Max Mendoza

[siobhan-cole-deactivated2015070]

She smirks amused as he waggles his eyebrow but shrugs. “It would, not to mention interesting to investigate but with our work we’d never get shit done.” Her eyes shifted away from the elaborate details along the wall. It was all new to her, soon enough her interest would wane though. She was used to her home, small towns, this place seemed a little too big for a small fae. “I guess you could say I wandered in off the street, or new recruit however it’s called. How about you?”

[max-mendoza-blog]

“Well, I was the new blood, then you walked in.” He waggles his brow at her again. He can’t say that he minds being the new kid on the street, it didn’t feel like he really was. There was an annoyance that he hadn’t been sent out yet, that he felt like he needed to prove himself to everyone in this house and iff he cared more about it, then he would have made a better effort to do so. “Max,” he gives her with a nod. 

[siobhan-cole-deactivated2015070]

Once Ethan let her inside she couldn’t help but be surprised by the mere size of the place. The Coles weren’t poor far but their home had been modest, enough for them. The hallways were a maze but she was sure she’d get the hang of it eventually. Turning when she hears a voice answering the question she’d meant to not say aloud. “It’s expansive isn’t it? Don’t tell me it’s like Rose Red and continually expands?”

[max-mendoza-blog]

“Nah, but wouldn’t that be a trick.” He waggles his eyebrows at her and while Kykuit is far from home to him, he’s happy that he wasn’t the only one who showed up and thought this place was too lavish. Although she might be enjoying it. He still found it to be tacky. Tacky to the point that he hadn’t even decorated his room and he can claim all he wanted that it was because real hunters didn’t need it. Not because he thought he was going to get the boot any time now. “So you just get transferred or you wander in off the street?” 

[siobhan-cole-deactivated2015070]

Bags slung over her shoulders her eyes lifted to the structure before her admiring the architecture. It was expansive in a way that was almost foreboding but she wasn’t in the brightest of moods as of late. Haven had been her home. 85 years of her life and aside from a few vacations she only really left the bar to hunt down those who had broken their neutral ground. Then again, that’s what this was after all. “So this is Kykuit Mansion..” 

[max-mendoza-blog]

Max was pacing, mostly. Walking around the mansion because there’s an odd sort of settled feeling that’s come over him. He doesn’t like it. Mendozas don’t get settled, because that’s when they get sloppy. When they get too attached or too comfortable, then their guard gets let down and he can’t let that happen. But he doesn’t know what else he expected. He pauses when he hears the voice in the main foyer and pokes his head out to see. So he’s not the new blood anymore. “Why yes, yes it is.” 

[ethan-ford-blog]

For a moment he gets lost in his own memories, because it doesn’t matter if it’s been more than twenty years. The woman had left her mark on him, and not solely because she’d served as some catalyst that had changed his life. He’s alive today because of her, and if he drew the Tenebrae’s eye it was only because of what she’d taught him. And it’s no comfort to think that maybe they were never meant to be if their morals had conflicted so strongly, but it doesn’t change that he loved her. And this is her son standing in front of him. Their son, and he thinks it’ll take a while to adjust to the idea. Ford blood in his veins whether he asked for it or not.  “You wanna grab a beer?”

[max-mendoza-blog]

There’s the thought in the back of his mind that this might be a trick. That he should say no and keep his wits about him. But there’s also a very prominent and very surprising thought that he hopes it’s not. That he doesn’t have anyone he trusts anymore and even though sharing a beer with someone doesn’t mean he trusts that person, it’s a start. It’s better than he had yesterday. He’s tired. He’s tired of keeping his guard up all the time. Sleeping with one eye open and even while he’d been doing it while he shared motel rooms with his Mom, there was always two of them. There was always someone to take watch or take a shift and he didn’t have that anymore. Not yet. “Yeah, alright. But no chick beer.” 

