ransomhazard:
There’s very little keeping him from panicking here, but he focuses on what is. Focuses on Rebel, who clearly needs him to be the anchor here, to figure out a way to fix this, focuses on Mal, who he can tell just from a look is about as worried about this whole mess as he is, which is just more proof he made the right choice to bring them along, because they get it, and they care about Journey and Rebel, and the whole family, really, enough to know this is going to be a balancing act of making sure none of them end up in worse danger than they already are, while also figuring out a way to do their job. He used to thrive off of this shit, solving problems that seemed impossible, hell, it’s still something he loves, or else he wouldn’t have bothered sticking with the aurors, but this is different. This is his family.
Before he can say anything else, Rebel goes on, that sturdy wall finally breaking, and she crosses the office to him, burying her face in his chest, and in a way that halts the panic in its tracks. It’s instinct, after all, to want to do anything he can to make sure his daughter doesn’t have to keep feeling like this. He wraps his arms around her, one hand moving to her hair, that instinctual gesture of comfort, like she’s ten again, and one of the other girls said something mean. “It’s alright, sweetheart, that’s why we’re here. We’ll figure it out,” he reassures her quietly, giving her all the time she needs like that. After a few minutes, her sobs quiet, and she pulls back still staying close. He nods as Mal speaks up, keeping a hand on her, steady, and again he’s infinitely grateful for Mal, and how they somehow know exactly how to handle this.
“No real names, like most of the Black Lantern’s clients; just information. I was in contact with the weapon’s specialist, an older woman, by the sound of things. I’ll get everything sent to both of you…” she explains with a sniffle, voice still shaky, even as she pulls out her telekit. “The artifact, it’s an antique magical gun. Something aurors used to use.”
He wishes that he had been put on an NBO case before now, but there’s nothing to do about it now. Magical guns, though, is a whole different concern, but the fact that it’s related, somehow, to old aurors means they’ve got a leg up here. “Luckily, we’ve got plenty of people who can help with that.” he asks gently. “And if they’re waiting for the rest of a shipment, it means we have time, but we’re not going to leave Journey with them, I promise. Let us get you back to my place, I don’t want you on your own right now. We can go through everything while you get some rest.”
There’s something so strange, about watching Ransom like this, watching everything else disappear from his face as he lets Rebel cry into his chest, as he holds her like she’s still a little kid and lets her be vulnerable for a few minutes until she can pull herself together. It’s a softness they’ve never really seen, with him, until so recently, one they passively knew probably had to exist if he still had decent relationships with all seven of his daughters, but one that just hadn’t been a part of the vocabulary either of them used with the other, hadn’t had a place in the world they both happened to navigate together.
Ransom’s voice is so much softer, when Rebel finally pulls away, when he reassures her that they’ll fix this for her. And they will, the two of them, and the considerable resources the auror department will be able to provide. It will be up to Ransom how much of this he wants to keep out of official lines and how much he wants to do above board, it’ll be up to Ransom how they approach this, but even if they’re handling it alone, Mal’s sure a trip to Langer to get the lay of the land isn’t out of the question, or any of their colleagues who might have a little more insight thanks to a case or two. The Vitale kid seems to have worked on NBO cases a fair amount, or maybe Yaxley or the Duffy-Zanettis.
Rebel nods, in response to her father’s words, says, “Let me just get my stuff together,” and goes back to the desk, the desk that used to be Ransom’s so many years ago, and starts pulling a few things together.
“Do you want me to go ahead and start seeing what I can dig up?” they ask, turning back to Ransom as she does. It’s two questions in one, not just the question they’re asking but one they aren’t sure how to ask, exactly—do you want some time alone? do you want me not to intrude more than I already have? They don’t feel like they’re intruding here, and Ransom hasn’t made any gesture to the contrary, but they want to give him the space to decide for himself instead of assuming.












