lord treavor pendleton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
loyalless) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kingdomsofrain2019-05-24 05:05 pm
loyalless) wrote in kingdomsofrain2019-05-24 05:05 pmOPEN RP POST
send a prompt, a starter, images, words, music, whatever you like.
loyalless) wrote in kingdomsofrain2019-05-24 05:05 pm
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.
no subject
Whatever might have spawned from his fury - words he couldn't unspeak, or a rain of blows, or an action he couldn't undo - vanished in an instant, an unchanced potential. She called him.
Oh. Oh fuck, she called him.
She.
Lydia. Called him.
She knows.
(His mother knows he's been screwing around.
With a man.
A man who is twice his age.
Worse: she knows what kind of screwing around. (Did she read his texts.) (Did she read his fucking texts did she see the pictures he sent oh fuck oh fuck -)
Worst: it's Darius Scarlett.)
Enri recoils, though this time it's into himself. His eyes go distant and fix sightlessly on the broken door (nearer and nearer, he's being managed, he's being taken); his shoulders round and his hand drifts to the back of his neck.
(Daddy-)
(No. Not while she's here. He can't. Think about Darius.)
A detached and panicked thought: please, don't let her see a used condom.
((She has no right, either.)) (She's his fucking mother, though.) (He doesn't want her seeing this.) (Knowing about his sex life, holy shit.)
He's shaking, washed through with near-panic, with unquiet rage and humiliation, but he has the presence of mind to snatch up his shirt from the ground as he passes it. To drag it on over his head and cover the bites.
(This is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong.) (Darius is outside the other door and he doesn't know.) ((Daddy said 'stay' and he's not staying, he's being a -)
(Bad Puppy.))
With each step away from Darius, his stomach roils with guilt. He chokes on something that could become a howl, or a sob, or bile. He dares a look back at the door, ransacked through with misery (need) (Darius please) and despair and shame.
He doesn't want this.
He doesn't want to leave.
He doesn't want her to know, either.
Darius is his 'Daddy' - but Lydia is his mother.
Lydia, meanwhile, stands with arms loosely folded, a mild expression writ across her face speaking of perhaps-curiosity, perhaps-analysis (or perhaps hiding what notions flit through her head about this situation.)
This boy. (Her boy.) (Morgan's.) (Darius's, now, too.)
They've landed into chaos, Custis infuriated and snarling apocalypse, Morgan catching the pack-scent of vicious frenzy, and Darius - stubborn, narcissistic (is he?), manipulative creature - reacting.
Enri caught amid decades old grudges and flung into a tantrum for what? (Perhaps not even Enri fully comprehends what's happening between him and the other man. It's quite a lot, and Enri has been sheltered.) (How unsurprising though. To find he has proclivities like his mother, his father - look at those bites. Incisive. No doubt excruciating.
(Commendable.)
And Enri wears them unflinching, save for her invasive stare.)
She continues to hold him in her regard as he passes, steered out into the hall, and she flickers a look to her husband. An arched brow, a slight movement of her head (back to our room, because what else is there but to silence complaints from the hotel guests?)
Well. There is one thing. Lydia waiting until Morgan is out of the room before she crosses it. Her thin fingers throwing the lock on the door leading outside, and that same hand controlled, swinging open the door itself.
Her head canted at a precise angle. Her eyes fixed on Darius. A low-hummed, tuneless stretch of seconds, stared down like the barrel of a gun (what in fuck's name do you think you are doing to (my son) that boy), before she turns to go, her stroll casual, unhurried. She's of no concern to him.
(He's of no concern to her.)
no subject
Morgan scarcely entertains a thought. (Better not to risk jarring up against a fracture.) (Better not to risk tripping himself deeper into ire.)
(What the fuck. What the fuck has been going on.
How the fuck is this where they are. From hunting to this. From rarefied air and the aftersounds of prey to this obscenity of hackneyed drama.
And their son at its center.
Their son who was ready to fight Morgan. Their son who hurled himself at the door for a fucking Scarlett. It's as if Enri's looking for destruction.
