lararutherford

[lararutherford]

The Rutherford could do little more than huff out a laugh at his comment about going soft. Neither of them were really under any illusions about that. Stubbing out what remained of her cigarette, her eyes lifted to meet his, narrowing slightly as he settled at her side. It'd been a while since he'd belonged there.

"Perhaps," she commented, pondering the amusement of dying to smoking after surviving five attempts on her life. Everyone present knew she would die to a Russian long before cancer, though, no matter how much the two words might've become synonymous to her these days. "Probably not before this conversation does."

A joke. Imagine that.

Carefully crossing her legs, she used the movement to slowly push the chair beside her back from the table with the pointed toe of her Dior heels. It wasn't an invitation, nor was it a request. Óscar knew her well enough to understand expectations.

"Have you ever met Vincenzo before?"

Óscar spotted Lara Rutherford before he even hit the edge of the floor—perched like royalty, cigarette in hand, that signature Rutherford smirk halfway to dangerous. Gorgeous beyond belief. The bodyguard didn’t need to hear the words to know she was stirring something with that tone. But when he did catch the line—murder, tabs, Konstantin—he couldn’t help himself.

He adjusted the tape on his wrist, slid a hand through his hair, and made his way over with unhurried ease. Boots heavy on concrete, shoulders loose, eyes sharp.

"Qué generosa," he murmured as he came up beside her, gaze flicking briefly toward the ring before settling back on Lara,"Murder and free drinks? You’re really spoiling us tonight."

His mouth curled into something like a smile—too dry to be warm, but not cold either. The kind that said he wasn’t here to start anything. Not yet.

"And here I was worried you might’ve gone soft since Porto," he winked before he chanced with a glance at her cigarette, "You know that shit’ll kill you, right?"

His tone was light. Familiar. Not lecturing—he wasn’t her father, and she’d probably have knifed him for implying it—but teasing in that low, quiet Óscar way. He didn’t sit. Merely lingered at her side for the moment as if pulled into her gravity within a memory. The hum of the crowd filling the silence he left between lines.

[lararutherford]

In a rare show of affection, Lara reached over to give Catalina's hand a gentle squeeze. It was gratitude, mostly, that the woman had been such a constant in her life for so long. That in spite of everything, she'd stuck by her side, even in the moments Lara deserved it least.

"Save it for Adri. I think she's going to need extra tonight."

The Rutherford hadn't seen her sister yet, but she didn't doubt that her choice to pair Aviv up with Oliver Parra of all people likely wouldn't sit well. Unfortunately, her primary goal tonight had been heavy Russian losses, and so far as Adriana's ex-fiancé was concerned, she was limited on options for those who had a fighting chance, let alone people who could reasonably beat him.

Did she feel guilty? No.

"Who are you betting on tonight?"

Catalina collapsed into a seat next to her friend, letting out a contented sigh. There was something incredibly satisfying at putting work into an event and watching it come together the way they'd planned. When they both put their minds to it, the shit they could do was unlimited.

Her chocolate eyes fell onto the ring, ready for the first fight to begin. Her heart was already pounding. She loved with the place was filled to the brim like this. The feeling that anything could happen, and it probably would.

She'd already done a bump, just to keep her energy up. She crossed herself when Lara spoke, putting the little baggie discreetly between the two of them. "From your lips to God's ears, sis."

[lararutherford]

@mobscene-starters Event: Fight Club 2025 - Pre Fights.

To say Lara Rutherford was in her element was an understatement.

Whilst Fight Club had functioned as normal in her absence, there hadn't been a cross-faction meet-up since she'd taken her step back. Running the event without Amir had proven a concept she wasn't willing to stomach, and even now, the void his murder had opened haunted the event he had helped establish back in Porto all those years ago. But it was getting easier. And as she slumped back into her seat on the main floor—a spot she wouldn't remain in long—she felt herself actually relax. Maybe the thought of maimed Russians in the near future was elevating her mood.

"I'll cover everyone's tabs if Konstantin murders the Turk," she began, punctuating her almost wistful tone with a drag on her cigarette. "A girl can dream."

[lararutherford]

Lara Rutherford hosts the 2025 Fight Club @ The Underground. Date: Friday, April 4th, 2025. Escorted By: Jasper Menzies. Wearing: Dolce & Gabbana. As if she'd risk getting blood on her Dior.

