“ don’t you FUCKIN’ touch me , “ noses were barely an inch apart , faces together , close enough for ian to catch the stale cigarette scent of striker’s breath . bait had been taken , pounced upon like a wild animal — an unsolicited hand was a volcanic trigger , the flick of a switch from reasonable to feral . striker cannon could take a hit , that much was true from the mottling of purples , yellows and blues beneath hand-me-down clothing . muscle memory curled his fingertips into a fist ; fingers darted like the tongue of an amphibian after a fly to grasp the fabric of ian’s shirt , tugging him up and close , the only escape being tearing himself free from cowboy-caught cotton . “ you dare lay a fuckin’ finger on me . your son is better off without a varmint like you . sling your fuckin’ hook , buddy , or i’ll show you first hand who’s top dog ‘round these parts . this town ain’t big enough for the two of us , “ no longer did ian resemble nico’s father ; those unfamiliar features had moulded into those of his own , the man who had bought three boys into a world systemically against them , the bottom of the pile with broken rungs swinging above . instead of a man trying to protect both his honour and his son striker saw a father with flame behind his eyes , the same flame that had torn hair from roots , that had struck the cheek of both himself and his mother with merciless force , the same flame passed down to his own whiskey gaze ; hereditary evil . knuckles bloomed bone-white , clasped at the antagonist’s throat , fingers full of material that likely cost more than his , mickey’s and lance’s wardrobes combined . beloved . striker would vehemently argue that him and mona were friends , that companions of ten years would inevitably cross such lines as they had ; friends sported their names , etched in permanent ink , over their hearts , right ?? the more he stood , the focus of a raging bull caught like a crosshair at the bridge of ian’s nose , the more he wondered whether he was angry the man was coming for his throat or mona’s . “ — you keep her name out your fuckin’ mouth . she trusted me to come get nico — not you , not one of yer pearl-wearin’ friends neither — me . i’m there for that boy more than you ever were , “ low blows , strikes below the belt , flaming arrows pulled back and aimed at the heart , “ whatever you’re thinkin’ is gonna happen here , you really reckon you’re gonna get your boy’s respect by hittin’ me ?? go on . show ‘im what a gentleman you really are . “
for a moment, all ian can do is chuckle — it’s void of all humor, strained, simply the only reaction he can rationalize with how laughably surreal this entire situation is. ian’s not violent, it’s never been in his nature; callous and detached, yes, but never to the point of throwing blows. and striker makes it tempting to shatter that code of honor, especially when dirty hands grip at freshly pressed linen, but once he takes several deep breaths, he acknowledges his universal truth: this man is not worth it. not worth upsetting nico, not worth the damage that could unravel in court, not worth giving mona any ammunition in their constant war with one another. he tugs himself sharply out of striker’s grasp, shoulders squared and eyes narrowed. “and what’s the alternative for my son? because you fucking know so much, correct? mona also trusted you to give her a car so she could runaway with my kid, and that doesn’t strike you as a bit, i don’t know, batshit?” of course it wouldn’t, not to striker — he’d encourage the worst in her while believing he was liberating her, willing to romanticize chaos instead of acknowledging that she’s a parent with responsibilities; both of them had long lost the right to frivolously fuck around with little thought to consequence. this unyielding fact is what centers ian, compelling him to step backwards and accept the notion that he can’t do shit like this. striker can swing and spit and cause a ruckus without worrying whether or not it’ll get protective services called; that’s a luxury that’s out of ian’s reach. “no, you’re not,” ian seethes, though pointedly keeps his distance, “you picked him up from one fuckin’ game? cool, striker, i’m taking him to the dentist tomorrow. i’m doing his laundry. i’m checking over his homework, getting him to school, being a goddamn father every single night because his mother can’t keep her shit together. you think this is fucking fun for me?” while hideous circumstances ripped away any romantic possibility, there’s somewhere deep in ian’s cavernous chest that compels him to understand that he does love mona, enough to want better for her and her future with nico. he’d never acknowledge it, but he’s quietly surmised that striker will only ever hinder his family. he swallows hard, repulsed by the sight of him, “you stay away from nico. i don’t care what the fuck you do with mona, but i never want you near my son again. he can hate me for it all he wants, and i bet you’ll make her hate me for it, too, but you don’t give a fuck about what it takes to be a parent — hell, to be a functioning adult. you hiss and snarl and piss on your territory, but what the fuck does that even mean?” his hands feel hot, like they’re supposed to collide with striker’s jaw, but he won’t succumb, not now. “do what you want with mona, but my son stays out of it. is that understood, cowboy?”
