Nick Balleta

There's more than meets the eye. There's more than meets the price. If you can't see the sky there's too much artificial light. I can't predict my path, but they can't fully see my past. I'm running from the flash but heading straight inside the blast. A mountain full of ego built upon a heap of trash is exactly what you get when you can't fully do the math. This is not the right way. But this is my way.

[bloodlessheart-blog1]

It’s some mixture of funny and obnoxious until he hisses in pain, and she stills immediately. Another day, something less serious, and she’d tell him to man up and shake it off. The words still sit somewhere on her tongue, but she can’t get herself to say them, for a moment just fixating on the bandage she wrapped around his midsection. There’s a small brush of her fingers against the white, reaching out with her power to make sure there’s no internal bleeding. The threat of it still feels too present, that terror that she was about to lose him an impossible thing to forget.

“Sorry.” It’s too quiet, the word an unfamiliar thing on her lips, but she forces her hands to move, a slower adjustment of denim around his hips before she zips him up.

[nick-balleta]

The expression on her face is painful, just as real and sharp as the one hidden under the white gauze that he’s fairly certain is her own doing. There’s a word on her tongue that shouldn’t be there, because if this bullet wound has earned him anything, it’s her disdain. She swore to him that he would get hurt and he foolishly decline. But now they stand with bloodied hands and bandages. He shouldn’t make promises he can’t keep.

“Hey,” he states gruffly, voice quiet as his hands cradle her jaw like something delicate, even if she’s far from a fragile creature. She’s lived this long without him and she’d continue to do so if he were gone. But Nick can’t help that he simply doesn’t want that. But she looks so small in his hands, so quiet and soft like she does when she’s sleeping, oblivious to his gaze. “Ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry for.”

[nick-balleta]

Do you remember getting out of the Tavern?

I remember someone yellin’ at me. Probably Eva. She likes to do that.

[bloodlessheart-blog1]

There’s little desire to call the estate her new home, but Ryan’s less anxious to leave, considering. Nick got caught in the crossfire of a war he didn’t start, and if it’s what she said would happen there’s little satisfaction in being right this time. It’s not worth the hole in his gut that she had to stitch together. But at least it’s some indication that it might be healing well, considering the state she finds him in. She’s torn between frustration that he’s up at all, and a stifled amusement at just how he shuffles out of the bathroom. It’s hard to say which is winning, but she still crosses over to him before yanking the denim jeans back up his hips with less than gentle hands. “What the fuck, Nick?”

[nick-balleta]

He’s lucky Eve is the one to find him with his pants down and he catches that tip of amusement to her lips, that slight spark in her eye like she wants to laugh. But the situation they find themselves in puts a damper on the scenario and every prophecy she states would come true to him in that motel room, in fact, had. She’d been right. And no matter how much he promised that nothing would happen to him, because he had too much he wanted to do with Eve first, the Initiative had proved him a liar and there’s physical evidence underneath that bandage on his stomach. “Oh, well, since it’s you, you could also just take ‘em off instead,” he rants with a smug grin, “And we could have some real fu-”

But the idea is cut off by how roughly she pulls up the denim around his hips and he hisses at the discomfort, the sharp shooting of pain through his stomach from the movement before he grits his teeth and accepts it. “Or not.”

[nick-balleta]

“Okay, just as a warning, I’m wearin’ boxers,” Nick swears as he shuffles out the door, filthy denim jeans around his ankles but none of them had left the Estate yet to return to the places they’ve been calling home. Especially Eva and himself, who still are living out of suitcases in a motel room that smells the way he imagines an old person’s home might. Mothballs, or something. There’s a bandage around his bare torso that he can only assume that woman he dragged to LA had wrapped there and she’ll yell at him in this state. But he woke up with a need to urinate and if he easily found the bathroom, even if the journey there had been an extremely painful one, he couldn’t easily retrieve his jeans when they fell from his grasp. “But could you pull my pants up?”

