I feel like anyone who interprets/portrays Celine as outright hateful/neglectful/abusive don’t know what it’s like to have parents who genuinely love their kids more than anything else in the world but are also kinda homophobic/transphobic so the way they deal with the cognitive dissonance of having a queer child is by viewing their child’s queerness as a sort of sickness or even entirely separate entity that’s latched itself onto their kid and is an obstacle to their child’s safety and happiness, whether it’s due to their “lifestyle” itself (direct) or the discrimination their kid is likely to face as a result (indirect) which they are ironically perpetuating, rather than an inseparable part of their child that is one of the very things that makes the child the person that the parents love so much.
I get why people portray Celine more harshly. There’s lots of reasons to tbh but like, this exchange between her and Rumi
“Why don’t you love me?”
“I do love you.”
“All of me!”
hit me right in the heart and radiated through every fiber of my body and is just such a great portrayal of a complex and nuanced relationship between parent and child that I related to so much in spite (or maybe because of) the short amount of screen time they get
Whumpee doesn’t mourn the death of someone they used to be close to. Character A, who was friends with whumpee’s loved one, gets angry at them for it.
Whumpee never goes to loved one’s grave. They drink the day away on the anniversary not because they want to forget the death, but because they want to forget.
Loved one was horribly abusive. Character A still thinks of them as a good person. But whumpee can still feel the hits when they didn’t obey.
Whumpee knows that they’re expected to mourn. They don’t.
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Original Work, KittyFighter, KittyFighter_Fandom
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Original Character(s) & Original Character(s), Original Character(s)/Original Character(s)
Characters: Original Characters, Original Non-Human Character(s), Original Non-Binary Character, Original Animal Character(s), Original Cat Character(s)
Additional Tags: Crying, Original Character(s), Major Original Character(s), Original Character-centric, POV Original Character, Original Universe, Original Fiction, Arguing, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied Relationships, Dialogue Heavy, Dialogue, Dialogue-Only, Past Abuse, Sad with a Happy Ending, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Open to Interpretation, Trust Issues, Slightly referencing another fandom..., should I tag Warrior Cat's-
Series: Part 2 of World Building + Fandom AU Lore
Summary:
Context: P!1 had something bad happen, and P!2 is mad that P!1 keeps putting trust in others that they Shouldn't. Both are Full Blood Cat's.
“That’s never happened before,” he sighs, a pent up noise of frustration and anxiety that expels itself against Roy’s neck in a wet puff of air. “I mean, I don’t– I don’t sleep good, but normally it’s stupid stuff, you know? About him, I mean.”
Roy doesn’t know. His knowledge of James Tartt Sr. does not extend to knowing the intricacies of where on the spectrum of abuse Jamie’s drawn the line between ‘stupid stuff’ and ‘horrific fucking felony.’
Summary: After an incident, Faramir has no choice but to tell you of his trauma.
Warnings/Notes: Referenced abuse :(
Word Count: 1318
“So… are you going to tell me about it?”
You’d found Faramir sitting outside of the Ithilien camp-out cave where the rangers had been staying. He was down by the forbidden pool, gazing into its starry, deep depths like they spoke to him with words. It had taken you forever to find him.
Faramir didn’t respond at first. His eyes stayed glued to the dark puddle whose only light was celestial. You weren’t sure if he was mad at you too, or didn’t yet trust his voice to speak.
Finally, he settled for a quick head shake before he pulled his legs to his chest and tucked his chin between his knees.
A soft frown crossed your face. Faramir wasn’t one to just leave the others like this, especially not as their captain. You didn’t want to leave him alone.
So you sat beside him on the rock, quietly gazing up for a moment.
“I’m sorry about what happened.” You whispered.
It had been a joke, really. You and some of the other rangers were messing around on your off time, playing a variant of tag and hide and seek. Faramir unwillingly got wrapped into it all and wasn’t quite sure what was going on. So when you raised your hand to tag him he flinched as though expecting the gentle touch to be a slap across the face. When he saw your startled expression afterwards he tried to explain it through a shaky voice but in the process stumbled and knocked multiple crates over.
His expression grew from nervous to horrified and after (falsely) detecting another incoming hit, apologies began to spill from his lips like a dam had broken.
He apologized the entire time you helped him clean up, growing more desperate as though begging you to understand it was a mistake. You weren’t upset at all and when you tried to grab his arm to steady him he misread the gesture once more and shoved you away, really expecting another slap.
You didn’t have time to say anything else after that as he took off.
So you gave him an hour or so to cool off. Finally once the sun set and he hadn’t returned you went to go look for him.
Faramir slowly glanced over at you, eyes darkened beneath a glaze of exhaustion and unwanted nostalgia. He shook his head and then buried his face back into his knees.
“I should be the one apologizing.” Faramir whispered, voice heavy. “You did nothing wrong.”
“I upset you somehow.”
“You didn’t.”
“Then what did?” You asked softly. Your hand itched to rest on his back but you held it still, not wanting to set him off with another unexpected touch. Instead you opted for a few rocks that you rolled between your fingers while waiting for a response.
Finally, Faramir spoke.
“I… have bad…” He hesitated, clearing his throat as he tried to figure out how to word his internal issues. “When I was a kid… I wasn’t treated very well.” His voice was quiet like he was embarrassed to be admitting this outloud, but something told you he also so badly wanted to tell somebody, it was almost tearing him up. “If I did anything wrong I was punished.”
“What do you mean?”
“If I so much as… knocked a box over or broke even the smallest thing… I was hurt.”
Faramir didn’t exclusively say how he was hurt but you were beginning to paint the picture in your mind.
“Or… sometimes father would just try to erase me overall…” Faramir whispered quietly. “He would ignore me, act as if Boromir was his only son and I was nothing but a peasant, or nothing but air…” The way his voice cracked made your heart ache. “He… made it well known that all I ever was… and will be to him is a disappointment.”
“You’re not a disappointment.”
“You’re not the one who breaks down anytime someone raises a hand in your direction.”
“Stop that.” You shook your head. “Don’t do that to yourself. You’re already hurt far enough, why dig the blade any deeper?”
Faramir hesitated. “Because it's all I know how to do.”
