Eli Pride is Elizabeth Bennet (hybristic) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2011-06-09 00:29:00 |
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Entry tags: | elizabeth bennet, piers knight, viola |
Who: Preston, Shiloh and Eli
What: Yelling about airplanes and ballerinas
Where: The Museum
When: Recentish Because this is when everything happens lately
Warnings: Yelling?
Preston brought Eli with him because he was too angry to go over all the reasons that it was a bad idea. Undoubtedly they’d all just make him angry all over again. First he stormed up the stairs, practically shouted the door down until he realized no one was home, and then without pause he stormed back out to the parking garage. The slush wasn’t kind, the sidewalks slippery, the traffic dense, but Preston didn’t see anything but where he was going. He drove to the hospital next, and after a short run straight to the floor he needed, Preston discovered Shiloh wasn’t there. His expression when he came out of the hospital was gray and flat as granite, and it stayed that way on the drive across town to the museum, where he threw the BMW into park and stepped out.
Preston didn’t take care of his vehicles as well as he did his clothing, but sadly he hadn’t taken much time for that, either. His nod toward the weather was a charcoal suitcoat that did not match his warm sand slacks. He looked like a mismatched chess board, and about as enigmatic. He banged on the locked side door of the museum. “SHILOH.”
Eli expected no good to come of this, and he watched the progress (from home, to hospital, to work) with a careful expression. Preston was angry in a way he’d never seen the other man. Generally, these shows of temper belonged to Eli, and it was an odd thing to watch. He did so quietly, a distanced observer in a situation that was not of his making, and that was not his to repair. It reminded him of arguments witnessed in the shops, ones he wished to mediate and had trouble not involving himself in. The difference, however, was that he knew these two men, knew the parents in question and what they had done to Preston. It was sure to be an unpleasant argument, one fueled by emotions that had little to do with the present. He put a hand on Preston’s shoulder, an attempt at calm that he expected to have little effect.
Since things had started to fall apart, Shiloh had taken to hiding at the museum, his office a second home that no one dared to evict him from. After everyone else had gone home for the night, sans the security guard who would patrol every few hours, it was a sort of peace that he needed, especially after the night he had had. He had just hung up on Gwen, staring at the phone as a certain numbness settled over him. The bottle of scotch on his desk was half-empty, and while he wanted very much to simply finish the rest that evening, he was wise enough to put the bottle away, tucked in a desk drawer in the very back, behind papers and files no one but he would be interested in.
Rising from his desk with the tumbler in hand, he was making his way to the restroom when he heard the pounding on the door. Pausing, his brows knit down in concern, he almost passed it off until he heard the unmistakable sound of his name yelled in a very familiar voice. The night was just getting better and better, it seemed. Stashing the tumbler back in his office, Shiloh took his time in going to the source of the knocking, idly hoping that Preston would tire of waiting and simply leave. But it was not to be, it seemed, as he heard the dull thud of the knocking echoing through the building.
Shiloh pulled his keys from his pocket, and after a bit of fumbling (and no “I’ll be there in a second!”), he unlocked the side door and pushed it open with his hip, though a hand kept it from swinging wide open into the Seattle night. “I assume you have a good reason to be pounding on my door like a lunatic,” he said slowly, evenly, every effort to keep his words from slurring together like a drunkard. He spied Eli just over Preston’s shoulder, and as though this was a social visit, he gave a nod to the man. “Eli.”
Eli squeezed Preston’s shoulder, a calming (he hoped) gesture, and he stepped past him and took Shiloh’s hand. “Good to see you again, Shiloh. Shall we?” he asked, motioning into the museum as if he was the host of this little encounter. After all, it would hardly do to have them yelling at each other outside. “It will be easier to play mediator indoors,” he added honestly, no doubt whatsoever as to his purpose there.
Preston made an abortive move forward toward his brother that Eli thwarted with a quick repositioning. He gave the smaller man a look that was warning, meant well and barely accommodated as Preston’s focus swiveled entirely to his brother. It was obvious that it had not been Preston’s idea to bring a mediator. He had never been this angry with anyone, not ever, and that included every single time anyone had given him hell about who he was. Preston rarely angered on his own behalf. He brought with him a sense of determination, a coherent, sharpened anger that was focused in direction.