[ethan-ford-blog]

It seems like dangerous territory when he’s not sure what’ll set him off, and some quiet urge to avoid it. Most people he doesn’t care. He’ll start swinging again if he has to, but even if he’s breathing easier and shoulders relaxed, there’s still some hesitancy there. The thought that he doesn’t want to be hated. But he answers anyway, and if the smile fades it doesn’t die completely. “Nah. But she used it on me enough.”

[max-mendoza-blog]

Max gives a small laugh, but it fades in the next moment. The smile doesn’t, but it changes from an amused one to a fond one. He never thought he’d be thinking that they were good memories to have, of his Mom telling him that he wasn’t ready, needed to train harder, needed to be better. She never told him he wasn’t good enough, only that he wasn’t ready. Sounds like she’d done the same with Ethan and it makes him study the man a little more closely. He doesn’t know what to truly think. This man is his father and he knows it. By blood only and he still hasn’t decided if that means shit to him. It’s more that this man is probably one of the only other people in the world who remembers Lucretia Mendoza and she deserves someone to remember her. “Yeah, it was one of her favorites.” 

[ethan-ford-blog]

It’s an unexpected weight off his shoulders, a quiet laugh escaping him as the kid takes his hand. Everything about this conversation seems written between lines that neither of them seem willing to cross completely, but maybe it’ll come. Maybe they never have to talk about it, and he can’t say if there’s relief in that thought or not. But it’s enough to have him breathing a little easier, that tension he’s been walking around with put on the back burner for now.

He clasps his hand, helping drag him up upright before he lets him go, and it seems like enough. The bruises on his face, the ones on Max’s, it’s enough. And he wonders if it hurts or just amuses him to think Lu would be rolling her eyes at both of them. “When I say you do.”

[max-mendoza-blog]

The words have him giving a small snort because they’re familiar. He thinks that while they had different styles, his Mom and Ethan had a lot more in common than either of them seem to want to admit. His Mom was just as strict and just as stern. It gives him a moment to wonder if they’re both as stubborn and he thinks that goes without question. He nods his head and the words aren’t meant to be anything but a peace offering, a foray into a subject neither of them want to breech. “My mom teach you that line?” 

[ethan-ford-blog]

The words don’t wholly surprise him, though it might that Max offers them at all. The next obvious question is why, but he doesn’t think he needs to. He knows. If he can pretend it’s a theory that doesn’t mean shit without a paternity test, he knows better than that. The kid’s here because his mother’s dead and the only family he has left is a hardass that signed onto an organization she hated. He’d be pissed too.

He doesn’t say as much. He doesn’t ask and he doesn’t offer more than a small nod, some sign of understanding. It’s selfish that he’s not ready to face it or have that conversation with him yet, but he doesn’t have the first clue what it means to be a father. Even if he thinks he’s past the point where he really needs one. “Glad to have you,” he offers back. Maybe he doesn’t need the words, maybe they don’t count for anything, but it’s the best he’s got.

[max-mendoza-blog]

The words have him looking up at the man and for a minute, he wonders if it’s a joke. It doesn’t seem like it is and at first, all he can do is just laugh at him. He laughs and grabs his hand and pulls himself to his feet. “Fuck you, glad to have you,” he tells him but there’s no spite behind it, the words colored by humor and disbelief. The man likes talking about his feelings just about as much as Max does and it’s unreal. It’s completely unreal to him. 

Brushing himself off, he stretches out his arm and tomorrow it’s going to be sore, but he’ll get over it. He bends to grab his water bottle and that’s about all he’ll say about the thing tonight. He turns to look at him. “Glad to have me, when do I get my first assignment or whatever?”

[ethan-ford-blog]

Ethan snorts at the words out of his mouth, but for a moment he doesn’t say anything in return. Something like stubborn pride makes it too tempting to want to go over there and make sure he’s not under any illusions who’s in charge here, but he doesn’t know if that was ever really in question. The question is just whose blood runs in his veins, and for that moment he’s left staring back at him he doesn’t think that’s even really a question either. Whether he was present or not. It’s his temper, his pride, his stubbornness, all reflected back at him in the eyes of Lu’s son. It makes his chest ache with loss, that unfamiliar feeling like there’s a whole life he missed out on. And he almost tells him that if he’d known, he’d have stayed. Even if it doesn’t count for anything now.