It's the boy's right to struggle. (The boy's right to chase ruin if he wants, but fuck that, that won't be withstood, not here, not with that shitweasel of a man.) Better than to submit, limp.
...The boy isn't struggling now. (Lydia. It was Lydia's influence. And that word.))
Just now, it is the boy's place to be led quickly down the hall, Morgan noting figures around, not favoring any with a direct glance. Morgan attuned toward any signs of struggle from Enri or trouble from without.
No one stops them. Or, if someone tries - if that was an attendant attempting to flag Morgan down; if that was a guest pointing tentative in their direction - Morgan doesn't care. Morgan's focus is singular and fixed, and he doesn't stop moving, doesn't begin to loose his grip from the boy until he's made it several strides into their suite.
The door slammed shut behind him, or he slammed it. He realizes, curls his lip, and reaches back to jar the door open slightly. (Lydia will be close behind. Lydia must find the door open. Morgan won't shut her out, or have her find her path impeded.) All without moving his eyes from Enri. All without releasing the storm in his stance.
For a space of static-tingled breathing, Morgan doesn't speak.
For a time, Morgan lets his seething silence fill the room.
Then, a command, his voice imposing: "You're going to find another indulgence."
Meaning not this titillation. Not this man. Meaning there will be no mor of this obscenity.
no subject
(He doesn't like this thought. Better to keep the concrete clear.)
The slam of the door startles him, jerks him back to coherence, and he stares at Morgan across a divide that has more to do with minds and storms and broken things than with physical distance.
The silence is reprehensible. The silence is quailing, and aggravating, and unnecessary. (Morgan is trying to scare him, he thinks.) (It's not not working.)
At the end of the silence, broken by words that don't immediately sink in, Lydia appears through the unslammed door; Enri watches her past Morgan's shoulder, how delicately she closes it. A soft and uncomfortable click. He tracks her as she moves away from it, this familiar pattern of hers. She roams new rooms. Circles, agitated by newness or seeking something deadly. Taking note. She is paying attention to him, and to Morgan, and to all the objects situated around them, and to the sounds outside, and to-
Wait.
Wait, what.
He jerks his head back to Morgan. You're going to - What.
Enri's frown settles firm, and his brows drawn together challengingly. They dragged him off before. But no one set down an order like this, no one told him point-blank, as though he has no choice in the end. Everyone who spoke before knew he couldn't be forced.
He won't be. He promised Darius. He promised a week, and all his heart and soul, and (Daddy claimed him on the pulpit in that chapel, oh, dizzying, to think about it, the grey fog in his head ebbing and flowing until he blushes red and closes his eyes to drive the image back.) He belongs to Darius.
He wants to belong to Darius.
Indulgence. Like Darius is a drink, or a jacket, and he can just as easily find a new one.
Morgan doesn't understand.
(He can’t take your Daddy away.
And he can’t keep you from me. Not now, and not ever.
Darius.)
No one understands.
(As if anything could keep my Puppy from me, hm?
What do they know of you, my Enri?
What do they know of your needs?
Nobody knows you like your god, my lovely boy.
Darius again.)
Staring without truly seeing, he makes a noise: a whine, short and soft. Enri, feeling excruciated, feeling something ripping inside him. Darius. He needs Darius. (Morgan can stop him from getting back to Darius.) He needs Darius.
(They know nothing.
Intermeddlers and fools. Presuming to know you; presuming to comprehend what my Puppy needs, or holds readiness for.
Darius again.)
He needs Darius.
(My adoration.
Oh, Darius.
Enri is his - everything. His world. And Darius is Enri's god, his devil, his Daddy, and his love.)
Another movement, slow and minor: his head shifting in silent refusal. His eyes slip past Morgan to the door. (Will Darius come for him.) (Can he play pliable again and slip out tonight.) (He wants to go back to his god.)
"No. I want him." His gaze flickers back to Morgan, and then (remembering, he remembers Lydia's here) he pales. But there's tension in his own form, and - they can't stop him. No matter how humiliating this is. "I don't want another 'indulgence'. He's mine."
Meaning like you weren't. Meaning like no one has ever been. Meaning unshared and unspoiled and utterly.