As Eli dropped Shiloh’s hand Preston stepped forward again, and to hell with whoever and whatever in his way. He got a good whiff of the scotch as he got within reach and it didn’t do anything to appease his temper. He walked right up and into Shiloh, and he just kept walking, pushing the other man back if he didn’t retreat quickly enough. “I’m not letting you do this to him, Shiloh,” he said, not bothering with pleasantries. “I think you’ve done enough.”
“You as well, Eli,” Shiloh said, barely having a chance to say the words before Preston’s anger took front and center of his attention. His chin lifted slightly even as he stepped backwards, keeping his distance from his brother, his eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re more than welcome to your opinion, Preston,” Shiloh said evenly, working to keep his own temper, his emotions, firmly tamped down; he knew well what he was capable of if he didn’t keep things under control. The last thing he wanted was a fight here, in his museum. “And when you have a child of your own, you’re more than welcome to do as you think best.” His lips pressed together in a thin line, and he slipped his hands into the pockets of his slacks, refusing to seem submissive to his brother.
Eli had not thought - until that moment - that he might be walking into a true and proper fight. He was not armed, the gun Drake insisted he carried long ignored in the glove compartment of his car. He was not a good shot, and well he knew it. He was even worse at hand-to-hand fighting. He looked around the museum, glancing at the walls, and realizing he could call upon his ability easily enough, if it came to that, though it would only offer confusion and little else. As it was, he stayed clear of the walls and kept his barriers up. It would hardly do to make an already tense situation worse without meaning to. “Shiloh,” he said, voice the ultimate in scholarly calm, “I believe we should sit down and discuss this calmly. Preston is merely concerned for the welfare of your son as, I am certain, are you,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Preston with a pointed look that said do, calm down.
Preston felt like he was the only one present who gave a damn enough to get angry, and since he was angry so rarely, he was sure as hell going to stay that way for a while. His eyes flickered away from Shiloh to Eli, and the gaze was not kind. “This is none of your concern. Get out of the way.” And he attempted to step around Eli again, saying, with obvious venom, “There is nothing to discuss. This is not a conversation. This is not happening! They are not going anywhere with him!” Though Preston kept advancing and he certainly wasn’t going to go out of his way to keep things from getting physical, he wasn’t afraid. Preston had known Shiloh longer than anyone else in his entire existence, and he never thought the man would really hurt him, just like he wouldn’t ever really hurt Shiloh. Brawls were different.
Even though Shiloh was sure Eli meant well, he doubted that this would come down to a calm conversation with all of them seated, particularly with the heat of anger that practically emanated from his brother. “I believe any precept of a ‘calm discussion’ went out the window quite a while ago,” he said, still keeping his calm, taking step by step backwards as Preston kept advancing, relentless. But when that tone became so decisive, so sharp, Shiloh finally stood his ground, refusing to retreat another foot. “And you will stop it from happening, how?” he questioned, his voice cool. “And when, pray tell, was the last time you had any sort of contact with our parents?” Shiloh had little intention on physically lashing out at Preston, and if a blow was thrown, he would not be the one to initiate.
Eli did his best not to roll his eyes. He was removed from all the emotions in the room, and all he saw was two siblings who refused to talk. It was a familiar situation, especially for someone who had grown up in a home with a great many siblings who did more yelling that conversing. He didn’t move between them again, and his voice retained his prior calm when he spoke. “Tell me, is this about the child, or about the two of you? I can’t seem to tell.”
Shiloh knew as well as Preston did that he hadn’t seen their parents in well over ten years, and the neat turnabout, the implication that the absence of connection was Preston’s fault and not their parents’--it stopped Preston dead in his tracks. He stopped advancing, and that particular sally was so like a blow that his expression was one of surprise rather than anger. He barely heard Eli’s question, but he hadn’t recovered enough to do more than blink and frown as the anger started to come back. “I--I don’t know. When was the last time they tried to contact me?” It wasn’t a real question. Preston knew very well that neither of his parents was interested in having anything to do with him.