Just those few words made you want to cry. This poor man… It’s no wonder he was the way he is, not with an upbringing like that.
“Can… Can I hug you?” You asked softly. “I’m not going to hurt you. I swear. Well, maybe my hug will be a little too tight but–”
“Please.”
A sad smile twinged on your lips and you threw your arms around the man at your side, hugging him tight. He didn’t flinch this time and melted into your embrace almost instantly. You ruffled his hair before pulling him even closer.
“I’m never going to hurt you… alright? I’ll never slap you or anything like that. None of us will, Faramir. We love you.” You murmured softly to him, hoping to ease some of the deep sadness from his eyes before your own began to shed tears.
“You do…?” His voice cracked again. “My whole life… I’ve been unlovable…”
“Horseshit. You’re incredibly lovable.” You hugged him even tighter to the point he couldn’t breathe and your arms ached. You finally loosened your grip a little, settling for resting his head against you while your chin sat on his shoulder.
“You should come back to camp.” You murmured softly, drawing soft circles over his back. “We were going to tell ghost stories.”
“Ghost stories… Boromir used to tell some good ones.”
“Do you remember any?”
“I could try…”
“Good.” You let go of him and stood up, offering your hand as slowly as you could to not startle him.
Faramir took your hand and let you pull him to his feet. He hesitated to let go before eventually settling with keeping his hand on your arm. “Let’s… go then.”
“Let’s.” You smiled, leading him away from the lake and back to the cave.
The ghost stories were a pretty good success. Everyone kindly welcomed Faramir back to the group as though nothing had happened and the telling began. By the time you all finished it was rather late and everyone was tired, though also a little terrified.
You retired to your bedroom tucked away and laid down in it. Sleep took you quickly, but left just as fast when you heard something beside you.
Faramir was there. His silhouette was moving as quietly as he could in the dark as he rolled his sleeping bag over the cold stone ground.
“You finished your watch?” You mumbled sleepily, propping yourself up on one arm.
Startled, Faramir looked over at you. He hadn’t expected to wake you and an apology hesitated on his tongue. Then he shook his head.
“No… I didn’t have a watch tonight. I uhm…”
“Had a nightmare?”
“How did you guess?”
“I hear you wake up from them all the time.” You properly sat up now, patting the spot beside you so he knew you were okay with him laying there. “Guess the ghost stories were a little too intense?”
“Hmph.” Faramir chuckled weakly as he laid down beside you. His eyes fluttered a few times and he sighed. “The only ghost that scares me is the voice of my father in my mind… it is a phantom that never leaves.”
You gave him a sympathetic smile. “He can’t hurt you here, I’ll scare him instead.”
A real laugh sounded from Faramir this time and you both exchanged a tired grin.
You reached to make sure he was tucked in and then laid back down, the warmth of your blanket enveloping you like a cozy hug.
“Get some sleep. You need it.” You murmured.
Faramir nodded. His eyes were already struggling to stay open. At your permission, they fluttered shut as a soft sigh left his body, shoulders sinking.
“It’s not like it was a one sided fight, Cal,” he countered, “So maybe it wasn’t his finest hour. But I started it.”
“With your fists or your words?” I asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.
“I might not have thrown the first punch, but I knew exactly which buttons I was pushing,” he argued.
“Oh yeah? And what buttons, pray tell, made it acceptable for him to break your ribs?” I demanded, frustration boiling up at his refusal to understand.
“I might have implied that he might as well take in the kid we made an orphan tonight and add him to the collection of child soldiers,” he admitted, sounding more guilty than mad, “I might have also brought Talia into it.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
There was a lot to unpack there, and I’d circle back to the orphan thing, but first I needed to get through to him, make him see exactly how not okay the situation was.
“I understand that might have been hard for him to hear, but I fail to see why that would make it okay for him to hurt one of the people he promised to protect. I mean, Jason, tell me honestly, if you had a kid, is there absolutely anything they could do or say to make you hit them?”
He flinched, and I took his hand, giving it a quick squeeze.
“Never,” he said, so soft I almost missed it.
“So why is it okay when he does it?”
“Maybe you’re right,” he said, letting out a big breath, “Still… It isn't Dick’s fault. Or Barbie's. And I don't want you to throw away what you've got with them over my issues.”
“And I love that about you, but Jason, I can't be with people who would just stand by and make excuses for abuse. The fact that they wouldn't do that if you'd been just some civilian, but they'd do it to you… It’s not okay,” I said, my voice breaking.
He pulled me into another hug, holding me close and kissing the top of my head, “Have you considered that they might be a little too close to the situation to have thought about it that way? I don't think any of the Bats have a great reference point for what normal or healthy looks like.”
I relaxed into the hug, soaking up the comfort I hadn't realized I needed.
“That might be an explanation, but it’s not an excuse,” I mumbled into his chest, “What am I supposed to do, Jace?”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
For @amonthofwhump 12 Days of Whumpmas, Day 5: Ebenezer Scrooge |Power Outage | Time Loop | Overworked Whumpee | Comfort: Snuggling by the Fire
CW: Intimate whumper, past drugging and noncon, references to captivity and scars
The Motherfucking Gallaghers Masterlist
As always, Jax (and the mentioned Alfie) belong to @comfy-whumpee and are used with their input and permission.
-
Finley White is getting so tired of looking at Savvie Marcoset’s face. At least during the prepping stages, it’s mostly through videos and photographs. They can turn it off, turn away, take a break.
But they’re still tired of seeing it.
Not half so tired, they muse, as their client must be.
“Miss Savvie Marcoset, is it really you?! How are you?!”
“It’s Mrs. Savvie Marcoset,” She corrects, prim and proper. Savvie has her hands folded in her lap, her hair pulled back with a clip. The shadows under her eyes are the only sign that she is, at the time this was recorded, someone frantically searching for her missing captive. In a long off the shoulder black sweater and leggings, she seems relaxed and happy. She smiles, gentle and sweet. It looks utterly sincere. “I am married, you know.”
She holds up a hand and waggles her fingers, showing off the brilliance of her diamond ring.
The person wearing the camera device gasps with audible delight. “Did you really finally get him to put a ring on it? Gosh, Sav, I thought he would never propose!”