Meaning - something else, deeper and darker, speaking of bloodied bites and moonlit chapels. A pact. A vow. A forever, bound up in a week.
no subject
As he recognized potentials of meaning in the bruises and bites.
(The boy has been inflicted on.) (Enri may not have found it unwelcome.) (Enri is young.) (Scarlett is a fucking liability.) (And.)
This is what Scarlett does. Tames them. Trains them. Severs them loose and strangling.
Lets them think he's theirs. (Maybe. Does that connect? Morgan lacks the details toward solution.) Plays on inexperience and bare desire.
The boy doesn't know what he's doing.
And.
It isn't his fault. Maybe.
That is the point for focus. Never mind the further meanings Enri's 'he's mine' - precisely speaking, the 'mine' - bears. (Never mind the implied 'not mine's suggested.) (Never mind the edge of it that clenches Morgan's insides. That would grit his teeth, if his jaw wasn't already fixed.) Never mind that 'no.' The boy can speak refusal if he likes; he's here now. Away from that shitweasel now.
Looking at the door now. Thinking of bolting, most likely. Morgan will grab the boy if he must.
Morgan's fingers flex. His thumb shifts along his forefinger, slow. He stands fixed. And Morgan listens for Lydia, tunes his senses toward her. Tenses slightly, shifts his presence slightly, to indicate discomfort and his intention to try keeping steady. To try keeping the boy here without losing presence of mind again.
And Morgan speaks, voice now pitched at an accustomed tone and volume. There's little confrontation in his voice; little more than an expression of fact. "No.
"Scarlett isn't." Isn't Enri's. Isn't what the boy seems to believe. Isn't worthy of Enri's time or health or thought.
"It ends badly."
no subject
(It is fascinating. To see the change worked over their son.)
(What is not fascinating. What is upsetting: to hear their son speak so to Morgan. To witness Morgan's agitation. To see him shift uncertain, because this is not something that can be bitten out of Enri.) (It has, she thinks dryly, been bitten in to Enri.) (She doesn't like it. She doesn't like seeing Morgan on precarious ground.)
Enri behaves like a changeling child. This is not unusual for him, save that his behavior occurs at the wrong time. He was, in memory, always loving. Always eager to please, near-desperate to please (they knew, or she knew and so Morgan must have known, that this was owed to some childish belief that they would take him away from his exile and bring their little princeling home.) (How it...)
(How it broke her. Many times over. To leave her sons.)
(To deny her sons anything they asked. And to deny them in speech.)
Regardless of tangential reasoning, whereas Felix retained an almost neutral distance with his parents, Enri adores Morgan. It was only when the pair of them would leave him that he threw his tantrums like so.
This is a tantrum.
This isn't defiance. This is a dog over a favored bone. This is a Puppy, snapping to keep at his game with Darius Scarlett. (There, an intuition roused and utilized in the other room: that Enri has found thrill in submission. (And why not. He was always so eager to please.) Enri has found delight in harm received - and inflicted. She saw the bruises on Scarlett's throat. (And why not. Like father, like son.) The boy (her son) has learned better than a brace of boys before him, and wrested a sort of control over Darius. (Think how Darius flung himself at the door. Think how his shouts sounded, far from collected. Think how he looked when she observed him.) Darius might well be exactly what Enri claims.
More importantly. Worth the consideration of now, and this moment:
Enri is, it seems, deeply embroiled in a - for lack of any better word - scene. For all intents and purposes, Enri might as well not be here. 'Puppy' is here. Liken it, she thinks, to how they are not Morgan and Lydia in the woods. How the return to Morgan and Lydia and a world of steel and glass necessitates mutual regard, mutual comprehension. The mundane word for something complicated, intimate, and often disregarded: aftercare.
What would happen, she wonders, if someone were to sever her from Morgan before she was ready? Before Morgan was ready? Who would she wound, and how would he rage?
They erred in yanking him away. (He'll likely begin to cry in a moment.) (Someone will need to speak with Darius if this is to continue.)
(Will this. Continue.)
(Will it end badly?)
