War, of course, changes everything. Suddenly he’s overseas, finds his mind filled with more than his own burning desires for the first time; he’s cold, muddy, drenched. He loses men, captures some, and is abruptly sent home.
“They need you on intel,” says the General, lying through his teeth. Captain Jack Benjamin’s worn his uniform in with his soldiers, hasn’t yet cleaned the mud off his boots or the blood off his knife. He salutes, and sees Silas’ guiding hands.
-
He takes a discharge like he takes a punch, feels it twisting deep in his gut. He shrugs away the guilt regardless, lighting a cigarette in the back of the Rolls that’s been sent for him and taking a deep drag of French tobacco. The driver doesn’t chatter and Jack’s got his other hand on his gun, a new habit he’ll make into an old one.
The house looks the same as it always has, and nobody greets him at the door.
His mother’s sitting across from Silas, papers spread between them like a battle map, and he takes a last pull before walking over and stubbing it out on the red leather of the antique desk.
“Darling,” his mother chides, “that’s terribly impolite.”
“We wouldn’t want that, would we?” he says to her, lighting another.
“The hero returns,” says Silas, capping his pen.
“Not even going to pretend to be surprised?” he needles, blowing smoke through his nostrils, watching it curl around his father’s head. His mother makes a disapproving noise, a fixture of his childhood.
“You’ve got work to do,” Silas tells him, eyes hooded.
-
He may not be loved, but he throws himself into it anyway, finds a man with the last soft edges of a boy and goes home with him, bites out his frustration on his lips, neck, chest. He’s cold in the morning, leaves nothing behind but the marks of his teeth, and returns to Silas half-drunk and smirking.
“Tell me,” Silas asks him, “did I waste my money?” His fingers are steepled beneath his chin, no false kindness in his tone.
“If you’re asking me how much it’ll take to straighten me out, you should rethink your line of questioning,” he says. “Ask me how many future politicians I’ve fucked, then maybe you’ll get an answer you want.”
Silas stares at him unblinking, casting his judgements. He sits back in his chair, fingers gripping the arms white-knuckled. “Sit down, boy,” he tells him. “I’ve got a project for you.”
--
Silas is long past doing his own dirty work, but Jack likes to keep his hands clean and his gloves filthy. He’s got a head for business that he takes great pains to hide, does what’s necessary to buy his own loyalties. He lets Silas tear strips off him, and waits.
It’s so easy to smile with his eyes half-lidded like his father’s and squeeze promises from some and information from others, passing on what he has to, keeping what he needs. He knows all about mutually assured destruction.
“They need you on intel,” says the General, lying through his teeth. Captain Jack Benjamin’s worn his uniform in with his soldiers, hasn’t yet cleaned the mud off his boots or the blood off his knife. He salutes, and sees Silas’ guiding hands.
-
He takes a discharge like he takes a punch, feels it twisting deep in his gut. He shrugs away the guilt regardless, lighting a cigarette in the back of the Rolls that’s been sent for him and taking a deep drag of French tobacco. The driver doesn’t chatter and Jack’s got his other hand on his gun, a new habit he’ll make into an old one.
The house looks the same as it always has, and nobody greets him at the door.
His mother’s sitting across from Silas, papers spread between them like a battle map, and he takes a last pull before walking over and stubbing it out on the red leather of the antique desk.
“Darling,” his mother chides, “that’s terribly impolite.”
“We wouldn’t want that, would we?” he says to her, lighting another.
“The hero returns,” says Silas, capping his pen.
“Not even going to pretend to be surprised?” he needles, blowing smoke through his nostrils, watching it curl around his father’s head. His mother makes a disapproving noise, a fixture of his childhood.
“You’ve got work to do,” Silas tells him, eyes hooded.
-
He may not be loved, but he throws himself into it anyway, finds a man with the last soft edges of a boy and goes home with him, bites out his frustration on his lips, neck, chest. He’s cold in the morning, leaves nothing behind but the marks of his teeth, and returns to Silas half-drunk and smirking.
“Tell me,” Silas asks him, “did I waste my money?” His fingers are steepled beneath his chin, no false kindness in his tone.
“If you’re asking me how much it’ll take to straighten me out, you should rethink your line of questioning,” he says. “Ask me how many future politicians I’ve fucked, then maybe you’ll get an answer you want.”
Silas stares at him unblinking, casting his judgements. He sits back in his chair, fingers gripping the arms white-knuckled. “Sit down, boy,” he tells him. “I’ve got a project for you.”
--
Silas is long past doing his own dirty work, but Jack likes to keep his hands clean and his gloves filthy. He’s got a head for business that he takes great pains to hide, does what’s necessary to buy his own loyalties. He lets Silas tear strips off him, and waits.
It’s so easy to smile with his eyes half-lidded like his father’s and squeeze promises from some and information from others, passing on what he has to, keeping what he needs. He knows all about mutually assured destruction.
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