He doesn’t admit to any of it. He just straightens up, hand coming up to his jaw before he’s walking back over to the kid. At least he’s got answering bruises, no excuse to say his old man’s weak. “Don’t act like you aren’t right down here with me.” He stops in front of him, but it’s only to hold a hand out, something like a peace offering. “Or I’ll wipe the mat with that smug ass smirk.”

[max-mendoza-blog]

Max sits there and snorts, letting his head hang while he catches his breath. The man hits hard, is a tough sonofabitch and he can respect that. There’s still burning anger in his gut but it’s fading and he can recognize that it’s mostly over the entire situation. That he feels stuck, he feels trapped, and above all he feels alone against an other worldly army. And now he’s in this organization and it doesn’t feel any better. There’s just that heavy feeling of loss that still rests on his shoulders and even if it’s been a year, coming here has put it into perspective just how much he’s lost. 

As the man comes over and holds out a hand for him, Max stares at it for a second. It’s a small gesture, but there’s a lot behind him. He is. He’s down here on his ass too and getting back up seems like more work today than it did yesterday. But there’s a hand now, Ethan looming over him and he’s not yelling, he’s just offering to help him stand back up. “I asked to be transferred here,” he tells him, because he thinks the man deserves to know if he doesn’t already. 

[ethan-ford-blog]

There’d been a point where Ethan had fought with a barely controlled sort of anger, vicious and no-holds-barred. People had gotten hurt, sometimes it was him, most of the time he took bloodied lips and bruises with a smile. Pain was a lesson just like any other, and he hadn’t ignored it. But time and circumstanced had tempered some of it, and he’s not hitting Max to hurt him, not to shatter bones or leave him bloodied on the ground.

And he can tell the moment he loses it, because then he’s not hitting him at all. He’s just doing his best to keep his balance when Max tries to knock them both on their ass all in one shot. It’s a bad move, one that probably bends his arm all the wrong angle, but he can’t say it doesn’t work. He feels his back hitting the ground in the next moment anyway, and his fingers release the kid’s arm. But it’s on purpose, pushing himself away and rolling into a crouch in case the kid still wants to come after him.   

[max-mendoza-blog]

The man goes down and there’s more satisfaction in that than in landing a blow. His arm twists and there’s a spike of pain that he’s been trained to ignore for the time being. Pulled muscle maybe, nothing snapping like it could have. The anger fades almost as quickly as it had come and that’s mostly due to it not being directed at the man in front of him. He’d been angry at everything. The world. His Mom. The demon who’d gutted her. He was just angry. What was he supposed to do now if he wasn’t even welcome here then? 

The question goes unanswered and maybe he already knows that’s not what the man had come in here to tell him. Ethan lets go of his arm and rolls back, staying crouched on the defensive. Max takes the moment to sit down, leaning back and making no sign that he wants to continue it. He’d gotten his fair share of licks in and there’s marks on the man’s face that he’s happy he put there. Just to say that he could. Most of all, he’s happy that he’d done exactly what he’d said he’d be able to. 

“There,” he nods and there’s pride seeping from the words. Understanding on his own part that he’d just wanted to prove something. What he wanted to prove and to who, he still doesn’t want to admit. “Right on your ass.” 

[ethan-ford-blog]

It’s second nature to fall into some rhythm, to let hesitation and doubt slip away and replace it with simple movement. It’s something close to a survival instinct, even if he doesn’t think this is a fight for his life. He can only see it as an exorcism of some anger, that fury reflected back at him that Mendoza’s been trying so hard to bite his tongue on. And if he can only guess at the reasons, they’re settling into his mind as certainties that leave his chest aching.