[lararutherford]

@LaraRutherford: I never won't miss you, Porto Velho. (Don't worry. We'll be back in time for the weekend. 😘) @jmingus @camillaeliades @dianasehgal

[lararutherford]

"I was passing by and thought I'd stop in and say hello. You looked like you were about to dial Samaritans for the entirety of that godawful campout ordeal, and it would look terrible if my brother's ex-girlfriend wound up swan diving off Tower Bridge so soon after the breakup. Have you tried BetterHelp?"

The Rutherford didn't feel guilty about helping herself to the chair at the librarian's table. Dusting it off with a napkin first, of course. Once she was settled onto the uncomfortable cushion, she shifted slightly, before bringing her cup of tea to her lips in brutal nonchalance given her previous implication.

"Do hope I'm not disturbing you." Well, actually, she didn't fucking care at all.

FOR: OPEN TO ALL. TAGS: @mobscene-starters WHEN: March, 2025. WHERE: Islington Café.

Time kept moving, just as the world continued to spin: that was the two certainties she had no qualms or doubts about. And it showed no interest in slowing down. Spring was upon them, soon summers arrival — and she'd made only minor leads in the past months. It was like she was being tested, and the days grew longer when her brother was out there, choosing this life over her. It both ground her gears and tore her apart.

Tapping away, the early morning had promised blue skies, and they'd been correct. A coffee settled next to her, Amélie wrote away, albeit furiously as she tried to work out her frustrations with her own novel.

Almost complete, just on the edge of being finished. Even if no one ever read it, the accomplishment of saying she'd done it had far outweighed the cons. Though, to say she was proud of what she'd produced was understatement. She wasn't often big-headed, but...

she had a good feeling about this book.

About to head into the second to last chapter, she heard the scrapping on the chair at her table as her eyes locked onto the intruder. She didn't speak, simply stared.

Oh god. (Father, forgive me for the blasphemy.)

[lararutherford]

Ah, what spectacularly convenient timing.

Of course, she knew damn well that many members of the Turkish gang frequented the diabolical shit hole of a pub behind her. It was precisely the reason the Rutherford had taken an interest in it in the first place. It surely wasn't for Haringey's signature ambience, peasant, nor was it the beastly clientele...

"What, this old place?"

Lara snapped her Prada purse shut and finally, begrudgingly, lifted her gaze to meet the brainless mop. Oh, Ayaz had told her all about his little vacation to the warehouse, just as he'd told her who was bending over for Konstantin Vorshevsky these days. Surely, he didn't think it would fly under the radar forever? "Well, when the paperwork finally clears, it'll belong to me." And she would gentrify it so drastically that he'd have to sell his chihuahua girlfriend into white slavery just to afford a drink. Then again, they were in business with the right gang for that now, weren't they? "Why wouldn't I be here?"

FOR: OPEN TO ALL. TAGS: @mobscene-starters WHEN: March, 2025. WHERE: Haringey, outside a pub in the smoking area.

It was late enough so that the sky above him remained wholly black. It was London,.There were no stars to see— the light pollution being too great. Still, hands tucked into his pockets, head tilted backwards as he stared, he imagined he could see them. It was the small reprieve he had before he needed to head back inside.

The pub was busy tonight, and he'd found himself here by no accord of his own. The Russians liked to drink far more than he could. It was a roll of his shoulders as he took a drag of a joint he'd brought with him, hoping no one came out and got a whiff. His calm, that's what he called it now.

There was so much in play right now, so many lines which were still shifting of which he had no control over. His dad made the moves, he followed. But mostly, this had been his call. The merger was far more complex when the ideologies of what that looked like in his mind's eye — was different in reality.

Taking another drag, he hummed, until he heard the louder clatter of people spilling out of the door and turned. His brow raising.

Well, this was unexpected, he mused.

"Didn't expect to see you here...of all places."

[lararutherford]

"Henry and I broke up. I think it's called karma."

Actually, she was pretty sure it was called being a Rutherford. Something she knew Gideon understood well currently.

It was a pity the charity attached to this godawful event was related to children; it wasn't as though she could deny her attendance without looking like a heartless bitch. Ugh. Whilst she would have preferred to be just about anywhere else all weekend, the feeling was only amplified as the conversation with her brother took a turn for the unfortunate. It was hardly his fault. Lara hadn't exactly been honest with her family about their situation in her reluctance to acknowledge the feelings at all.

