling that for months,” he grumbled, crossing his arms. “Without surgery he won’t be able to use that hand and that’ll ruin his next few days once he realizes that.”
All of the mobsters stared at him, and Kawarama tentatively raised a hand like a shy student asking his teacher a question. “Um, what? You only cut his arm though?”
Madara smirked coyly. “Did I? Jiro is right-handed, from what I can tell, and I cut through half a dozen tendons of the muscles controlling his hand. It’s akin to a tendon rupture, only with more than one tendon involved. Tendons don’t heal quickly, and when they’ve been damaged that extensively, usually only surgery works to regain control of the hand. He won’t be able to close his hand, fire a gun, or even pick up a glass. And it hurts like a bitch, so. You’re welcome.”
Tobirama leaned forward, resting his head on the back of Madara’s shoulder, his grip still bruisingly tight. His body was shaking, just a little, and it took him a moment to realize that he was laughing, and trying to hide it.
Hashirama held up his hands. “You’re a little scary, you know that?” he said weakly, shaking his head. “Remind me never to piss you off.”
“You are a man after my own heart,” Chuya snickered, and was Madara imaging it, or was there a slight undertone of newfound respect in his voice. “Too bad the boss called dibs already.”
“Shut up, Chuya,” Tobirama snapped, but his tone was light. With one hand, he turned Madara’s face towards him, and it took all of his willpower not to lean away from their close proximity.
“You’re perfect,” he muttered, the pad of his thumb stroking Madara’s bottom lip. He resisted the urge to bite it.
“I’m aware,” he said instead, taking advantage of his distraction to scoot backwards and stand up. Tobirama looked a little irritated at his mini escape, but didn’t drag him back, so Madara counted that as a win.
“Chiko, when we get back, grab a small team and keep an eye on Jiro,” he said, standing up and running a hand through his white hair, tousling it slightly in an unfairly casual, attractive way. “Make sure he actually gets the hell out of here. If he’s not gone in 48 hours…well.”
“Yessir,” Chiko said, saluting with one finger.
“And as for the rest of you, head home for the night. Kawarama, you drive with Madara and I.”
The younger Senju looked comically surprised, but nodded along eagerly. Tobirama held out a hand meaningfully, and Madara eyed it for a long moment before sighing, and taking it in his own. The corner of Tobirama’s lip curled, and he threaded their fingers together, tugging him closer and then heading out the door. Kawarama followed right at their heels, and Hashirama plodded along soon after.
“See you at home, brother!” the oldest called, waving once they got outside the club, which was still packed with bodies and blasting music. Kawarama waved back, darting ahead of them to wiggle into the tight back seat of Tobirama’s silver car.
The club faded into the distance within moments of Tobirama starting the engine. He wove through the streets at breakneck speed, clearly with a destination in mind, and Madara took up his usual habit of staring out the window, watching the city lights flash by.
Until, that is, he realized they were turning down a familiar street, and he sat up in his seat, frowning. “What are we doing here?” he asked, glancing at Tobirama. The Senju eyed him, and didn’t reply, cruising down the residential street. They pulled up to a stop in front of a very familiar house, and Madara immediately stepped out, eyes drawn to the dark windows.
Tobirama and Kawarama exited the car as well, and then moments later, the silver sports cars engine revved loudly, and it was tearing back the way they came. Raising an eyebrow, Madara turned, and Tobirama shrugged at his questioning stare, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Is he even old enough to drive?” he asked, glancing down at the fading tail lights as Kawarama turned out of sight. Tobirama smirked.
“Yes.”
“Does he have his license?”
“Technically and legally?”
“I’m going to go with no.” Tobirama hummed, nodding at his assumption, and dug out a pair of keys, tossing them to Madara.
“I promised you your car, so. We’re here to get it.”
“Seriously?”
Tobirama looked mildly insulted at his doubtful tone. “Yes, seriously. I keep my word. And your performance tonight was flawless.”
Madara snorted. “I’m sure it was.” He turned back to his house, and his sleek black car sitting quietly in the driveway. Of all his possessions, he loved that car the most. Practical and more conspicuous than many other sports cars, but fast and powerful and sleek. His father had been a little judgemental when he saw it, and Izuna had practically drooled all over the leather interior, but he still loved it.
“Not bad,” Tobirama mused, giving the car a look over. Madara snorted.
“Not bad? I bet she can whoop your little car's ass.”
“Is that a challenge? You want to race one day?”