[dailyjonbernthal]

[adamrhcdes-blog]

Biting his tongue, Adam nodded. “Girlfriend,” he mused. “That’s nice of you. Is it her birthday or something?” Being a man of certain looks and charm, Adam had never failed to attract female attention. He’d had many flings, liaisons, and affairs over the course of his lifetime to the point where most of the women became merely faces with no moniker to remember. However, the one thing Adam never acquired was a relationship— a real one, anyway. His past lovers were nothing more than notches in his belt and he in theirs. While some remained more frequent than others, in the end, Adam’s interest would wane and every misguided women would eventually find themselves having never received a call back. Love, in any form, simply wasn’t in his nature.

[nick-balleta]

There’s a shrug of Nick’s shoulders because a special occasion had not led the couple here to LA. Or perhaps that’s a lie. A special occasion had: the death of Eli’s father. But it had little to do with anything to put a smile on his love’s face, even if there’s nothing he’d like more. If anything, Nick knows he’s made her life miserable the past few months, because she wants to be gone from this coast already and yet they’re stuck here still - with little answers to who killed Bruno Selvaggio and little sign of leaving anytime soon. Perhaps a visit to Disneyland is merely just a distraction for Eve, so she can forget, for a day at least, that they’re still hundreds of miles away from home. “Nah,” he states easily, “We’re just visiting a friend for a bit.”

[nick-balleta]

salt of the earth || ryan, nick, & charlie

[bloodlessheart-blog1]

It’s a single bright moment in a mire of bitterness since she first set foot in Los Angeles. Too much anxiety being this far from familiar streets, too much riding on a man who’s never proven himself all that reliable. Nick has, and it’s that knowledge that keeps her here, and too much unspoken affection that has her smiling as he pulls her closer.

Then the moment’s gone, shattered just as swiftly as it came.

Her blood runs cold when the door bursts open, some scene straight from every waking nightmare quick to unfold itself before her. Men with guns and black bags, harsh orders that demand cooperation, and nothing but cold cells and an undignified death waiting for anyone they get their hands on. She’s seen the aftermath, her parents buried somewhere in an unmarked grave, and the thought that it’s the kind of fate waiting for her horrifies her less than the idea of it barreling towards Nick. She can lie every other moment of the day, but no matter how many walls she’s thrown up to protect herself, the simple fact is that it would destroy her all over again to lose him.

Especially like this. And if she should be content for him to form some human shield in front of her she’ll never be satisfied with that. Her fingers grasp at his arm as she shifts to stand next to him, pulling on him with too much desperation at the sight of him standing in front of that many men with guns. Her hand lifts, she reaches for the strands of her power that she’s only known how to destroy with, shattering veins and destroying both hearts and minds.

Nothing happens. They keep coming, someone in a black uniform lifting his gun and shouting orders at them, but he doesn’t crumple like he should. And that stirs too much terror in her heart, because she’s heard the rumors, stories straight from Eli’s mouth what they might be faced with now. Later there might just be resentment for him, that he’s the reason they were sitting in this bar so far from home in the first place when agents came crashing down the door.

[nick-balleta]

She’s strong. Eve’s always been the fiercest woman he’s ever met, cruel in some of the harshest ways - like when she pushes him away to keep her defenses intact. He knows why she does it, but it never dulls the sting. Why he believed he could stand guard in front of her, Nick doesn’t know now. Maybe because he never believed that, instinct kicking in with the desire to simply protect her. But she’s never been a passive creature. She’s always been a wall.

And she stands beside him now just like one, steadfast and strong, jaw clenched in disdain for the men who’ve barged in with guns and bags hoping for nothing more than prisoners and a body count. He doesn’t move to cover her once more because she’d only continue to step away from her bodyguard and later he may be proud to have the woman stand right by his side. Right now, he can only process the fear coursing adrenaline through his veins and the wish he had purchased a gun out here to carry, in case of a moment like this. But hindsight is 20/20 and he’s only got a knife in his back pocket which he doesn’t know is the wisest choice to brandish right now. Running is their best option. Getting Eve out and safe is his main objective.