"You're sharing a tent with Melissa, though. I'm not the one in need of a pity party. I could never know that kind of suffering."

LOCATION — The Rutherford Estate, Kingston Upon Thames. DATE — October 28, 2024. Evening. STARTER — closed for @lararutherford

Against all odds, they'd both survived their camping partners this weekend. And he'd waited until tonight to make a bid for Lara's company, aware of how much it would've been demanded by countless others over the last three days.

He's missed it, this. Getting to sit with her in front of a fire and talk about everything and nothing. If he closes his eyes, he can even pretend they're in their very own bubble. It isn't to say they're completely at ease, and there are topics that can't be discussed – especially not here – but there's one subject that's been playing on his mind for a few weeks now, so he forges ahead and brings it up. "Hey... What's up with Henry? Haven't seen him in a minute." Not this weekend, not at Yvonne's wedding where he'd expected him to be his sister's plus one, not even the last time he'd visited Lara, before that.

"Don't flatter his ego too much, but I miss him." He casts a glance in Lara's direction, venturing the unspoken question. "... You two doing okay?"

[lararutherford]

@LaraRutherford: Dubai never disappoints me. Hello, 2025.✨🎉

[lararutherford]

"If you don't get away from me in the next ten seconds, I'm going to start screaming."

"Oh no, of course not I wouldn't waste your time complaining when there is so much fun to be had! I just wanted to thank you for hosting this event and see if I could do anything to improve your camping experience on or off camera. I know any event you show up at will be a hit." Hasan gave the woman a thumbs up sticking to the personality of his costume to the nines. Even he was unsure if he was trying to win over Lara or be an infuriating mascot. "It would be a shame if people stayed in their tents or in the bar for all three days especially the one without any cameras." He loomed a bit as if waiting to be dismissed. Not quite imposing but having a certain undeniable presence. It was the moments of quiet camp enthusiasm that sometimes seemed the most intense and that was a thing that had to be shared. Who said that charity couldn't be fun?

[lararutherford]

@mobscene-starters Location: The Bar. Time: Friday Night.

Well. It could have been worse, she supposed. Maybe. Could've been a Russian...

Wrapped in the furs she'd spent about fifteen minutes trying to convince the charity organisers were fake—as if she'd ever wear something as tacky as faux fur—she settled herself into the seat she didn't plan on moving from until Samar was passed the fuck out, and couldn't attempt a conversation with her. If she had to sleep in a fucking synthetic prison, it seemed unfair to expect her to punish herself further. It'd be such a pity to murder her best friend's cousin on the first night, too.

Lara lit up her cigarette, regarding the tray of champagne meant for sharing that she'd absolutely stolen to serve as her own personal platter.

"I don't care about how much you hate your tent partner. If that's what you came here to complain about, then do us both a favour and disappear."

[lararutherford]

@LaraRutherford: For the children.

[lararutherford]

"I find the best insults so often aren't."

Still, she contained her thinly masked irritation at the audacity, and relaxed her now stiff posture somewhat. More champagne, then.

"I've informed the people who matter." The inner workings of the Rutherford family were not her business. What was important was that she could offer a considerable number of loyal people to take up the same cause the French had been chasing since their inception. "The rest will follow. They always do."

And aside from one particular fucking thorn, that was the truth.

"Dispose of Konstantin Vorshevsky, and I'll hand you a Turkish-free Haringey myself."

"It wasn't intended to be an insult," Delphine corrected. "If I wanted to insult you, believe me, I could have said much, much worse," she countered. "I also didn't say we had to be friends." She mimicked the other woman's way of saying the word.

As the Rutherford woman spoke, Delphine leaned back into her chair and reached for the champagne that had been initially offered. She would need a drink for this conversation. Her mind wandered for a moment to Yves, Jean and Varden. What would they say if she took this...deal? "Have you informed any of your own people that this is your plan?" She asked, unsure of how she would go about telling her own.

As of now, after the attack, her mind was focused on retaliation and revenge. She could agree to the deal...for now. She'd be an idiot not to. Having a common enemy for both factions could benefit both of them. "You realize what we have to do, now? My people and I? We can't let it stand...what they've done. We intend on everything ending in a very bloody way."

