Of all the people Hendricks expects to find knocking at his door on his day off, Fenrir Sullivan is not one of them. He opens his mouth to tell the younger man to get the hell off his property, but then the blond's appearance registers with his mind. He's wearing normal street clothes as opposed to his usual Flasher's Delight, and these clothes are rumpled and stained, as if he's not changed them in some time. His blond hair is matted and unkempt, and he looks to have at least a day's growth of beard. But, perhaps most importantly, Hendricks notices the utter fear in the ursanthrope's eyes.
In the past, he has seen Sullivan face down vampires and zombies without batting an eye, as well as other creatures. Never once has he seen him actually look frightened. Hendricks makes his decision quickly, reaching out and pulling Sullivan inside a bit harder than truly necessary.
As the werebear fetches up sharply against the wall, Hendricks closes the door, locks it, and reaches out to engage the security system. Sullivan grabs his arm and says, "It'll short out," which means one thing to Hendricks.
A wizard.
Red streaks across his vision, and he slams Sullivan into the wall a second time, pinning him there. "You stupid, unthinking, selfish son of a bitch!" he snarls into the blond's startled face. "If anything happens to—"
"Daddy?"
Both men freeze, then Hendricks releases the smaller man to turn and glance at his young son. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the dawning comprehension in Sullivan's face. "Daniel," he says softly, "go back upstairs and see to your mother." The boy opens his mouth to protest, notes his father's expression, and obeys.
Once he is gone, Hendricks turns his angry glare back on Sullivan. "Give me one good reason not to throw you out right now."
"Wardens don't hurt kids," is the prompt reply. Sullivan may not always consider the consequences of his actions, Hendricks reflects, but he thinks fast on his feet. "And mortals are outside their jurisdiction," the blond adds after a beat.
Hendricks scowls. Sullivan's definition of 'mortal' is fairly loose and only includes himself within it about half the time. Rather than demand to know what he means by that, however, he asks, "What, precisely, is a Warden?" Important questions now. Beat the hell out of Sullivan later.
The blond takes a deep breath. "Wardens are essentially wizard cops. Only less cop and more Gestapo. Hell, the Gestapo might think that Wardens go overboard."
"In Soviet Wizardom, TV watches you?" he asks, raising a brow.
"Not quite. But breaking wizard law usually has one penalty. Death."
"And you're guilty."
"That's just it. I don't know. I don't know what the laws are. But I do know this guy's been tailing me since I left a friend's last night."
Hendricks glowers at Sullivan again, then nods. "Fine. But if anything happens to—"
"I'd let you," he says softly, his ubiquitous grin absent.
Someone knocks on the door, and Sullivan jumps a foot in the air. Hendricks turns him around and pushes him towards the back of the house. "Stay in the kitchen." That done, he turns his attention to the front door, slipping his wedding ring into his pocket before unlocking it and opening it as far as the chain will allow.
A man is standing on his front porch, a man taller than Sullivan but shorter than Hendricks, looking to be in his late forties or early fifties. His grey-streaked hair is drawn back from his thin face in a low ponytail, and he's dressed simply, in black fatigues. This man would not look out of place in the Special Forces were it not for the length of his hair and the – yes, that is definitely a broadsword on his hip. Hendricks casually reaches for the shotgun mounted over the entrance, the door hiding his movement from the man on the step. He levels a glare at the intruder, who returns it full force, but with a hint of weariness under the steel in his expression.
Both Sullivan and Gard have mentioned a war between vampires and wizards from time to time. This man looks as though he's been to the front lines and back. As this thought crosses his mind, Hendricks realises that Sullivan may not be in as much danger as he thinks he is.
"What do you want?" the bodyguard growls. The realisation is not a mood-improving one.
The Warden reaches into his pocket – unseen, Hendricks prepares to bring the shotgun around to bear – and produces a photograph of Sullivan in his early twenties with a girl who can't be over twelve. "I'm looking for this man," he says, that same weariness in his voice. "His name is Raoul Tyler."
Well.
How interesting.
"Can't help you," Hendricks says, closing the door.
Or trying to. The Warden plants one large hand against the wood and exerts pressure, halting its movement. "You're lying," he growls.
"I don't know any kids named Tyler," the redhead replies.
"He'd be older now, nearer to thirty."
"Still don't know 'im. And unless you want to spend the rest of the day cooling your heels in prison, I suggest you get off my property before I call the cops." Adding a gamble to his bluff, Hendricks stares coolly into the Warden's eyes. As anticipated, the slightly shorter man averts his gaze.
"Very well," he growls, frustration evident in his tone. He pockets the picture and stalks away in a fashion that makes Hendricks feel that Sullivan – or whatever his real name is – will not enjoy it when the Warden finally catches up with him.
He relocks the door and strides to the kitchen, where the younger man is bent over the sink, attempting to wash his face. "We need to talk, Raoul Tyler."
The blond jerks in surprise and smacks the top of his head against the shadow box situated over the sink; fortunately for him, nothing falls out of it, though the blistering curse he expels makes up for that.
Clutching his head, Tyler/Sullivan whirls to face him, brown eyes wide and water dripping from his beard. "Where the fuck did you learn that name?" he demands, panic in his voice.
"Your Warden friend used it," Hendricks replies, seating himself at the kitchen island. "He also had an old picture of you." As the blond pales, he smiles. "Have a seat, Tyler. As I said, we need to talk."
"About what?" the werebear asks, cautiously sitting down across from him.
"Exactly who -- and what – you are," the bodyguard snarls. With the Warden's accidental revelation that Fenrir Sullivan is an alias, the ursanthrope has shifted from ally to possible threat, and Hendricks does not tolerate threats to his employer.
With a sigh, Tyler/Sullivan begins to talk, explaining about vampires capturing himself and a close friend nearly ten years previously and how the friend was fed upon until the blood loss killed him. About the Russian wizard who taught the grief-stricken boy to channel sorrow to rage and rage to power in order to fuel the transformation to grizzly bear, and how the two of them used this in order to escape the vampires. How he discovered others who hated the blood-suckers as much as he did, and their subsequent assaults on the vampires in their town.
And then he tells Hendricks of the night vampires attacked his home, placing his younger sister – the girl in the picture – in mortal danger. How he, in the grip of what he describes as an unholy fury, took his bear form and laid waste to every vampire in the house. How he got his sister to safety and then went on a rampage, killing every vampire that he could get his paws on. And how, when the adrenaline and the anger finally died, he had realised that he would have to take drastic steps in order to ensure his sister's safety.
Hendricks nods slowly after Sullivan adds that Marcone is aware of all of this. "He helped you fake your own death and change your name, then offered you a job so you could continue your Buffy impression." When the blond opens his mouth to protest, Hendricks raises a hand. "I don't like you, Sullivan. But I respect you. This conversation did not happen."
Sullivan sags in relief, and the redhead smiles.
"Now get the hell off my property."
Many thanks to Rosethorn for being my beta this go-round.