The Godbot

Plenoptic

Believe it or not, my finger is wrapped up again, this time for a completely different reason.

Everyone—a very Happy New Year. Thanks for making 2010 such a wonderful time to be a FFN writer, and let's continue to make the world of nerd literature bow at our awesome metallic feet.

New York City, USA

Dec 31, 1944

11:35 p.m.

"Damn it! Icilio—drive faster!"

"Shut up, Raffele! You try driving this God-damned contraption with five damn Sicilians breathing down the back of your neck!"

"Better than four damn Yankees, eh?"

"Leo, hush, let him drive."

"Icilio, you are currently in violation of this area's speed restriction laws. Please slow down."

"Paciano, pull that stick out of your ass!"

"Rodrigo! Don't speak that way! I taught you better!"

Icilio growled to himself, thick knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. The New York City traffic was hopelessly congested, hundreds of Italians pouring into Little Italy to see loved ones, and though the Don's private car was imposing, it certainly wasn't small enough to navigate the heavy traffic. The black vehicle was crowded, with Icilio and Raffele bickering in the back seat and Rodrigo, Paciano, and Primo stuffed in the back and trying to keep comfortable. Originally it had just been the four underlings who had decided to go into town together, grab a drink, some New Year's gifts, and hell, maybe some girls, but their plans had turned sour when Primo happily jumped into the car after them.

None of them complained (with the exception of Rodrigo, whom Primo pointedly ignored) as the Don dragged them all over the downtown shops, poking his nose into every one and speaking with the vendors in light, cheerful Italian, dark eyes aglow as he wished friends and associates the best for the coming year. It appeared that diplomacy was not his only intent, however—he'd stopped into every jeweler regardless of whether he knew the shopkeep. At every one he'd spent several minutes with his nose inches off the glass, eyes narrowed in perfect concentration, before straightening, shaking his head, and moving on down the road.

"I am looking for a very particular piece," he would explain kindly to the disappointed jeweler, smiling lightly. "Though yours are very beautiful, the one I have in mind must be fit for a queen."

"Mother will love anything you give her," Rodrigo had said tentatively after the fifth jeweler had been turned down, anxiously checking his watch. It was, at that point, ten o' clock, but Primo had only shaken his head solemnly and continued his hunt.

Smiling, oddly contented by Raffele and Icilio's increasingly violent argument, Primo lovingly fingered the small velvet box that held his prize, the spoils of his long search. He felt foolish for not giving her the gift for Christmas; he felt even more foolish for waiting until New Year's Eve to even find the thing. But his beloved would be ecstatic, and that was all that mattered.

"It's eleven fifty! Eleven fifty, Icilio! Move, or we'll be late!"

"Fool! Shut up and let a man drive!"

"Icilio, please, do hurry," Primo requested, tapping his driver on the shoulder. "I don't want to miss the twelfth hour, you know. New Year's is important to Lita."

"Yes, sir," Icilio said, grining manically, and abruptly slammed his foot flat to the floor of the car, pressing one fist onto the horn. The automobile lurched violently, the engine groaning, before it began to accelerate, the horn blaring as Icilio began to weave hazardously in and out of the late traffic, rolling down his window to roar angrily at slow patrons.

"Holy God, we're going to die," Paciano whispered, pale as a ghost, while Rodrigo rolled down his own window and whooped loudly. Primo rolled his window down as well, resting his head against the door and enjoying the wind whipping through his hair as Icilio tore off into the New York night.

They arrived at the Palace at eleven fifty-seven, tearing through the gates with a shouted apology to the guard from Paciano, shooting up the long driveway and all piling out of the car before Icilio had even applied the brake properly. Primo ducked out ahead of Paciano, straightening his tie as he sprinted through the double oak doors and into the main house.

"Looking for someone?" Cristaldo Atoboti questioned, seated comfortably in the parlor with a pipe in hand, arching one overgrown eyebrow when his grandson came through the doors.

"Lita," Primo replied breathlessly, hanging onto the doorframe and peering into the room. "Before midnight…" He looked up at the tall grandfather clock in the corner and groaned. Eleven fifty-eight and thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two…

"Go, boy, go," Cristaldo laughed, waving merrily as the young Don took off down the hall. Shaking his head, he straightened his newspaper and took a long draw from his pipe. "Young and in love…those traumatic days…"

Primo found himself panting and gasping as he finally made it to the top of his house, leaning on the banister for support as he sucked in air through heaving lungs. Shaking his hair out of his face, he steeled himself before taking off once more, all but kicking down the fine oak door that guarded his and Lita's private room from the rest of the hallway. He ran inside, pivoted on his heel, beyond excitement—and found she wasn't there.