[lararutherford]

I SAID I WOULD BE, SO I AM:

Seven nights she was, and one night she wasn't. Date: Various evenings post-shooting. Warnings: Emo shit.

ONE -

It'd always irritated her when she heard people say how much they hated hospitals.

So did everyone else?

Tonight's agonising wait was unlike the others, though, she supposed. St. Catherine's empty halls echoed only with the quiet voices of the night shift; not another visitor in sight so far as she could see. And Lara Rutherford shouldn't have been there, either. In more ways than one. But having friends within the hospital, acquaintances who would bend over backwards to appease her every want, meant that she didn't have to follow the rules this time. As if they could've stopped her.

They'd given her the go ahead after some stalling to suggest how much of a favour they were doing her, but she would've waited all night. It mattered little.

Given how long it'd taken her to make her way into the room, it probably irritated the staff immensely that she could barely stand to be there more than five minutes. How many times had she been at the bedside of somebody she cared about? Too many to count, and yet this felt more harrowing than all but one.

It was hard to say he looked peaceful because he didn't. He looked distant and lifeless and the sound of the machines working around him seemed louder than they should have been. Drowned out everything else, really. Was he hurting?

Lara fidgeted with her hands, rolling tangled fingers amongst themselves.

What had she thought to gain from coming here? Did she think it was going to make her feel better?

It didn't. And like a coward, as she stood in pathetic silence and aching misery, she resigned to looking anywhere but him.

The only words she spoke as she reached for the exit:

"I don't break my promises."

TWO -

"Rutherford perks? They don't check for contraband."

If only he knew how difficult it'd been to find a purse big enough to fit a bottle of alcohol that also matched her impeccable pantsuit...

Lara fished out two glasses she'd wrapped in Hermès handkerchiefs to stop them from breaking against each other, and placed them down quietly on his bedside table. All she could offer was a sideways glance, still finding taking in what he was instead of what he should have been too difficult to bear. But she compartmentalised, set it aside, and got to work filling them a few inches with the liquor she'd snuck into the room.

One for him, one for her.

Lightly she tapped hers against the other.

Then she polished it off in a desperate gulp.

"You look terrible, by the way," she eventually offered, hoping that humour would be the only avenue she could stomach taking to finally accept it. "Don't do this again."

THREE -

"I still can't believe I threatened him in his own office. I got back to the car and almost threw up. Literally gagged, right in the seat."

Though if she'd known that Konstantin's future plans would result in Laurent ending up in this condition, she might've considered doing more than threatening.

"You'd have probably enjoyed watching."

The Rutherford rolled the glass in her hand slightly, warming up the contents against her palm as she thought back to a moment that could've very easily spelt her end if she'd played it wrong. A split second later, though, her eyes quickly shot up and she raised a finger to point at him accusatorily:

"The threatening, not the gagging. Don't even go there," she interjected, as if cutting him off before he could make some dirty joke at her expense. Nothing I haven't already seen, he'd snicker, and she'd throw him a look like she despised him on a cellular level. But they both knew she didn't really. Not now.

As her hand hovered in the air stupidly, slowly lowering like she was a deflated fucking balloon, she was met with nothing but silence.

What she wouldn't have given to be the butt of one more joke...

FOUR -

It was hard to get comfortable in the awful hospital chairs, she'd learnt, but that didn't mean she couldn't find a way to enjoy a good book with her slightly less impressive glass of alcohol. She should have been checking the time—God forbid she stay past her welcome, and be greeted by a Commandant come morning—but she'd got lost somewhere near the middle and time had escaped her entirely. The Rutherford took one more sip of her drink, glancing toward her watch to check...

...thank God. It'd only been an hour.

Something drew her gaze from the gold face, though. Lara's eyesight had failed her entirely in one eye, and sometimes the light played tricks, but she was so damn sure... For a moment, she could've sworn she saw his hand move.

Symptom of semi-blindness or not, her stomach had flipped so intensely, she was glad she hadn't taken more than a few sips from the glass beside her.

It was hard to tell how long she'd watched after that. Waiting. Just in case. Do it again.

"If you're trying to get my attention, I'm not reading it to you. You have a startling lack of taste for a Parisian, and I shan't be taking belated book critiques from someone who considers Westminster Insider good literature."