It won't do to speak discordant with Morgan. She waits, watching her son seethe, tearing himself to pieces between shouting outrage at his father, cringing his shame before his mother, and his eyes ever and ever flickering to the door. Darius, Darius, Darius, the ghost and elephant and obsession in the room.
Well.
Her expression revealing nothing (save for a brief connection of gaze with her husband), she speaks. She emulates, as best she can, the speech patterns of Darius Scarlett - though it's been years. And she hasn't the faintest idea whether his tone alters, for his boys.
But she suspects amusement. She suspects pitch, and tone, and perhaps, for Enri, indulgence. "Go lie down, Puppy. Rest on the bed."
(Were she someone other, this would feel sickening. This emulation. This necessity of performance.) (It doesn't feel good, to be certain.)
Enri stares back at her, caught in horror and caught in confusion and simply caught. She raises one brow, unmoved. "Now."
And he goes. Of course he goes. No fight, no argument. No complaint. (The minute he's on that bed, and away from a brawl, away from the door, she knows this will crash on him. A rise from the fog that takes one, and into reality. He'll weep with shame.)
It's only then that she allows herself to share unspoken words with her husband: a press of her mouth, a shift of eyes, an abbreviated shake of her head. Oh, he's in deep. And. He's not here with us. And. Patience.
no subject
The other two this time. The other fucking twin, and Lydia in-tow.
Lydia who pulled open the door and stared at him. As if scrutinizing. As if she had any right. As if she drew some fucking significance from whatever she saw at his throat.
Bruises. The same bruises the absolute fucks from security goggled over and thrust pointed questions about. Darius had been three steps from the door, about to charge after Lydia and the bastard before her when hotel security flocked in with shouts and questions aplenty. Prying, 'Are you in danger' and 'Are you all right' and fucking no of course Darius wasn't not fucking all right but that had nothing to do with his goddamn throat and everything to do with the busted door and crowd of guards and, yes, with the absent Puppy Darius knows better than to mention.
With Enri who fucking needs him, who was told to stay and who shouted for him and who Darius didn't get a single solid glimpse of. With Enri who was supposed to be on Darius's bed right now, safe and fucking sound, only the door's been broken in and now Darius is stuck dealing with this absolute fucking mess, telling the troop of assholes that he'll pay for the damage, never fucking mind why or how it happened and never fucking mind the bruises, just fix the damned door and let him get on with his fucking day.
It takes longer than he'd like to shake away.
It doesn't, in the grand scheme of things, take particularly long at all. Cash works wonders, as does a bit of purposeful rage, to tie things up and set a plan in motion: Darius is going to pay double for repairs, the door will be fixed within the half-hour, and meanwhile, there's space to step outside, phone clutched in-hand, watching the room through the door.
Does he want to press charges, they'd asked. There's security footage, they'd suggested. Probably plenty of witnesses.
And he'd said no. And he's going to speak with whatever fucker he can find with access to those cameras, unless Custis fucking Pendleton - or, shit's fucking sake, Alice fucking Colling - gets there first.
That's in the 'future steps' category, though. That's in the 'it'd be nice, but it's not dire' category. What's important right now is the number he's dialing. What's important right now is the call ringing through, and fuck, shit, fuck, he hopes Enri managed to grab his phone. And if Enri didn't, then fuck it, Darius is making a trip to the Pendleton suite right fucking now, let Morgan try to gut him if the bastard wants.
Darius is going to get this Puppy back.
When Enri answers, if Enri answers, Darius is quick to speak, a command bearing warmth at its edges: "Puppy. Breathe.
"Daddy's coming for you. I'm going to bring you back.
"It's okay. I'm here."
no subject
An addict's hit torn abruptly away. A patient with his wounds flayed open, seeping, untreated and unnumbed and Enri's head is buzzing. His long form drawn into a ball, fetal on the bed where (not Daddy) Lydia sent him. (Shameful. Shame like wet piss-stained jeans like the sour taste of vomit in his throat like a simple equation solved incorrectly before the class. Metallic. Ammonia-scented.) She knows exactly what he's been doing and now his father knows and his uncles will know and the worst of it is he wants it. He wants more. He wants it for the rest of his life, the things Darius does to him.
