"Got it," he said, waving the case by the small, metal handle. He looked towards Vicente in triumph, the man returning his smile with a softer, more amused one.
                          
"Then we're done here, yes," Vicente asked, moving to stand. He dusted his jeans off and moved to stand, holding the lantern closer to Ivan. "We just need to get our money now, right?"
                          
"Yep." Ivan looked over the tin case, not really caring what was inside. A job was a job, and this was going to pay more than whatever asinine items were located inside.
                          
"So," Vicente said, voice full of hope.
                          
"So what," Ivan asked, his own voice filling with dread.
                          
"My parents," Vicente said, laughter chasing the tail ends of his words, "What do you say? Don't you think it's time?"
                          
            Deep brown eyes flicked towards the casket. He swallowed thickly, trying to stomach the idea of meeting Vicente's parents. He was such a different person than himself, and he was unsure if his parents would accept the idea of him. No, not the idea- the concept. Ivan had to be the least expected man to end up with the hard-working server from the Pier. What would they have to say about the Ex-CIA agent gone rogue assassin? His brows furrowed as he tried to work through his muddled thoughts, hand gripping the tin case tightly. A soft hand on his shoulder roused him from his thought process.
                          
"Ivan?"
                          
He turned to look at Vicente, eyes lingering on the soft expression on his face. The way his lips twisted up into the faintest smile, full of support and reassurance. He groaned, turning to look back at the casket. He promptly pushed up the lid and stuck his left boot inside, crouching as if to climb in and join the corpse in eternal rest. Vicente laughed and grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling him back. Ivan sighed and flopped into the taller man's arms, looking up at him begrudgingly.
                          
            "You are like a pouting child," Vicente observed, though his voice held affection in it. Ivan rolled his eyes and grumbled under his breath, trying his best to appear stubborn, but the fight was already over, and he had lost. "A child that reeks."
                          
"When," Ivan asked in defeat, scarred lips tugged down into a frown. He saw the triumphant glint in Vicente's eyes.
                          
"This weekend. My parents are throwing a party and I want you to come."
                          
"Vicente-."
                          
"Please, Ivan?"
                          
"I have a job this weekend," Ivan argued. Perhaps the fight wasn't lost entirely.
                          
            "Yes, I know," Vicente replied with a sly smirk, "In Anaheim, right?"
                          
"Don't tell me."
                          
"What a coincidence."
                          
"You better be fucking joking," Ivan said in a clipped tone, pushing himself away from Vicente's towering figure. A strong arm caught him mid turn and Vicente laughed, pulling him just close enough to remind Ivan that he was not only short, but he knew the advantages to it. He stared at the shit eating grin plastered across Vicente's face, amusement crackling in his hazel eyes, and scowled in return.
                          
"My parents live in Anaheim."
                          
* * * * *
                          
            Ivan Moretti was a man who hardly worried. With the cards he'd been dealt in life, he'd learned to adapt and roll with the punches. As the weekend arrived, however, Ivan found himself feeling more and more concern for their upcoming trip. He was staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror of their San Francisco home, eyes squinted still from the early 4AM rise. His hair was pushed forward, the now flattened mohawk pressing down against his skull, tips brushing over the segment of brow over his left eye. The fog that clouded over the left eye made for a hideous sight. The scars that stretched across his tan skin, reaching to the ridge of his nose, another trailing down to the corner of his mouth- how was he supposed to hide all of it? Ivan gripped the edge of the sink in frustration, glaring at his own reflection.