Who fires first, he’ll never know. But suddenly there’s a commotion. Maybe it’s Eli’s sister or when Eli’s jumping over the bar, shouting at them to get out. It’s obvious that they won’t go silently or easily. They will all fight. But first his goal is to get Eve to safety. “C’mon,” he grunts a command, grabbing her forearm to tug her back towards the kitchen where he assumes there’s an exit. His gaze darts for that flash of red hair, because Eli will want her out too and away from danger, sparking the sudden thought that if he can convince them their job is to get the other away, maybe they won’t linger here longer than necessary.

The idea is disrupted by a man in black tactical gear shouting at him to get down, to put his hands on his head and comply. But Nick never has and he shoves his frame between the Initiative tool and the woman he loves. He doesn’t have a gun. He isn’t armed like the man before him, but he wouldn’t go down without a fight and he’s hoping just his size proves intimidating. He steps up, inflated ego making him the scariest thing in the room due to a strange amount of confidence that perhaps he shouldn’t feel when he couldn’t be sure his ability will work. Maybe he couldn’t decipher any of the new techniques these soldiers could teach him, but that’s the best case scenario. He has years of training in other fighting styles. But maybe it erases the memory of all of them together and the thought is too frightening that he lashes out in his fear.

Nick swings at the man, grabbing a fistful of his shirt to drag him forward and make a mess of his face. He might see a similar terror mirrored back at him in those wide eyes but this one has something he doesn’t. A gun. The New York native almost forgets until that shot rings out, that searing pain ripping through his abdomen causing him to double over. But his legs manage to keep him standing as his spine collides harshly with the bar. A hand instinctively slaps against the wet spot on his shirt, dark, crimson blood beginning to stain the white t-shirt.

[nick-balleta]

adamrhcdes :

“Ah, New York. My mistake, you looked West Coast from behind.” Like many in his social class, Adam had spent a great deal of time roaming the streets of NYC. Summers were spent lounging in the Hamptons with weekend trips to the city. Even today his trips to New York remained fairly consistent. Thus, it was only because of his experience he had pinpointed the other’s accent at all. Glancing at the table, he noted the map and accompanying paper. Reminded of the deep stirring within, Adam indicated towards the map. “Theme park,” he observed. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a man of rides but evidently my perception is a little skewed. You have a kid or just one at heart?”

Whatever the man wants, Nick couldn’t begin to guess and it strikes a strange nerve in him when the stranger suggests he appeared ‘West Coast from behind’. What did that even mean? He’d been a New York boy, born and raised - and he’s damn proud of that. To be mistaken for something he isn’t is almost slightly insulting. But he shakes that disdain off with a shake of his head and continues to mark down rides on the piece of paper from the map, which the intruder is curious about. “Nah, man,” Nick answers quickly, “My girlfriend wants to go.”

He smirks. Because if Eve were here, she’d immedietly follow up with the statement she isn’t his girlfriend. He almost tells her she’s right. She’s far from his girlfriend. She’s his heart.

[nick-balleta]

salt of the earth || ryan, nick, & charlie

[bloodlessheart-blog1]

There’s a roll of her eyes at his answer, gaze drifting away as though anyone might notice or even care about any moment of softness she might show. It’s too easy around him, impossible to maintain that cold shell that might keep her whole when fate or circumstance brings her life crashing down around her again. If she believes he’ll fight with everything he has to remain at her side, it’s not enough when she’s seen first hand that love and devotion aren’t strong enough forces.

And it’s impossible to convince herself even on her worst days that he isn’t offering her both of those things. It’s just easier to ignore them altogether, as though the harsh words she grants him might be enough to convince both of them that she isn’t offering the same in return.

The illusion melts away when he shifts next to her, drawing a present from his back pocket that she hadn’t honestly expected to ever see clasped in his fingers. And it’s impossible then to hide the way her eyes light up, something almost childlike in her answering smile. She can tell them both she doesn’t care about Disneyland, well aware that it was simple bribery on his part and an excuse on hers. But there’s warmth spreading through her chest knowing that he followed through anyway, simply because he promised her.

