Thanks to: Readergirl99, HolidayBoredom, Steinbock, Laura-Wilkie and Shadow914 for the reviews despite the fact it was a fairly boring chapter. Thank-you for reading it and reviewing anyway :)

USUAL WARNINGS APPLY. PLEASE SEE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.

EXTRA WARNINGS: This is it! The title chapter! The showdown! The one you've all been waiting for!... Or is it? Maybe it's another filler chapter and I'm just... Ah I'm just joshing you... get on and read it already ;)

Enjoy!

CHAPTER TWELVE – Just Reckoning

The act of fair retribution in the avenging of past misdeeds

Eddie O'Connell's 'Fighting Talk' Gym - New Year's Eve

The large man rolled his shoulders in the badly-fitting fight-vest. In truth, it would be easier to warm up if he just ripped the thing off, but he was going for understated efficiency and leaving the show-boating to the other fighter, who was bouncing around the cage as though the balls of his feet were made of rubber.

"Cage fought before, have ye, pal?" he asked, all leery-eyed and full of himself.

The man gave something of a cross between a shake of his head and a shrug of his shoulders as a response. The element of surprise was hardly an advantage he needed, but it would be the icing on the cake to see Paul's face when he thought he was taking on a rookie, only to find he'd picked a fight with a professional.

"Ah – unlucky," Paul said with a wide, taunting grin. "Because I ain't going easy on ya just because you're green."

Mick Kendrew's smile was an inward one. He'd let this Paul guy get a few shots in first to get his confidence. Then he'd show his true colours. This fight was a favour for someone he held in high regard, after all. And he wasn't going to skimp out on the payment. From what he'd been told about this bastard, he deserved everything he had coming to him. Little Dom Butler was a good lad - the best, even. He certainly wasn't opposed to taking out any threat to the lad's progress in becoming the greatest Blue Diamond the world had never seen.

"I wouldn't wager on me being as green as I look," he said, choosing his words carefully.

"Was that an offer?" Paul spat, eyes gleaming greedily.

"Sure," the larger man said with a shrug. "How much you got on you?"

"How much have I…?" Paul laughed theatrically at him. "I practically own the place, mate."

Mick bared his teeth in a grin. "I'll bet you everything you've won tonight, for a start."

"You got the cash on you for that?" Paul snorted scornfully.

"I could get it together," Kendrew said calmly. "How much?"

"Ten grand," Paul told him arrogantly. "Give or take."

"Alright," his opponent shrugged, certain he knew a man who would foot the bill if by some terrible miracle he messed this up and lost. "Place it."

Paul's eyes widened, but he was as gluttonous as he was conceited and he clicked his fingers at Eddie, cueing him to come up to the cage fencing.

"Jumbo here wants to place a bet," he said, over the raucous crowd. "Everything I won tonight. I win, he doubles it."

He didn't even mention the alternative. The chances of him losing were, to him, not high enough to warrant his breath.

"You sure, boss?" Eddie said quietly, with a shifty glance at his friend's opponent.

"Am I… Eddie are you fucking me about?" Paul said in disgusted disbelief. "Place the damn bet, would you? Am I fucking sure? I'll give you fucking sure…"

Eddie scurried away, unwilling to dig himself any deeper into a hole tonight, and sent one of his runners to place the hastily drawn up bet along with the final wagers of the crowd before the fight started. When he was given the thumbs up, he raised the microphone to his mouth once more, wiped the sweat off his upper lip, and began his spiel for the last fight of the evening.

"Alllriiight!" he boomed over the tannoy, all false-bravado returning to him in an instant. "Tonight, our last fight - in the blue corner, we have one Mister Mick K-K-Kendrewww! Pitted against, in the red corner, an ex-champion of our very own ring, The Raging Bull, Mister Paa-uul Grant!"

There was a lot more cheering for Paul, although whether this was only because people were scared to cheer for the stranger in case Paul thought they weren't showing him enough support, nobody knew.

The ref brought them together to shake hands. Grant predictably attempted to crush his opponent's fingers. Kendrew stared at him emotionlessly and returned the pressure; but did not exceed it. He was considerably bigger than Paul. No need for the man to realise just how much stronger he was. Yet.

"Alright boys," said the ref. "Shirts off and let's have a good, clean fight."

Paul pulled his over his head with routine ease, parading against the fence-line as he threw it over the edge of the cage. Although what exactly he thought he was parading, Mick wasn't sure. The man was past his prime and although, arguably, so was he; Mick liked to think he'd aged better. Beneath the flimsy, florescent t-shirt, decades of hard work and equally as hard times had chiselled his body into a solid mass of power and strength. In contrast, Paul's perhaps once-defined abs had melted behind a wall of solid blubber, printed with a few, frankly garish, tattoos in various faded colours. Most of the strength was still there; it just had to lug around a couple more extra kilos of useless weight than it once had. The giant tugged the too-small shirt off and rolled his shoulders back again, freely now, his back muscles rippling under his battle-scarred skin. He cracked his neck from side to side as was his usual routine before starting a spar. Some joker in the mostly-male crowd wolf-whistled, but was quickly drowned out by an onslaught of homophobic insults.