The blows flung at him are like fighting a ghost, though Max has more strength and less speed than his mother. But he fights back with an intensity that makes him proud for her sake, even if he can’t claim any credit of his own. It doesn’t stop him from fighting back, if anything it just makes him want to push harder. He twists to the side when the knee comes at him, fingers tightening on his arm to drag him into closer quarters and try and land blows to his side with his free hand.

[max-mendoza-blog]

Max tries to get his arm down to block the blows Ethan throws at his side. The man could easily break a few of his ribs if Max didn’t block right. He’s fast, hard to keep up with, but Max was used to countering speed by taking hits and taking them well. Blocking them, hitting back with more strength than the speed can handle. He’s learning quickly what type of fighter Ethan is and he’s a good one. A good mixture of both. 

With his arm still tightly in the man’s grasp, he doesn’t have much of a choice on what to do. He throws blow after blow towards the man’s eyes. It’s a dirty aim, one that could really hurt if they landed, but if he wanted to train and wanted to fight -- or if this really was just a fight because they were mad and angry, this was the type of fighting Max knew how to do. No mercy, no holding back. Don’t be weak. Don’t get killed. 

She hadn’t fucking listened. 

There’s a moment where he snaps. Where the anger fuels him more than thought and he’s twisting himself. It was a dangerous move to pull with his arm still in the man’s grasp because it could easily snap his own arm, but he twists and he’s falling to the ground, swiping his legs to try and take the man’s out from beneath him -- the goal to bring them both to the ground.

[ethan-ford-blog]

It’s harder to remind himself to follow his own words, too much anger making his jaw tight and his hands aching to curl into fists at his sides. And he can’t pretend that too much of it is because he’s not used to being on the defensive when it comes to anything. He doesn’t apologize for who he is or what he does, and he’s never felt the urge to. There was just the job, and anyone under his roof was expected to fall in line. If they didn’t they’d be back out the door one way or another.

This stings more than he wants, the reopening of old wounds and quiet regret that he’s never had to justify to anyone. And there’s something closer to hate that he wants that understanding from Lu’s son, no matter who his father is. It’s a selfish thing to want, and it just has his teeth grinding together in his skull to keep anything else off his tongue. Because he’s not in control right now, and he doesn’t really know how to cope with that.

The blow’s not entirely unexpected, not when he thinks it’s a hit the kid’s wanted to take the whole conversation. Just not on the heels of those words, and it catches him across the jaw in a solid hit he doesn’t have time to block. But he’s a fighter by nature and by nurture, and it’s first instinct in any scenario to grab for his arm and swing back.

[max-mendoza-blog]

His fist hits its mark and even if it’s the only one he’ll ever land on the man, there’s some satisfaction with that. Max isn’t completely incompetent with hand to hand combat, he’s had to excel at it because he trained with his Mom. She didn’t let him be weak or slow or give up. She didn’t let himself be caught off guard because there were times when he didn’t even know they were training and she’d throw a blow at his face. But the man in front of him is probably better. Probably more officially trained, if the way he grabs his arm is any indication. 

The first blow he manages to bring up an arm and block, but the second one sneaks pass and glances his cheekbone. It’s dazing with the amount of force behind it and it does a lot to fuel that anger and hurt burning away in his chest. He’s done throwing fists for now. The man has a hold of his arm and the training his Mom put him through has him bringing a knee towards the man’s gut while swinging an arm up to try and break free of the hold he has on him. 

[ethan-ford-blog]

His teeth bite down on his tongue hard enough that he’s not surprised it doesn’t leave blood in his mouth. There’s too much anger burning through his veins, and if he’s honest then most of it’s for himself, very little of it for the kid in front of him. Snide comments, sarcastic remarks, they don’t mean anything to him anymore, but the implications they carry with them do. He didn’t care, or he didn’t care enough, it’s hard to say for sure when it feels like an elephant in the room that they’re both pretending not to see. 

