morgan macdougal eats your kind for breakfast. (bangupjob) wrote in find_horcruxes, @ 2010-04-22 17:51:00 |
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The castle was becoming more and more cavernous by the day. This, despite the influx of people living there of late, which included his own parents and his infant (and increasingly restless) sister. Peadar, having of late greatly eschewed the society of people who could talk, people who could say sorry, people who could give him that look like they expected something from him (or so he'd taken to thinking), found himself much preferring Morag's company over any and all adults'. The boy paced the high ceilinged halls with her resting against his chest, attempting to soothe her wailing with soft pats on the baby's back, or soft sounds against the dark curls of her hair. It was something that seemed, for once, solvable. Unlike everything else. It was on one of these strolls, sister in his arms, that Peadar found himself circling closer and closer to his eldest aunt's room. Since the news about Nick had broken over Caer Dubh the hours had both blurred and crawled, until finally now, when it was dark once again, he felt the urge to seize the day itself, to stop it from slipping away entirely. In took him several passes to muster up the courage (or will, really), to nudge the door open and look inside. ... and not find her there. He sighed, brow furrowing, and gave the sleeping child against his front another gentle pat as he made his way back out into the hallway. The next place he thought to look for her was probably the first place he should have gone, but it meant reluctantly delivering his security blanket -- ie. Morag herself -- back to her crib. Small children, especially babies one was trying to get to sleep, shouldn't be brought to shooting ranges. Morgan had finally burned through all the ammunition she had pulled from the shelves. She was going to owe Angus quite a few rounds. Fuck it, they had the money, and Nick was dead. Angus probably wouldn't even notice. Shit, she was going to need to check in on Gus when she wasn't feeling so anti-social. The gun range at Caer Dubh had been silent for well past twenty minutes. The medi-witch sat in a corner, staring at absolutely nothing with enormous eyes and a far-off expression. She knew it could happen to any one of them now that the Order's names were out there. It wasn't safe outside the castle, but fuck if she was going to sit around inside the castle all day and night. Any one of her job's calls could potentially be her last. One Death Eater clever enough to get his hands on her work schedule - not hard to come by - and send a fake distress call - even easier - with his wand could see her kissing sunlight, so to speak. As crude and selfish as it sounded, Caer Dubh had already been hit by Death Eaters within recent weeks; time for the Death Eaters to spread their hate to other parts of the United Kingdom. But no. Nicholas James Harrow, 427, had apparently taken a nose dive out of a 4 story window into the morning sunlight. Morgan knew Nick, and no matter what anyone told her, she was certain that a) he hadn't killed Nina in a feeding frenzy, b) hadn't throw himself out the window in a fit of self-loathing and remorse for the act. For Merlin's sake, there were a million things in his past he could have topped himself off for, and he was notorious for being level-headed - and quite frankly, too fucking noble to do any such thing. If there was any time he was going to slip up and kill someone, it probably would have been the time he had a gaping chest wound. Morgan had offered, offered to let him bite her, and he refused her. There was no way he was going to kill Nina as random as all that. Which left her with one option: another vampire had attacked Nina and thrown Nick out the window. Morgan intended to find out who it was and give her brand of justice. The problem with sitting completely still was that any little thing would catch your attention, and just as Morgan was taking another swig from the bottle of Jack Daniel's (she'd snuck out at some point to a Muggle shop, because she hadn't wanted to go back into the castle), she saw Peadar out of the corner of her eye. "Fuck," she murmured softly well out of range for him to hear, but her gaze jerked up to his face, a silent signal of acknowledgement, even acceptance. Of everyone in the castle, Peadar was the only one she could truly stand to see at the moment. His own grief was close to her own. And it occurred to him then, with her eyes looking so large as they did, and with her body framed by so much empty space, just how young his aunt really was. More than that, just in the grand scheme of things, how young they both were. Time and age seemed once again a funny thing in the castle. His own sister didn't even have a year under her belt yet; Nick had gone through 427, and the woman he loved (or now, the woman who loved him) only a slim fraction of that. Peadar brushed his fringe from his eyes. After that initial eye contact was made (like meeting the eyes of a hippogryph before engaging it) he began his approach into the room. His target was a patch of floor close enough to Morgan to be close, far enough away to give her space. The teenager sat down, bent his knees, rested his elbows on them, and looked at her. "... out of bullets?" There was a vague, quiet tone of surprise at the notion, true or not. "Yes... no. Sort of." The truth was somewhere in between. The bullets she'd pulled out for the occasion were gone; she hadn't even bothered with targets. Just round after round at the end of the range. However, there were still a few boxes left in the case. "Don't feel like it anymore." Morgan had run out of steam. If she didn't move onto something else to vent her anger and frustration, she'd probably burst into fucking tears, and no one wanted that. "I was seven the first time I met him." She forced a laugh under her breath. "Thought he was a film star, he was so fancy." More inspired by her brief, grim laugh than any actual fit of humour, Peadar gave his own sad sound of the stuff and grinned. Somewhat. It was a tentative, unsure expression, one that looked capable of dissolving any moment. "What sorta films were you watching," he snorted jokingly. The sleeves of his jumper were tugged at, until finally, a moment or two later, he crossed his arms and glanced back at her. "Did he always seem older to you?" Peader began, his tone betraying genuine curiosity. "I mean, you knew he was, technically, but more like... well, he looked more my age, yeah? But since I'd grown up with him always being older, he still seemed older even though we looked the same age. Like timeless. Like that story, about the castle that always stays far in the distance