And then, as they squared up and the ref raised his hands, a hush fell over the crowd.

"Alright," the ref said. "On my mark."

There was a bead of sweat on his forehead, Kendrew noticed. The man was nervous. Perhaps he was right to be. Whichever way this went, the result was likely to be messy.

"Ready…"

Paul drew up his hands into a defensive position. His opponent copied him, making it look as though he had no idea what he should be doing.

"Set…"

The fighters bent their knees, lowering their centre of gravity. He couldn't force himself not to do that. Not after the decades of training he'd undergone. Not even as a ploy.

"Aaand… Fight!"

Paul was on the move before the word had ended and Mick had to hand it to him, the man had probably been pretty good… a few years ago. As it was, he would have been nowhere near fast enough to land a punch on Mick's jaw had the larger man not stood there and let him.

The crowd 'ooohed', but he rolled with the punch, returning one – albeit lightly – to the ribs of his opponent as he ducked back. Grant brushed the punch off – bouncing on his feet, pumped by the thrill of the fight – and fired straight back in with another jab. Mick knew that at some point he was going to run out of steam, but for the whole first round he let the smaller man get punches in, only trying hard enough to keep the score fairly even.

He had time yet.

The fight was in full swing by the time Billy elbowed his way to his post, Dom following in the short gap that was left behind him in the throng of people. From here, he could get a fairly clear view of the ring, but the fighters were currently locked in a sparring rally on the other side of the cage, Paul's broad, hairy back blocking his view of the other fighter.

Dom craned his neck interestedly, but he resigned himself to the fact he wouldn't get a better look at the larger man until the round was over.

The ref blew his whistle, the pair splitting off. Paul was blowing too. Great pants of hot air and spittle spraying from his large lips. But they were still twisted into a sneer as he waved water away when offered.

Dom sunk low in his seat and ducked his head as Paul strode up and down their side of the cage, whipping up the crowd into a frenzy. He didn't quite know why, but he forfeited his chance to check out the physical credentials of the man's opponent in favour of ensuring he didn't get noticed.

"Those softies amongst you who thought it was harsh earlier that Flex wasn't given a drink at the end of round one in his fights will do well to notice Paul hasn't taken any on-board either," Eddie noted. Obviously he'd heard some earlier whispering he thought it best to knock it on the head now. "He knows what he's doing. Not sure about Mick there, but it's looking an even fight so far."

"Who's the other guy?" Dom asked Billy. If he couldn't look, he could at least listen. Brickie hadn't been much use, but perhaps Billy had heard something.

"Dunno. Some guy called Mick," the medic shrugged. "Eddie gave him some kit so I asked him if he'd said owt. He didn't know much but Paddy said the guy said he was here as a favour for a mate of his. Dunno what favour exactly, but he seemed pretty pleased to be picked, to be fair. I ain't seen him before, though. Big feller like that you'd think I'd remember if I had, anyway."

Paul bounded past, all sweat and bravado and Dom risked a squint across to the far corner, the lights were too glaring to make much more out than the fact the man was indeed pretty giant. And he knew giants. He lived with them. Dom decided to watch how Paul reacted to a larger opponent. Not for tips to use now, but pre-emptively for the future. He knew in his heart, with great gratitude to his genes, that one day he would be bigger than Paul. Making sure he knew all the man's dirty tricks against larger fighters before he reached that stage would be useful to him, and this would likely be the only chance he would ever get to learn second-hand.

The ref called them together again, restarting the fight.

The boxing started up again, but it was clear Paul was bored of parrying. He dodged a weak kick from the other man and went for a knee-kick himself.

Dom shielded his eyes, watching as… He dropped his head in disappointment. The larger man stumbled and fell like a tree whilst avoiding what would probably have been a devastating kneecapping. But it hadn't even made contact. He wasn't going to get many tips off a guy who couldn't fight well. The blue-corner fighter rose to his knees and Paul crowed, diving onto his downed foe and wrapping an arm quickly around the man's throat, pulling backwards and upwards. Dom swallowed and looked at the floor, suddenly very interested in the chewing-gum ingrained into the fuzzy carpet. He didn't need to see that move from another point of view.

Grant's meaty arm was holding him in a choke-hold and for perhaps half a second, Mick Kendrew thought he might just have made a mistake giving the man this much of an advantage...

Then he remembered who he was and that the piece of shit hanging around his neck was making a very important someone's life hell. He twisted sideways until suddenly Paul's jawbone was pressed up hard against his opponent's shoulder, locked there by his own doing. But still, the smaller cage-fighter's face was a mask of determination and triumph. This guy may be big, but he had nothing on his experience and prowess in the ring...