Buzzing head, buzzing form -
He hears them speaking in the other room, hears maybe a third definitely a third voice maybe a fourth, he can't tell at range the difference in his uncle's voice from his father's. But count them, assume it's his parents, assume it's Alice and Custis with them. (Treavor, maybe, though Treavor - an inane thought - has been markedly absent throughout this affair as though he doesn't want to get involved in any kind of drama.) (Alice might be doing that.)
(And. And also.
Who gives a flying fuck.) (He needs Daddy. Oh, he needs Daddy. He shivers, his eyes closing and lips pressing firm, feverish - Daddy tried to get to him. He heard him shouting.) (Daddy wants to keep him. Daddy said stay.) (Bad Puppy.) Bad Puppy.
Disloyal. He's vibrating with it, with the buzz in his head and -
His phone. Is vibrating. In his pocket.
He scrambles fast for it because it's Darius, of course it's Darius. He curls up to a tighter ball and crams the phone to his ear, only shuddering breaths evidencing that it's him on the other end of the line, listening. Hungry for the word of god.
I'm here.
Relief so severe it's painful. Yesterday, Darius compelled him with only words to howl in rapture, and today, Darius knows how to comfort him. Daddy's coming for you.
Darius won't abandon him. Darius didn't desert him. And he's coming to fight the monsters.
(Deeply, beneath advancing fog, Enri wonders: am I worth this? All this fucking chaos, and he still wants me?)
The monsters aren't monsters; they're his fucking parents. (He can't tell. He can't say that.)
He can't let Darius do this.
Softly, he starts to cry; he presses his free hand to his forehead, rushed with frustration, exhaustion, need taking root like addiction. (He doesn't desire; this runs so much deeper, this feels more a nightmare than any days-ignored erection. This is pure, his mind and soul screaming for Darius.) (Can his god hear him?)
Enri gathers himself enough to speak, his voice barely audible. "I can't talk."
And a miserable whisper: "Please don't leave me."
He can keep the phone sandwiched between the pillow and his head, let Darius be a secret voice in his ear. Until they come back here, and take it all away.
no subject
What’s different in this instance: a feeling of rooted investment. (As if something beyond himself here matters.) Intention beyond a wholly self-serving line of purpose. A wish, perhaps (a wish, certainly) to ease the boy for the boy’s own sake.
He doesn’t think about this. His focus is on the agitation in Enri’s voice and the sound of crying. (They took his Enri away. They left his Enri to crumble. Bastards, absolute bastards. What the fuck are they trying to prove.
Darius has half a mind to contact Colling. He doesn’t like the asshole (how much the asshole purports to comprehend; how much the asshole does clearly understand), but at least Colling had seemed prepared to accept the inevitability of Enri’s place with Darius. Fucking bastard should have spoken with his fucking brothers-in-law-to-be. Fucking bastard could have taken steps to fucking prevent this.
The poor boy. Poor Enri. He didn’t ask for this.
Fucking Pendletons, whittling away their week.)
His voice holds level when he speaks, authoritative and traced still with that warmth, that quiet offering of comfort. "I won't leave you.
"Breathe, Enri. In. Out.
"Close your eyes. Can you feel Daddy's hand at your cheek? Try to know it, Puppy. Put a hand to your cheek. Do it for Daddy, hm?”
A space of pause, a space to let Enri move if he can, if h will, and then, "You're a good boy, Enri. A good Puppy.” And. “I’m not upset. Not with you.
"I want you to breathe, Enri.”
There’s something else. Something more to add, a contingency Darius doesn’t typically address. "If they interrupt us, I need you to breathe. Daddy knows you'll make good decisions. I won't let you wear yourself out.”
Through the frosted glass, he watches figures trail in and out of the room. Tracks the sounds of drills, of removal, of voices bandied over the work. Darius’s brow furrows, though he keeps his voice clear of frustration. “If they interrupt us again, I need you to know I’m not mad. Daddy isn’t mad at you, Puppy. You’ve done everything right. You can speak with them, and know Daddy isn’t angry. You can speak with them, and know that it’s what Daddy wants. I need you to know that I understand.
