I'm the last one to post today
But I'm not a loser! ^_^ (Just teasing, phoenixeiros! Hee.)
Really tired. Starting to hate this whole scheduling thing. But on the plus side? I have a spiffy wallpaper.
http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/18855988/
I'm really starting to like deviantart.
But. On with the posting.
Juste Judex ultionis,
Donum fac remissionis
Ante diem rationis.
Righteous judge and learnèd brother,
Pray thy prejudices smother
Ere we meet to try each other.
~Ambrose Bierce, excerpted from THE DAY OF WRATH/DEUS IRÆ
Title: Brother's Keeper, Part Three
Rating: PG-13 in a really tame way.
Genre: Snark with a light side of action.
Word count: 1624
Total word count so far: 7387
Author's notes that most likely no one will read: "Theobromo cacao" is the name of the tree cocoa beans are grown on. It means "food of the gods." Hence the chocolate company being named "Theobromo."
Riordan seemed determined to play games with Greg’s head. The trip to the gym had been nice, and the subsequent trip to McDonalds for dinner hadn’t been bad either, despite his companion. He was no closer to determining what kind of head game his owner was playing, though. Riordan didn’t seem to want anything from Greg, though that was okay, because the soul-binding between them ensured that what Riordan wanted, he could take. But if he didn’t want anything, then what was he doing? Keeping Greg confined to his room served no purpose that Greg could see (except, possibly, to drive him insane, which Greg didn’t put past Riordan at all.)
It was all about mixed-signals, Greg decided. Keeping him off-balance. Psychological torture at its most unsubtle. Why else would Riordan treat him like a worthless piece of furniture (like a slave) sometimes and then do almost nice gestures, like making meals Greg had admitted to “not hating” at others? (The fact that Riordan might not have any people skills didn’t occur to Greg. In Greg’s opinion, Riordan was a bastard. Period. End of story.)
He was doing sit-ups on the floor when Riordan knocked perfunctorily on the door. He leaned against the doorframe and waited.
Greg ignored him and continued doing his sit-ups. If Riordan wanted something, he could damn well say something about it. Thirty sit-ups later, Riordan was still waiting, and Greg was getting tired of being watched like a zoo specimen on display. The fact that he’d brought this on himself didn’t improve matters any, either.
“What?” he snapped irritably.
“I was wondering if you wanted to see the rest of the apartment.”
Greg bolted to his feet. “Yes!”
“Follow me.”
For once, Greg was all too happy to do so. Ever since their trip to the gym, Greg had wanted a chance to explore the rest of his prison. He definitely wanted to find out where the practice room was. If he was going to have any kind of a chance to get away from Riordan, he’d have to be in much better conditioning than he was now.
“The set-up’s fairly standard,” Riordan said. “The kitchen is this way. Are you any good in the kitchen?”
“Um, I know how to not burn water, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“…Okay, we’ll work on that.”
“You’re going to trust me in the kitchen?” Greg asked, incredulous. Was Riordan stupid? “I want to kill you. And you’re going to make it easy?” Which, alright, he probably shouldn’t be telling Riordan, but it wasn’t like this was a new revelation, or anything. In his first week of captivity, he’d screamed himself hoarse threatening Riordan with every death and torment he could think of.
“Grigori, there’s nothing in this kitchen that you could poison me with. Excepting possibly the cleaning solutions, but if you try that? I will know, and I won’t be pleased, either.”
He wouldn’t be pleased? Bah. Who said things like that? And why did it have to sound sinister rather than lame?
Riordan took his sullen silence for tacit agreement that he wouldn’t try to poison anyone.
“I think we’ll hold off on your cooking lessons for a little while,” Riordan muttered. “Come on. You can explore the rest of the kitchen once I’ve finished the tour.” He headed out of the kitchen and then stopped so abruptly Greg ran into him.
“Hey!” Greg yelped.
“I forgot the most important part,” Riordan said. He headed back into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He pointed at a box of chocolates sitting innocently on the top shelf. “Those are bad.”
Greg blinked. He peered at the box. He didn’t recognize the manufacturer, but it looked like it was the expensive kind of chocolate you had to special order. And it was bad? “Does Theobromo know that you think their chocolate is bad?”
“It’s not the chocolate that’s bad. The chocolate is actually really, really good. It’s eating it that’s bad.”
Greg stared. You were supposed to humor crazy people, weren’t you? “Right,” he said. “Eating the really, really good chocolate is bad.”
Riordan gave him a flat look. “Brat. That’s not what I meant.”
“Well, maybe if you’d try making sense for two fucking seconds…”
“I would if you wouldn’t turn everything into a battle,” hissed Riordan in reply.
They glared at one another for a minute. Or Greg glared, at any rate. Riordan’s expression didn’t change any, save for a slight, irritated narrowing of his eyes that could loosely be interpreted as a glare.
