#meurtriier

[captainrevisited-blog]

          “that’s a rather nasty wound. yes. i noticed. did you notice you’ve trailed blood into the tube?” he speaks lowly as the subway slows to a halt and the doors slide open. people rush out, stepping around them, disappearing from view, clearing the way aboard. 

          “you could use a doctor,” he says softly, not looking directly at the other man, his lips barely move with his words, meant to be unseen. he knew the looks of a man who didn’t want to go to the hospital, and generally, that meant that said person was not so differently aligned than himself. 

          still. hackles raised easily, paranoia made men do stupid things. even when injured in public. best not to press to hard, or else he’d end up with more blood on his hands than intended.

@meurtriier ♥’d for a starter

[sovietarchive-blog]

          he isn’t exactly PLEASED with the current predicament, as evidenced by the tight-lipped frown he wears as he looks sidelong over his shoulder at the other man.  he doesn’t like feeling trapped  --  especially in the literal sense  --  though even as his mind flies through the details of his training to attempt to find a solution to their problem, he still has time to feel ANNOYED.

          ❛   is YOUR fault.   ❜   he hisses through closed teeth.   ❛   if I had been alone for this mission  --   ❜

@meurtriier

[phosphorliights-a-blog]

          “woah woah-- c’mon dude, you really don’t have to do this. just... just take a deep breath, okay?”

@meurtriier ♥’d for a starter

[lynchthedove]

@meurtriier | X

It takes more effort than Cal’s put into damn near anything to put on the persona of Gordon Flynn, Templar, enemy of the Assassins, vicious in a cold way that contradicts his usual fiery anger. The whole thing is made harder still because, whether he knows it or not, Mats reacts to him differently. Works for the ruse, of course, but he can’t wait for the blonde to grow out, for his cheekbones to not look quite so gaunt. His reflection is a stranger that he can’t wait to be rid of. He hates the uneasiness that follows in the wake of Gordon, especially from Mats.

Later, though. They have a lot to get done here, and Gordon Flynn won’t sleep until it’s finished.

Cold blue gaze peers down at Mats through the glass; a practiced look, because it’s difficult not to look fondly at him, even at their worst. Even when they fight. But he’s got it down now, and Gordon’s lips barely twitch into a smile as he lets out a laugh - almost polite, mostly pandering. He chooses to ignore the question asked of him. “Corbeau Matthias Thierry,” he says, letting slip the Irish accent his father had that Cal never really picked up on but can emulate at the drop of a hat.

His full name doesn’t roll well off Cal’s tongue. Not for lack of grace, but because he can’t remember ever using his full name. Not even Matthias. It feels strange, feels foreign - feels like it emphasizes Gordon’s reach in Cal’s mind. He clasps his hands behind him, stands with his feet shoulder width apart. “I hear you prefer Mats, though. May I call you Mats?”

[riggermcrtis-blog]

    ———  it is.  it  definitely  is.  beau isn’t enough of a  remorseful  sort to actually feel bad about it  ;;  he’d figured mats for  unconscious  &&  to the awake went the spoils.  not that he’s not willing to  share.  he even goes so far as to lower the remaining pizza slice to  EYE LEVEL  for the assassin lounging in his lap.

    “ want some  ? ? ” 

@meurtriier  //  cont.

[acureforviolence-blog]

@meurtriier

“good morning, mathias.” a small smile is offered in his direction, a cup of coffee placed delicately before him. she’s CERTAIN her presence is at best, an annoyance at and worst, outright INFURIATING, but sophia has long ago learned to stop evaluating success by whether or not she is LIKED. 

it would be a welcome ADDITION, perhaps, but in no way does she expect it.

“i figured this might be a good way to start off the morning. let me know if you need SUGAR.” a small nod and they both KNOW why she’s here. “how are you feeling today?”