Her fingers curl around the tickets before she’s pulling them from his hand, holding onto them tightly before she replaces them with herself. She shifts from the barstool to glide an arm around his shoulder before she forces herself onto his lap, a boldness more fitting in those moments when she’s too intoxicated to pretend he’s so easily replaceable in her life.

“I hate you,” she tells him, forehead pressing against the side of Nick’s. And it’s scary to know that it doesn’t matter what she says, when by now he’s aware it’s too much the opposite.

[nick-balleta]

There hadn’t been an ounce of doubt in his mind that she wouldn’t be happy to see them. After all, it’s the reason she swore to him on why she was tagging along at all. Not because of him or Eli, but because of a magical theme park run by a mouse. It’s as true then as it was now. If she’d been honest about always wanting to go, he knows it isn’t the reason she got on the plane. It had been because he asked her to, because he didn’t want to do this alone, to hunt for his wayward friend by himself. He wanted her there just as he always has. And she always obliges, even if she has to give him excuses.

The smile that illuminates her face could knock him out. It steals the breath from his lungs and fills him with a foolish amount of pride that he’s done something great. He’s made her happy. And whenever she’s joyful and tipsy, she ends up in his lap like it’s his own reward. It doesn’t sound wrong to assume that and it’s the best prize he’s been given - her smile, her affection. An arm winds around her waist to keep her stable atop his lap, free hand grabbing at her thigh with little concern for who sees. It’s still G-rated. He wouldn’t be that disrespectful to the patrons of the bar, but it’s difficult to keep his hands to himself whenever Eve is around.

But it’s the ‘I hate you’ that causes the back of his neck to heat, his grip to tighten and his own smile to mirror that childish glee of her own. She’s never meant that phrase. She always means the opposite when she exclaims it and his heart threatens to break free of his rib cage just to join hers. “Hate sex in It’s A Small World then?” he offers with a smug smirk, but as soon as the words leave his mouth there’s a distraction from the entrance.

The door is kicked in by a man he doesn’t recognize, followed by a team of soldiers and officers. Nick quickly slides Eve off his lap and onto her feet, his body the best kind of shield between her and the men who burst in. Initiative.

[nick-balleta]

salt of the earth || ryan, nick, & charlie

[nick-balleta]

bloodlessheart:

Every day they stay in Los Angeles is one more convincing Ryan that they’ll never be flying back to New York. The death of Eli’s father will remain a shadow hanging over them, a ready excuse every time she asks why they can’t just go back. They’ll settle into this place she never asked to be and never had a true desire to stay. But she will, because Nick will look at her with eyes that shine too brightly in her presence and swear he can’t do this without her. And if it’s easier to convince herself to stay when she thinks it’s all bullshit, part of her believes it.

It has her gaze following the man that brought them here with some narrow eyed expression, because if it’s exhausting trying to stay angry with Nick, he’s a better target for her bitterness. Especially when she thinks he excels at charging in and fucking up lives. She was comfortable until the two of them showed up at a bar looking for her, and if some days she can’t decide whether to thank him or blame him for Nick’s introduction into her life, today blame comes easier.

Out of the other faces at the bar, there are fewer she recognizes. The redhead she knows, because she’s heard too many stories. His brother and sister. The rest might be friends of his, or simply strangers, but either way she’s content to let them stay the second.

Next to her Nick is all nervous energy, a wide grin on his face that she can’t name the source of. She doesn’t believe he’s about to present her with plane tickets, and at this point there’s not much else she holds out hope for. A noncommittal noise escapes her in response, but her fingers settle easily on his knee, pressing down with light pressure to try and still the quick bounce.

But she allows her attention to shift to him, voice dry and unaffected as she can manage. “You know Balleta, sex on the beach isn’t as nearly as romantic as you think.“

A hand to his knee is all it takes to cease its motions, some small exertion of pressure that isn’t needed when it comes to her. She just needs to touch him, look at him and there’s a storm raging in his chest that settles at any scrap of attention she tosses his way. It might be sickening to outsiders as they watch him break his back to please her, but they don’t know how softly she sleeps against his side or how every effort to dim her smile are in vain when it comes to him. He isn’t blind. He sees what he does that makes her happy and it’s all he’s ever wanted since he met her all those years ago. She might still refer to them as partners or something sounding equally as business casual as she can. But he knows better. He knows what they are.