“I know that voice,” Finley White's client says, leaning forward. He frowns, his knee bouncing beneath the table. “I remember she was a twat.”
The corner of Finley’s mouth twitches, a smile they can't quite suppress. “Virginia Marshall, goes by Jennie. Went to college with Savannah Marcoset. The Marshalls were longtime friends with the Marcosets, close enough to be trusted. Jennie was facing some low-level charges of her own and agreed to help build this case as part of a plea deal.”
“Twat and coward.” He snorts. “Sounds about right.”
“Well, technically I was the one who got down on one knee,” Savvie says. There’s something strange in her eyes, like always - she looks with too much intensity. She’s hiding it well here, acting with the best of them, but Finley’s been staring at her face for so long that they can see right through it even so.
Finley saw Savvie Marcoset’s true talents on the stand, the first time. They had watched with surprised dismay as she charmed the jury, seeing how she could channel her intensity and terrifying focus into overwhelming charisma before an audience.
“Oh, that’s so modern,” The woman wearing the hidden camera gushes, cooing over the ring. “Did you write your own vows, too?”
Savvie laughs, abashed. “No, no. Traditional. I always wanted a traditional wedding. So did he, really, he's an old-fashioned kind of guy. You should have seen him blush during 'love, honor, and obey.'"
The noise Finley's client makes in reaction to that statement is indescribable.
“Traditional vows... makes sense. You’ve always been the romantic type. Where is that lucky duck today, anyway? The hubby? He isn't with you?”
Savvie's smile doesn't even flicker. “He’s at home with our babies. He loves being a stay-at-home dad, you know? It’s all he ever wanted to be.”
In reality, at the moment this video was recorded, the escaped Jax Gallagher was in his father's apartment, likely pretending to sleep, but at least not sleeping next to her. His children would have been nearby, safe from Savvie's cruelty for the first time.
You’d never know anyone was gone. She's as good an actress as she is at playing music, when she wants to be. And she is clearly pretending that absolutely nothing is wrong.
“Oh, well, bring him to my house sometime, yeah? Let me get a look at him and those little ones.”
“He’s… very private,” Savvie says, low and soft. She gives a little roll of her eyes. “Because of me being, you know, known, and he isn't from a famous family or anything… we like to keep his name out of things. His family is so toxic, plus you know how gossipy the press is about him…”
“Him? Him who?” The informant plays dumb.
“You know… My ex..."
“Oh, your ex Bastian Brighthall?”
“Ha! No, no. I just mean… you know. Since… prison. Which, like, can no one become rehabilitated in this country? Let me live! I’m a law-abiding citizen now, and, and a wife and mother! You have no idea what it's like just trying to raise babies these days..."
She’s so deeply offended. The informant pretends to be offended, too, and lets Savvie change the subject, turn it around to how hard it is to be a woman just trying to live out her happily ever after. It’s masterful, how well she can lead someone along and away from what she doesn’t want to share.
Finley White’s eyelid twitches where they sit at a table, watching this conversation unfold on a television bolted to the wall on the opposite side of the room. Beside them, their client has lapsed back into stony silence, his jaw set, arms crossed. He doesn't look at Savannah Marcoset’s sweet and smiling face, not directly.
He’s tense enough that Finley worries, more than a little, that one of his tendons will simply snap from the stress. He knows - he knew long before Finley said it out loud - what a farce this is, how utterly unnecessary. He knows better than anyone that Ms. Marcoset could have pleaded guilty and saved them all this expense and trouble. The evidence is thoroughly stacked against her. She has no way out, but it doesn’t stop her from throwing out every delay tactic she has.
Jax had been the first one to vocalize the point of Savannah’s strange game, during their meeting with him and his father after the arrest. She’ll drag it out, make it take as long as possible, he’d predicted, sitting in his father's cozy living room in his apartment in England. Finley had flown to him, once again - they had sworn to him once, after the first trial’s conclusion, that they wouldn’t ask him to fly back to America unless they had to.
He’d still been visibly recovering, a man made of shadows who sat with his little girl and her enormous curly hair clinging in wide-eyed silence to him. He’d held onto her just as tightly, as if even Finley might simply take her away if he let go for even a second. She’ll make it fucking miserable for everyone, just to get at me. She always fucking does.
Language, Jax’s father had admonished in a distant and fond way. That's one for the chocolate jar. Or two, maybe.
Jax’s child, who was so perfectly silent Finley kept forgetting she was there, had spoken for the first time. I don't mind, Daddy, she had said. She was so soft Finley barely made out the words. I know that’s grown up words. You don't have to do the jar. You can get chocolates.
Both men had smiled, then - one with open affection for his grandchild, one with a faint shift of lips that vanished as soon as Finley took it in.
Sorry, kiddo, Jax had murmured, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. More for you, then, yeah? Finley had wondered, then, what it must feel like to love a child - to love someone that much - who only existed because of this kind of assault?
Jax had been angrier, or at least more obviously so, the first time they worked with him. After the first escape. During the first trial. The anger that had still flared up then was now a smoking skeletal forest, where you could feel heat against your palm when you laid it against the trunk of a tree, but not even embers were left to glow.
Are the little girl and the baby boy the first green things to grow afterward? Or just… bones, blackened stones weighing him down?
Shit, they need a drink. All their poetry electives from their own college days come out in florid metaphors on days like this one.
More than a drink, they need about sixteen hours of sleep. Not that Jax doesn't need both things more than they do, going through all this again, and again… they’d put it off as long as they could, but finally they’d had to ask him to fly here one more time.
This will be the last time. Finley White will stake their career on Savannah Marcoset never seeing daylight as a free woman again, or they’ll quit and take up needlepoint or whatever it is lawyers who drop the ball that badly do.
They failed him, once, in their own mind. That it could happen to him again feels like their fault, their responsibility, somehow.
Jax had been angrier, before, but less determined than he is now. He had found it much harder, then, not to look at Savvie Marcoset. As if he couldn't break himself of having all his thoughts centered on keeping her from punishing him. The way he had seemed frightened when they took her away, after the verdict, had been painful to watch.
Now he simply doesn't look at her on the screen at all.
