#For Better or Worse Part 2 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wildroseofarran · 1 year ago

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For Better or Worse, Part II || Captain Issott & Boone || December, 2021

Tristan: He would've wanted to kill him for the look on his mother's face alone.

Two weeks after Luke's visit with the private investigator, Tristan found himself sitting on a hotel balcony staring off at the horizon. The view was incredible but he wasn't really taking it in. All he could see--all he'd been able to see for days--was the look on his mother's face when he'd told her about the results of Dakota's investigation.

The DNA test confirmed it: Gideon Clare Boone was his biological father, the man who had impregnated Megan Seger in 1981 and left her to raise a child on her own.

A child that would turn out to be, to Tristan's devastation and Meg's bewilderment, a fucking merman.

And now here he was. Sitting in a hotel in Playa del Carmen, Mexico trying to work up the nerve to go see the man while trying desperately not to hurl.

Leslie: Leslie had made a point to distance himself from Meg during the ordeal. It wasn't his place to speak up and interrupt the whirlwind of emotion to process between herself and her son. Refusing to influence how she felt about the supernatural simply because he was a part of it. Instead, he busied himself by updating his passport, learning key phrases and possible responses in Spanish. An easy feat, thanks be to his fluency in Portuguese.

Something for them to practice together. His version of healthy distraction. But now they were in Mexico. First time. He wanted to sample local cuisine. Browse local markets. Something to occupy himself further. Give them something other than their reason for being here.

But they couldn't avoid reality for long. Leslie wouldn't allow it.

First, he would gently throw his pillow at Tristan's back.

"You're slowly pulling a Band-Aid."

Tristan: Tristan startled far more than a soft pillow warranted, providing evidence enough of how far his mind was wandering.

More than anything he wished they were here just for pleasure. An actual vacation was so much better than this.

He sighed and held it on his lap. “Worried I’ll see my breakfast again if I rip it off. Can’t seem to make myself move either. It’s like I’m glued to this chair.”

Leslie: "You can't walk backwards from this. You can mourn what was, but you can't go back, baby. I'm sorry you have a shitty father, but you don't have a shitty life."

Tristan: He shook his head. “No. I don’t have a shitty life. I have a damn good one. I’ve got a mama that did her best to raise me right. I’ve got a roof over my head and a job I enjoy.”

He stood and walked over to Leslie. “And the man I love and I have got two beautiful little girls. That’s a damn good life, and I’m proud of it.”

Leslie: "Then there's nothing he can say or do that'll change that. You already know the man he is. There'll be no surprises. We just need a few answers."

Tristan: Tristan shook his head. “Nothing he can say or do will change that,” he repeated in an effort to reassure himself. Knowing what he had and that whatever happened today wouldn't change it did make him feel better, but the dread was still there.

“I know what kind of man he is but not the man himself. He made sure of that when he took off and if we’re being honest, I don’t really want to know him. I’ve got a parent. I just want answers.”

Leslie: "Then that's what we're walking into. With that, there's nothing to be disappointed in. Your mother is waiting for you in Edenton."

Leslie leaned back, taking Tristan with him.

"Can always be tomorrow. Rip the band-aid off, or sex and food market."

Tristan: Although he nodded and smiled, there wasn't a doubt in Tristan's mind that there could still be very much to be disappointed in. His father could refuse to talk. He could've taken off at some point between Dakota's investigation and their arrival. He could take off the moment he saw them and disappear into the sea.

There was so much that could go so very wrong. He hoped it wouldn't, but he couldn't discount it.

Tristan smiled and shook his head for a third time. "Whole point of ripping off a band-aid is to get it over with. Let's go ahead and get it over with. 'Sides, much as I appreciate your confidence in me, I wouldn't be able to get it up right now, sweetheart."

Leslie: "You don't always have to be on top, you know." His smile was tempered. Even the playful nip at Tristan's face was delicately measured.

"Was hoping you'd want to get this over with. Sooner you see him, the sooner you can move to the next step."

Back to their feet, then. One more kiss for the road, cradling Tristan's jaw in both hands.

"Just gonna lock up some things and we'll go."

Tristan: The next step...

Just what the hell was that exactly? Damned if he knew.

He'd take that kiss gladly, promising Leslie another when they'd done what they had to do. He grabbed his bag from the closet and made sure Luke's file was inside, along with all of Dakota's surveillance photos and a few others he'd brought along just in case.