“And if they try to cut us off again, I need you to trust me: everything will be well.
"Breathe, Enri.
"Do you understand? You needn't speak; only breathe out, if that’s better. Only give me some sound that you’ve heard, hm? I’m here, Puppy. And whatever they try, I’m going to bring you back.”
no subject
He eases through, as well, when Darius tells him there'll be no anger. He won't, Enri believes, be disappointed in his Puppy. (Darius said he's a good Puppy, and Darius is god, and god's word is everything.)
He can hear them speaking in the other room, not bothering this time to whisper. He can hear Alice's calm, and Lydia's pensive interjections. He can hear someone's snarling outrage.
They don't matter. None of that matters, because Darius is inevitable. Darius is going to bring him back, and he can stay and stay and stay just like he was told. In Daddy's bed, ravaged and raptured and -
Loved.
Oh, he feels loved.
His entire focus is on the phone and the voice pouring poison into him (love) (comfort) (approval), and so Enri doesn't notice when the talking abates in the other room. He doesn't notice Alice's approach until Alice is a few feet away, a blur in his peripheral vision.
Enri goes still and tense, his eyes flickering guiltily to his uncle-to-be (who is not, he realizes inanely, that much older than himself.) There's no way Alice doesn't see the phone.
Darius is asking for some sound from him to indicate he understands, but he can't. Move. Speak. Breathe. Only feel as though he's at the bottom of a pit, and the last lifeline is being drawn up out of reach. Alice is going to take the phone, he fucking knows it -
Alice crouches in front of him, one hand curled on the bed for balance. Alice scrutinizes him (gently, it feels gentle and he fucking hates it, he hates Alice, he hates all of them (that's not true) (he wishes it was true.))
"Enri, may I borrow your phone?" His voice sounds careful, and carefully neutral. Even. Calm. R...espectful? Enri stirs and recoils a little, a note of refusal jarring in his throat, but Alice only lifts his hand and gestures settle, settle or it's okay (it's not okay nothing is okay.) "I'd like to speak with Darius for a moment. I'll give it, and Darius, right back to you."
He should -
He should ask Daddy. Darius. He should ask permission, or guidance. But he can't find words, and - Darius did say he trusts him to make good decisions. And he knows that Alice has been looking out for him, sort of.
He thinks Treavor wouldn't trust Alice, wouldn't marry Alice, if he was a liar.
Slowly, he slides the phone out from under his head and barely (reluctantly) offers it over. Alice doesn't snatch. It's almost as though he's showing he won't hang up, the way he's holding the phone so delicately.
(His caution irks Enri. His care, his dedication to preserving...something. He's annoyed.
He's also (a little) grateful.)
And Alice speaks into the receiver with the same cautious tone. His eyes linger on Enri's, and Enri thinks he sees something akin to concern. "Darius. Let's keep this short so I can give the phone back to Enri. I told him that's what I'm going to do, and he's trusting me a lot right now."
Enri realizes something, dawning comprehension: Alice is talking more to him than, or just as much to him as, Darius.
"I'm sorry to you both. Morgan has been out of reach all week. I intended to catch him as soon as the plane landed, but I had to deal with a personal matter that trumps this one, I'm sorry to say. Deforest - You know. It doesn't matter. I'm sorry. I'm going to handle this here. If it's all right with both of you, while I'm discussing this situation with Morgan, Enri is going to rest for an hour. Maybe let Lydia treat these bites."
And.
"It would help to know you think that's a good idea."
no subject
He is angry. Strung with self-righteous bristling, because he and Enri have been separated again (less violently, this time) (with a promise of reunion, this time), and because Enri isn't well, because Enri didn't answer and wasn't given the chance to answer.
And there's that fucking self-righteous (not-so-self-righteous, just now) voice. As if Colling's fucking apology means a fucking thing. (Strangely. Irksomely. The fuck seems almost, possibly in earnest.) As if it matters that Colling's thinks he can reason with a goddamn Pendleton. And, ha, on good fucking terms with the brute of the hour, is he? (Fucking Morgan. Darius'd like to maul the bastard's face. Wouldn't be wise. Wouldn't end well, likely. But fuck's name, there'd be satisfaction in it.)
