Two.
Three.
And then he adjusts instantly.
A normal person might break down, lose it, lash out.
Lachlan has been trained against such outbursts.
He’s been tortured, drugged, trained, harmed, broken, built and deprived until his skeleton shone and his skin was leather and his mind was a machine.
Killer.He’s a trained killer.
And trained killers do not lose their temper.
He masters himself after less than three seconds, stone-wall neutral, though displeased.Jules looks darkly thrilled.He has Fenwick’sfingersin his mouth while the older man sucks him off.He and Lachlan hold each other’s gaze, and Jules isdaringhim to step in, to speak.Fenwick hasn’t even noticed.
Lachlan assesses the situation for threat, finds none, so he leaves.
?
Lachlan takes a personal day, drives out of Varrow City limits, leaves that fucking place behind until he sees the ocean.He then sits on grass-speckled sand and looks out at the water, the waves crashing in, grey skies above.
He just sits there.Exists.
Not guarding, not parenting, not fighting, not protecting.
Who is he when he sits still?
He never wanted to find out, and he doesn’t really care now.
But he’s starting to wonder if he’s bad to his core.
If he’s only going to make these kids worse.
He stays until it rains.
It feels as if the skies are calling him back to the Estate, as if those kids hold sway with the water and all the silly stories he heard once are real.Those whispers in the ranks of RB when there was a big mission the next day and strong soldiers talked in soft voices of things they heard about, rumours.
Paranaturals and other kinds.
Bullshit.
What’s real is the sky, the clouds, the sea, the sand.
Blood, bullets, schedules and safety.
Skin.Voice.Hair.Hands.
Paper.Wood.Trees.Fire.
Life and death.
Food and water.
This world.
The people.