There would be no mistaking the man, and there would be no room for denial once he was found.

"The boat rental place is a ways away. I'll call the front desk so they can get us a taxi." Boat rentals. Another of many jobs related to the water.

Fitting, for a merman.

Leslie: "How's your Spanish?" Leslie asked, hands stuffed into his pockets. His Portuguese would play a crucial role, if Tristan had nothing to go on. Wouldn't be the first time Leslie would have to pretend. Never before in this setting.

Tristan: “Passable. Won’t win any awards but I can get by.”

Tristan called down to the front desk and, not wanting to wait in the room, took Leslie’s hand and led him downstairs.

He had the address of the boat rental place so finding it wouldn’t be a problem. The taxi driver probably thought they were just two more tourists out of many wanting a day out on the water.

Not that Tristan could even be in the water in public anymore. The man they were going to see had made sure of that.

When they arrived, he paid the driver and mumbled a thank you before getting out.

Leslie: Today, Leslie was easily led by the hand. He checked himself yet again for wallet, keys, and phone. He'd never left his passport in a hotel room before, and today was no exception. Perhaps once he mastered a better lock spell for safes.

This was Tristan's turn to lead. No more jokes, no more teasing to coax a smile. His intention to be nothing more than a quiet support beam while Tristan confronted his biological father.

Tristan/Boone: The boat rental shop was a tiny faded blue building with a rusted sign, barely noticeable among the sea of tourists and dozens of other rental places and stalls and shops up and down the road by the docks. A few people stopped to read a second sign with the hourly and day rates, but very few—if any—actually went inside, and no one was coming out.

He’s probably alone.

Tristan stared at the building and swallowed, limbs like jelly and heart beating a tattoo in his chest. This was it. After months of searching and waiting, after years of wondering, he was finally going to set eyes on the man that was his father.

He felt himself take Leslie’s hand and walk forward as if in a daze. He didn’t really feel the doorknob as he turned it or hear the little bell above it chime its welcome. The warmth of Leslie’s hand in his was the only thing confirming that this wasn’t a dream, until he saw him—

A burly man with a strong, bearded face and a mane of salt and pepper hair. This was Gideon Clare Boone.

His father.

The man turned to face them, nodding in greeting. And, gauging them to be American—or maybe Australian—said, “Folks here to rent a boat or some jet skis?”

Leslie: The man looked almost exactly as Leslie had imagined. Tristan, having never laid eyes upon his father, shouldered many similarities. If ever there was debate between nature versus nurture, Leslie knew once and for all the answer was both, slamming together at once.

His instinct was to speak. As much as he didn't want to shield his companion, just a moment longer would do no harm.

"Depends the price," he offered, making no effort to hide his blended accent.

Tristan/Boone: Ah. Gideon nodded to himself. Brits. Figured.

"Won't find better in town." His voice was surprisingly gentle and clear despite its depth. There might have been an accent there, or a combination of them even, but it was too light to distinguish. "How long are ya'll here for? I can offer you a weekly rate if--"

"Are you Gideon Boone?"

Gideon's easy polite smile froze as he turned to face Tristan, who seemed to have at last found his voice and was fixing the man with a cold stare.

"...Who's asking?" Subtly, he reached beneath the counter.

Leslie: Leslie took a single step backwards, his angle towards Gideon Boone somewhat sideways. It was a strategic and defensive stance, though his expression remained calm. His right hand, furthest from view, had become warm with Quintessence, index finger slowly circling, pointed at the floor. A gust spell in his arsenal, though the concern now was whether or not he could complete the ritual before something happened.

Tristan/Boone: Fortunately for him, Tristan had seen enough movies and had spent enough nights drinking in Charlie Brandt's sketchy dive to recognize what that little gesture meant.

Unfortunately for Gideon Boone, rather than have the intended intimidating effect, it just pissed Tristan right the hell off.

"What?" he sneered, nodding towards the counter. "You gonna shoot your own son?"

The question hit Boone like a bucket of ice water.

He froze once again, taking a minute to fully, properly look the guy over. When he'd been asked for by name he'd expected a debt collector or a bounty hunter or a pissed off jilted husband who'd joined forces with another pissed off jilted husband to confront him, but a son? His son?

Boone paled, and Tristan noticed.