Finley picks up the remote, scratching a fingernail over its smooth plastic surface.
Would it have been better, if they had managed to make it so she never walked free? It would have meant no second time held prisoner and therefore no children. Obviously it would have been better. Would he have chosen it, though, if he knew… chosen not to ever meet the quiet little girl and boisterous baby boy… maybe he would. Probably he would.
They would never ask.
In the present, Finley keeps their thoughts to themself. They lean forward, briefly pausing the video. “There’s a few minutes of going back and forth on this, Ms. Marcoset describing a… well, a very fanciful personal idea of the alleged wedding and honeymoon… I’m going to fast forward past it.”
“Thank fuck,” Jax mutters, scratching at the back of his head. His fingers twitch, involuntary, and he drops his hand quickly.
He didn't tremble like that the first time, either. That’s a lasting effect of the shock collar he’d been wearing when he turned up on his father's doorstep after running away with the kids. He hides the scars beneath scarves and Finley pretends they don't see them even when they do.
Those scars feel like visible evidence: Finley White fucked up, and here’s living proof. They’d gotten the conviction, decent prison time, parole within a limited area after release… and it hadn't been enough.
They’ve gone over and over the case, when they can't sleep or think about anything else. They had done a good job. They and a single paralegal, alone, had taken on the Marcoset team of defense lawyers and wiped the floor with them.
Jax seemed to think they had done a good job. Good enough that when he ran this time, he’d called them as soon as he was ready, anyway. He could have gotten a different lawyer, but he had called them, and trusted them, to put her away again.
They just have to make sure it sticks this time. For life, bar the door, throw away the goddamn key.
It was another thing Jax said first, although not in so many words - that if she ever left prison again, Jax almost certainly wouldn't survive it. He’d been hunched over a beer, that first in-person meeting at his father's place. Finley was still jet-lagged from getting on the first flight out, and nearly asleep on the sofa. He hadn't brought it up until the kids and his father were safely asleep.
If she gets out again, or… comes h-here… that's it. He hadn't looked up at them, just stared down at his beer. The kids vanish first, probably. Dead or disappeared. Whatever she thinks will fuck me up worse. Actually, probably disappeared and then dead later once she thinks-... once she’s made me sorry. Then me, after them.
Then you? Last?
Yeah. Disappeared. Or dead. Or both. But she’ll go after them first. She'll-... He drank half the beer in three long swallows, wiped a hand over his face, and then exhaled and looked over at them. She can't hurt my kids. Okay? She can't.
Finley had nodded, and lifted their own beer in a kind of grim salute. She won't. We nail her to the wall this time, Jax. I promise.
Fuck yeah. His expression stayed flat, but he clinked his beer glass against theirs and that was that, he was Finley White's once and future client one more time.
Even though the case is open and shut, they’re throwing everything they’ve got at this, leaving nothing on the table. Leaving nothing to chance or luck. They have a promise to keep.
“Our informant wore this camera to get an idea of what Mrs. Marcoset was thinking, how she was playing your disappearance from her life. It was recorded before she was arrested,” Finley explains. On the screen, Savvie's rushed dramatics are silent, her hands moving in gestures that constantly flash the ring. Her smile is absolutely radiant. She has always been a beautiful woman, layered over the cruelty beneath. “We probably won't need this at court-”
“Then why are we watching it?” He asks abruptly. Not angry or hostile, just wanting to get it all over with.
They know the feeling.
“Because I thought you might want to see this part,” They say, and hit play, the video shifting back into regular speed, the casual buzz and clink of the restaurant around them kicking back in.
“-three years old,” Savvie is saying. She is every inch the proud and loving mother, pulling out her phone and then turning it around to show the informant. “Born in… in May, named after my grandmother. Isn't she beautiful? Doesn't she look just like me?”
“This was after I left?” Jax frowns at the photo Savvie has pulled up - of Jax holding his daughter back when she was a baby who already had too much hair and eyes too big for her face. Jax, his gaunt frame dressed in slightly oversized designer clothes to hide bruises and his unreliable access to food, is looking at the camera with a false and slightly hazy-seeming smile.
“Yes,” Finley answers, nodding. “This conversation would be maybe… six months after that.”
Jax’s eyes narrow. “That photo’s of Izzy as a baby, for one thing. For another… her birthday isn't in fucking May. Jesus. I didn't know the day, she never would tell me, but I knew what season. Also, Iz was four when we got back home, and she would have turned five by… whenever this is. We got her a fucking cake, my dad and I, when she turned five."
“You are absolutely certain that-”
“Yes,” He answers them, voice flat and cold as paper on stone.
“You may have to testify about that, Jax. Good evidence of a lack of connection to Isabeh-”
“Izzy,” He corrects automatically.
“Right. Sorry. I’ve been elbow-deep in legal docs all day, everything is full legal names. This video might not be worth much during the criminal trial, but for the civil case regarding the children’s living arrangements-”
“Yeah, fine, I’ll testify. Yeah.” He snorts. “Also, I'm fucking drugged in that photo she flashed around. If that matters.”
“You are?” That's a surprise to them. They turn to rewind the video back to when the photo is held up, pausing it, scanning it over again. The slight smile, the way he gripped tight to the girl… almost white-knuckled…
“Yeah. High as hell and terrified I'll drop her. Scared that that's her game this time. Get me to let Iz slip through my arms and then get goddamn mad at me for not being careful enough. I got her to stop putting shit in my drink when the kids were awake eventually, but she was still doing it, then.”
He isn't casual with how he drops these pieces of abject horror into conversation - no, Jax wields this information like a riddle, or a test. How you respond is to pass or to fail, and Finley knows him well enough by now to be aware that very few people come back from failure.
So they nod, and wait to see if he plans to offer anything more.
He looks over at them, then back at the photo frozen in time on the screen. “Had to tell her I liked that shit, just… you know. After the kids went down to sleep.” He meets Finley’s gaze head on, staring them down.
But he knows them well enough that he knows he never has to spell any of it out, not anymore.
So they nod again. “And it worked?”
“Yeah. Mostly.” He looks away. Finley never knows for sure if they’ve passed the test, not until he keeps talking. “I could put her off with asking for it to happen later. Savvie forgets shit. Half the time by the time she went to sleep, she didn't remember she even brought it up.”