Nothing.

If she'd been smiling at her own attack on him, it'd faded away shortly after, just like the brief glimmer of hope that she hadn't been seeing things.

Things were as they were before. Laurent was still.

Her eyes closed for a second.

She flipped back to page one.

This time, she read the words aloud.

FIVE -

"I didn't tell you about it yet, but my sister got married," she mused softly, the corner of her mouth lifting into a genuine smile. "She looked so happy."

The Rutherfords were a dysfunctional mess, and maybe had been for as long as she could remember. But that day was different. They'd set it all aside and come together to be there for her—it hurt to note, but she was to blame, some family's surprise that Lara was included in said support—and it'd felt like a massive weight lifted. This wonderful, good thing that they were so rarely able to celebrate together. And it'd been a hard day for her, much harder than any of them could've known, but she refused to let her life get in the way this time. It was Yvonne's day. Yvonne's future.

And she was glad she'd been allowed to be a part of it when she didn't deserve to be.

"I thought maybe something in me would feel bitter about it, but..."

Lara shook her head. No, it hadn't.

A chuckle left her lips at that because to be surprised by it should have seemed absurd. But for a relationship that'd been so tumultuous for so long, it meant something. It meant progress. For them, for herself... To find real happiness in knowing her sister felt exactly that was something she had to say out loud, and right now, she had so few important enough to share it with.

The chuckle died, then, even though the smile remained stubbornly behind. There was no humour left as her eyes welled with tears. As her chest tightened with the closest thing to physical agony she could imagine stemming from emotional turmoil. As her face slowly fell into hurt, and her lips pressed together into a thin line as though it might stop the words she was about to say for one more moment:

"And then three hours later, I sent Henry and his daughter back to Porto Velho for good, and I broke my own heart."

Again.

SIX -

It was hard to imagine somebody more averse to showing their feelings than herself, but Laurent St. Pierre hid behind anger like nobody else.

When they'd first seen each other after she'd been attacked at Fight Club, it seemed like anger on her behalf was all he could manage. Wasted, when she wanted absolutely nothing to do with it, the thinly veiled regret, or the man who offered both.

Lara hadn't understood why he'd not given up trying back then, but she learnt eventually. And the moment she finally gave him an inch, he unravelled in an instant; the first time, but certainly not the last, in which he had been honest about his feelings. 'I just wanted to be with you.' But the Rutherfords wouldn't let a Frenchman within a two mile radius after one of his own had tried to hack her face to pieces. It wasn't his fault, but he carried the weight of it as if he was solely responsible for abandoning her.

It'd hurt her to see him that way. It'd hurt her more to know that even if he had moved heaven and earth to find his way to her side, she probably would have turned him away again.

Would he feel that same way if he knew she was here with him now..?

'I wish I could have been there for you.' 'You're here for me now, Laurent.' 'It's not the same...'

Lara didn't often make promises. She got the idea that he didn't either. And yet both of them had made one that morning.

She finished what remained of the second glass.

And as if justifying her presence at his bedside, she spoke into the quiet void:

"I said I'd be here. So I am."

SEVEN -

The exchange with Odile in the hall had taken more out of her than she cared to admit.

'I can't do this. You're happy, and that's what matters to me. It matters.' Lara's mind drifted back to Launceston tonight. A time when everybody had thought her dead, utterly unreachable, and somehow, Amir had still found his way to her.

There was a brief moment that day where she'd thought that was it. It was finally time for her to fix her mistakes. To undo the worst thing she'd ever done. To him. To herself. But when he'd kissed her, he made himself into the same person she was. Amir was doing to Revati what she had long loathed herself for doing to him. And no matter how many sleepless nights she had spent wondering about this moment, about having him with her again, she just couldn't. Wouldn't let a good man do that to himself.

Because she loved him. More than her desperation to be happy. More than the pain her loneliness caused.

Being here tonight, watching the slow movement of Laurent's chest as he clung to life for somebody else, she realised she was hurting people. His happiness, if Leyla ever found out about it.

And in that moment, maybe she finally knew for sure. Because it mattered.

Lara reached out and took the first of the glasses, finishing it in one.

Then the second.