"Coming back to you now, ain't it?" He left the comfort of Leslie's side and took a step closer. "'Bout forty years ago, Kitty Hawk? Woman with wavy blonde hair? Taught high school? Is it all coming back?"

"Now, wait--"

Another step. "Her name was Megan. Told you she was going to have your baby and you took off. Called, wrote, went to your place, you were nowhere to be fucking found."

"Look, man, you've got the wrong--"

"But before you took off like the dickless fucking coward you are, you forgot to tell her that the baby she was carrying was a fucking merman!"

Tristan dunked his arm in the fish tank on the counter and pulled it out again, revealing the shimmering iridescent scales on his skin. Some of the water that had splashed landed on Gideon's skin and had the exact same effect. Even their color was the same.

"Gonna tell me I have the wrong guy again?"

Leslie: There was a lot to take in. The shouting, body language, nuance of expression - but his world revolved around Boone. He had all the time in the world to discuss and comfort Tristan; not if the man was dead. One wrong move and his spell would throw his intended through the tattered excuse of a wall.

But, at least for the moment, he didn't seem required. Tristan had this planned, at least in appearance. Must have gone over his speech a hundred times, or perhaps an outline. Whatever had been prepared now felt like a burst dam, and well deserved.

For his part, he remained a statue.

Tristan/Boone: Boone had enough experience with debt collectors, bounty hunters, and pissed off husbands to be able to tell who was a real threat and who was more bark than bite. This guy? His--fuck, his son--absolutely did not fall into the second category. He was taking a swing if he got the chance.

There was a tiny part of him that was just a little bit proud of that. The part that wasn't looking to get decked.

The rest of his parts were trying to think on the fly. Even if he had wanted to deny anything or hide his skin, it was impossible. He'd been caught off guard.

"All right all right all right, look." Boone raised his hands defensively. "Why don't we all just caaaaalm the hell down. I'm tryin' to run a business here and I can't have anyone seeing shit they ain't supposed to. Why don't you come back later and--"

Tristan scoffed. "Are you fucking kidding me? You think I'm gonna give you a chance to skip town before I get what I came here for? How stupid do you think I am? We're gonna talk about this now."

He turned and stalked over the door, flipping the lock and the 'open' sign to the side that said 'closed'.

Leslie: Leslie took his eyes off Boone long enough to check for a secondary exit. Anywhere this man might run to slip away. Hell, an open window would probably be enough, if given the opportunity.

He didn't want to dismiss his loaded spell, but neither did he want to allow any chance of escape. The smallest silence was disturbed by a thick pop of his joints. Left hand raised and fingers painfully tense and kinked. A brief chill overwhelmed the room, gone as swiftly as it had appeared. This was all he could do; restraint and a single offensive.

Tristan/Boone: The rental shop was little more than a shack but it was larger than it appeared from the street. There was a beaded curtain back behind the right end of the counter that led to a room that doubled as a living space and office, beyond which there was another door that led to the outside.

Boone, however, wasn't thinking about any of that. He might have, though, if he hadn't felt that momentary chill and a crackle of something in the air that felt distinctly like magic.

It wasn't coming from his son; it was the other guy. Something told him that one would take a lot more than a swing if Boone made one wrong move.

Nothing for it then.

"All right all right, fine. You win. Come around ba--"

"Uh-uh."

Tristan interjected before Boone could take a step, going behind the counter and putting himself between his father and the doorway with the beaded curtain.

"What'd I just say? I'm not giving you a chance to escape out of here, I'm going first."

If there was another door or something back there, Tristan was going to make damn sure his father didn't get anywhere near it.

Leslie: Windows were no longer an option, but there was no need to explain himself. No need to make this man feel any more like a cornered animal. He was primed to strike defensively with any provocation, and while Leslie would not blame him, he also would not allow such action.

The readied fire in his hand, set to explode with a final flick of his fingers, warmed his skin uncomfortably, but still, he said nothing, waiting to follow behind and stand guard in the doorway.

Tristan/Boone: Boone felt more like a man being dragged to the gallows than a cornered animal but it all came down to the same thing. Couldn’t run forever.

“Fine, whatever you say,” he grumbled, following his son into the other room. “Wasn’t gonna try anything, geez.”

There were two doors in the room: one led outside and the other to a bathroom. Tristan locked the outside door and then planted himself in front of it. Boone might say he wouldn’t try anything but Tristan didn’t buy it.