It makes it an effort not to yell back at him, that he loved that woman more than he’s ever loved anyone before or since, but she wasn’t willing to compromise any more than he was. Where that puts the blame, he can’t see now, but there’s enough of it on his shoulders to make his chest ache. It makes taking that calming breath harder than it should be, because all that should matter is that he can do his job. It’s what he wants to say to him, what he should,  but it’s not what leaves his lips. “I don’t know what your ma told you about me. About us. But do us both a favor and stop pretending you got the first idea what my end of it looked like.”

[max-mendoza-blog]

“I don’t give a fuck what your end looked like.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. He doesn’t. Or at least he tells himself he doesn’t. He tells himself that he doesn’t give a crap about the man in front of him or his side of the story and it’s easier to convince himself of that because his Mom’s dead. She’s dead and she might not have been if he stuck around. He needs someone to blame and there’s a large part of him putting that on Ethan. He knows it’s unfair. But he can’t stop it. Because the only other thing he can do with all that guilt is turn it inwards and the moment he does, he knows he’s screwed. Men with that sort of guilt don’t live long in this sort of life. 

He takes a step back before Ethan can respond, hands held out to the side and head down like he’s giving up. “But you’re right, I’ll back off. Jobs to do and everything...” he rambles, bowing out. He can tell himself he didn’t come here to fight the man. He doesn’t think that was ever his first intention when he asked to be transferred to this sect. But he can tell himself a lot of things and it still doesn’t matter. Not when instead of just leaving out of the training room, he’s throwing a fist at Ethan’s face. A wild punch that had no warning other than the growing tension in the room. 

[ethan-ford-blog]

The words hit him with an unexpected amount of force, hurt and anger and grief coalescing in his chest and making his lungs constrict painfully. It’s the unfamiliar sensation of regret, a sense of loss because the woman in question is gone now. Not just out of his life. Dead and gone and he never said goodbye. But she didn’t die on him. He wasn’t there, hadn’t seen her in years, and if it makes it easier on him he can only feel guilty for that. It summons a quick and awful anger in response, pushing himself back to his feet.

“You watch your fuckin’ mouth.” He snaps the words out, voice rising alongside his temper, and for a moment he can’t summon the self control that got him this far. “If we’re gonna have a problem you fuckin’ say it now but I ain’t playing these games with you.”

[max-mendoza-blog]

The anger surprises him. It’s sudden and vicious and for a moment all Max can do is stare back at him. He doesn’t know what he expected out of this. He came here looking for help. Bottom line, that’s what he needed. Help because his Mom was dead and he probably had an expiration date written invisibly across his fucking forehead for every demon on this side of the country to try and cash in on. But what he got instead was this man standing in front of him. And he still doesn’t know what he really expected. How many years had it been since his Mom had last known Ethan Ford? Maybe those years in the Tenebrae had changed him. Fuck him. 

Pushing himself to his feet, it’s a slow and easy movement, one that’s not threatening because he honestly doesn’t know yet if he wants to fight him. Take a swing or just walk out the way he came. He knows what’s out there waiting if he does. In every shadow. “Okay. I’ve got a problem with you. I’ve got a problem with your fucking organization. But I’m here anyway and I know how to do the job and if I ain’t good enough for you, then I guess that runs in the Mendoza family too.”

[ethan-ford-blog]

The answer has a smirk tugging at his lips, and if it’s inappropriate and lacking true humor he can’t help it. It’s not a yes and it’s not a no, but he thinks it’s more telling of both of them. It says something that’s the kind of man Max assumes he is, says more that it’s nothing he hasn’t done before. He’s never had a problem putting someone in their place with an iron fist if he has to, and he knows it’s part of why they gave him the job. And he’s got enough confidence in himself that he doesn’t really think he’d lose this time.