Nick grins at Eve and shakes his head. “Don’t gotta be romantic,” he comments, ducking his chin to pass the comment quietly her way without the rest of the bar’s patrons prying in.

But he has other romantic plans and his weight shifts forward to ease a small envelope out of his back pocket. Larger fingers make it a challenge to slide the tickets from the loudly decorated slip they’re hiding in but he manages, holding out two pieces of thick paper out towards her - one with Mickey Mouse on the front and the other with Goofy, images he loved as a child growing up with his siblings.

“While I’m not turning down sex, might be some cooler, dark places in Disneyland to get freaky,” he suggests with a smug smirk, having no intention of trying to sneak a quickie on any of the innocent theme park’s rides. And perhaps his smile is too wide to suggest he’s serious about it but there’s tickets that prove he’s living up to his end of the bargain.

[nick-balleta]

salt of the earth || ryan, nick, & charlie

Today’s the day and Nick is almost giddy with excitement. Eve is still in the dark, still pouting about being in LA long than she desired sparking a need in him to tug at the full bottom lip with his fingers, a switch to her annoyance. He could quickly erase that. If he knows how to frustrate Eve better than most, he also knows the ways to shut her up, turn off her mind for an hour or so, as much time as she allows him to take. She’s the one always setting boundaries and rules. And he abides by them because it means he gets to keep her for just a few more days until he catches that spark in her eye, that uncertainty that this is what she wants.

But he knows what he wants. He simply wants Eve and he accepts any form that takes, because he also knows he’s that exception in her life. He’s the one exception.

Sitting beside her at the bar, Nick’s leg bounces against the bar stool rapidly, some strange nervous tick like he’s about to propose. But this is the reason she claims to the west coast and he wants to make that dream come true for her. He can barely recognize Eli in his peripheral, playing at the role of bartender. And the real bartender is just a flash of red hair to him as she whizzes by, the place a bit busier on a Sunday day. Perhaps cause it’s Father’s Day.

Nick only sees Eve, a strength and beauty about her that always manages to distract him. She’s different from the rest of the woman he’s charmed into his sheets. She’s never been an easy target. She still isn’t.

“It’s a nice day,” he starts slowly with a wide grin that suggest he knows something she doesn’t. And he does. He’s got tickets in his back pocket for a magical theme park she’s been begging to go to. “Hot. Good day to go do something fun.”

[hellzkitchen]

[adamrhcdes-blog]

Seated in the corner of the Deadend bar, a cigarette dangled from Adam’s lips as he thumbed through pages of emails. Most were meaningless, holding little chance of receiving a reply. Dispensability ran rampant in his line of work and being the man he was, Adam never felt overtly inclined to deal with it. Not that he felt inclined to deal with much period, of course. Sending off half-interested replies to those which did indeed warrant one, he extinguished his cigarette and stood up. Fingers nimbly adjusting the buttons of his rather high-priced ensemble, Adam tossed a couple bills on the counter and approached a patron not too far from his position. Placing his hands in his pockets, he made his presence known. “You don’t mind if I ask you a question, do you? Great.” Without giving the chance for reply, he posed his query. “Do you know the quickest way to Left Blank from here?” The question was somewhat rhetorical; Adam knew perfectly well the direction of the tavern yet, he had grown bored and easy conversation remained preferable to restlessness. Thus, he contorted his visage into one of ignorance as he awaited a response.

[nick-balleta]

The beach seemed like a good distraction for Eve to get her mind off of just how stale the air is out here when there’s little clue to who killed his friend’s father. She just wants to leave at this point and he knows she’s putting up with another few weeks here for his sake. Because he asked her to. It keeps him busy inside some sketchy bar a few feet from the grains of sand, a safe haven for mutants when he knows it’s Syndicate run, thanks to Eli. There’s a map sitting before him on the table, but it isn’t of any city. It’s colorful and cartoony, but he supposes that’s fitting for a theme park. He had purchased the park-hopper passes for the two of them, because it seemed like an appropriate day for rides and princesses. It sounds romantic to him and she’d punch him if she realized he planned it that way.