He doubted Leslie did either.

For his part Boone just sighed and shook his head, taking a seat on the small couch against one wall.

“All right, you got me where you want me.” He turned to his son. “What do you want?”

Tristan gave him an incredulous look. “Are you serious? The hell do you think I want?”

Boone turned to the other guy. “Help me out here.”

Leslie: The witch took a breath, refusing the swallow the lump in his throat. It wasn't so unreasonable to give an answer, at least, one suitable to the situation, and the man on the couch.

"Pretend for the next thirty minutes you're Pinocchio. Or truth serum. Whatever gets you through this."

Tristan/Boone: “Yeah, Pinocchio.” Tristan stepped closer. “Except instead of your nose growing, I stick a fishing lure under your fingernails every time you tell a lie.”

Again Boone looked between them. It was almost as though he were watching some sort of deranged tennis match.

“Is he serious—are you serious?”

Leslie: Leslie looked at his beloved, doing his very best not to seem concerned in front of Boone. Not to give anything away and cause vulnerability. Never in a hundred years would he have expected those words out of that mouth. But this was his man. There would be no contradicting.

"You'll not find out if you just comply."

Tristan/Boone: Tempting as it was to keep his mouth shut, Boone knew when he was beat. He wasn't entirely sure if his son was the type to actually carry through a threat like that but the look in his eyes was tipping the scales toward 'yes' even if the other guy didn't look too sure.

"Fine, fine!" Boone raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Ask away. What do you wanna know?"

Tristan crossed his arms over his chest. "For starters, I wanna know how the hell I managed to live nearly thirty-nine years of my life without knowing what the fuck I am."

"Thirty-nine?" Boone repeated incredulously, regarding his son with utter shock and turning to the other guy for confirmation. "You're thirty-nine?"

Tristan scoffed. "What, didn't realize it had been nearly four goddamn decades since you walked out on my mother?"

Leslie: Hearing his age always startled Leslie as well but for a different reason. The man before him was strong, quick-witted, youthful. A year older. Perhaps two. Seven and a half years seemed too many.

It wasn't his place to say anything. No intervening. Nothing until Boone made an inappropriate move. His role was silence, if not intimidation. Tristan had plenty and to spare.

Tristan/Boone: No he damn well had not. Time was a son of a bitch.

"Fuck me running," Boone muttered, crossing the room before either of them could stop him. There was a bottle of tequila in his desk and he was going to take a swig or three whether they liked it or not. He needed it.

Thirty-nine years since Meg had come to him to tell him she was pregnant. Thirty-nine years since he'd packed up his shit and put Kitty Hawk in his rearview mirror. Thirty-nine years since he'd snuck into Meg's hospital room and seen that tiny little thing sleeping in a basinet beside his mother.

Thirty-nine goddamn fucking years.

"I'm waiting, Boone."

Boone turned to look at his son, at the tiny little thing who had grown into the pissed off man who was staring back at him. He took another swig of tequila.

"I hid it. When you were born...I went back to Kitty Hawk and..." Boone gestured vaguely.

"You hid it. What does that even mean? Did you take my abilities? Did you put a spell on me?"

Boone nodded.

Leslie: To the Wyld and Wyrm, he wanted to say something. Ask questions. Tristan would get to the question eventually. More like a statement. It must have already been on his mind. Boone knew this would happen. One day his son would appear, his abilities realized. Why bother delaying the inevitable?

Tristan/Boone: "Why?"

"So you wouldn't--fucking know! So Meg wouldn't know!"

"Don't you think at that point it was too little too fucking late?!" Tristan shouted. "You let her get pregnant!"

"That wasn't supposed--!"

"You let her get pregnant and you didn't tell her!"

"How the hell could I? You think it's easy to just tell people th--"

"No, I fucking don't, which is why it makes even less sense to me that you'd let me happen in the first place!"

Boone had no answer to that. He just drank more tequila.

Tristan shook his head in disgust. "If you were so goddamn worried about her knowing you should've done something about it when she was in time to get rid of me, not when I was already fucking born!"

Tristan unlocked the backdoor and threw it open, letting it slam shut as he stormed outside.

Leslie: Too late to realize his shoulders had tensed. Raised, even, without knowing. Shouting such as this was new to him, and made obvious by the quiet shock and confusion in his eyes.

Too many thoughts to organize, too many raw feelings he needed to process. What Tristan had said... he couldn't allow those statements to affect him.

