Song prompt: "Careful Hands" by Sleeping At Last
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
CREATURES OF HAVOC
We are X-rays of something broken.
Cursive bloodlines write every forecast:
An orchestration Of dissonance and innocent surrender.
"There was nothing you could've done," Ryan had told him, "Lily hadn't planned on giving you the chance to save him."
It had to be true, right? Had they received the video message earlier they still wouldn't have had the time save him… right?
Right?
Perhaps the more the thought frequented his mind, the less his heart would bellow the dishonesty in it.
Now, as the empty hours tick by, Mike sits alone; wrapped in a numbing blanket of scotch in front of the fire in his New York City hotel room.
He pondered the last words spoken between himself and his father; wondered if his brothers would forgive him his mistakes in getting their father involved; and surely, he pondered his loss of control and, worse still, his lack of desire to regain it.
Mike had bludgeoned Luke almost to death with his fists in an impulsive fit of rage. Now, with the incentive, he could only envision just what would become of Mark should the other twin reach his grasp.
He had been right to book a flight home to Virginia the previous day – aware that the environment and its circumstances weren't accommodative to his already damaged psyche. However, now that Lily Gray had chosen to find a personal ploy in her attempt at revenge, there was absolutely no going home until she rued the very day she chose to mother the sadistic twins.
Mike glanced out of the window then, over the expanse of the city below while twilight dwindled dim. Suddenly, a cautious knock sounded at the door.
He considered ignoring it for a moment when he realised it was most likely just Ryan checking in.
The young man stumbled toward the entrance, his body wracked with grief and alcohol. Disregarding the use of the peep-hole, he opened the door to reveal the younger and decidedly less impetuous Hardy, "Max." Mike greeted, a tremor stirring his lips.
"Ryan filled me in," the brunette started, "he thought you'd like some company." She finished, her deep blue eyes searching for a hint of resistance in the paler hue of his own.
"And you?" he lifted his head. "What do you think?"
Max shrugged, "I think you'd rather be alone, but it's better if you're not."
He nodded in reply and stood aside, holding the door open as a gesture for her to enter.
Shrugging off her coat, Max noticed the half drunken bottle of Scotch by the windowsill and another discarded on the floor. The sight was a familiar but unwelcome one for the young Detective. She had seen it far too many times upon entering her uncle's apartment earlier in that same year. Perhaps this was the very reason Ryan had urged her to visit Mike; perhaps he saw slightly too much of himself in the younger man and hoped his niece might somehow manage to influence him toward another, less troublesome direction.
But what sort of power did Ryan believe Max had over Mike that he may listen to her should she give voice to their worries? She had known him only briefly and their interactions were seldom at best. Though, she had seen enough to know he truly meant well in the world and however careless his words had been to her upon their first meeting, she liked Mike and she certainly didn't want him to become a carbon copy of her Uncle.
"How are you doing?" Mike asked, breaking the silence.
Max turned from the window to face him. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"
Mike shrugged, mirroring her previous gesture, his hands in his pockets. "I'm sure you already know the answer, having lost a father yourself." He replied.
She nodded, her head inclined slightly in despair. Apparently Mike had noticed and quickly moved to rectify the heedlessness in his words, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"
"Don't worry about it." Max quickly relented, waving his concern off, reaching for the whiskey bottle by the window, "You mind?" she asked out of courtesy, fully intending on drinking her share regardless.
"Help yourself," he said, joining her at the small table by the bed.
He watched her closely, having found some sort of comfort in her presence. Thanks Ryan, he mused as his lips twitched upwards involuntarily at Max's expression of distaste in his choice of liquor. She was really quite beautiful, Mike thought, and certainly not in a dime a dozen sort of way.
"It gets better, you know." Max offered into the air which neither noticed had grown silent once more, "The circumstances remain the same, but facing them gets easier with time."
He gently took the bottle from her hands and screwed the lid back on, "Toils of time, right?"
She nodded. "Right," agreed Max with an offered smile, pleased with the meaning of his gesture to cease drinking.
Mike knew drinking wasn't a source for solace, though it was certainly something to numb the ache in his bones. But whatever his fate, he would not let his father's sacrifice be in vain – he had made the decision earlier upon the stairway of the bureau; he would protect Max for all that her life was worth in the eyes of the enemy.
He and Ryan both knew the consequences of getting close to another person while in the midst of such savage, relentless killers - living in such a dangerous, dark world, it meant winning the risk of losing a love one might find in another. Alas, as inescapable as Joe Carroll was, it was equally as inevitable that another's life might become far more important than one's own.
Only with careful hands
We'll turn their fangs into feathers and cures.
Only with careful hands
We'll divide the prisoner
From the pioneer.