“No touching the chocolate without permission,” Riordan snapped.
“Fine,” Greg snapped back.
“Good. Want to skip the rest of the tour and go spar?”
“Hell yeah.”
“We’re really going to have to work on your language,” Riordan muttered as he headed out of the kitchen once more.
“Going to threaten me with soap and water next?” Greg mocked him.
“I’m starting to consider it.”
“I’d like to see you try.” Greg stepped onto the mat. Riordan’s practice room was astonishingly like the set-up from the gym. Padded mats of middling thickness covered two-thirds of the floor. The other third of the room was occupied by weights and a treadmill.
Riordan caught Greg up in a headlock, looping his arms beneath Greg’s armpits and locking them behind Greg’s neck, neatly immobilizing Greg’s arms as he did so. Greg growled incoherently and flailed. He smashed one of his feet against Riordan’s thigh. Riordan grunted and his grip loosened slightly, just enough for Greg to get free. Greg took advantage of his master’s distraction to plant a fist in Riordan’s face.
“Feel any better?” Riordan asked.
“Actually, I’d kind of like to do it again.”
Riordan smirked. “The first one is free, but the second one you’re going to have to earn.” He swept Greg’s feet out from under him. Greg rolled back to his feet and swung at Riordan again.
His jailer dodged easily and caught Greg’s wrist, wrenching it into a painful hold.
“Stop fighting with anger,’ he chided.
Greg elbowed the man with his free arm. Getting free wrenched his arm and made pain-bright spots dance in his vision. “Anger works.”
Riordan’s fist - open handed, thankfully - clipped the side of Greg’s head, briefly disorienting him.
A brief moment was all Riordan needed. He threw Greg over his hip and pinned the boy to the ground. “If you can’t channel your anger
into something productive, then why are you bothering?” he asked flatly. “You can’t beat me as you are now.”
“Who said anything about beating you, bastard? I just want you dead!” Greg’s attempts to squirm out of Riordan’s hold were quickly abandoned. Riordan seemed to have a better grasp of anatomy than Adam ever had. His armbars fucking hurt.
“What good is killing me going to do you if you get killed in the process?” Riordan asked. “Because that’s what’s going to happen if you keep trying as you are now.”
“What do you care?”
“I’d rather die at the hands of someone who knew what they were doing, if it’s all the same to you.”
His answer was so far beyond fucking psychotic it wasn’t even funny. Who cared how you died? Dead was dead, and Greg said so.
All that did was earn him a slap across the back of his head.
Riordan hauled Greg to his feet again. “Try again,” he said, not unkindly.
Greg did.
It didn’t do any good.
To make matters worse, it continued to not do any good the next three such attempts he made. Greg decided after ‘attempt to kill that smug bastard number four’ that maybe he was better off down and staying that way.
Riordan prodded him in the side with his foot. “Come on,” he said. “Get up.” He wasn’t using the tone of voice that made it a command, though, so Greg felt free to ignore him. At the moment, ignoring Riordan sounded better than trying to kill him. It took less energy, which was really appealing.
“Grigori,” Riordan said.
“Go away,” moaned Greg. “I’m too tired to move.”
“If I let you stay like that, you’ll regret it later,” Riordan informed him. “You need a shower. And possibly lunch.”
“Lunch?” He could get up for lunch. Probably. Depending on what lunch was.
“Pizza?” Riordan suggested.
Greg scowled. “It’s rude to snoop in other people’s heads like that.”
“I wasn’t snooping. I was resorting to a bribe, and pizza seemed like a logical choice, given that you seem to like junk food and I don’t feel like cooking.”
“Oh.” Pizza, huh? Yeah, he’d get up for pizza. “Pepperoni?”
“There will be some pepperoni on the pizza,” Riordan allowed.
“Get half-and-half.”
“No.”
“Hmph. Cheap bastard.” Greg got up anyway, because pizza was a pretty good deal, even if it wasn’t the kind he wanted.
“Not my fault you’re unadventurous,” replied Riordan, and he almost (almost) looked like he was smiling.
“Pizza,” Greg declared “is not adventurous. It’s food.”
Riordan stared at him. “Is the world always so black and white for you?”
“Yes,” said Greg promptly.
Riordan massaged his temples like he had a headache. “Go get cleaned up. And don’t use up all the hot water, either. I want a shower too.”
Damn. That had been an order. Greg stomped out, muttering under his breath. If Riordan was going to be nice and finally, finally let him out of his goddamn room, then why did he insist on ruining whatever goodwill/Stockholm Syndrome Greg might be developing towards him by reminding him that he had no free will with a command? Bastard. Bipolar hypocritical bastard.
