A Strange Family All Around.
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― Terry Silver x (OC) Caroline Silver (and the rest of their magic-using family), a private commission for @fairyjane
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Perhaps it was an understatement to say that he liked his breakfasts to be peculiar.
Precise.
Outside of the vast assortment of Swiss import cheeses, fresh creme truffles, French toast, pearly black Almas caviar, Ayam Cemani chicken eggs and a Portuguese bottle of Porto to kickstart the morning off with on a carted in assortment wheeled in from the kitchen on a silver four legged carrier, Terry Silver enjoyed the control coordinated essence of ritual luxury; of having a bit of everything imaginable served on his white linen covered table, accompanied by a daily assortment of newspapers and periodicals from all over the world to go along with his cigars in a gold embossed mahogany box; he supposed, no, he knew in fact, that there was something very rich about smoking and idly mulling about the newest scandalous trial, conglomerate going bankrupt or the latest war being fought out in some shithole. He chuckled at such things, like kids go about chuckling while reading a particularly funny section of a humorous comic, nodding up at the server in white gloves. Good man. Went by Charles. Was used to all of these things by now. It was in his and everyone’s work contract, drawn out in bold letters, that their job as staff members of his household came with the expectation of silence and discretion of the professional sort. What they saw here every morning and in general was not to be gawked at. Not to be addressed. Not to be speculated on. Maybe it is just as well when Terry presses the tip of his index finger to the tip of his Cuban tobacco, the contact of the pad of skin igniting fire no differently than a military grade zippo would, causing a fresh snake of smoke to immediately curl up from his nostrils. He twists his neck back and forth as a form of exercise, adjusting himself in his chair at the head of the table, feeling his muscles crackle as he shimmied his shoulders around the white satin of his Gi, adjusting himself to full comfort while his tea was being poured into a ceramic cup. Not enough steam, he decides, meaning that it wasn't warm enough. Touching the delicate, filigree ear of the English countryside China, he feels the cool surface heat up to satisfaction.
Just right. Perfect.
Just the way he prefered it.
-"Ashtray, sir?"-
The man’s crisp, clean, non plussed British accent inquires and Terry lifts his hand shaking him off.
-"Nah, thanks, Charlie. We're good."-
Terry dismisses him without of looking up from his paper.
Evaporating the ash accumulated residue on the tip of his cigar into the ether.
Funny that; how he found a micro way to pollute even while doing nothing at all.
He deeply enjoyed the morbidity of that.
How every cigarette he ever lit in his mouth could turn into his own private nuclear reactor factory chimney from now on.
He liked that.
He liked that very much.
The heavy velvet red curtains of the dining room get dragged on from all sides like the protective wall of a great, big stage play — a standard issue ritual that happened each morning — cutting off the glare of sunlight casting ribbons on the Persian carpet from outside. Plunging the hall into a relative, dimmed darkness dispelled by one of the maids clicking on the overhead crystal chandelier’s light. A small precaution. Against paparazzi. News reporters on the lookout for a hot scoop. Some sort of bullshit whistleblower hoping to make a quick buck with some fantastic story for the believe-it-or-not conspiracy section. Last thing Terry needed was one of the newspapers that kept carted out for him every morning featuring a grainy, seedy snap of Caroline feeding a singular strawberry from the fruit assortment served to her to a sentient Venus flytrap growing out of her palm like a pocket-sized, flesh eating plant pet, Thomas swirling his freshly squeezed, amber-colored apple juice with the telekinetic force of his finger alone instead of a stirring spoon, Audrey freezing her smoothie with her mind alone, vegetation blooming in Donna’s hair or Jacob playing with fire at the table. As much as Terry enjoyed the occasional defamation case or scandal thrown his way like a flurry of attacks he dodged and ducked from with relish, having the habit of laughing at that shit more than anything, this wasn’t the crap-storm he needed. He didn’t need anything he couldn’t control. Then again, snakes lived in relative anonymity — not out of fear, but by nature, presenting themselves only when striking from obscurity and biting before anyone else notices. He didn't want his family on blast. He wanted them tucked away --- an ace up his sleeve rather than a weakness some shitheel can exploit. Claudia makes a heart out of ice she levitated out of the water of her glass; a newspaper article on page six details an oil spill off the coast of Senegal. Terry chortles to himself. For once, Dynatox had nothing to do with that one and part of him feels his pride entertainingly wounded. He'd have to see to changing that and soon.
-"Don't you know"- Caro's voice gently coos from beside him, seated on the edge of the table. -"that it's rude to read at the table?"-
He lowers his paper only slightly, his interest immediately piqued, watching her from the barrier of the periodical as she tentatively, slowly licked the residue of white cheese off of her red, manicured nail. Claudia from the other side of the dining arrangement rolls her eyes.
-"These should be moments for bonding."-
His dear darling wife assesses, cocking her head to the side, teasing.
Instinctively, Terry groans in the back of his throat, tossing the newspaper aside.
An uniformed server is immediately there to grab it and put it away.
-"Oh, yeah? Says who?"-
He retorts, taking a deep drag out of his cigar, blowing circles of smoke out of his puckered mouth.
Caroline arches an eyebrow, still hand feeding her pet Venus flytrap.
Plucking strawberries from a ceramic white ornate bowl.
Oh, shit, baby.
-"Says your wife."-
Caro prods with a playful sort sweetness that could melt butter on morning toast, and fuck — the blood shoots from Terry's head, through his torso down to his thighs like liquid fire. He wanted to ditch this whole meal arrangement, tell Margaret to cancel all further appointments and have his wife in the master bedroom. At that point, the whiplash of Claudia clearing her throat hits him like a sack filled with icicles.
-"You guys should take your flirting upstairs, geez. We're trying to eat here. This is just weird."-
Claudia stabs at her omelet with an ornate fork, ever the petulant, rolling her eyes for a second time, a gesture accompanied with an audible huff, swiping her hair back quickly, in a state of distress, the slightly uncombed frizz caused by just having rolled freshly out of bed parting and blooming like some sort of floral shape forming out of hair strands. It happened whenever she was pissed the fuck off, Terry concludes, nostrils flaring with delight, feeling the heat accumulate in his sinuses; as warm as sauna steam. He could probably fuel this whole mansion alone if push ever came to shove and leans back, contemplating the fact with no small measure of personal pride and achievement. Margaret, ever the practical secretary and matron of logic would've approved of the lowered estate bills, not that such bullshit ever mattered to him; he'd just do it for the expression on her face, the same expression his own kids had on right now. He loved and wanted their mother. So, fucking what!? -"No more weird than a terrarium growing in your hair is."- Audrey interjects, cheeks sinking in with the force she was sucking on her smoothie straw on with, the edges of it pale and frostbitten, like something just removed from a deep-freezer; Claudio was about to argue, stopped and prevented only by Caro reaching out and grabbing her hand. Her Venus Flytrap plat sinking back into her palm and wrapping, like a bracelet of green tendrils and vines around her and daughter's entwined fingers; a gesture of consolation. And here he was, ready to listen to the kids have a full blown debate over breakfast while he relished in every verbal jab and verbal counter jab. Caroline gives him a meaningful, tilted head look adorned with a blissful little smile before turning back to the brats. -"Well, I guess we're a strange family all around, huh?"- The red bow of Caroline's rouged mouth quirks upwards with a teasing little statement while everyone else brooded over their breakfast. Terry could only throw his head back and laugh loud enough for it to echo across the hall.
Fuck, he loved this woman so much.