[lynchthedove]

@meurtriier | x

Even if Cal hadn’t been tipped off, he feels like he would’ve figured it out anyway. Mats is talking too much, even for him, and it’s almost too easy to know that there’s more wrong here than he’s letting on. Sometimes he finds it strange, the things they do tell each other, and the things they choose to hide, and how they find it all out in the end anyway, so why bother? But they still bother, still hide things, still try to act casual even when it’s borderline too cheerful, too normal, too off-putting.

“Already talked to Moussa,” he says, his voice hard, no softness to round out the edges. “And Lin. And now I’m talking to you.” He knows there’s more here than what Mats is letting on, and he’s trying not to be upset over it, but for this to be something Mats doesn’t tell him about? Of all things? It makes Cal’s skin burn and his heart pound, and he has to cross his arms to keep his hands from visibly shaking in anger. 

“Would love to hear more about this clusterfuck at the warehouse, though.” He raises his eyebrows, waiting for Mats to explain, to tell him what happened. To try and bypass the fact that he’s hurt and that Cal can see the bandages peeking from the edges of the hoodie and his shirt. He wants to try to play it casual, but his jaw is tense and he’s staring too intently at Mats. Waiting for him to lie. Mats has always been good at lying, Cal just never thought it’d be to him.

[lynchthedove]

@meurtriier​

He feels the effects of Gordon slip from him the more he manages to wrench himself from the grasp of his persona. Too strong, too overpowering, a man Cal never thought he could ever become, and yet here they are, Mats a nervous, dissociating wreck, and Cal, the asshole he always knew himself to be, the one who caused all the pain. He didn’t know he could slip so easily into such a cold demeanor, take it so deeply to heart that he could say even a fraction of the things he did to Mats. He should have listened to Mats when he said they needed to get themselves out. It was dangerous, and not even because of the mission, but because of this.

Cal drives. He knows Mats is barely keeping his shit together, and it’s another reason Cal’s not the asshole Mats deserves. He deserves better. Someone more stable, someone who won’t hurt him this way. Someone soft, with a smile like sunshine, who can give him the warmth Cal’s proven he can’t. (It’s always just enough ‘middle school emo’ when Cal gets like this, and he’s reminded he never even finished the eighth grade.)

And yet, he drives. Just an hour or two away. He knows the seedier parts of town, where booze is plentiful and fights are easy to find. The blonde is gone now, and his face looks somewhat normal again now that some of his facial hair has been able to grow back, but it’s like he can feel Gordon’s fingers still prickling at the back of his neck. Makes his skin crawl. Makes him feel a certain kind of disgusting. He rolls his shoulders and turns the radio up, can’t bring himself to sing to any of the songs. But maybe it helps. Maybe it helps.

The bars aren’t crowded, but it isn’t a crowd he needs. There’s enough people here who know how to take a hit, who aren’t afraid to deliver their own, and it has Cal’s mouth twisting into the familiar smirk that’s his, that’s not the fabricated, mechanical one he perfected in the mirror. It feels natural, even in its moment of unfamiliarity, and knocking back a few drinks before dragging a few of the others into a brawl is easy. God, it’s territory he’d damn well lay claim to, if he could. Fists flying, barely dodging, the solid feel of skin and bone and muscle beneath his knuckles.

When he leaves, he’s got blood in his mouth and down his neck, spattered across his shirt and against split knuckles. No one’s really mad, they’re all the type who enjoy a good fight every now and then, and Cal laughs as he spits blood on the sidewalk, wipes his mouth on his shirt. He looks a damn mess, but he feels human again. Feels like himself. It won’t undo any damage he did to Mats (and oh god, Mats, his stomach twists because he left Mats alone, though he doesn’t deserve Mats, doesn’t deserve him when Cal can be so fucking cruel), but it’s a start to getting himself back.

It’s not that he doesn’t have the time to clean himself up as he drives home. The opposite, really. He has nothing but time. And though he takes a minute to wrap some gauze they stored in the glove compartment around his knuckles, he wants to feel this way a while longer. Dirt and blood and alcohol and the smell of cigarettes clinging to him. Feels right in a way he hasn’t felt in a long while. 

It isn’t the cure-all for everything he’s done to Mats, but dammit, it’s a start.