It's too fucking much. Turning toward abject chaos, and Enri's struggling, Enri's fighting, that scum-snake of a shit is rushing the door, shouting, Enri's shouting, Morgan's head is pounding and the air feels red, singes crackled pulsation and Morgan has to work to keep from clutching his head, to keep his hands on the boy without inflicting too much pressure, to keep his teeth ground so that while he's growling, almost hissing, he doesn't snarl anything regrettable, save once to shout over his shoulder—
"Out, Scarlett."
While he wrangles with Enri. (His son. Their son. Why is the boy fighting so fucking hard? Does he fucking want to be here, and what the fuck, what the fuck, and Morgan remembers again, this could be the fucking wastrel's fault, this is all too much like witnessing a repetition, and again Morgan reminds himself to loosen his grip, and again the pressure at his skull increases, again he feels further strangled, feels closer and closer to cutting from himself.
He doesn't know what to do here. This can't be solved with force. (Because it's Enri.) This can't be solved with reason. (Because Morgan's in a rage.) (Because Enri's in a rage, as well.) Because the room is raucous and the door is slamming, again, again, with the force of Scarlett's foot and fist and what the fuck does the thrice-fucked weasel think he's going to fucking manage, Morgan'll rip him in half, Morgan would like to rip him in half, only, only—
He wraps an arm further around Enri and wrenches, adjusts, trying to contain the boy's struggle (Enri's strong) (fucking of course he is; he's should be) (Morgan could appreciate the fact, if everything weren't so fucking far beyond comprehension). Huffs a harsh exhale and tries, tries to focus on... the scene, on (his son) Enri, on not-Scarlett, on not the sounds, on what needs to be done, which is getting the boy out, if only the boy would fucking move, if only the boy'd stop struggling, and Morgan's going to have to escalate, Morgan's going to escalate whether he wishes to or not, when—
Lydia?
(Why. Those words.)
(What is she saying.)
Lydia. Whatever she's said, it's made an impact; the boy's gone loose, and though Morgan shoots a puzzled, frustrated, half-irate glance her way, he tightens his grip on the boy and nudges toward the door. Takes a step, and wills the boys to move (hears another pounding at the door behind them; tries not to notice), and feels Lydia's presence, and knows that for all of his confusion, she will - as she does, as she always does - keep the situation from running to destruction.
no subject
"Out, Scarlett."
While he wrangles with Enri. (His son. Their son. Why is the boy fighting so fucking hard? Does he fucking want to be here, and what the fuck, what the fuck, and Morgan remembers again, this could be the fucking wastrel's fault, this is all too much like witnessing a repetition, and again Morgan reminds himself to loosen his grip, and again the pressure at his skull increases, again he feels further strangled, feels closer and closer to cutting from himself.
He doesn't know what to do here. This can't be solved with force. (Because it's Enri.) This can't be solved with reason. (Because Morgan's in a rage.) (Because Enri's in a rage, as well.) Because the room is raucous and the door is slamming, again, again, with the force of Scarlett's foot and fist and what the fuck does the thrice-fucked weasel think he's going to fucking manage, Morgan'll rip him in half, Morgan would like to rip him in half, only, only—
He wraps an arm further around Enri and wrenches, adjusts, trying to contain the boy's struggle (Enri's strong) (fucking of course he is; he's should be) (Morgan could appreciate the fact, if everything weren't so fucking far beyond comprehension). Huffs a harsh exhale and tries, tries to focus on... the scene, on (his son) Enri, on not-Scarlett, on not the sounds, on what needs to be done, which is getting the boy out, if only the boy would fucking move, if only the boy'd stop struggling, and Morgan's going to have to escalate, Morgan's going to escalate whether he wishes to or not, when—
Lydia?
(Why. Those words.)
(What is she saying.)
Lydia. Whatever she's said, it's made an impact; the boy's gone loose, and though Morgan shoots a puzzled, frustrated, half-irate glance her way, he tightens his grip on the boy and nudges toward the door. Takes a step, and wills the boys to move (hears another pounding at the door behind them; tries not to notice), and feels Lydia's presence, and knows that for all of his confusion, she will - as she does, as she always does - keep the situation from running to destruction.