The silence could only stretch for so long.

"Meg... is very open-minded," he said, gently. "You had to know that. Know she would do anything for her son. You... lost something you didn't have to."

Boone: "You're wrong." Boone was staring a hole into the wall. His voice had lost some of its energy, some of its fight. It was like the past forty years were hitting him all at once.

"All I did was let go of something that wasn't meant for me to begin with. I knew I wasn't cut out to have a kid. White picket fence and a station wagon and little league games weren't something I wanted."

Leslie: "He's a fisherman. He plays soccer on weekends. I told him what I am and he just... kept on as though I told him the weather. You ran away because of a picture that didn't have to be the picture. Is that all? Is that what all of your kind do? That's not Tristan."

Boone: A fisherman. That figured. The physical manifestations of what his son was may have been hidden with magic but, like love and poverty, there were some things you just couldn't hide. A merman was always going to yearn for the sea, even if he didn't know what he was.

But that wasn't what made Boone forfeit his staring contest with the wall and turn to look at the man he was speaking with.

"Is that his name? Tristan?"

Leslie: Leslie couldn't help but straighten as he was turned to. Despite all of his conflicting feelings, the man was older, and upon the pressing subject, an authority.

"You... You didn't even know his name? How could you just... "

Boone: "There was a little card with his name on it stuck to his bassinet in the hospital. Didn't bother to read it."

Boone returned to the couch with the bottle. "Didn't see the point in knowing the name of a kid I was never gonna see again. Just did what I went there to do and got out. How's that for father of the year, huh?"

He scoffed, drank again. "Still think I should've stuck around?"

Leslie: "A better version of you." There was no bite behind his words. On the contrary. Without intention, there was something almost childlike. His disbelief bordered on innocent. He had seen things, done terrible things, and still had the capacity to be astonished.

"But, if you were able to - you had to know this would happen."

Boone: "Ha! There ain't no better version, sport." Boone gestured sarcastically at himself. "This is it." The only version of him there was, and the only version he cared to be.

He shrugged. "The thought probably occurred to me at some point, couldn't say for sure."

Leslie: His eyes lowered to Boone's feet. The man didn't deserve eye contact.

"Merman, is that what you're called? I saw other names. We didn't know which... was correct."

Boone: Boone nodded as he drank again. At the pace he was going, he was well on his way to drunk.

Couldn’t happen soon enough.

“Yep. Merman’s what I’ve always used. There’s a few other things out there like me but they’re not exactly the same. There’s more to them. Me, I’m just straightforward half-man, half-fish.”

Leslie: Tristan needed his moment. Leslie would fill in the blanks in between. However long that would take.

"With a tail? Because he - when it happened, he just... nearly died. I want to know more."

Boone: “With a tail,” he confirmed with another nod. “And gills. He not have gills?”

Leslie: "That's all he had. And some - some scales."

Boone: “He still not have a tail?”

Leslie: "Took a while. A lot of patience, but, yes, he has one."

Boone: “Took a while, huh…” And he’d said that the first time, there had been only scales and gills. The magic hadn’t broken all at once, it had worn off gradually.

He shook his head. “Should’ve been permanent. I could deck that asshole magician.”

Leslie: "Could have been intentional," the witch nearly scoffed, "or he felt slighted."

Boone: “What right did he have to feel slighted? I should feel slighted, that little trick cost me fifteen grand.”

Leslie: "That's all?" said with offense in his tone.

Boone: “That’s not enough for you? Know how much money that was back then?”

Boone shook his head and emptied the bottle. There was another one here somewhere…

Leslie: The chill in his hand dissipated, but the fire ready to ignite in his other tingled, becoming uncomfortable to hold. He had to let the spell go, shaking his hand and flexing his fingers. He could restart on a dime if need be. This man was a disappointment, but he wasn't much of a threat. Not yet.

"To withhold someone from their nature, I don't see that very often. Not from honest, good people. I'd expect the kind of magician you found to be just that. A magician with parlor tricks."

Boone: At this point, Boone was too buzzed to care about the magic he could sense in the air. If this guy or his son wanted to try something let them; Boone just wanted to be drunk first.

“You gonna stand there and judge me now? Pah.” He waved a hand and began his search for more tequila. “I just did what I had to. I did it for Meg, you know.”

Leslie: "Why do you think Meg needed you to do anything?"