Half the time.
Finley looks back at the video, and hits the play button. Savvie is back to happily chattering about her perfect husband and perfect children, sitting in a café months after the bruised, battered, scarred man and children in question had escaped her grasping fingers and shock collars and cruelty, but before there was enough to bring her in.
She had to have known they were coming for her, by this point. And yet she pretended everything was completely fine, that nothing had happened. She was either so sure her family would throw enough weight around to fix it for her in the end, or…
“She’s completely out of her mind,” Finley whispers. Not that they hadn't said it before. But this… this is different. “She just. Can't deal with it, and so she just doesn't even acknowledge the problem exists. Jax-”
“Yeah, I know how she is. Lucky you, you didn't get that shit up close and personal like I did. This isn't even the worst of her bullshit.”
“Looking at her, you’d never know it.” Finley sits back, not allowing themself to slump. If they can pull this off, there's a four hundred dollar bottle of stupidly priced bourbon they’re going to buy to celebrate. “Look at her. No sign whatsoever of anything but happily ever after. You ran. It’s been months since she last saw you or your children… and she’s calm as can be. She doesn't even know where you are."
“She probably knew where I was.” Jax shrugs, outwardly unbothered. “I mean, she’s a stupid shitsnob, but she knows I'd go to my dad. She knew where I was gonna go if I got away from her.”
“She didn't go for you, though, didn't try to recapture you. At the time, if she knew…”
Jax gives them the stare again. “I know exactly what she did. She freaked out when we were gone, called her bastard shitstain uncle for help. He had people hunting me, until we got to the border. We barely managed to keep out of sight of them. We had to cross the border… we had to.”
“Right, because in the UK… you’re, uh-” They hesitate.
Jax prickles when they hesitate. His eyes narrow, and Finley straightens their posture, refusing to wilt before that stare. “You can say it,” He says, voice flat. “Fucking famous for being kidnapped, right? There were programmes about that shit. Fucking journalists. And I bet once we made it over the border, dear Uncle Isaac told her he wasn't going to risk it anymore, to pack her shit and go home, act normal. Be seen so she could act like she never left. See if they could wait me out.”
Sometimes they forget how watchful Jax is, how well he understands not just Savannah Marcoset herself but the parade of Marcoset family members who treated him like Savvie's toy or worse. He didn't understand it all that well the first time.
Another thing he only has to know because they couldn't keep him safe.
“Right. But that's practical... from a criminal perspective. That's not… this.” They look over at the screen again, frozen once more on Savvie's cheerful, winning smile.
“No.” Jax’s knee is bouncing again. There has always been a hum of energy in him, but even that is held more inside him now. Because they hadn't hammered their case hard enough.
It just hadn't been enough.
It has to be enough this time.
“Jax… we have to show them that Savannah Marcoset. Not the one in this video, but the one who incapacitated you to make it easier for her to harm or control you. She is going to want them to see the act, try to get parole on the table, try to get at least limited access to the children-”
“Which she won't fucking get.” For just a second, the layer of self-protective hostility drops. It’s not panic, not visibly, but it’s close. “I told you, first thing I fucking said, she can't get at my kids. The whole reason I'm fucking doing this is to keep them safe. She can't get her hands on my fucking kids.”
“No,” They say, voice firm, and meet his eyes. He scoots slightly back, arms crossed again, staring at them fixedly with his chin tipped slightly down. They watch him right back. “She won't. We talked about it, I remember. No access, full stop. No presents, no letters, she gets no photos and no updates. Absolutely nothing. Complete termination of parental rights. Complete. No exceptions."
“And prison for-fucking-life, and no parole.”
“No chance. It’s going to be rough, Jax, I won't lie to you. She’s going to put on a show, and we are going to need to systematically dismantle it. Take away all her charm and let them see who you saw, day in and day out.”
He nods, jaw set. Stubborn and determined, and maybe the fire still burns down in there somewhere. His smile is so genuine they nearly wonder if it's real. “Good. Yeah. Uh, how, though?”
They look back over at Savvie, the face filling the screen. Savvie will be magnetic, just like the first time. Not so young, now, not able to play the innocent girl led astray. But she'll play all the greatest hits of sincerity, earnestness, contrition… Jax, by contrast, is all rough edges and bristling quiet. He won't charm anyone so readily. But his story will be what actually happened.
They just need to prove it.
“I had a couple more recordings for us to look at today,” They say, thinking, mind spinning. “But they aren’t urgent. Let’s break early, you head back to see what your little ones are up to, and I'll start drafting an outline of what we prove and how we prove it. I have some ideas. We’ll reconvene here tomorrow at 8 am.”
“Sounds good, yeah.” Jax shifts, restless, ready to get out of the room with Savvie’s face still on the wall.
“Tomorrow we’re going to talk about some… difficult stuff, Jax. Make sure you take it easy tonight.”
He looks at them, then just turns away, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. “Right. Yeah. Stuff about the kids, or the rape?”
It’s a test again.
God, how Finley hopes they never fail this man, not this time. Not when they couldn't keep him as safe as he deserved to be.
“Just the outline,” They say, casual as can be. “But.. both. All of it. No details yet. But later-”
“Yeah. I’ll be back at 8. Ish.” He leaves before they can say another word, and they sit back, staring after him.
They have mountains of documents to finish sorting through, and a man carrying so much cruelty in his head that if he opens his mouth on the stand, a waterfall might come rushing out. He's covered in scars from Savvie's abuse, has two kids that are living evidence of assault. They have a traumatized little girl in therapy multiple times a week. They have Jax’s devotion to his son and daughter compared to Savvie not even knowing what time of year Izzy was born in.
“You really should consider accompanying me one day.”
Leaning against the glass door of the balcony, his eyes survey the blue shade of the woods outside with boredom. The Sun sinks lower minute by minute, surrounding the crown of every tree with a halo of scalding blood. To the east, he spots a wave of dark clouds coming this way. A wild storm is certainly inbound.