Jotting down a few notes on a pad of paper of shows they needed to see and rides she’d want to go on, Nick is interrupted by the presence of another. But he’s polite enough, shaking his head as a New York City accent betrays he’s far from home, “Nah, man. Not a local. Sorry.”

[devouringbeast-blog]

Nick’s quick to back down, and Eli almost wishes he wouldn’t. He almost wants him to keep pushing, to give him an excuse to lay into someone tangible than the ghosts he feels like he’s chasing. He’s not getting anywhere, not really, and if he’s not hitting dead ends, he’s not digging up any answers either. He might be pushing forward and there might be blood on his hands, but he feels less and less like celebrating it when it has little to do with Bruno.

His fingers curl against the bar, shaking his head in an undisguised frustration. There’s too much tequila in his bloodstream to pretend he’s not a restless beast left pacing in its cage, and to say he hates it is an understatement. It’s why he came back here, why Nick promised to stay for now.

And he’s left standing here with little to show for it except his frustrations.

“Well, I don’t have the first fuckin’ clue how to even go down one of those.” Another situation he would, and without hesitation. He’d draw his knives and he’d start cutting open people one at a time until someone points him in the right direction. Only this time it’s the Syndicate he’s looking at. His family, and if he can’t call all of them friends, there’s a bond of loyalty there that’s stronger than blood. If they want to call him a traitor, an outcast, he can understand all of those designations, but it doesn’t change anything now that he’s standing back in their city.

Most of them Bruno invited in himself. He opened his doors to them, gave them a home, and if anything the thought of someone betraying him just makes his temper rise even higher. He can’t lie to himself and pretend it’s half the reason he’s gone after the Initiative so viciously. There’s something cathartic in that much bloodshed, a peace he can’t find with otherwise empty hands.

A breath escapes him, and if he can’t quite calm himself, Nick doesn’t truly deserve his anger. He might be more lost than Eli is, without the familiar streets of New York offering any illusions of safety. “We grab a Corinthian. Jack’s gonna try anyway and I don’t have a better idea.”

[nick-balleta]

The plan is half-baked, he thinks, just like the Selvaggio’s brothers brains right now. Grabbing a Corinthian would be difficult enough. Beating any sense into him would be even worse. And without their abilities to fall back on, he doesn’t like how vulnerable it makes the duo sound. It’s foolish to believe that, because he hopes and believes they have the foresight to bring guns, knives, whatever other blunt or sharp object they can get their hands on that could count as a weapon. They’ll be safe about this.

But nothing about grabbing a Corinthian sounds safe. It all sounds like a death sentence and he doesn’t want his trip to LA ending with the funeral of a man he calls brother. He’s supposed to do right by this one.

There’s a question sitting like poison on Nick’s tongue that he doesn’t want to ask. Both answers Eli could give would be a horrible. A ‘no’ leaves him too open in Nick’s mind, an easier target when he doesn’t have a second person watching his back. A ‘yes’ means he’s gotta break that news to Eve, who may not forgive him for that one. He suspects he’ll be seeing her off at LAX after that. 

The answers aren’t sitting at the bottom of a glass or in the curls of red hair that keeps distracting him, because he began to think the woman wasn’t really at all. That she’d just been a figment of Eli’s active imagination. Had he told her of his plan? Does she know about the ridiculous idea to grab a Corinthian, hold him hostage, and beat answers out of him? And what if they don’t get the answers they’re looking for? What if suspicion on a Syndicate member is right?

“You need me there?” he asks, less tentative than he feels and eyes cast upward at his friend, his brother. He doesn’t want to be anywhere near a Corinthian but there are few he’d step in front of one for. Eli’s on that list.