As he stomped away, he thought he heard Riordan mutter, “We’ve got an awfully long way to go.”
Really tired. Starting to hate this whole scheduling thing. But on the plus side? I have a spiffy wallpaper.
http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/18855988/
I'm really starting to like deviantart.
But. On with the posting.
Juste Judex ultionis,
Donum fac remissionis
Ante diem rationis.
Righteous judge and learnèd brother,
Pray thy prejudices smother
Ere we meet to try each other.
~Ambrose Bierce, excerpted from THE DAY OF WRATH/DEUS IRÆ
Title: Brother's Keeper, Part Three
Rating: PG-13 in a really tame way.
Genre: Snark with a light side of action.
Word count: 1624
Total word count so far: 7387
Author's notes that most likely no one will read: "Theobromo cacao" is the name of the tree cocoa beans are grown on. It means "food of the gods." Hence the chocolate company being named "Theobromo."
Riordan seemed determined to play games with Greg’s head. The trip to the gym had been nice, and the subsequent trip to McDonalds for dinner hadn’t been bad either, despite his companion. He was no closer to determining what kind of head game his owner was playing, though. Riordan didn’t seem to want anything from Greg, though that was okay, because the soul-binding between them ensured that what Riordan wanted, he could take. But if he didn’t want anything, then what was he doing? Keeping Greg confined to his room served no purpose that Greg could see (except, possibly, to drive him insane, which Greg didn’t put past Riordan at all.)
It was all about mixed-signals, Greg decided. Keeping him off-balance. Psychological torture at its most unsubtle. Why else would Riordan treat him like a worthless piece of furniture (like a slave) sometimes and then do almost nice gestures, like making meals Greg had admitted to “not hating” at others? (The fact that Riordan might not have any people skills didn’t occur to Greg. In Greg’s opinion, Riordan was a bastard. Period. End of story.)
He was doing sit-ups on the floor when Riordan knocked perfunctorily on the door. He leaned against the doorframe and waited.
Greg ignored him and continued doing his sit-ups. If Riordan wanted something, he could damn well say something about it. Thirty sit-ups later, Riordan was still waiting, and Greg was getting tired of being watched like a zoo specimen on display. The fact that he’d brought this on himself didn’t improve matters any, either.
“What?” he snapped irritably.
“I was wondering if you wanted to see the rest of the apartment.”
Greg bolted to his feet. “Yes!”
“Follow me.”
For once, Greg was all too happy to do so. Ever since their trip to the gym, Greg had wanted a chance to explore the rest of his prison. He definitely wanted to find out where the practice room was. If he was going to have any kind of a chance to get away from Riordan, he’d have to be in much better conditioning than he was now.
“The set-up’s fairly standard,” Riordan said. “The kitchen is this way. Are you any good in the kitchen?”
“Um, I know how to not burn water, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“…Okay, we’ll work on that.”
“You’re going to trust me in the kitchen?” Greg asked, incredulous. Was Riordan stupid? “I want to kill you. And you’re going to make it easy?” Which, alright, he probably shouldn’t be telling Riordan, but it wasn’t like this was a new revelation, or anything. In his first week of captivity, he’d screamed himself hoarse threatening Riordan with every death and torment he could think of.
“Grigori, there’s nothing in this kitchen that you could poison me with. Excepting possibly the cleaning solutions, but if you try that? I will know, and I won’t be pleased, either.”
He wouldn’t be pleased? Bah. Who said things like that? And why did it have to sound sinister rather than lame?
Riordan took his sullen silence for tacit agreement that he wouldn’t try to poison anyone.
“I think we’ll hold off on your cooking lessons for a little while,” Riordan muttered. “Come on. You can explore the rest of the kitchen once I’ve finished the tour.” He headed out of the kitchen and then stopped so abruptly Greg ran into him.
“Hey!” Greg yelped.
“I forgot the most important part,” Riordan said. He headed back into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He pointed at a box of chocolates sitting innocently on the top shelf. “Those are bad.”
Greg blinked. He peered at the box. He didn’t recognize the manufacturer, but it looked like it was the expensive kind of chocolate you had to special order. And it was bad? “Does Theobromo know that you think their chocolate is bad?”
“It’s not the chocolate that’s bad. The chocolate is actually really, really good. It’s eating it that’s bad.”
Greg stared. You were supposed to humor crazy people, weren’t you? “Right,” he said. “Eating the really, really good chocolate is bad.”
Riordan gave him a flat look. “Brat. That’s not what I meant.”
“Well, maybe if you’d try making sense for two fucking seconds…”
“I would if you wouldn’t turn everything into a battle,” hissed Riordan in reply.
They glared at one another for a minute. Or Greg glared, at any rate. Riordan’s expression didn’t change any, save for a slight, irritated narrowing of his eyes that could loosely be interpreted as a glare.
