#the way daniel's eyes nearly pop out of his head i'm gonna fucking lose it

[danthropologie]

drive to survive s5e08 | "alpha male"

[msfbgraves]

Daniel comes off as totally irresistible in your MobAU. I bet Terry was all “That little Italian Omega means nothing to me, I can get over this.” And then he fails to, spectacularly. Oops. Anyway, just how desperate was Terry to have his wedding night, lol? 

Desperate enough! In fact:

“You're being honeytrapped, you know that.” John crosses his arms, face set in a signature scowl.

He looks at him. “Do you have anything new to say?”

“It bears repeating.” He lifts his chin. “Terry, they're stalling. Only people who do that are weak. Do you want them to regroup first?”

“We can take 'em, John, but can we hold them?”

“The feck you take me for? Of course!”

He smiles. “Johnny. I don't have time to play dictator. I, we, we need to expand, and if I have to waste my people babysitting some resentful Italians, that's not ever gonna work. There's the Russians, Chinese, Arabs and they're hungry.”

John sniffs. “We could take Russians, or Chinese or half of feckin England if we stick to our ground.”

“Sure, and then, when we're depleted, some damned cartel boss is going to swoop in. Let them do that to the other ones first.”

John leans on his hand fixes him. “If this is about the Prima Donna -”

“It's a boy, John.”

“It's a goat for all I care. It's trouble, you eejit. How often have you seen him, once?” He scoffs. “Jesus, Terry. They're throwing kitties at you as we speak.”

He sighs. “Trying to buy their way in, they don't offer anything.”

“Oh, and he does?”

Christ, that smell. The ripeness of him. Health, too. He'd not lacked for anything. But those eyes were quick. The fire in them. And those lips...

John shakes his head. “Jesus, it's like fucking Troy.” He stands up. “You're getting killed tonight, you eejit, so I'm putting everyone on high alert. Again.”

Terry grins. “All I ask.”

“I will squeeze your Mandy for a payout, so,” John says. “That English bitch of hers can pay for the service.”

“I have no doubt,” Terry says. “You'll be King of the block, Johnny.”

But never more, and that is what he needs to find a way to prevent.

And this way is looking ever more appealing.

***

Sweet Mother of God, is he gorgeous.

And even more pissed off than last time.

“It's good to see you” gets him an: “Is it? Why?”

He touches his arm. “Come now, don't fish for compliments.” He leans over, whispers in his ear: “You know you're beautiful.”

The boy freezes for half a second. “And that's the most important thing?”

“It's all I know as yet.” He straightens up. “I was hoping we could change that.”

He blushes, look away, seemingly not a day older than fourteen. “And what if I don't want that?”

“Then you might miss out on some fun.” He winks at him. “C'mon. What do you have to lose?”

In fact, nobody can stay snippy on the subject of fun for very long, Terry knows that from experience, and soon enough they're knee deep into a discussion of Pop vs Swing. The boy is really into guitar, keeps talking about some fella called Reinhardt. It's refreshing, after all the Benny Goodman talk. But then he leans over, whispers in a conspiratorial tone: “But who I really like is Robert Johnson.”

Terry nearly spits out his wine. “Johnson?” he says, trying not to laugh. “Sweetheart. What do you have to be blue about?”

The hurt that flashes over his face makes Terry wants to kick himself. “I don't know,” the boy says, pulling back. “People not taking you seriously?”

“Daniele,” his mother interjects suddenly. “All this music talk – why don't you play us something?”

He frowns. “Ah, no, Ma...”

“Yes,” the Don says. “What a good idea. Daniele, get your instrument.”

There's a murmur of assent. And of course Terry wants to hear it, but he hates how the boy ducks together. “Why don't we all play something?” he says, looking at the rather grand piano in the adjacent room.

“My son is very good,” the Don says. “In fact, I'd say he sometimes even plays too much.”

Bastard. The utter bastard. Why put him on the spot like that? “Really, it'd be my pleasure,” Terry says, but the Don has fixed his son again. “Now, please, Daniele.”

Poor sweetheart, but there's little to be done. They all file into the other room as he slinks away to get a guitar.

But oh, baby knows his instrument. He can see the look of concentration that only comes from genuine enjoyment. Turn inside, Terry wants to whisper to him. Where it's you and the notes. Nothing else.

And when he seems poised to do just that:

“Mozart,” the Don says.

His head shoots up. “What?”

“It's all I've heard you play for days,” the Don says. “Mozart.”

“I'm not done with that one yet,” he says, turning pale. He looks to the room. “It's not written for guitar, I was transcribing it, please...”

The Don gives a thin smile. “Mozart.”

“Come on, Daniel!” that's the eldest. “We've all heard it!”

And now Terry can't help himself. “Do you mind?”

The boy seems to make a decision, by all accounts to get it the hell over with. He sits down, breathes in, and starts.

Oh, sweetheart. Sweetheart. It's Alla Turca, and those quick sixteenths are hard enough as it is on piano. (He should know, with old Dougal Andrews always urging him to play 'real music' until he finally relented and taught him this one, free of charge.) But those runs need supporting chords, and that's murderously difficult on solo guitar, so you're constantly stuck making compromises. It's not impossible, but it's hardly intuitive, and he sees the boy's brow furrow in pained concentration.

And then he stops.

Of course. Terry doesn't wait but walks over, opens the piano and continues the piece, hoping he's found the right key – by all accounts, he has – and nods at Daniel. The boy understands, plays the repetition as intended, but at least, with Terry on chords, he has his hands free to focus on the melody.

He sees him breathe out, relax.

Good boy.

He's even joking around with the tempi a little bit, little showoff, and draws out the end chord ridiculously long, until Terry sees the Don pull a face.

Serves him right.

“Thanks,” he mumbles and moves to put away his guitar, determinedly avoiding eye contact.

Well, he'll have to make him listen, then, won't he?

Terry puts his fingers back on the keys, can't help picturing what he'd like to do if those fingers were caressing someone's skin. And yet, he can't but well up a little; the last person he'd played this for was Mandy.

Oh, Danny Boy...

Not something often played in a room full of Italians, and he sees the uncle give him a hard look in the minute pause between phrases.

He plays all four verses, improvising as he goes. Then he closes the piano, looks back at the omega.

The boy gives him a half smile.

“I thought they played this at funerals?”

For one second, Terry's stunned.

This brat. Feckin Hell!

The Don nods at him. “Thank you, Daniele. Mr. Silver. Care to join me for a cigar?”

He looks back at the boy, who's had the decency to turn bright red.

Just you wait, little one.

Back in the Don's room, he smokes the cigar standing up. “I'm not going to spoil him.”

The Don's smile is thin lipped. “That's what I said to my wife.”

Terry grins. “I can't make out if he's brave or stupid at times.”

The Don lifts his chin. “He is very young.” He stands from behind the desk. “Do we have a deal?”

Terry straightens up as well. “I would never let him go,” he says. “Not for the whole world.”

“Don't worry,” the Don says. “I won't.” He nods. “I'll have my attorney send you the details. My wife Lucille will be in charge of the arrangements.” He walks past him, opens the door.

“Good night, son.”