lockdown ; fenrir/kingsley, 17 august 1978
"Put that out."
The words are low, gravelly, and unexpected, coming from behind the chairback that's facing the door and the young man who had just swaggered inward with the cigarette hanging from his lips dragged his gaze to his companion, who made a small motion with his head that was partway between a nod and a why-the-fuck-aren't-you-hurrying-up gesture. Rigg looked around frantically for a place to stub it out and panicked when the chair began to swivel, so the lit ember was smudged against the back of his own hand and he grit his teeth against the hiss that threatened to escape. The older male looked amused and held out a hand, offering silently to pocket the still-smoking butt while his companion fussed over the burn.
"Wha's wrong, Dumah," Fenrir growled, slumped against the chair with his hands clasped loosely over his abdomen. His knuckles were reddened and flecked with dried blood but he didn't seem too bothered by the irritation. The tall, dark-skinned man that'd been addressed looked coolly at the injury on his leader's hands before his eyes shifted upward. He folded his arms over his chest while Rigg shifted uneasily beside him, perhaps a little put out by not having been addressed directly.
He's young, too volatile, Greyback can't respect a livewire
, Dumah thought, sensing the energy that rolled off of him like static electricity. "We got an owl, sir," Dumah replied, his accent crisp and clear. It was off-putting when he spoke because his outward appearance was usually dirty and riddled with scars or tears in his clothing, but his voice was sweet and his intonation reminiscent of a song. "It's not good." Fenrir's expression hadn't changed, but the man had noted the slightest twinge in the muscle at his jaw.
"Who." It wasn't a question, it was a command.
“McCallan, Beauregard, and Faron.”
"M'brother- it's m'brother--" Rigg interjected clumsily, drawing the alpha's attention in a way that made him almost immediately cower. "-sir.
" Fenrir's eyes flickered back to the dark-skinned man, inwardly cursing him for bringing the boy. Was this entirely necessary? He wondered. His hands were still clasped loosely, one index finger tapping a slow beat atop a knuckle. The younger wolf seemed ready to interject again but Dumah stuck out a hand, gripping him hard by the elbow. Fenrir was already in the process of rising from his seat, two large hands pressed flat against the top of the desk (not really a desk, more a shoddily constructed surface consisting of an old door and several milk crates, but it served its purpose). He was still looking hard at Dumah, his eyes demanding an explanation.
"There's been an altercation, sir. The Ministry has already been notified--"
A snarl cut through his statement and he paused obediently.
"He will have to be dealt with," Dumah continued. He was the only wolf who dared to make suggestions to their leader. Fenrir trusted him- the most, possibly, even more so than Abbadon. No one else would ever say so, or even hint at this. The alpha nodded slowly. "Yes," he agreed, even as Rigg made a noise of protest at the back of his throat. When the wolf moved again his strides were jerky, animalistic, and he was pushing his sleeves above his elbows without bothering to roll them. A hand dragged through the tangle of hair the looked as though he'd just gone tromping through the woods- and perhaps he had. "Let's go. I'd like t' get there b'fore the shinin' beacon o' justice arrives," he grunted, stalking toward the door where he paused. Movement and fury like a swirling storm front became stagnant just as suddenly as he'd come to life. He looked over the younger pack member, still held tightly in place by his trusted third commander. Fenrir's lip curled. It would have to happen this way. If not this time, then another. It would be better for him if he witnessed it.
"Bring the whelp."
--
The pub was dripping with warmth and with alcohol; good spirits were still abound, but with them came the prospect that someone's night had been sacrificed at the expense of another. In this case, it was Faron's, and he was making it quite clear that he was upset with the outcome. He was caught in the throes of battle in the center of a circle formed by pub-goers, hands slick with someone else’s blood. He was bleeding, too, with twin streams of crimson fluid coursing from his nostrils. A clawed hand had snagged on the shirt of his victim- a drunken man who was now slumped over, unconscious. He’d been spittin’ opinion about werewolves and half-breeds alike. After one too many pints, Faron’d been ready to slit him from navel to chest cavity. That hadn’t happened- yet. He was frozen in place. They all were. Enchanted music continued to play, but the regular din of the tavern was halted. It would have been eerie had they not known what exactly was going on.
The crowd that’d once been too packed to move without a great deal of effort was easy to part when every person was able to be shifted aside by a gentle touch and the three men slipped right through. Fenrir’s mouth was twisted into a snarl, his amber gaze fixed on the man who, in his eyes, had just disobeyed a very direct order. They’d been instructed to lay low, and this certainly wasn’t it. Clearly the Ministry had already heard about this. The alpha wondered how much time they had.
“ PLEASE REMAIN STILL. THIS LOCATION HAS BEEN SECURED BY THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC. AURORS HAVE BEEN NOTIFIED AND WILL ARRIVE SHORTLY. ”
Fenrir growled lowly. “Let’s go,” he spat, turning on the spot quickly. The men at his side followed suit, but they froze again at the faint popping sounds outside. They were too late. This would involve talking- a lot- and Fenrir hated talking. Fortunately he had Dumah, but the man’s sing-song voice and careful charm could only get them so far.