“Eli.” Shiloh said the name shortly, a caution to not try logic out the situation at that moment. Preston’s reaction had been enough, and while he didn’t advance upon it like a predator looking for the weakness in its prey, he hardly let it slide. “I know how you feel about them, Preston. And I do have an inkling of what happened after I left, if only from how you acted once you moved out. Do you really think I’d be, and I quote, ‘a stupid bastard’, and put my son willingly into a situation I thought was harmful?” His hands slid from his pockets, arms instead crossing over his chest, and Shiloh was well aware of how the position was closed off in terms of body language.
Eli realized, just then, that he was a third wheel in this conversation, and he sighed. “Very well. I’ll wait outside,” he offered, not one to stay where he had no place being. “But I ask the both of you one thing. Has anyone asked the lad what he wants to do, or where he wants to go? It occurs to me that he certainly has some opinion on the matter, which supersedes yours. Again, is this argument about you, or about him?” he asked, nodding once and moving back toward the door to wait it out, unless he heard sounds indicating physical harm was being done.
Preston glanced sideways as Eli moved away, and it was the first time the man had gone out a door and not left Preston with a sense that he had failed at something. Looking back at Shiloh, Preston said, “Are you trying to tell me they’re different people now, and Poe is totally in favor of this plan?”
Shiloh said nothing for a long moment, watching Eli’s retreating figure for a long while before he dared to meet Preston’s gaze again. The questions were fair, he realised, and when faced with trying to answer them, Shiloh suddenly felt stupid. No, he had not talked to Poe, nor had he attempted to given how painful it was to even be in the same room as him. But his intentions, Shiloh believed, had been right. Do something for Poe, to help him through the healing process, and then he could do as he pleased. It was his fault, after all, that it had happened in the first place, and wasn’t it his responsibility to attempt to right what was wrong? Apparently, he thought wrong. Why would Poe be in favour of anything he attempted? The boy had fled from any attempt he had made at parenting in the past.
His shoulders sagged as he looked away, closing his eyes for a moment as his arms uncrossed and fell to his sides. “I don’t know what I’m saying,” Shiloh finally said, shaking his head as he turned around. “And apparently I don’t know what I’m doing. He... can do as he pleases.” One hand waved at the air before he slid it into his pocket, the fight gone.
Preston watched his brother slowly fold in on himself with a sense of confusion. The anger came back, stronger this time, but cooler, more controlled, and he was able to manage a more articulate response. “Obviously,” Preston replied, harshly, choosing not to resume his advance. “I doubt he is going to want to go back to Boston with two people he barely knows, but I might be wrong, mightn’t I. Let him meet them, then, if you’re so proud of our family.” Preston didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. He tipped his head to narrow his eyes at his brother. “What the hell is the matter with you, anyway? It’s not about you.”
Several times, Shiloh opened his mouth to reply, but the words died before he gave them voice, and he settled into a long silence before he could gather anything to say. “I’m done with this conversation, Preston,” Shiloh finally said, not even bothering to touch on ‘what the hell was the matter’ with him. It didn’t matter, and that had been pointed out to him several times over the last weeks. “Obviously, our parents are horrible, horrible people, who would never want to meet the only grandson they’re likely to get at this rate, and it’s obvious that they’ll treat him the same as you were treated. I wish I had been intelligent to have figured all of that out on my own. Might have saved us all a hell of a lot of trouble, wouldn’t it?” With a shake of his head, Shiloh started to walk off.
“Yes, probably.” The two of them were far too alike, and Preston took the sarcasm as fact because he believed it to be so. (Except, very deep down, the part about his parents being horrible people. It would have been a lot easier for Preston if he simply hated his parents.) If it had been anyone else, if he had cared a little less about his brother, Preston would have walked away too. But it wasn’t, and he didn’t.
Preston crossed the intervening distance and picked up Shiloh’s shirt at the shoulder, hauling him around to face him. He glared into his brother’s eyes. “What happened to your spine? They throw this idea at you, this idea that they can take him away and do better, and you cave.” Preston shook him a little bit. “You’ve never just rolled over for this kind of bullshit before.”
Shiloh hadn’t been expecting pursuit, and beyond that, he hadn’t expected his shirt to be grabbed to be physically hauled around to face Preston. “They didn’t throw the idea at me, Preston. I was the one who approached them. I was the one who asked them if they would be willing to help me out. And don’t shake me like I’m a fucking child.” Shiloh grasped Preston’s arm to try and dislodge the grip he had, his own gaze narrowed and fueled by renewed anger.