Fighting the war of emotion in her chest, she eventually got to her feet, and it felt like the most laborious thing she'd ever done. She adjusted her blazer. Tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear nonchalantly. Took one moment to look at him, really look, as she hovered near the edge of his bed. And then she did one thing she hadn't until tonight. It'd always seemed like a boundary not to be crossed, but given the spaces her mind wandered that evening, it seemed as though one more wouldn't hurt. Lara brushed her fingers gently against his wrist, and it felt so warm, so alive, it was hard to reconcile it with the man she'd spent so much time beside of late.

Eventually, she found his hand. Squeezed it gently. Longed for it to move in hers.

It didn't.

"This is the last time, okay?"

And so, it was.

EIGHT -

"Have you ever tried cognac?"

Ayaz stared back at her blankly. Of course he hadn't.

Tired eyes glanced down at the glass she cradled in her hands, contents untouched. Just to the right, the phone she had since muted. Half an hour before—maybe longer, it was hard to tell—the screen had sprung to life with the one message she had resigned to never receiving. One she didn't deserve to. He's awake.

Usually, he was good at masking his concern; Ayaz knew she hated nothing more than anything that could be perceived as pity. But as she threw back the two very full glasses, the last of what'd remained in the bottle, she could sense it.

He stayed silent. And she was glad.

"Well, you're not missing anything. It's awful."

[lararutherford]

End.

There should be a warning label that comes with you... Oh, she had no idea.

"Back and forth? I think you severely overestimate how much of my time you're worth. Some people don't deserve more than minimal effort, thus, I don't offer it."

But not him. And that was precisely why she was engaging with the harpy at all.

The Rutherford listened to her empty threats, nodding her head along, feigning interest. For a moment, she found herself distracted by a piece of lint plaguing the pocket of her Dior blazer. When did that get there? Ugh. Eventually, dark eyes lifted to focus on the woman before her, only when she was quite sure she was finished. It was certainly a begrudged effort to remain cool. Lara wasn't here to make an enemy of Laurent's sister. But when she already existed as one by default in the eyes of so many, she didn't feel the need to expend much effort at convincing her otherwise.

Readjusting her stance, straightening up her back, neatly adjusting the shoulder strap of her purse, she offered a patronising smile before departure:

"Better people than you have tried. Good luck."

[lararutherford]

There should be a warning label that comes with you... Oh, she had no idea.

"Back and forth? I think you severely overestimate how much of my time you're worth. Some people don't deserve more than minimal effort, thus, I don't offer it."

But not him. And that was precisely why she was engaging with the harpy at all.

The Rutherford listened to her empty threats, nodding her head along, feigning interest. For a moment, she found herself distracted by a piece of lint plaguing the pocket of her Dior blazer. When did that get there? Ugh. Eventually, dark eyes lifted to focus on the woman before her, only when she was quite sure she was finished. It was certainly a begrudged effort to remain cool. Lara wasn't here to make an enemy of Laurent's sister. But when she already existed as one by default in the eyes of so many, she didn't feel the need to expend much effort at convincing her otherwise.

Readjusting her stance, straightening up her back, neatly adjusting the shoulder strap of her purse, she offered a patronising smile before departure:

"Better people than you have tried. Good luck."

"If you'd said you were surprised, I'd say you're lying," a low hum, a dart of her tongue against painted blush lips. "someone like you is rarely surprised, considering there should be a warning label that comes with you." giving her a once over, Odile had to admit she found her rather...plain. Pretty, absolutely. But for the life of her, she couldn't quite put her finger on what her brother saw. What took him back to a woman time and time again. Beyond a sharp tongue, and an entitlement complex. Oh, Laurent, you can do far better.

It took everything she had not to lunge at Lara, wipe that smug look off that demure face, fingers twitching, knuckles dusted white. This wasn’t just a matter of pride; this was about Laurent. Her brother. Her blood. What was Lara? All but a fuck that'd happened more times that it should've. Oh, don't get her wrong, Odile had bedded her fair share of both men and women that she shouldn't.

But there were limits on how many times you went back for seconds.

Odile had heard far more stories about Lara, than she could tell about in person interactions. could she be so collected? So detached, while Laurent was hooked up to machines, fighting for his life? Odile had been here, glued to the damn linoleum for days, weeks, maybe— time was warped in here, sometimes she'd walk outside for a smoke, only to realise it was night, and she'd thought it morning: and now she had the audacity to stroll in like she had every right?