“Yeah. I’m goading you.” He admits it without any real shame, but he doesn’t move from his position in front of him. But the smile fades after a moment because if he’s trying to teach him a lesson it’s not the one he thinks. “You let it, all that anger’s gonna make you sloppy and it’s gonna get you killed. Ain’t much good to me if you’re dead.”

[max-mendoza-blog]

The man doesn’t deny that he’s been goading him and that makes Max’s jaw clench even tighter. So bad he thinks he’ll break his teeth on each other. He doesn’t say anything because Ethan follows it up with a few words about the anger. About getting sloppy and getting killed and that makes him angrier than anything he could have said before. He leans back a little, running a hand over his mouth before his head tips to the side as he looks at him. 

“Yeah and you already have one Mendoza who up and died on ya, now don’t you?” he growls. It wasn’t because she was sloppy or angry. It was because there was a demon who got the best of her. “She ever knock you on your ass?” 

[the-o-rourke]

“Dr. Fallon.” Crystal says summoning up a small, tired smile for him. “Nice to meet you, Max.” she tells him. She stretches out her fingers and examines her broken nails for a moment before looking away from them and holding her cup of tea with both hands. “No glass?” she asks, looking at the carton in his hand. “That’s how germs spread, you know.” Crystal says, making a small joke since she really doesn’t care how he drinks his juice.

[max-mendoza-blog]

“Oh, my bad, doc,” Max says when she jokes about the glass. He doesn’t make any grab for a glass in the cupboard, but rather turns and puts the carton back into the fridge. He leans against the counter afterwards and folds his arms across his chest. Werewolf. Working with one side by side and she’s a doctor, no less. He doesn’t think he’ll get used to this. “So...how’d the whole wolf thing go?” 

[billie-deacon-blog]

Billie takes a step back so they can both catch their breath. After all, she knows the difference between training and just taking advantage to beat someone up. “You an exorcist or a border collie?” she asks, using her thumb to wipe away at the blood on her lip. Twisting her hair up off her neck she rolls out her shoulders and bounces from foot to foot. “You tappin’ out on me, dog?” she asks with another bright smile.

[max-mendoza-blog]

“Hey, I know how to woof when I need to,” he waggles his brow at her, watching her wipe blood from her lip. It hadn’t been his intention to bring it there and he wonders if there’s some sort of rule against that in the Tenebrae. Be careful while training or whatnot. “Shit, you’re just warming up. I’ve been at it all morning, sweetcheeks.” 

[ethan-ford-blog]

Anyone else, he might smile at that. It’s not the first time he’s found himself staring down someone filled up with fury and pain, because anyone who signs up with the Tenebrae has something to be angry about. Reasons to be hurt, reasons to be broken, and half the time it’s that refusal to be the second that keeps them going. It’s not the first time someone’s wanted to take a swing at him and it’s not the first time he’s offered to let them take their best shot. He’s not afraid of much, let alone taking a few hits. And he always learned more about a person that way.

The reason he doesn’t smile is because it’s not anyone else sitting in front of him. There’s that pervasive thought that it’s his own flesh and blood looking back at him, and all the guilt and regret that comes with it. The thought that maybe he owes him this, like taking a few blows will serve as some penance for his sins against him. “Think you’d try. What do you think?”

[max-mendoza-blog]

Max’s jaw tightens. Muscles stretching as he grits his teeth. There’s the urge to just give him what he’s asking for. To try and knock him straight on his ass. He doesn’t know can. The man outright asks him what he thinks about it and there’s the urge to tell him everything. To tell him why he’s here, why he’d requested to be transferred here and explain why sometimes there’s just hate in his eyes towards him. Even Max isn’t sure if he truly hates the man in front of him. He doesn’t think so. On his good days, he doesn’t think so. 

“Think you’re goading me,” he tells him through grit teeth. “So I take a swing and you can kick my ass and teach me a lesson.” He wrings the water bottle in his hands before setting it down and it leaves his hands loose and hanging there in front of them. They’re not where he wants to place them. “Think I’d be disappointed if that’s where you wound up.”