“I would suggest inviting someone more interested in your company,” — murmurs the man lounging in the corner. He sits with an old tome, studying it intently as he bears Grim’s efforts to distract him from his work. A small demon kneels next to his seat on the floor, focusing intently on the carpet under its legs and not the claws running through the curls between its antelope-horns. It wears a heavy metallic collar and a chain leashing it to its master, as well as vivid veins spanning the entirety of its sickly pale skin. Dark pits sit under its eyes and colourful bruises blot its limbs and torso, rings of purple encircling its wrists, ankles and throat. It occasionally winces in worry, shuddering when a stray finger wanders a little too close to an eye, then settling once more. The flinch is no more apparent than the clattering of its bones as it trembles in mortal terror under the hand that provides safety only through pain.
Grim scoffs, that trademark smile glowing in the golden red light of the bleeding sun glazing his fanged teeth. He turns to glance at the other, twisting his neck to the side in an unsettling, inhuman manner. — “I’m asking for too much again, aren't I? Oh, how could a little servant like me ever expect a god to make time for my silly little ideas? Inviting you so brashly on a trip to the Flesh Harvest near the southeastern colony as a way to have fun and relax? Please excuse my insolence, Your Majesty. I must grovel and beg for your forgiveness, lest you smite me where I stand for such an outlandish request!”
The dramatic display fails at garnering more attention. When the man’s eyes lift to glance at Grim, they land on the theatrical posing of the Reaper's hand, the knuckles hovering just over his own forehead, eyes closed and neck bared as he moans in faux-melancholy. When no comment comes his way, one mischievous crimson eye cracks open, and a toothy grin swiftly replaces the played-up pout. — “Must you always regard me with such contempt, My Lord? Those eyes are sharper than a dagger.”
His lord makes a face at that, rumbling a thought in his throat before letting it free. — “Do you find me so scary?”
Death's expression softens, his hand falling back to his side. Truly, it's hard to tell sometimes if his lord truly misses the meaning of jest, or if he is countering it skillfully with a surprising assumption. — “Positively spine-chilling,” — he teases with a good-natured chuckle.
The neutral expression of his lord rarely ever changes. The slightest widening of eyes, scrunching of eyebrows or downturn of his lips are all that you must acclimate yourself with, as those who aren't proficient in recognising the subtle changes in his mood may well find themselves in immeasurable torment at the snap of a finger. That is, unless he puts on a fake expression to garner empathy. It is, of course, not impossible to catch the lord truly smiling or laughing, or even yelling and crying — it's only that, to bring such a raw, emotional reaction like that out of a being that has existed since near the beginning of time, something outstanding must occur. He has been witness to the best and the worst of existence, and has not only experienced it all first-hand, but doled it out in return. Grim is one of the only remaining people who still manages to coax a true laugh out of him every once in a while. He is also the most likely to bring onto himself his old friend's true wrath.
Grim watches the demon slave by his lord, mesmerised by those long lashes fluttering in overwhelming fear. The poor creature is struggling to catch its breath. Not something out of the ordinary; it is in one room with two of the most powerful forces of evil in the world. Both the Reaper and his lord carry with them an unnatural air that weighs on the very souls of whoever happens to be near them — an aura of death and danger, and an aura of fear and submission respectively. It must feel suffocating for a little thing like it. Grim licks his lips at the thought, and the demon must catch that from the corner of its eye, because the quietest, most adorable little whine squeaks out of it.
Ah, his lust is still not satisfied. Mori’s blood still coats the underside of his claws, their shrill cries still echo in his ears, yet he still finds it difficult to keep focus when such a darling critter is kept just out of his reach like this. He will have to pay another visit to his favourite fawn later. They must be having the time of their life with his newly acquired Fallen. He wonders what all they must be chatting about. He wonders what all Mori will tell the angel about his new life. He wonders how much he will come up in conversation.
“You don't sound very scared,” — his lord muses. The withered book he has been reading through he now places on the midnight black surface of a desk to the side, giving up on retaining any information he may gain from it for as long as Grim is here; an achievement Grim feels far too proud to have reached. — “As a matter of fact, you sound even more daring today than usual. As if you have made it your goal to annoy me to death. I doubt that would even be a challenge for you. Is this what this is? An attempt on my life?”
Despite the neutral tone, Grim catches the slightest smile in his lord's voice. It always warms his cold, unbeating heart when he smiles. It's this feeling of accomplishment, as well as the privilege of successfully manipulating his lord's mood in such innocent, harmless ways that does it for him. Manipulation is his lord's field of expertise, a thick outer layer of lies on his skin that not many can penetrate — Grim merely enjoys being the exception.
“You wound me, Your Majesty,” — Grim sighs, folding his arms. Red eyes break from infinitely dark ones, catching the exact moment the sky and the earth meet outside. The slave gasps behind him, cowering away from its master as he stands from his throne. The chain leading to his scarred hand falls to the floor in a downpour of heavy thuds, scaring its heart into beating just a little faster. Grim can hear it as well as if he had his ear right up against that ribcage visible through straved skin. — “Is your goal, then, to bore me to death? I could just leave, you realise. You called me here in the first place, and I have better things to do than to stand around beside you like an accessory. You already have one lap dog sitting by you; isn't that enough?”
He can't help but let his attention wander, from the cursed forest beneath the balcony to the timid, careful swishing of a tail against the floor. His gaze is pulled right back to the source of the delicious aroma wafting through the air. To the veins pumping that sweet nectar just a few strides away. — “Tch. My hunger does emerge again. The little one… I am tempted to snatch it up and have a taste.”
“Oh, you can have it if you would like. It tastes divine; it would be cruel of me to not share it. Just try not to end it yet.” — Ignoring its tremendous pleading, its owner leaves it right there with no remorse or care, defenceless against lustful eyes devouring its body from where the Reaper stands. It expects Grim to leap at it immediately, to latch onto and maul it, tear off a limb or two. Every second longer that he remains staring by the glass door with the red rays of the sun haloing him from behind like a fallen archangel, the demon scooches further behind the plush armchair to hide from that palpable, perverted menace coming off of the deity in waves.
It's the most precious scene, watching it cower and disappear inch by inch behind the furniture, listening to its heart beating inside its chest wildly.
