[ Good Puppy, good. Enri moves against him, and Darius’s smile turns to pleased and devilish indulgence. Because Puppy deserves his pleasure. Because Puppy has been so well-behaved. Because it’s gratifying to feel this man react with such relish. And because Darius likes to make his Enri happy. To give this man cause for joy, for pleasure, for howling and for speechless euphoria.
He doesn’t know what to make of Enri’s seeming-hesitation. Of the space of thought between his vice and Enri, where Enri watches contemplative (he thinking of something, turn it over in his head) (what is it you see, Puppy?) (come back to Daddy, love), and then—
They seem strange question to ask right now. Still. Darius doesn’t doubt that Puppy has a plan here; Darius can see it, hear it. Can’t trace its form, but he trusts Enri, and haven’t Enri’s schemes always landed well before? And isn’t Enri’s voice inviting; assuring? Whatever the boy has in mind, Darius intends to follow it through. Eyes on Enri; eyes glancing to Enri’s knife; eyes on Enri again, again.
Smiling and canting his head— ]
Paris; Montmartre. A brick wall at my back.
A fucking trench knife in the hands of a colleague.
Kieran Hawk.
[ He lets the syllables fall with staccato sharpness, watching Enri’s reaction, inviting Enri to despise the bastard.
The wound had happened early in Darius’s first stay in Paris; he’d been there a week and a half, maybe two. And a handful of colleagues from the embassy announced that they’d be going out for post-work drinks.
It turned out to be a dull fucking affair; a dull lot of assholes. All of them older than Darius; most of them pissed about his presence, the position he’d worked and talked (and more-than-talked) his way into. Darius had gone for those drinks in an attempt at playing cordial and building relations, knowing most people have some kind of use, knowing it’d do no good to make enemies of everyone around the embassy.
So Darius had taken it slow on the drinking. (So Darius had slipped off to do a line, keep sharp.) So Darius had asked questions, played to colleagues’ interest. And a few of the shitheads had started to ease off of the antagonism.
Hawk, though. Kieran fucking Hawk only stewed and muttered to what must’ve passed for his allies. And stared. And kept staring. ]
Bastard didn’t like the way I looked at him. He caught me against a wall—
[ Darius cocks his head, recalling the sudden hand at his collar, a jarring wrench at his shoulder. Hawk and a couple of his allies watching. Tip of a knife just below Darius’s throat. Hawk droning about breaking Darius, about drop the mask, are you fucking human, I’ll teach you a fucking lesson.
And Darius had smiled, a half-cocked smirk. And his expression had offered exasperated amusement only. ]
I told him to do it. Watched as he cut me.
The supercilious fuck.
[ The little shit hadn’t deserved to cut Darius or draw his blood, and Darius’s tone - derisive, rung with irritation - suggests as much. Still, it’d been worthwhile to watch Hawk’s resolve falter, then drain. Watched the knife start to fall, then shift into a battering ram as Hawk moved to swing the knuckle guard into Darius’s skull. Darius had torn away, kneeing the fucker in the stomach. Wrenched the knife from Hawk’s hand and delivered a sharp blow to the fucker’s head, pushed past Hawk’s cronies - had they ever been in a fucking fight before? they’d looked lost, like it wasn’t meant to get this far - and headed for more promising climes, blood seething from his wound.
The knife’d gone into an ally. Let someone else find it and do what they will; Darius hadn’t cared in the least, and kept his own knives more discrete. ]
In the end, I cracked him on the head with his knife. And spent the night trailing blood through Paris.
no subject
He doesn’t know what to make of Enri’s seeming-hesitation. Of the space of thought between his vice and Enri, where Enri watches contemplative (he thinking of something, turn it over in his head) (what is it you see, Puppy?) (come back to Daddy, love), and then—
They seem strange question to ask right now. Still. Darius doesn’t doubt that Puppy has a plan here; Darius can see it, hear it. Can’t trace its form, but he trusts Enri, and haven’t Enri’s schemes always landed well before? And isn’t Enri’s voice inviting; assuring? Whatever the boy has in mind, Darius intends to follow it through. Eyes on Enri; eyes glancing to Enri’s knife; eyes on Enri again, again.
Smiling and canting his head— ]
Paris; Montmartre. A brick wall at my back.
A fucking trench knife in the hands of a colleague.
Kieran Hawk.
[ He lets the syllables fall with staccato sharpness, watching Enri’s reaction, inviting Enri to despise the bastard.
The wound had happened early in Darius’s first stay in Paris; he’d been there a week and a half, maybe two. And a handful of colleagues from the embassy announced that they’d be going out for post-work drinks.
It turned out to be a dull fucking affair; a dull lot of assholes. All of them older than Darius; most of them pissed about his presence, the position he’d worked and talked (and more-than-talked) his way into. Darius had gone for those drinks in an attempt at playing cordial and building relations, knowing most people have some kind of use, knowing it’d do no good to make enemies of everyone around the embassy.
So Darius had taken it slow on the drinking. (So Darius had slipped off to do a line, keep sharp.) So Darius had asked questions, played to colleagues’ interest. And a few of the shitheads had started to ease off of the antagonism.
Hawk, though. Kieran fucking Hawk only stewed and muttered to what must’ve passed for his allies. And stared. And kept staring. ]
Bastard didn’t like the way I looked at him. He caught me against a wall—
[ Darius cocks his head, recalling the sudden hand at his collar, a jarring wrench at his shoulder. Hawk and a couple of his allies watching. Tip of a knife just below Darius’s throat. Hawk droning about breaking Darius, about drop the mask, are you fucking human, I’ll teach you a fucking lesson.
And Darius had smiled, a half-cocked smirk. And his expression had offered exasperated amusement only. ]
I told him to do it. Watched as he cut me.
The supercilious fuck.
[ The little shit hadn’t deserved to cut Darius or draw his blood, and Darius’s tone - derisive, rung with irritation - suggests as much. Still, it’d been worthwhile to watch Hawk’s resolve falter, then drain. Watched the knife start to fall, then shift into a battering ram as Hawk moved to swing the knuckle guard into Darius’s skull. Darius had torn away, kneeing the fucker in the stomach. Wrenched the knife from Hawk’s hand and delivered a sharp blow to the fucker’s head, pushed past Hawk’s cronies - had they ever been in a fucking fight before? they’d looked lost, like it wasn’t meant to get this far - and headed for more promising climes, blood seething from his wound.
The knife’d gone into an ally. Let someone else find it and do what they will; Darius hadn’t cared in the least, and kept his own knives more discrete. ]
In the end, I cracked him on the head with his knife. And spent the night trailing blood through Paris.