It's fucking bullshit.
...It is, and it isn't.
Because this could be - Colling's intervention could be - useful. If Colling can talk even an ounce of sense into the Pendlefucks, it could go a long way. Not that either of them - particularly fucking Morgan - deserve a goddamn conversation. Bastards deserve to be rent in pieces for taking Enri away.
Again: The notion isn't productive, or likely to lead toward an especially desirable end. The notion is - fucking alas, fucking unfortunately - unwise.
...Speaking of unwise. What the fuck did Deforest get up to this time? Follow the likely trail: something to do with the most lackluster Pendleton. The little shitstirrer'd be hard-pressed to get under Colling's skin, but damned if hasn't had a decades-old hard-on for antagonizing Treavor.
Not that it matters to Darius. Not that he gives a shit what any of these Pendletons do, so long as they leave his Enri alone.
The point to keep hold of: Colling isn't ranting unreasonable. Enri is nearby - Colling seems to be speaking partly for Enri's sake - and the phone might be returned to him shortly. Better in this case to cooperate; better not to delay the phone's return.
So. Entertain this conversation. Listen, consider, and - voice unyielding and uncontentious - respond. (Don't bend to the itching urge to snap wry at Colling. Don't take this as a moment to wave the fucker's error in his face. Be cooperative. (Think about Enri.) Think about seeking solutions.)
"An hour." A weighted silence as he gives himself another moment to consider, and then— "If Enri is willing.
"After what he's been put through, I don't doubt that he could use the rest." After what he's been put through by the Pendletons and, yes, after a long and fruitful night with precious little sleep. "I support the hour's respite, but I won't tell him to remain if he feels unwell. I'll come for Enri if he insists.
"Tell him, Colling: he has a choice.
"And.
"If he stays. I need you to guarantee that in one hour, he'll return to me. No fucking fight. No further questions."
no subject
He hears.
If Enri is willing. (Darius, taking into account Enri's needs.) (Darius called here, not ten minutes after Enri was yanked from him.)
Darius is weighing the boy's needs against his own wants, and there's no grudging tone to be found. He says he'll come here not because he wants to, but if Enri needs him. These aren't the words of a man who has been the subject of monetary settlements over unspeakable abuses.
In fact - now that Alice looks, the bites he can see look superficial. And Lydia said there were bruises at Darius's throat. Alice knows one thing about Darius: the other man roused at the implication of having a hand at his throat just like that. Put it together. Those weren't unwelcome wounds, and. And if Enri was enduring pain he didn't want, it seems he could have easily handled Darius. (Is that a wise conclusion, a safe one?) (It's the probable conclusion.)
"I'm going to hand the phone back to him so you can tell him yourself." Meaning, I'm trusting you to actually tell him all that.
Meaning, I'm keeping my word.
Meaning, It's better, coming from you.
"I'll -" A heavy exhale through his nose. It's been a long fucking day and it's still barely noon. "I guarantee that I'll defend Enri's autonomy. From you and from them, Darius. If he wants to come back to you in an hour, then I'll help however I can. I'm not going to promise anything else without knowing what he wants. Someone here needs to think about th-"
He stops sharply, abrupt and thoughtful, his eyes on Enri, whose hand is out for the phone already.
He heard, a moment ago, I need you to guarantee, and the words sink in wholly now.
That isn't the Darius Scarlett he knows. He would have said, Guarantee in on hour... or I'll have your guarantee, or something, something that conveyed his own rightful entitlement. His sovereignty, his manifest destiny. That's who Darius is.
Darius might as well be pleading for them to permit Enri to return.
And Alice thinks, Oh, Darius, you're in deep, aren't you? (Is this a game Darius can end in a week?) (Is this a game that won't destroy Enri?) (He'd like to reach out a hand and smooth back the boy's hair, but he suspects that would be the worst possible idea.) (This poor fucking kid.)
(...Maybe. Maybe poor Darius, too.)