Preston wouldn’t let go, not without a better response than that. He shook him instead. “Why,” he snarled, “because you weren’t thinking, or because you’ve talked yourself into the idea that this doesn’t have to be your problem?”
Shiloh flinched at that, an actual, physical flinch as though Preston had physically assaulted him. “You tell me how you’d look into the face of someone you were responsible for injuring? You tell me how you’d trust yourself to not mess things up further than you have already. I was just trying to do what I thought was best!” And he pulled harder at his brother’s arm, ducking his head and trying to twist out of that grasp, the feeling of being restrained, even if by his clothing, chewing at his restrained emotions.
Preston shoved instead of releasing, keeping a good hold on Shiloh’s shirt and using a forearm to shove him back against a nearby wall. A painting rattled dangerously on its hook just to one side. Preston didn’t look up. “I’d do it because it was my fucking responsibility. Because that’s what it means to own up to the mistakes we make. You get in there and you try to make it better rather than trying to snake out of this. I thought better of you.”
Shiloh’s back collided against the wall heavily, and he tried to push back, but Preston had him at a disadvantage, both with the angle and the fact that he was three sheets to the wind with scotch. “And you don’t think I fucking thought better of myself?” he growled in response, his free hand coming up to push at Preston’s shoulder, trying to shove him off. “I know I messed up. I know that, and I don’t need you rubbing my face in it like you’re my father.” Another shove, but his strength was rapidly failing, instead hitting at his shoulder, his brows knit down. “He coulda died and I would have been to blame. I don’t know how to fix this!”
“FIGURE IT OUT,” Preston said, untouched by Shiloh’s self-pity and his uncertainties. He had to give way as Shiloh pushed back though, if only to knock the second shove aside, eyes blazing.
Eli had let himself back in about five confessions back, all thanks to the yelling that he could hardly be expected to ignore. The conversation, even at the outset, reminded him of his early thoughts about Shiloh’s ability, thoughts which he’d discounted as impossible. But now that hardly seemed the case. However, separating them was a more immediate priority. What Shiloh had done, that would have to be dealt with after.
Eli crossed to them, one hand on either man’s shoulder. He was slighter than both, a few inches shorter and hardly imposing. “Are you two quite finished?” he asked, not raising his voice, a teacher speaking to misbehaving students. “Because it occurs to me that we have larger problems than you two beating each other bloody senseless.”
There was a moment where it seemed that Shiloh was simply going to lunge at Preston, but he kept his hands to himself, stilling entirely when Eli laid a hand on his shoulder. “Ask him,” he muttered, his tone bitter and hard, a lift of his chin to indicate Preston as the subject of his request.
Preston yanked his shoulder out of Eli’s grip and moved back a step to make sure he was out of range, the move entirely unconscious and his glare at Shiloh alone. “Ask what,” he spat, obviously not aware that Eli was involved in this business beyond just Poe.
“If you’re quite finished,” Eli replied calmly.
“I’m done so long as he is,” Shiloh snapped out, giving his brother a glare that could have burned someone to ash before he looked away, rubbing his arm where Preston had held him. For a moment, he said nothing more, did nothing but keep his silence, but then he turned, straightening the painting that Preston had nearly caused to topple from the wall.
Preston said nothing, but he was inches from walking back out the door.
Eli grabbed Preston’s sleeve, keeping him where he stood. He knew the other man’s body language well enough to recognize the tensing of muscles that came before movement. “What is the decision regarding the boy?” he asked, as if they’d merely had a rousing discourse like dignified gentlemen.
“I’ll talk to him,” Shiloh said stiffly. “And see what he wants. And, if that’s okay with my brother, I’ll take it from there.” There was no warmth in his voice, and he occupied himself with the painting, giving the other two men his back.
Tensely. "Fine." Preston didn't pull against Eli's grip, but he was still turned away, uninterested in Shiloh's attempts to ignore the 'conversation.'
“And you’ll tell him the truth, that your parents do not particularly care for homosexuals,” Eli insisted.