And then he realised that, amongst the chiselled contours of weather-worn skin wrapped over the other man's large deltoid muscle, there was a rhombus patch of colour the same as that of the sky in the short moments between day and night; cobalt, zircon and sapphire all at once…

Of course Paul's brain didn't have the vocabulary to decipher the colour palate in such detail, and so he merely registered that the colour was blue and the shape was diamond…

And that rang a bell and hit a nerve all at once. Theresa had never quite been transparent about it, but he knew there was something about a tattoo just like this one...

The other fighter almost heard the 'clang' himself as the penny dropped.

"It's you…" he spluttered. "You're… You sly fuck! You planned this!"

"That's right," the giant growled through red teeth, his bust lip sliding back to reveal a wolfish smile, knowing for sure now that his opponent had realised exactly who he was fighting with. "Now say uncle."

And then he reared up, breaking the choke hold as easily as tearing a paper-chain, and set about completely demolishing the fighting reputation of one Paul Grant.

"Shh-it me."

Billy's blunt comment made Dom look up again just in time to see Paul be bodily flipped - 180 degrees in mid-air around a horizontal axis, no less - and land heavily, face down on the canvas. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, trying to stand. But the other man – Mick? Mike? It didn't matter – seemed suddenly supercharged, as though someone had flicked a switch and he had begun to fight for real. He stepped down on the back of one of his rival's calf, grabbing the other leg and pulling on it. Paul's hands scrabbled on the floor of the cage and he kicked furiously as he was helplessly - embarrassingly - dragged backwards. The larger man leapt back, letting him have his leg and stand, but only for a second before he stepped forward again, catching the roundhouse Paul threw at him in one hand and trading it for a kick. It was a high kick, catching Paul heavily under the armpit, making his eyes bug with the effort of not bellowing in pain. After that, it was easy enough for the bigger man to step forward onto his foot, pinning it firmly beneath his own. Paul tried to pull free, but fell once more, as the man calling himself 'Mister Kendrew' delivered a strong one-handed shove to the chest, throwing Paul's own arm against him and adding insult to injury as he chinned himself with his own forearm, biting his tongue.

"Well ain't that a turn-up for the books?" Billy said lowly, as Paul thudded coccyx-first onto the canvas.

"Did you see that move!" another familiar voice shouted excitedly. "That was… well that was bloody brilliant! Such confidence! Such skill! Get me the name of that man – get me his details immediately!"

Dom look from one to the other. 'The other', being Mr Devlin, who had somehow managed to push himself to the front of the crowd alongside the medical box. Well there went his theory about the guy being Vinco's trainer...

"Yeah. Nice one, Pops," Vince said, eyeing Dom for a reaction.

If he had seen the expression on the other boy's face, Dom might have realised what his fellow fighter had noticed.

But Dom wasn't looking at him anymore. His eyes were fixed on the man who had stepped back to watch - almost indifferently - as Paul scrabbled to his feet. He was big. Enormous, even. Muscled. Stoic. He was…

He knew now. He was stunned he hadn't realised before. The fight had mainly been over the other side of the ring, for sure, the fighters mostly with their backs to the medic box when Paul wasn't busy parading across his line of sight. That, coupled with the unknown man's instantly recognisable fighting style being completely disguised for that first round... and not only that, but it was so unexpected he hadn't considered that...

Dom stopped making excuses. It didn't matter now; how he had inexplicably missed it before.

Even silhouetted against the glare of the lights, he should recognise that man anywhere.

And he did.

"Uncle…" he breathed, not quite knowing how to feel about this latest development.

"You what?" Billy asked loudly, leaning in to hear him over the clamour of the crowd. "You say something, kid? I can't hear you over this damn racket! You'd think this lot had never seen a good fight before, eh!"

Dom sat forward on the edge his chair, all demeanour of oppression vanquished like darkness at the break of dawn. It showed in his eyes; reflecting the glow of the metaphorical sunrise, basking in it. It would take an idiot not to guess how much the kid was enjoying this. And Billy Evans was not an idiot.

"Erm… Encore. I said 'encore'," the boy shouted back. "I want to see how this goes!"

"I won't tell Paul that, eh?" he grinned.