[devouringbeast-blog]

The shotglass slams against the counter with more violence than he intends, and if it might be thanks to clumsier fingers aided by too much tequila, he doesn’t need liquor to spark the vicious and intense reaction. The words Nick offers him are enough to have him baring his teeth like a cornered dog. The thoughts might’ve run through his head, but they passed on quickly without ever truly settling as a real possibility. Not where Bruno’s concerned.

And if he’s sickened by the thought of a traitor in their midst, something so mundane is almost worse. It’s insulting to everything his father was, fully aware of just how strong he was even without that power in his veins. Some days he still can’t wrap his head around the fact that the man’s really gone, constantly waiting to hear his footsteps in the hollow hallways he’s left behind. Instead he’s just left with ghosts, his father, his brother, all of them left haunting the empty space in his chest they left behind. And maybe if he can claim his vengeance, he can offer them some peace.

Maybe then he’ll be able to claim some of it for himself.

“It’s not.” It’s with narrowed eyes he fixates on Nick, the anger rushing through his veins battling with vodka for control. “It’s not a fuckin’ mugging. You didn’t know him. You don’t know what he was capable of. Some asshole street thug never would’ve had a chance.”

He’d been that asshole. He’d been that junkie kid sitting on his ass staring up at a man in a nice suit that he’d just wanted to steal from. Except he’d knocked the knife from his hand, stopped the world around them and barely blinked at the shadows that rushed to Eli’s fingertips. He could’ve killed them, and instead Bruno had held out a hand to help him up. It’s suddenly a more painful memory than he knows what to do with, his throat locking up and stopping any more vitriol from pouring out.

[nick-balleta]

The suggestion angers Eli, shotglass slamming against the top of the bar and the small commotion enough to make Charlie glance over from cleaning pint glasses. She watches Eli for a moment and it’s clear she’s been listening in when she doesn’t stop by to intervene in the conversation. Or perhaps the distance is due to the infamous ability he’s heard about but never truly witnessed. And if there’s a morbid curiosity in him to know, he doesn’t want to watch something like that happen to Eli. To anyone he cares for.

The redhead never steps over, perhaps confident that Eli’s pal from New York City has it under control or maybe there’s little desire to step between him and the beast that claws its way out of Eli’s chest. They both know what the man is capable of. 

“Alright, alright,” Nick soothes calmly, hands up in a defensive stance he doesn’t truly need. He doesn’t trust Eli not to hit him, because he’s been on the receiving end of those blows numerous times. But he doesn’t think tonight will come down to bloodied knuckles and clenched fists. His friend has every right to be angry, still no answer to who put a bullet in the back of his father’s head and maybe suggesting a simple mugging had been stupid of him, inconsiderate even. Eve wouldn’t have suggested a thing like that. She’s smarter.

But Nick only wanted to exhaust all their options. But they seem to only have two - the Initiative and the Syndicate. Both are terrifying, but if there’s a traitor in their midst than he wants Eve as far away from any of the ones that call themselves friends of the Selvaggios.

“So what next?” he asks to derail the train he put on the tracks, the idea that a junkie mugger could take out a powerful mutant, “You got two roads to travel down.”

[devouringbeast-blog]

“Ideas aren’t enough. It’s not something I can fuckin’ guess at. Even suggesting it, man…” he trails off, and if there are few things he holds sacred, there are only three precepts the Syndicate holds anyone to. The idea of a betrayer being responsible for that bullet in his father’s head is a painful thing to sit here and speculate on. Even throwing it out as casually as he did suddenly doesn’t sit well with him, and if everything is easier to handle when he can mouth some poor joke to accompany it, he doesn’t know if this falls under that category. “We only have three rules.”

It has him pouring another shot for himself, unmindful of if Nick wants another or not. And right now it might be too tempting to slip back into all those old habits. Toss back too many shots, snort a few lines, fall off that wagon he’s been clinging to a little too desperately these days. It seems like a poor way to repay Bruno’s memory, but walking around with clean hands is just as bad.

He’s quick to toss back the shot, hoping that swift burn will offer some comfort. But it serves to loosen his tongue when he feels a mounting restlessness building up in his chest. He shredded a man just to hear him tell him no, and maybe he should’ve listened then. Maybe it wouldn’t feel like the trail’s so cold. “I don’t know. And I’m trying to keep it cool and figure this shit out, but all I really want to do is start ripping people open until they give me the answers I want.”