Shiloh turned at that, his gaze narrowed slightly in displeasure. “Perhaps the two of you ought to simply make an outline as to what I must say to him when I have this talk. That way you can be sure nothing is missed and that I don’t leave out something else important. Do you also want me to tell him that I was responsible for the plane? Shall I lay all the truth out there and see how he responds to that?” It was a mouthful of words, irritation and frustration threading through them. “Yes, that sounds like a good plan, doesn’t it? I can definitely see this ending in him wanting any sort of assistance from me.” He snapped the final words out, lips pressed thin.
"Shiloh!" Preston hissed, as something like a warning too late. He'd told him not to tell anyone else about that, and it had been for Shiloh's sake and no one else. Regardless of how angry he was at his brother, he didn't want anything serious to happen to him, and he squared his shoulders back into the conversation immediately. He gave Eli a worried look, now absent of the previous anger, which had been set aside for a new problem.
Eli gave Preston a look that very much said What do you take me for, an idiot? “I’m not deaf, Preston, and I’ve seen Shiloh use his ability in very tight quarters in quite a controlled manner. But to answer the question, yes, I do expect you to tell him. Not because of EIT, or because you killed quite a few people. No, but because the child has a right to know, and it is the adult thing to inform him of what you did.” Easier said than done, Eli realized, but he suspected being a parent was not always easy.
Surely, Eli wasn’t serious, and the expression on his face spoke volumes about the thoughts going through his head. Eventually he gave a snort of disbelief, pushing one hand through his hair as he shook his head. “I’m not telling him,” Shiloh said flatly, arm falling back to his side. “Not about this. And if you tell him? Either of you? The end result will not be happy for anyone. If, if I ever decide to tell him, that’s my decision. I’m certainly not telling him while he’s still in the hospital.” And if either of the two wanted to argue the point, Shiloh was unwilling to budge.
On this point, Preston agreed with Shiloh. “It’s only going to upset him, and it won’t do anything to assist him, mentally or physically,” Preston said, seriously. “It might cause him to refuse Shiloh’s help, or mine, and then there won’t be anyone to help him.”
Eli still felt it was the coward’s way, and his expression said as much. “Was this intentional?” he asked.
The question stung just a little bit, and Shiloh turned a sharp look towards Eli. “You can’t honestly think I intended for this to happen, do you?” he asked, disbelief in his voice. “Yes, I thought causing a tragedy would be a nice way to round out an evening Seattle. I do it often.” The sarcasm was thick, his words biting, and he was in no way impressed that it had to be asked if it had been intentional.
“Of course it wasn’t. I meant to ground the plane. Delay it. I wanted there to be more of a parting gesture than a fucking note shoved under my door. It hurt that he couldn’t even call me, couldn’t talk to me, so yes, my emotions might have been all over the place and that certainly contributed to how out of hand it got, but I in no definition of the word meant for all of this to happen.” Shiloh knew he was on the defensive, but for anyone to think that of him, even as little as Eli might have known him, hurt. Turning his gaze towards Preston, he looked at him for a long while. “Certainly, you wouldn’t question me, would you? You wouldn’t think that I meant for this to happen, right?”
"Of course not," Preston snapped, "but the sarcasm doesn't fucking help, Shiloh."
“You intentionally used your ability, and quite a few people died,” Eli said, voice still unfailingly calm. “I do believe you should stop having a temper tantrum, given the fact that many people lost their lives and their families over this. It hardly seems appropriate.” He glanced at Preston, and he inclined his head to Shiloh, jaw taut. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Shiloh’s own jaw was tight, quite tired of being told how he ought to behave and what he ought to be doing. “Trust me, Eli. I know what I did, and I don’t need you to repeat it over and over again. You’re beginning to sound quite like a broken record.” He wasn’t in denial, nor was he spending his time pretending that nothing had happened and everything was okay; he had his way of dealing, of comprehending what he had done, what had happened. Lips pursed together in a tight line and he closed himself off again, arms folded over his chest.
Preston had about enough of this. He knew how his brother reacted to guilt and he also knew the man wasn't likely to show it to Eli. He pointed a finger through the air like a dagger toward his brother's face. "Talk to Poe." Then, whirling, "Let's go, Eli."
Eli was already near the door mulling over the unexpected quandary he had found himself in. He pushed the door open, Seattle’s cold night air hitting him with more force than normal under the weight of this bloody problem.