“Enjoy it. A gift for showing up so early and surviving my apparent deadly disinterest,” — his lord yawns, his shoulders popping loudly as he stretches. Facing him properly, it's clear to the Reaper now that the devil is in a good mood. A dangerous thing, his good moods. Almost as unpredictable as his bad ones. — “I called you here for a reason, however. It may give you insight as to why I chose to decline your offer so outright, if you will let me explain.”
Grim suddenly brightens, tearing his eyes away from the small demon with an excited gasp, forgetting entirely about his hunger. He directs a truly devilish grin at His lord, looking awfully mischievous. — “No… Could it be? Your Majesty — are you in need of a favour from your dear old friend, the Grim Reaper?”
The title Grim uses for his lord is a flattering one, chosen carefully as a pet name of sorts. It serves well as a way to soften his words, and even better to tease when the opportunity arises. No one else calls the man royalty, and in reality, it is almost offensive to see him as only that.
No mere king has ever ruled the whole world before.
“A favour?” — asks the lord, raising an eyebrow, leaning up against the massive half-moon shaped desk at the back centre of his study, — “what do you mean?”
The Reaper is practically bouncing in his giddiness, giggling as he chirps with a flourish, — “what else could this be? You called me here to ask for my help, did you not? You even brought a lovely little lamb as payment.”
“You misunderstand.”
Grim skips up to His Majesty, taking hold of both his shoulders lightly as he leans in and speaks with sympathy. — “Oh, I know you find it hard to ask for help, darling, but there is no need to deflect. I am here to provide assistance, always and forever.”
“Grim.”
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“I only have one favour to ask of you, my dear.” — He reaches out a warm hand to place upon the Reaper's cheek tenderly, his knuckles chilled upon contact with the undead flesh. There is no humour in His lord's voice, yet what he says next still manages to have the silver haired man cackle like a hyena in amusement. — “Please — shut the fuck up.”
Grim breaks from him in his fit of laughter, and though he doesn't see, his lord’s smile widens in a genuine way as he watches him lose all his composure to the unexpected delivery. He appreciates how familiar this feeling is; how, at his core, his oldest friend is still the same even after all these years. He still hides his smile behind the knuckles of his hand, he still breathes as he laughs, drawing out lovely long notes that most find endlessly unsettling. The mundane has become more than an annoyance to him by now, one that he fights every day as he looks for newer, more entertaining things to fight his ancient boredom with. Grim remains the one constant he could never bear to lose.
Once Grim escapes his breathlessness, he lifts a clawed finger, keeping his head low as he wags it at his lord a couple times in a ‘you got me’ kind of fashion. — “First of all, language, Your Majesty…” — He leans heavily against the desk behind him, taking a deep, mumbling breath.
Between leftover chuckles, his lord tilts his head to the side, regarding him with what seems to be indifference. — “Are you done?”
“Defeated candidly in a fair battle.” — The Reaper composes himself swiftly. He straightens as the last of the amusement bleeds from him, leaving only a satisfied expression. He gestures in his lord's direction vaguely, bowing his head as he decides to take a closer look at the demon still huddled behind the furniture weeping softly as he gives up the stage to him. — “Please, do carry on.”
Glancing out at the slowly darkening sky, his lord notes the falling sun. A chill wind is starting up, blowing out the candle sitting on the small table just to the side. Ephemera flies off the cluttered desk, landing on the large emerald green carpet stretching from entrance to furniture. A great storm in the making indeed.
As he moves to close the balcony doors, he has the chance to elaborate in the newly created silence without disturbance. — “It is already sundown. We must make haste.”
“I recall you had something planned, yes,” — Grim mutters as he peeks behind the wing chair, finding a shaggy head of unkempt hair curled up against the arm of it. The slave has a fractured hoof, slowly oozing black blood from the vicious crack. It must be horribly painful to walk on that. Only half-listening to his lord, Grim approaches the trapped demon whimpering against the fabric, whispering to it with a dark craving. — “Hello, little one. I can already tell you will only bleed the sweetest blood for me.”
“I was invited to a meeting, one which starts not long from now,” — his lord starts, clicking a claw against the surface of his desk, — “in human territory.”
Pulling at the demon’s long, black, twisted horn until it crawls up onto Grim’s lap, they sit on the chair together, the demon held close, captive in Grim's arms. He slides a hand onto the back of its neck, curling pale fingers into its hair to lightly pull and bear its neck for himself. Only after nuzzling into the soft, vulnerable skin of its throat to indulge himself in the mouth-watering aroma of a helpless little creature whining and crying from the purest fear does he care to reply. — “Mmm… How lucky you are.”
It's unclear if he speaks to his lord or the poor thing gasping in his lap.
“All of their leaders will partake. I assume they are ready to strike another deal with me. Or perhaps they have a new plan to try to get rid of me. Either way, it's always amusing to watch them struggle to delude themselves, isn't it?” — his lord muses, watching Grim taste the skin of the slave, drinking in the terror coming off it like waves of pure honey. One monster thirsts for its blood, the other its agony.
“It truly is, Your Majesty. You're making me,” — a long, open-mouthed kiss over the drum of a carotid artery pumping scarlet ichor, — “…very jealous.”
The lord seems pleased. He had hoped the blood would satisfy the Reaper, and it seems he chose well. It's a marvel Grim hasn't torn into its neck until now. His eyes have fallen shut, almost purring as he finally tears delicate skin and bites down. Almost like a hypnosis, feeding never fails to put the Reaper into the deepest pool of peace and pleasure. It's a vulnerable state to be in, especially in front of someone who could so easily take advantage of it watching from the side. Going off of his change in attitude alone, its blood must taste just as delicious as its fear. He is thoroughly distracted by the rush of crimson entering his mouth, holding the demon ever closer as if to squeeze the life out of it. It's such a beautiful sight.
“Don't be,“ — his lord says, — “I didn't call you here to cause envy. As I said, I may be walking into a trap. While I am certain I will survive, it's never a bad idea to have my loyal guard dog with me. Just in case.”
No further comment comes, only squeaks and cries forced from the main course’s throat. With fangs digging deeper into its flesh with vigour, it cannot help providing a lovely show for the both of them. Evening entertainment; nothing more and nothing less.