Boone: “Look, she wanted to have the kid all right?” Ah, there it was. Boone pulled a fresh bottle of tequila from a cabinet and opened it.

“Should’ve seen her face when she told me she was knocked up, all excited and imagining the station wagon and shit. All I did was make sure the kid turned out normal. I owed her that much, didn’t I? It was supposed to be permanent. She’d get a normal kid and I’d get to keep doing what I’ve always done. Everybody wins.”

Leslie: Leslie's eyes shut, but only for a moment. Still on high alert, he couldn't let his guard down, not with Tristan absent. He could only assume this conversation was between the two of them. Which was why he made no effort to hide the absolute disgust in his voice.

"Frankly, the easy way out never made anyone in this room very happy."

Boone: “The hell difference does it make now anyway?” Boone flopped back on the couch with his bottle, shaking his head all the while.

“He got forty good years, didn’t he? So did Meg. Now he just has to be careful about getting wet, what’s the big deal? Watch, when he shacks up with some girl and decides he wants to continue the species one day, he’ll be singing a different tune. I betcha dollars to donuts when that day comes, he’s gonna show up here again begging for that parlor trick.”

Leslie: Leslie's hands lowered altogether, gently falling to his thighs. His expression fell somewhere between dead and disappointed. There was nothing more in this world he needed than Tristan back in this room. An unwelcome tingle itched his fingertips.

What had been an innocuous voice had darkened, lowered. "Do you know what I am?"

Boone: Boone glanced over at his companion. He’d looked docile enough before but now he was starting to look as pissed as his son.

Just couldn’t fucking win today.

“I can guess,” he sighed, looking away again. “So what are you gonna do, huh? Avenge your buddy? Take a swing at an old man?”

Leslie: "I could castrate you," the witch said simply.

Boone: Now there was a threat Boone had heard before. A couple of times.

“And accomplish what exactly?”

Leslie: "Never doing this to another innocent family again, for starters."

Boone: “Way ahead of you, sport. Been shooting blanks since ‘86.”

Leslie: "You still have a sac."

Tristan/Boone: “So what, you’re gonna tear it off? Gonna tear my dick off, too?”

“There’s an idea.”

Tristan’s voice came just seconds before the back door opened again. With these thin walls, he’d managed to hear the last of what Boone had said.

Leslie: Leslie's chin lowered upon Tristan's return, eyes falling back to Boone's feet where he wanted them.

Tristan/Boone: Boone didn’t bother sitting up or saying anything, and it was just as well.

Tristan was done.

“Come on, Les,” he said softly, holding the door open for his love.

Leslie: His head raised, looking at Tristan questioningly. Only one question: are you certain? To have come all this way, to have left the room for the majority of it, leaving Leslie to ask the questions he probably hadn't heard. Was there nothing else Tristan wanted?

Tristan: Tristan could only give him a nod and a defeated look. Sometime between slamming the door and making the walk back he’d realized that there was no point in trying to have a conversation with his father. It wouldn’t turn back time or undo what had been done.

Coming here was more about needing a face to blame than anything else. Having gotten that didn’t make him feel any better.

Leslie had probably known that all along.

“There’s nothing for us here. Let’s go.”

Leslie: There was nothing that he could say to make this man feel guilt. If he had harbored any, his conscience was clear with forty years of normalcy. Saying they would never think of him again, that they felt sorry for him, nothing would harm this man. Nothing but physical pain, and Leslie couldn't bring himself to do it. Not unless this man raised a hand to the one beside him.

Without another word, he turned away.

Tristan/Boone: They almost made it. They’d decided to leave, to walk away from this place and this situation.

But Boone just couldn’t resist a parting shot.

“So that’s it, huh? Came alllll this way, went through alllll the trouble of tracking your old man down, and now you’re just gonna leave? Lemme tell you something.”

Boone took a huge swig of tequila and staggered to his feet, swaying as he pointed the bottle at Tristan and Leslie.

“I did you a favor. I gave you forty years where you didn’t have to worry about a goddamn fuckin’ thing and now here you are throwing it in my face. Think you would’ve gotten that without me? Ha!”

Another swig. “You get to stand there now because I made you normal. You got a chance because I gave it to you and the second you realize that and decide to put a couple brats in some girl you’re gonna come dragging your ass back here, begging me for the spell I used on you and I’ll tell you right now, it’s going to cost you a hell of a lot more than fifteen gra—”

Tristan’s fist would cut off the rest of whatever Boone had to say.