no matter how close you feel you're getting." ... which is about the time he realised he was rambling again, not making sense and without something convenient like alcohol or pot to blame it on. He shook his head, perking his eyebrows. "Sorry." "No apologies, I know what you mean. Like no matter how old you are or look, he still seemed older. Sort of an aura about him." Morgan's reply came in a subdued voice, most unlike her. Peadar had definitely hit on something. At least there was photographic evidence that Nick existed. How tragic would it have been if vampires couldn't be photographed? She'd eventually forget what he looked like, what he sounded like. Morgan was going to have to ask the underground radio for copies of shows, if they kept them. Suddenly, it felt like something was squeezing the life out of her heart. Her jaw snapped shut with an audible - and painful - clunk, and she looked off to the side. "Sorry. Tough day." "No apologies," he countered in return. Peadar hazarded another glance in Morgan's direction, somewhat relieved to find that she was looking away from him. Made it easier for him to study her for a moment (and easier for her, no doubt, to be studied). There were a multitude of questions he could ask, but for once he felt it wise to hold some in check, to perhaps not voice the first thing that came to mind, because this Morgan was a different Morgan than he was used to, and there was something fragile about the strangeness of her. The boy uncrossed his arms, stretched them out, rested them on his bent knees loosely. For want of anything else to do with his gaze, he began squinting at the far wall. "I never really liked guns. Shite with aiming too -- doesn't help." "You get better at aiming with some practise." Or you got drunk and shot vampires who would laugh it off, if you hadn't riddled his favourite sweater with holes. Dorcas's death had wiped Morgan out. The girl had been something between Gwen and Morgan in the temperament department. Sweet like Gwen, with balls like Morgan. For Nick's death to come so soon after, Morgan imagined the pain was a little like being kicked in the balls. "I could teach you. It's one hell of a stress reliever." It hadn't occurred to him until that moment that he might even be stressed. Life had seemed to stretched out into days and nights indistinguishable from each other, united in tragedy and violence -- and he'd come to expect both as eventualities, so that instead of reeling from recent events he'd begun to absorb them instead. True, he couldn't sleep most nights, and true, he felt a lightness in his limbs and a general nothingness, a numbness in his middle, but he didn't associate that with grieving or pain, certainly not with stress. Shouldn't he be crying? Making a scene? It's what he'd always predicted he'd do. But instead Peadar was sedate, much like his aunt beside him, and he absently linked his fingers and tugged once more at his jumper before nodding. "That'd be good." Then, "You ever actually shot somebody?" Morgan didn't move, except her eyes darted in Peadar's direction. The only person she'd ever shot was Nick in a drunken state. She often threatened to shoot him, and if she had gotten angry enough, she would have shot a finger or two off just to make a point. Rather than point all that out, she shrugged. "Nope, but I intend to." Pushing off the ground, Morgan directed herself straight to the wooden plank she'd used to house her pair of Smith and Wessons, the company's very first semi-automatics. They were lighter than they looked, and compact enough to fit under her work robes without that unseemly bulge. The clips were still in place, but after a quick inspect, there were no rounds in the chambers or clips. Morgan reclaimed her place and handed one of the guns to her nephew. "A face full of these and any fucking vampire will go down." The weapon was taken gingerly, and Peadar, unsure of quite how to hold a gun without looking like a complete idiot, furrowed his brow and rotated the thing in his hands -- making sure to keep it pointed away from both himself and his aunt, of course. "Lighter'n I thought it'd be," he muttered, once again tossing his fringe from his eyes. He supposed they would become heavier when actually loaded, though for the sake of caution, he didn't want to go about making any assumptions. "That true?" His voice betrayed some skepticism, but he swallowed it quickly, deciding to instead arch an eyebrow. "... so you going after them then?" "FBI-issue. Meant for concealing," she answered in response to his first comment. That was why they would never see it coming. They'd be expecting wands, and magic could only slow a vampire down. A few rounds of these at the neck, and there'd be no need for a stake. Dropping to her haunches, she gave Peadar a shrug. "If I can find them, you bet. Nick didn't kill Nina and then kill himself. I know that much." The question of FBI issue? What? was swallowed back, and in an uncharacteristic display of self consciousness, Peadar shut then twisted his mouth to the side to avoid saying anything stupid. His focus was mostly on the gun anyway. "Where do you even start?" He asked, when the pressure to say something (as his natural curiousity compelled him to) overwhelmed him. Again the teenager's brow furrowed, his head shaking as he shrugged. "Seems almost..." Impossible was what he wanted to say, but didn't. Morgan had the same thoughts, but really, she was in the Order. All she'd really have to do is pretend that any bastards she came across on that list were responsible for Nick's death. Dorcas's too. Caradoc, Charity, Benjy... All of them. This medi-witch was not going to sit on the sidelines anymore. It was time for her to stop hiding behind the Healing sidelines. "Start with the list of confirmed Death Eaters we got from our spy." Her gaze flicked up to Peadar's. "Want to help me?" How could he tell her no? How could he tell her what he wanted to tell her, which was that he didn't want to die, that he didn't see the point, that he didn't want to join Nick, or Meredith's father, or Greta's boyfriend. Or Dorcas. Peadar swallowed, feeling as he did so something cold and hard take root in his chest, and dropped his eyes to the gun again. He turned it, gingerly. "I don't think I'd be much help," he answered honestly. He didn't have to tell her no. It was difficult to explain, but Morgan knew that if there ever came a time that she fretted so much about death, she would easily ask Angus to clear up that little problem for her. A week ago, she would have asked Nick. Then, when she was sure she'd lived long enough, she could decide what to do then. Kiss sunlight, as Angus always said. "I still want you to learn to protect yourself with one of these. They'll never expect it." |