She might've donated money, but wasn't it meant to be family only.

As far as Odile was concerned, her last name was Rutherford. And she bared none of his children. (She hoped, although, it wouldn't have been the first fucking time.)

"Throwing your family name around like it’s a fucking shield's a crappy move -- come on, it's meant to be a bit more back and forth than this...." and it was, a crappy move, that was, much like the St. Pierre name had been for her: it wielded power, but here, the weight of the Rutherford name was almighty. She knew as much, being a socialite. But she knew she was pushing, even as she stared, and begged that hardened resolve wouldn't waver. She could not, and would not show the pain, that unending worry that he might not be her Brother truly when he woke up.

Instead, she lifted her hands in surrender.

Odile's face told no story of kindness, only that of a sister in grieving as she took a step backwards and waved her hand towards the door. Being removed meant that she couldn't keep an eye on him, and that would happen over her dead body. So, if she had play pretend for an hour, she would. "If anything happens to him when you're in there, I promise you..." a head shake, and a levelled glare, Odile did little to make her face pleasurable as she so often did for the men in her life. "I will kill you myself."

[lararutherford]

"I'd say I'm surprised you'd stoop so low as to cause a scene in the middle of a hospital, but you French do tend to embrace the soap opera side of life..."

Well, so much for the coast being clear.

For all the times she'd made her way to the hospital—typically after messages exchanged with the few French contacts she had remaining letting her know it was empty—she hadn't once crossed paths with someone she'd rather not. Crossed paths with anyone, for that matter. And that was precisely how she wanted it to be. Not because she feared the confrontation (never that), but because for once in her fucking life, she didn't want to be his problem. Being a Rutherford came with certain perks here, though, and one of them was being able to circumvent visiting hours with a pretty smile and a reminder of who her father was.

Her finest hour? Certainly not. Some things were worth pulling a card she tended to keep tucked away neatly in her back pocket, though.

"Keep the insults coming. Why don't we test who gets removed first? I promise I'll pretend to be surprised when it isn't the Rutherford whose family has donated massive amounts of money to supporting the building you're fucking stood in."

It wasn't gloating. It was a very genuine reminder that one call could end this as quickly as it'd began, and she knew precisely whose side they'd take. But she didn't. Had no intention of doing so unless the sister pushed. Lara took a step toward her, raising an eyebrow. Was this not stressful enough without starting fights? They didn't have a fucking monopoly on caring, and as far as history was concerned, it was far more dangerous for her to be here amongst them than it was him.

"If I was going to do something, I probably would've done it on one of the many other occasions I was here sans the banshee screaming. Some of your security has been very accommodating. Possibly because they consider someone other than themselves."

FOR: @lararutherford WHERE: St. Catherine's Hospital. WITHIN: Waiting room, vending machines.

Hospital food was complete and utter horse shit.

Odile cared little for the canteen food, which, disgustingly so, left a smell that lingered far longer than natural...every day. Thankfully, she'd only forced herself to consume small amounts of the vending machine tuck shop: everything else...she'd ordered in. The looks of hungry people in the waiting room hadn't stopped her from wolfing down what looked to be far too much food for a woman of her statue...she was comforting eating, and everyone else could fuck off.

It wasn't the hunger, or even the obscene over-eating that was getting at Odile, though. It was the inability to sleep, her eyes lingering on that door a little too long, some hours, unaware of the passing time as day turned to night. Or when the nurses had begged she go home, and she'd all but refused with a swift middle finger.

If it hadn't been for her friends, they would've kicked her out for her poor conduct. Which was usually stellar. But not when it came to Laurent: she was unmoving. A force to be reckoned with, and she would put anyone in the ground who kept her from him. Her knee bounced, phone scrolling turned into nothing as the screen blurred into one.

She'd been here that long, that she heard every squeak of a foot against cheap lino, and the cadence of a voice she could never fucking forget. Freezing in her spot, as she sat up, rod-backed.

"Oh, you've gotta be fuckin' joking--" she paused only to let the shock twist her features into one of disbelief, as she looked up to find none other than Lara-fucking-Rutherford. "Turn around, and walk in the direction you just came from, you nine-lived-freak."

Laurent lay sleeping, mere feet away...and she was walking around freely. Where the fuck was protection? Where was security. "I don't think so."