“No touching the chocolate without permission,” Riordan snapped.
“Fine,” Greg snapped back.
“Good. Want to skip the rest of the tour and go spar?”
“Hell yeah.”
“We’re really going to have to work on your language,” Riordan muttered as he headed out of the kitchen once more.
“Going to threaten me with soap and water next?” Greg mocked him.
“I’m starting to consider it.”
“I’d like to see you try.” Greg stepped onto the mat. Riordan’s practice room was astonishingly like the set-up from the gym. Padded mats of middling thickness covered two-thirds of the floor. The other third of the room was occupied by weights and a treadmill.
Riordan caught Greg up in a headlock, looping his arms beneath Greg’s armpits and locking them behind Greg’s neck, neatly immobilizing Greg’s arms as he did so. Greg growled incoherently and flailed. He smashed one of his feet against Riordan’s thigh. Riordan grunted and his grip loosened slightly, just enough for Greg to get free. Greg took advantage of his master’s distraction to plant a fist in Riordan’s face.
“Feel any better?” Riordan asked.
“Actually, I’d kind of like to do it again.”
Riordan smirked. “The first one is free, but the second one you’re going to have to earn.” He swept Greg’s feet out from under him. Greg rolled back to his feet and swung at Riordan again.
His jailer dodged easily and caught Greg’s wrist, wrenching it into a painful hold.
“Stop fighting with anger,’ he chided.
Greg elbowed the man with his free arm. Getting free wrenched his arm and made pain-bright spots dance in his vision. “Anger works.”
Riordan’s fist - open handed, thankfully - clipped the side of Greg’s head, briefly disorienting him.
A brief moment was all Riordan needed. He threw Greg over his hip and pinned the boy to the ground. “If you can’t channel your anger
into something productive, then why are you bothering?” he asked flatly. “You can’t beat me as you are now.”
“Who said anything about beating you, bastard? I just want you dead!” Greg’s attempts to squirm out of Riordan’s hold were quickly abandoned. Riordan seemed to have a better grasp of anatomy than Adam ever had. His armbars fucking hurt.
“What good is killing me going to do you if you get killed in the process?” Riordan asked. “Because that’s what’s going to happen if you keep trying as you are now.”
“What do you care?”
“I’d rather die at the hands of someone who knew what they were doing, if it’s all the same to you.”
His answer was so far beyond fucking psychotic it wasn’t even funny. Who cared how you died? Dead was dead, and Greg said so.
All that did was earn him a slap across the back of his head.
Riordan hauled Greg to his feet again. “Try again,” he said, not unkindly.
Greg did.
It didn’t do any good.
To make matters worse, it continued to not do any good the next three such attempts he made. Greg decided after ‘attempt to kill that smug bastard number four’ that maybe he was better off down and staying that way.
Riordan prodded him in the side with his foot. “Come on,” he said. “Get up.” He wasn’t using the tone of voice that made it a command, though, so Greg felt free to ignore him. At the moment, ignoring Riordan sounded better than trying to kill him. It took less energy, which was really appealing.
“Grigori,” Riordan said.
“Go away,” moaned Greg. “I’m too tired to move.”
“If I let you stay like that, you’ll regret it later,” Riordan informed him. “You need a shower. And possibly lunch.”
“Lunch?” He could get up for lunch. Probably. Depending on what lunch was.
“Pizza?” Riordan suggested.
Greg scowled. “It’s rude to snoop in other people’s heads like that.”
“I wasn’t snooping. I was resorting to a bribe, and pizza seemed like a logical choice, given that you seem to like junk food and I don’t feel like cooking.”
“Oh.” Pizza, huh? Yeah, he’d get up for pizza. “Pepperoni?”
“There will be some pepperoni on the pizza,” Riordan allowed.
“Get half-and-half.”
“No.”
“Hmph. Cheap bastard.” Greg got up anyway, because pizza was a pretty good deal, even if it wasn’t the kind he wanted.
“Not my fault you’re unadventurous,” replied Riordan, and he almost (almost) looked like he was smiling.
“Pizza,” Greg declared “is not adventurous. It’s food.”
Riordan stared at him. “Is the world always so black and white for you?”
“Yes,” said Greg promptly.
Riordan massaged his temples like he had a headache. “Go get cleaned up. And don’t use up all the hot water, either. I want a shower too.”
Damn. That had been an order. Greg stomped out, muttering under his breath. If Riordan was going to be nice and finally, finally let him out of his goddamn room, then why did he insist on ruining whatever goodwill/Stockholm Syndrome Greg might be developing towards him by reminding him that he had no free will with a command? Bastard. Bipolar hypocritical bastard.
As he stomped away, he thought he heard Riordan mutter, “We’ve got an awfully long way to go.”