(Darius, who might be in real fucking deep, is putting Enri first.)
"Sorry. Sorry. That was. Fucking uncalled for, and unfair of me. I - Yeah. I'm -" A breath. "Talk to Enri. I'll go...try to handle the clusterfuck."
Enri practically snatches the phone from him, too fixated on cramming it to his ear to give any sort of acknowledgement that Alice kept his word. As he straightens and turns to leave, he hears (and wishes he hadn't heard) Enri choke out, "Daddy."
He closes the door behind him. Christ.
no subject
Of course he doesn't fucking like it.
It's fucking unconscionable.
All of this anger - this agitation (this discomfort) - and nowhere to direct it. At some point he sits, because he has to do something, because if he stands he's half an impulse away from exiting the room and strangling the shit-spitting bastard, never mind the consequences or who fucking sees. It'd spell the end of this problem.
(It'd keep Enri protected.)
(It'd keep everything in line.)
He shouldn't do that. Death can't be the answer here; there'd be more trouble to follow. He needs to— Clear his senses. He wants to reach for Lydia, gesture for Lydia, but the problem's impacted her too, she's seen something, she's communicating something. She called the boy 'Puppy.' (Why.) She doesn't like this, either. The situation and all the world's a fucking mess, and there can be no ease for anyone until a solution's found.
He sits, and he seethes, letting Custis speak anger for the both of them. Trying to heed Lydia and hearing, vaguely, Alice's interjections, but what Morgan remembers is Enri snarling, and Enri fighting, and Enri strange. (There's a reason. Lydia knows the reason. Morgan can't calm himself enough to understand, and every glance at the bedroom door sparks his vision red again.)
Alice enters Enri's room to talk, to check on the boy, and the sound of Alice through the door incites him again - this shouldn't be happening, none of this should fucking be happening - and Morgan stands abruptly. Kicks a table, heavy fucking thing that thuds out of place and leaves his foot distantly aching, then stalks to the next room. Fingers flexing, fist clenching. Not looking at Lydia, but setting his shoulders to suggest an attempt at self-control, at removing himself in order to guard against further damage.
He paces. He paces. And when Alice emerges, he moves like a shot to stand in the doorway, eyes focused, seeking signs of what transpired.
"Well?"
no subject
...Lydia-ness.
He doesn't understand, and Lydia's efforts at explanation keep falling lame and uncomfortable. (He's never seen her like this. It's strange, to know there's something she can't rise to. It's strange, and beyond his comprehension.) (She said something about bruises on Darius's throat, of course. And she said, weakly, that it ought to be considered, but the statement came with a question mark at the end, and was quickly trampled by her brother-in-law.)
(What the fuck is going on, is what Alice would like to know. All this uproar over some cousin from Iowa?)
He approaches Morgan, then halts abruptly, staring at his (mentor) (somewhat-idol) brother-in-law-to-be. There's something familiar about the way the other man looks, and it's not because he has a twin, and it's not because Alice has worked closely with Morgan for almost a year.
That's the same fucking look Enri just gave him before the kid snatched the phone.
And come to think of it.
Come to think of it.
His head turns, and from the corner of his eye he takes in the other two in the room, and the door leading to the bedroom. He opens his mouth as though he means to speak. (Custis said he's older than his father. Not he's old enough to be his father.) He closes his mouth and fixes Morgan with a look, his head cocked, lips pressed thin as he exhales through his nose.
Fuck's sake, Morgan.
And.
Tell me this isn't what I think it is.
He doesn't think that's going to happen.
Instead of waiting for a miracle, he gestures vaguely toward the room behind the other man - let's talk in there - and if Morgan doesn't immediately go he slides past to let himself in, then waits with his hands crammed in his pockets until he hears Lydia herding Custis out.
(Not a new trick. Her idea, unspoken months ago: divide and conquer. They can't egg one another on this way.)
And, after a moment, he offers what clarity he can. "You and Lydia have the woods, together. He has - whatever he has with Darius."
And then, he raises his eyes from his examination of an end table, and fixes them on Morgan. Ventures softly, "Like father, like son?"