“Maybe I do.” He toyed with the keys, stepping towards the driver's side door, when a tiny flash of movement, nearly undetectable, caught his eye, and he paused, frowning at the house, and the darkened living room windows. He could have sworn he saw a face there…Tobirama didn’t seem to notice, strolling towards the passenger door. He stopped when he noticed Madara wasn’t keen on moving.
“Are we heading back or what?” he asked, sounding somewhat annoyed. Madara shot him a brief glare, unable to shake the disconcerting feeling that someone was in his house that didn’t belong there. Fidgeting with the keys again, he quickly made his way to the front door.
“What are you doing?” Tobirama demanded, stepping after him and reaching out, as though to grab his arm and stop him. Madara flinched away, grabbing the door handle. It was unlocked.
“Shut up,” Madara snapped back, and Tobirama scowled. “I just need to check something.” Before Tobirama could protest, Madara stepped out of his reach and scurried through the door.
The house was dark and cold, and he didn’t bother turning on the light, making his way down the hall by muscle memory alone. The living room looked empty, so he continued his investigation, stalking silently through the rooms.
When he reached the kitchen, he paused. In the dark, everything kinda looked like it should. But….
He turned just in time to avoid a punch to the face, stepping back and blindly grabbing at his attacker. A sharp elbow caught him just under the sternum, knocking the breath out of him, and he twisted to the side, grabbing the others clothes tightly to drag him along. The other person staggered, and he took advantage of that to hip check them hard, further knocking them off balance. But before he could throw the other person down, they grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking hard. Automatically, he turned in the direction they pulled, and got a knee to the gut for his efforts. At the same moment, the intruder used their grip in his hair to try and ram his face into the edge of the counter.
Madara balked, planting his hands on the edge to brace himself and hooking his leg around their knee, flexing his hip and hyperextending their knee. They grunted in pain, wiggling back and grabbing a glass. Madara surged up, seeing the shadowy outline in their hand, and grabbed their wrist, hyperextending that as well and twisting it brutally. The rocky cracking sound that came with it indicated he managed to break at least a few carpal bones. They yelped, flinching back, and Madara turned, fumbling along the surface on the counter, until his searching hands found the ugly, decorative vase Hikaku had once given him that he didn’t have the heart to throw out. The moment he had a good grip, he twisted around, and smashed the vase over the other person’s head.
“Ow!”
The familiar voice had Madara freezing before he could punch them in the face, and he ran his hand along the wall until he found the light switch and flicked it on.
Izuna stared at him with wide eyes, his scalp bleeding in several places from the glass shards. He was cradling his broken wrist against his chest, sides heaving and breathing hard with exertion from their brief scuffle.
“Izuna, what the fuck?!” he roared, resisting the urge to grab his little brother and shake some sense into him. “What the hell are you doing here?!”
“I thought you were an intruder!” Izuna screeched back.
“Why would I break into my own house?!”
“Cuz you’ve been missing for weeks!”
“I was not! I told you I was out of town!”
“You weren’t answering your phone!”
“I was busy, you imbecile!”
“And I was worried! You never do that! I thought you were dead, or kidnapped, or something! I freaked out, Maddy!”
Madara groaned loudly, starting to run his fingers through his hair before he remembered it was tied back in a tight ponytail. “That doesn’t explain why you’re in my house,” he huffed, carefully stepping over the broken glass and grabbing Izuna’s forearm, tugging it to him so he could examine his wrist.
Izuna sniffed. “Making sure you were alive,” he muttered, wincing in pain when Madara prodded a tender area. “Did you have to break my wrist?”
“Did you have to attack me?” Madara shot back.
“Touche,” Izuna grumbled. A new voice made him jump, and Madara just sighed.
“Are you two done your spat yet?” Sometime during their screaming match, Tobirama had wandered into the kitchen, likely drawn in by the sound of their scuffle, and was presently leaning against the wall, smirking at them. Izuna gaped at him.
“Who the hell are you?!”
“Ignore him,” Madara ordered, nudging Izuna meaningfully until he got the hint and hopped up on the counter. He pointed at Tobirama, scowling. “Make yourself useful. Go find the broom and clean this up,” he barked, indicating to the glass shards all over the floor. Tobirama raised his eyebrows, but didn’t protest, wandering down the hall to do just that.
As he did so, Madara grabbed an ice pack from the freezer, wrapping it around Izuna’s wrist, then carefully extracted loose shards of glass from his hair, taking a look at the cuts on his scalp. All superficial, luckily. Though he might have a headache tomorrow. Izuna sat still as he could as Madara wiped the blood away, then retrieved his personal first aid kit to make a makeshift splint.