And he knows Nick doesn’t have the solution to that, not for any of it, but it doesn’t stop him from asking. “But I can’t do that to our own. So what the fuck am I supposed to do?” 

[nick-balleta]

Nick watches as Eli pours himself another shot. And while he’s grateful there isn’t another one being set in front of him, he doesn’t know if his friend should be tossing back so many. But there’s some comfort taken in red hair, knowing that she’s here and not just some story anymore, a name he’s heard hundreds of times during drunken rants fueled by nostalgia and all the days that never came. He gets them now, moments he lost with a woman he cares so deeply for, as long as he doesn’t fuck it all up and there’s little concern of how he’ll get home tonight when he’s hoping there’s an invitation back to hers for the man.

Though it doesn’t seem fair that she’ll have to take care of a drunk Eli. 

He’s a pacing beast, a monster hungry for blood and revenge walking the perimeter of his cage. He’s too hungry for that violence sometimes, an addiction that stuck for him compared to the other ones that he hasn’t relapse on in a long time, or so Nick is led to believe. He doesn’t know any of the people here that hold the title family, but he thinks they wouldn’t be sticking around if Eli had slipped up. 

“Maybe it ain’t any of this,” Nick starts carefully, unsure of how this idea might go over with his friend, but it has to be a notion he entertained. “Maybe it’s just a muggin’ gone wrong or some lunatic. Not every murder gets solved, man.“

[devouringbeast-blog]

That Nick has to question it has enough of a sobering effect to dampen the smile still hovering on Eli’s lips. He wants to tell him no one, that there’s little doubt and they’ll rip through the Initiative in the name of some holy retribution. He can’t manage the words, because Nick’s never done anything to earn lies from him. He might hide the true depth of his unease, uncomfortable with that amount of weakness placed on the counter in front of anyone, but it doesn’t poison his tongue with lies.

“That’s the problem. I don’t know.” His fingers spine the empty glass in his fingers, the idle distraction necessary when he hates the possibilities they’re faced with. The idea that someone his father trusted placed the barrel of a gun to the back of his head and pulled the trigger, and no amount of tequila will erase that image.

“Worst case scenario is a traitor.” The words come out quiet and rougher than he likes, unable to keep them to himself or swallow them down like broken glass. And it might make a Corinthian seem like the lesser danger when all’s said and done. He has a better idea what he’s up against then, and a well placed bullet might be all it takes, if they time it right.

“So there’s that.” He manages a quick and crooked smirk, though it still comes easier than trying to sort through the mess it leaves his head every time he tries to sort through the tangled web surrounding his father’s death. It shouldn’t be taking this long. There should’ve been witnesses, or files, or someone willing to talk, and the fact that it’s been so well buried is that much more frustrating. “I like your idea better. Square things away with the woman and I’ll start stalking LAX.”

[nick-balleta]

The idea of a traitor within the Syndicate’s ranks sits like a heavy pit in his stomach. Not because he cares about the extremist group. On the contrary, they mean little to him. Perhaps they do good work or perhaps the media portrayal of mutants like them is entirely correct. He isn’t here to argue who is right and who is wrong. He’s here for Eli and that’s what concerns him, that he’s toasting to a missions success with someone that’s waiting with a knife to his back, the one who killed his father.

Nick’s eyes flicker over to Charlie and he wonders what she knows, if she’s trustworthy because Eli would never suspect her of something so heinous. But three years is a long time. So much could’ve happened in three years. Or what of his brother? Could Jackson be involved in this? He’s only heard a collection of stories about the other people in this little family. He couldn’t guess of who else to question but it makes everyone a suspect. It makes everyone a target and he thinks he can see the giant, red bullseye painted on Eli’s back.

“Any ideas on who?” he questions lowly, leaning in so the redhead might not catch any of the words he’s uttering, but with his luck she’s probably picked up some supersonic hearing while Eli had been getting into bar fights with him across the country.