Dismayed, he looked at the clock, and felt his stomach plummet when the large hand finally fell upon the twelve, beginning its song for the new year. The first dong rang so deeply he felt it rattle his bones, and he swung around to head back into the house—and came face to face with a bewildered Lita Atoboti.

"Primo…?" she said, stunned, gripping his lapels to stabilize herself when he nearly knocked her over in his haste. "What are you doing…?"

"Lita!" he gasped, taking hold of her upper arms and pulling her close. "Sorry—so sorry—Happy New Year—"

"To you too," she laughed, bemused. "It will be just as wonderful as the last, yes?"

"Better," he murmured, cupping her chin in one large hand and tilting her face up to meet his. His lips brushed her forehead before closing gently over hers. She sighed softly into his kiss, lifting her hands to gently twine her fingers through his dark hair, caressing the nape of his neck as her touch traveled to his collar, teasing his tie down. She'd just gotten his top button undone as the clock struck seven, and abruptly he pulled away from her, grinning widely.

"Just a moment," he laughed when she pouted, patting her cheek as he dug in his pocket with his free hand. "I bought you something…just one…now, where did I…?"

Pulling his hand out empty, Primo frowned, grimacing when the clock tolled nine. Realization hit him, and he groaned, clapping a hand to this forehead.

"Primo…?"

"The car," he sighed, shaking his head, covering his eyes. "I left it in the car…I was in such a rush to get it to you that I forgot about it completely…"

Much to his surprise, Lita laughed, gripping his wrist gently and pulling his hand from his face.

"Foolish man," she giggled, leaning close to him and tucking her head under the curve of his chin. "You buy me gold and jewels and cars and clothes, and all I've ever wanted is you."

"Oh," he replied breahtlessly, flustered, closing his eyes when her lips pursed beneath his jaw. "Well then…you shall have me, my dear, for as long as you'd like…"

"That's what I like to hear," she whispered cheekily, leaving a loving bite against his throat before abruptly withdrawing from his embrace. "Let me change," she laughed, indicating her clothes—long pants smudged with mud from their garden. She headed into their washroom, and Primo whipped off his tie, undoing the first two buttons of his shirt before undoing the third as an afterthought. He hurried to her vanity, brushing his hair from his eyes, shaking it back, pushing it away once more before frowning and mussing a hand through it.

"Pssst. Pssst. Pop!"

Primo whipped around, cocking his head to the side in confusion when he saw his door ajar. Creeping forward, he pulled it open an inch or two more, blinking when Benny stuck his head in, grinning.

"Roddy told me to bring this to you," the boy whispered, extending to his father a small, red velvet box. "He said you need it tonight."

"Bless you, Benny," Primo chuckled, kissing his boy on the forehead before taking the box and shooing him away. He closed the door, straightened, and turned, the box behind his back, just as Lita reentered, clothed in her silk bathrobe.

"What are you looking so smug about?" she questioned, arching one eyebrow when he approached her with a swagger.

"Nothing in particular," he replied airily, stepping behind her, and unclasped the box to withdraw the treasure within. Lita stiffened when his blunt fingers brushed her hair away from her neck, and shivered when something cold contacted her skin.

"For you, dearest," he murmured, lips tickling her ear, and she looked down at her chest, fingers gently touching the pendant resting against her collar. Primo's gift was a tiny silver replica of the state of New York, the edges finely detailed, the rivers chiseled on its surface. The piece was delicately set with a single emerald, planted in the exact location of the Palace.

"I found the pendant itself tonight, and had the jeweler inset the emerald," Primo explained bashfully, clasping his arms around her waist and pulling her into him. "Do you like it?"

"Foolish man," she repeated, lifting it up to the light, marveling at the detail. She turned in his arms, slipping her own around his neck and pulling him in close. She avoided his parted lips and pressed a light kiss to his nose, smiling at the flush of heat that rose in his face. "Of course I like it, darling—love it, really. It's thoughtful." Leaning back in his arms, she beamed up at him, running her fingers down the strong curve of his jaw. "Thank you."

"But of course," he fairly purred, spreading his hand at the small of her back and pulling her back in, free hand lifting to cup her cheek and bring her lips to his once more. "Let it guide you home on lonely evenings this year…"

"You should have been a poet," she remarked dryly, and with a smirk he swept her up into his arms and carried her to their bed. Lowering her onto the satin sheets, their lips met gently, and they spoke no more.

Yay for fluff :D

Happy New Year!