“Come to the hospital and get that casted properly tomorrow,” he ordered, cleaning away his supplies when he was done. Tobirama was now sitting at the kitchen table, watching attentively, the glass shards all cleaned up.
Izuna winced. “Yeah, okay,” he muttered. Then his expression changed. “What the heck are you wearing? I mean, you look hot as hell, but this is so not like you.”
“Don’t be creepy,” Madara grumbled, flicking him on the forehead.
“I’m not! You just….anyways. Care to explain where you’ve been? And what you’ve been doing? Hikaku said you resigned from the hospital, but now apparently you’re coming back?”
“That’s his fault,” Madaa sighed, pointing at Tobirama, who waved innocently. “Tobirama, Izuna. Izuna, Tobirama. I was out at his place for a bit. Just helping him out with something.”
Izuna’s frown deepened. “And you quit your job because of it?”
Madara signed again, inwardly cursing. “I anticipated being gone longer than this, so I thought it was best to temporarily resign.”
“Madara, we ought to get going,” Tobirama interrupted, resting his chin in his palm and staring at him. Izuna immediately bristled.
“No, no way! You just got here and now you’re leaving again? What the hell is going on with you, Mads?”
“Izuna, enough. I get you’re worried or whatever, but I can handle myself. And you,” he paused, pointing at Tobirama and scowling. “Shut up and get out, stop butting in!”
Something changed in Tobirama’s expression, and his laid back posture turned aggressive. He stood up, unnaturally quickly, scowling at him, and Madara realized that maybe he shouldn’t use that tone of voice on the Senju gangs leader.
But instead of marching up to him and grabbing him or doing anything else, Tobirama just stepped past his shoulder, then paused, turning around to loop his arms around Madara’s waist from behind and rest his chin on his shoulder.
“I like it when you try to give me orders,” he purred. “It’s so sexy.”
Izuna’s jaw dropped, and he stared at them with wide, shocked eyes. Cheeks heating up, Madara shoved at Tobirama, trying to untangle himself from him with little success.
“You…You… Madara, are you blushing!? You never blush!”
“I am NOT!” Madara screeched, even though he could feel his face growing warmer. His face was probably an embarrassingly bright shade of red. Izuna continued to gawk at them.
“Who exactly are you?” he demanded to Tobirama.
The Senju hummed. “I’m his partner, obviously.”
Madara squawked, trying to wrench himself free, as Izuna stared in disbelief. “Madara, since when were you in the dating scene?” he demanded. “I have so many people I could have hooked you up with! I mean, it looks like you have decent taste I guess, but still! You’ve been taking off so much work just to get laid?”
“IZUNA! Go home!”
Izuna held up his uninjured hand, hopping off the counter. “Okay, okay, calm down, you don’t have to get all huffy in front of your boyfriend.” He inched past them, giving Tobirama’s possessive grip on his waist a thoughtful look. “Don’t be a stranger, okay? I’ll see you soon.”
Normally, Izuna would have given him a clingy hug, but with Tobirama there, he just waved, and scurried out of the house. The moment the door closed shut behind him, Madara turned his head to glare at Tobirama.
Tobirama chuckled softly, brushing his lips against Madara’s neck. “I like him. He’s amusing. We should introduce him and Kawarama.”
“Don’t you dare involve him,” Madara hissed, clenching his fists. “Don’t, or I swear, Senju, I will make your life as much a living hell as I can.”
“I won’t hurt him,” Tobirama promised. “Nor will any of my men. We won’t even look at him.” His reassurance did nothing to settle him, and he squirmed his way free of Tobirama’s hold. The Senju let him, his red eyed gaze intense as he watched Madara step back into the hall, and he frowned. “Why do you not trust anything I say?”
“Because your word counts for nothing,” Madara spat. “You promised when you first brought me to your home that you wouldn’t touch me, not without consent, and you broke that promise only days later.”
“That was an accident.”
“Was it?” Madara countered. “Because it seemed pretty purposeful to me.”
Tobirama didn’t reply, just continued to stare at him. “You know,” he said finally, his voice low and gravelly. “As complicated as you claim me to be, you’re just as hard to figure out.” He stepped forward, and Madara stiffened. But luckily, Tobirama just slid past him, heading towards the door. “Let’s go. It’s been a long night, and you have to work early.”
For a moment, Madara didn’t move. He could lock the Senju out, or jump in his car and drive off, leaving him behind.
Instead, he sighed (he seemed to be doing that a lot tonight), and silently followed the Senju out the door. They had a deal to maintain, afterall.