Leslie: Nonsense said only in his presence. There was no sense bringing this up again. Nothing but malice. Leslie would do nothing to stop him. Perhaps he would regret Tristan's catharsis in an hour, but in the moment, he did nothing but remain still, and quiet, and wait for Boone to rub his jaw before taking a breath.

"He has two perfect daughters, and there'll be no begging. I promise you."

Tristan/Boone: He was too drunk to see it coming but he wouldn’t take it personally. He’d been expecting the swing from the get-go. They were even now.

“I don’t swing that way anyway,” Tristan muttered, taking Leslie’s hand and leading him away.

It took a second for Boone’s inebriated brain to catch what Tristan had said and once he did, he scoffed.

“So much for normal then, eh?” he called after them, cackling. “Can’t blame that one on me, sonny boy! That one’s all Meg!”

The mocking laughter would follow them until they got a good ways away from the shop, at which point they would be passed by a national guard truck heading the way they’d come from.

Leslie: It was now that Leslie felt shame. He hadn't expected Tristan to take his hand, to make any indication of their relationship beyond a pissed-off friend. Just another needle in Tristan's spine, another laugh.

He squeezed his boyfriend's hand.

Tristan: Tristan squeezed back. The reaction hadn’t surprised him.

Why wouldn’t his father be a homophobic asshole on top of everything else?

“You okay?”

Leslie: "Don't ever say that again. Don't ever act like you wish you were never born. I never want to hear that again."

Tristan: He stopped, turning to Leslie and feeling a moment's confusion until he remembered what he'd said to Boone and realized how it must have sounded.

Tristan took Leslie's other hand and brought both to his lips. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

Leslie: "I don't... want to talk about it here." He had brought it up, but he realized too late if they continued he'd shout, or fight tears.

Tristan: "Wanna go back to the hotel?"

Leslie: "Yes." All of this was for Tristan. There was nothing here he wanted.

Tristan: "Okay." He kissed Leslie's hands again and looked around for a taxi to hail.

They'd go back to the hotel, they'd talk, they'd have a nice meal later. Then, if Leslie wanted, they could go back home. They'd done what they'd come here to do.

#For Better or Worse Part 2 #leslieeissott #tristanseger

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poppy-s-rampage · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter 2: Welcome to Gotham!

Warnings: A little bit of blood, breakdown and emotional distress.

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Chapter 1! | Masterpost | Chapter 3!

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After finally closing up the last wound, Clockwork took a moment to look over his work. All of the young Halfa’s wounds have been sealed and treated with diluted ectoplasm. It was only enough to make the injuries look a week old at best but it will have to do.

The Ancient lifted his staff and in one swift movement ripped a hole in the fabric of reality. CW then carefully cradled Danny in his arms. Then both the Ancient and the Halfa stepped into the portal.

On the other side, they were met with an emaciated woman clad in a red and black Victorian dress accompanied by a small rose decorated matching hat. In her hand a small umbrella made of lace and what seemed to be black clouds.

Her delicate snow white skin furrowed by ink black veins. Her blood red lips striking against the pallor of her face were pursed in worry. Her eyes, even while covered by her laced black veil, didn’t hide her apprehension.

The woman’s dress’s neckline was fashioned in the silhouette of a bat. Pearls scattered like falling stars across the red and black folds of the garment. Her waist encased in a tight bodice was embellished by small golden coins and feathers. The red fishtail spilling on the ground lazily trailing after its mistress.

The woman bowed her head, greeting the Ancient and his charge.

“Lord Clockwork.” Her raspy yet somehow suave voice resonated into the night.

“Lady Gotham.” He responded while slightly dipping his head down.

The city spirit glanced at the boy in the other’s arm. His bandaged form and torn clothes were not what first captured her attention. What truly horrified her was the state of the young Halfa’s core. Wrapped and cracked, barely a breath away from breaking and ceasing to exist.

Her own aching at the view, screaming at her to take the boy, wrap him in a bundle of blankets and nurse/guard him until at full health.

Being ended was reserved to the lowest of the low. It was a last resort that should only be used should the offender be irredeemable and too dangerous to be contained. To think that this almost happened and still could to her own king and one so young.

It was nauseating.