Pausing to watch the life fading from its eyes, it's clear it won't survive this unless the lord steps in.
“Is it to your liking?” — he inquires from the side, fixing the lace ruffle at his sleeve absentmindedly. — “I found it living in the streets of Gorenest. It came to me looking for help. Told me about how its family had abandoned it. How it had been living off of favours for strangers. It is used to this, if you can believe it. It is used to abuse.”
Neither the slave nor Grim even notice him joining them on their side of the room. He puts a hand right back to those soft, dishevelled curls, pulling down along its scalp gently as it shudders weakly, going limp between them. Its misery is simply delectable every time he gets a taste of it.
Not long after, it loses consciousness, signalling the sudden end of dining for both of them. Disappointed, yet so enamoured, Grim lifts his head from the bloody crook of its neck, eyes half lidded and breathing slow.
“So you're saying I should let it live,” — he rumbles, holding it upright with ease, — “so you can torment it further.”
“Precisely.”
“And you want me to come with you to this human meeting and hold your hand, because you are too scared to go on your own?” — Grim asks, turning to his lord with a raised eyebrow.
“I am asking if you would like to come with, as I know you love scaring humans and annoying me specifically,” — his lord replies easily, letting go of the unconscious creature and summoning his walking cane to his hand. — “If you want to, then we may go at once. I am already late because of you.”
“Because of me?” — the Reaper gasps incredulously, straightening in his seat, — “the nerve!”
But his lord has already turned his back to him, knocking twice on the blackwood floor with his cane to alert the servants and call for their aid in caring for the half-dead demon in Grim's lap. As if out of thin air, the empty halls spit out a couple horned creatures in similar collars to that of the abused demon slave, hurrying inside to take it from the Reaper with care. He simply stands and lets the body roll off him to the floor, forgetting about it as if it was a corpse already. Bowing deep before swiftly running off just as quickly and quietly as they had arrived, every servant and slave disappears in but a moment, leaving only the Reaper and His Majesty.
In a blink, his lord transforms into a different being.
He tends to change appearance often. From demonic, to purely human, to something downright monstrous, incomprehensible. Humanoid, an animal, simply a shadow on the wall. Sometimes he has no form at all, existing somewhere nobody can visit, not even Grim. It's fascinating, certainly confusing, but with enough time, one grows used to even this.
“Right after calling me your guard dog as well. I wonder why people think I'm the crueller one between us,” — Grim adds on, snarling in distaste. More often than not, the most hurtful things come out of his lord's mouth in the most casual ways. Common decency and respect are weapons as much as threats and promises are. They work the best when used in tandem, weaving their threads together to form a net impossible to escape.
His lord has taken the form of something similar to Grim; an innocuous, young, handsome mortal man, with an easy smile and right posture. He takes on human forms more often than one would expect a being like him to, seeing as most in power love to flaunt their abilities over others, showing off and shouting from the rooftops of their golden palaces that they hold power and they should be feared.
His lord appreciates humans, is all. He finds them fascinating. He hates them, and he adores them. He finds them disgusting, yet pure and innocent and gorgeous. Taking on their form helps him understand them better, and helps them fall for him easier. He loves humans. He loves to rip them apart. It's as simple as that.
“You are right,” — his lord says, turning back to face him with a sly smirk, — “‘attack dog’ would be more fitting.”
That prompts a scoff of a chuckle, and a tightening of the corners of his mouth. He does not appreciate being called a dog, his lord knows this well — but he can't deny that the description, while demeaning, isn't untrue. It would be a sign of weakness to do anything but laugh it off, and he does so with the bearing of his fangs and the growl of a wild mutt. He is an attack dog, and he chose to be. It's more fun that way. He does not appreciate the tone and repeated disrespect is all. Doubling down on it is more than just a small, harmless offence.
“You snide prick,” — he purrs, not even giving him the chance to catch anger slip through his words, — “it’s one of those days, huh? Just can't bear to hold your tongue. You can just say it's nice to see me, no need to hide your shame behind such harsh words.”
He can't help leaning in, nearly closing the gap between them, smiling with only his lips. His eyes are stone cold. — “I missed you too, Your Majesty.”
‘Call me your dog again. I dare you.’
Five seconds. Tension. His Majesty seems unbothered. Calculating, as he always does in that twisted mind of his. Then, the Reaper abruptly brightens again, tearing away and summoning his scythe to his hand, swinging his silver claws above his face to pull that cursed canine mask out of the shadows and put it on, hiding behind it before his true emotions could show. It would be a waste of time, and a waste of dignity.
His attack dog. Right. — “Shall we be going then?”
His lord seems entirely too unfazed by his barely cloaked threat, but Grim is anything but convinced. Both of them are more than aware that they are on equal footing. They are both gods, after all, they are both capable of hurting the other. That knowledge usually translates to mutual respect, reinforced through a shared past and millenia of time, and perhaps a bit of friendly confrontation. Sometimes, however, his lord forgets that he is more than just a dumb, defenceless servant carrying out his deeds without a word. He may be loyal, but only as loyal as a wild animal gets. To provoke a tamed lion relentlessly has never led to anything pleasant. You cannot tame something wild.
“Mmm. I suppose we shall,” — comes the murmur of a reply. Smooth and casual. Not even a change in tone.
He stomps on the floor with his cane once more, just a tad harder than before. In rushes another servant, looking to the ground in submission. It holds its dirty apron in its clutches so hard it tears into it with its beastly fingers.
“Clean this up,” — orders its master plainly, gesturing to the blood and papers scattered across the floor with his hand, — “and be thorough this time. Your legs have barely healed; I would hate to have them torn up again.”
Its knees knock together under it from the sympathetic, unbelievably innocent tone, itching at the heavy scarring between them. — “With pleasure, muh-, My Lord.”
He smiles sweetly, emptily, then turns away without a word, letting it begin its work. It struggles to bend its legs enough to reach the floor, trembling from exertion already, but that is not important. They have somewhere to be.
A snap of his fingers, and the very space rips open in the middle of the study, sending more clutter flying. A portal, one that presumably leads to where they need to go. Like a melting mirror, its edges flow and grow until it is large enough to fit a person comfortably, beckoning the two deities to enter with its unholy light.