Lady Gotham forced herself to look away, turning her attention back to Clockwork.

“I assume he is the charge you want to bring into my care.”

“He is.” Clockwork responded.

The woman nodded, the smoke and black clouds in her umbrella spreading around her.

“Then if you will follow me.”

Lady Gotham faded and became one with the smog. The black mass zooming towards Midtown Gotham, the ancient of time on its heels.

They soon arrived in front of a small but clean apartment building. The two ghosts phased through the wall of the top floor only to be greeted by the view of a spacious yet cozy loft.

The unit was furnished with all the necessary furniture, non-ecto-contaminated food already stocked in the fridge. The space was designed in order to facilitate Daniel’s recovery. The boy would already be going through hell with his recovery and grief; it was best not to add insult to injury.

The city spirit having taken back physical form, leads Clockwork towards the bed on the second floor of the loft.

Once inside, the Ancient carefully sets Danny down on the bed and slowly covers him with a soft blanket. He then produced a pen and a neon green notepad from who knows where and started writing.

Lady Gotham approached the ghost.

“Lord ClockWork, pardon my intrusion, but wouldn’t it be best for you to explain the situation to the young king face to face.”

Clockwork paused.

“Young Daniel is too unstable to be dealing with the emotional distress my presence would bring. He has been hurt enough as it is.”

“Those excuses are nothing but the words of a coward.”

“Pardon me?”

“You are not. Are you truly running away in order to protect the boy or are you doing so to save yourself?”

“…”

“Tell me, Lord Clockwork. When the young king awakens, would he prefer to be met with an insincere apology letter from a coward or the genuine words of a man admitting to his mistakes?”

Clockwork couldn’t even utter a word.He didn’t have any excuse to defend himself. The city spirit was right.

“Your words are as sharp as ever, old friend.”

“I speak nothing but the truth, Master of Time. However, it seems to me that you are already set on your decision.”

“I-”

“I hope in your interest that you made the right choice.” The Lady snapped.

The woman turned away but not without leaving a few departing words.

“Or that at least you are prepared to face the consequences.”

Lady Gotham disappeared in a whirlwind of smog.

Clock work turned back to Daniel watching as his face scrunched up when the old ghost brushed a strand of hair away from his face.

His old core flared with parental love.

He looked so peaceful, as if nothing ever went wrong. However, In just a few hours, he would wake up and reality would come crashing down.

His bright and joyous protegee. The one he couldn’t help but adore every version of. The one he subconsciously adopted as his own child.

Clockwork couldn’t. He just couldn’t bring himself to face the hatred and pain his pupil would inevitably direct at him.

Gotham was right.

The Master of Time set down the notepad on the night table

He was a coward.

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*A few hours later*

As the first few rays of sunshine broke through Gotham’s thick smog, a young black and white haired boy slowly woke up from his slumber.

It was comfortable, the soft fluffy blanket brushing against his achy skin. The warmth that comes with being cocooned in the safety of your own bed. Danny didn’t want to open his eyes. But he needed to wake up, in just a few moments Jazz would come knocking at his door to drag him to school.

The soft familiar knock never came, but the memories sure did.

Danny snapped his eyes open. Tears threatening to fall.

Clockwork -LiaR- ,the reveal, the capture -BeTraYaL-, the experiments -PaIN-, Jazz, Sam, Tucker,-PAINPAINPAIN mY FauLT- the wails, blood, explosion, death -MurDEreR!-, pain, Core breaking, burning, melting- PAIN PAIN PAIN! I ShOuLD be DeAD!-.

The Halfa now fully awake kicked the blanket enveloping him away and tried to get out of the bed.

His legs still injured and unable to support his weight gave out and he collapsed on the wooden floor in a heap.

The sharp pain of jolting his injuries and face planting further cemented to Danny that he wasn’t dreaming and that the nightmare was fully real.

“...no…NONONONONONO! Please, no! Please! I BEG YOU! PLEASE! JAZZ, TUCK, SAM PLEASE! DONT BE REAL! PLEASE!” Danny tried to say, but the only thing that came out were erratic breaths that could vaguely be associated with words. His damaged throat made it impossible to even breathe without it flaring in pain.

Choked and pained sobs filled the once silent room.

The young Halfa still collapsed on the floor cried , slowly curling up on himself hugging his knees.

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Chapter 1! | Masterpost | Chapter 3!

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See you next time!

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