The Major - for of course it was he - was only slightly concerned when Paul appeared to get a second wind. After all, it was just the adrenalin flooding the man's system as the threat of losing became overly imposing. For he was going to. That much was clear now. He was swinging punches left and right, but few were connecting with any considerable force. The Major was glancing them off his palms as though he was merely training with the man as he inched closer towards him, backing him into a corner. Time to end it before the final bell. Letting his guard 'drop' for a second, he waited for Paul to take the bait. The man did. Somewhat unexpectedly as instead of some professional and thought-out move The Major had been expecting, Paul leapt upwards like a madman, hands clawing for his opponent's throat. The Major brought his knee up swiftly in response and it impacted it heavily with the centre of Paul's fat-padded ribcage. Right in the solar plexus. That hurt. Paul dropped to the floor, winded at the very least. The Major stepped over and hauled him up by his shoulders, rendering his arms useless by digging his thumbs deeply into the inner groove of the ball-and-socket joint, threatening to dislocate both at once. Paul kicked and struggled, but it was futile against the giant. The Major raised him to eye-level.

"You recognise me then, Grant?" he asked in a voice too quiet for even the ref to hear. "I was beginning to think you'd never catch on - you don't seem to be all that bright, if you don't mind me saying."

Eddie was shouting over the tannoy. Probably something about how Paul was about to twist this to his advantage. No-one was listening. Every eye in the room was on the scene unfolding in the cage.

Paul's face was a grimaced snarl, but suddenly he looked into the dark blue eyes that were unsettlingly familiar. He knew those eyes. He was used to seeing them looking up at him, but he knew them all the same. And in that moment, any last lingering doubt about the identity of this man vanished into the ether.

"Of course I do, you bastard!" he spat. "I take it that little shit's been telling tales about…"

"No, no - if you're under the impression I was coerced here, you're mistaken," The Major said calmly, giving him a shake to at least make it look like the hold was difficult to maintain. "And as for my nephew, he has no idea I'm here and would probably tell me quite abruptly where to go if he did."

Paul's eyes narrowed, looking for the lie.

He didn't find one.

"Well. This has been fun, Paul," The Major said, squeezing a little tighter until Paul's collarbones seemed to squeak under the pressure. Grant gritted his teeth against the pain and made another ill-advised attempt at a dirty kick. The Major arched his hips out of the way and slammed his captive's back against the cage mesh, rattling the whole structure. "We should do it again some time."

Paul was spitting obscenities at him now, kicking out brutally hard. The Major kept him held him out at arm's reach for the last few seconds. If it was an effort, it didn't show.

"And believe me, we will be doing, if I find out you take your embarrassment at your pitiful performance out on my boy," The Major warned, so fiercely that the man cringed involuntarily away from the growl of his voice. "And next time, let's just say your little friend on the mic over there won't be wittering away in the background. Understood?"

Paul didn't respond favourably, but The Major was done with his little monologue. He spun around and brought the man close again, taking the few kicks that came with it. They might have proved highly distracting to another man, deadly even, but the giant merely tightened his thighs and abdominals so as to absorb the impacts as he held his rival forcibly still, memorising the hateful face of Paul Grant as he writhed and spat and struggled in his grip.

"I'll expect my winnings in the post, shall I?" he added as a parting shot, then threw his opponent horizontally across the cage with all of the considerably explosive power in his upper body.

Paul sailed backwards, hitting the floor heavily, his arms not fast enough to stop his head flying back, skull thudding into the canvas with a force that vibrated the cage-floor. His legs flew up comically and he flipped, coming to rest chin-down, arms bent backwards and under him. He lay still. The Major turned his back, checking the clock and shrugging at the ref who was stood somewhat in shock to one side.

Dom's mind was a turmoil of emotions. His uncle had just… He had just… He turned his eyes to Paul, lying sprawled on the floor… Only he wasn't. The man had lurched to his feet so suddenly that Dom did the same, leaping out of his chair and barely managing to keep from shouting a warning, instead signing a swift hand-signal for 'enemy behind you'. The Major's eyes caught the movement and, almost imperceptibly in the glare from the lights, he winked, lip curling into a smirk.

He already knew, Dom realised. He already knew what was coming.

For then his uncle turned, almost lazily, drawing back his powerful right fist and letting Paul's lurching leap towards him provide most of the force of the impact as he gave the man an uppercut that Dom could see was clearly pulled. If it hadn't have been, Paul would have been dead before he hit the floor. Which he did. Again. Spectacularly. Only this time, there was definitely no chance of him springing back up.

The crowd were amazingly silent for such a knockout blow.

"Dayum…" Billy breathed. "That was some hit."

"Pulled it," said Dom, distractedly.

"He what?"

"He pulled it," he said with certainty, trying to see a way through the crowd as the spell broke and they began to roar their verdict - approval or otherwise - swarming the cage fencing in their fervour. Despite his size, Dom knew all too well how good his uncle was at disappearing into them.

"You sure, kid?" said the medic, uncertainly.

"You can tell by the way he held his elbow," the boy answered curtly, frustrated at the need to explain himself as he demonstrated the arm position with his own. "See? This – full power. This – nada. There was hardly any clout in that hit."

"Well, you're the expert at getting and giving out clobbers, kid. I'm just the one to patch them up," Billy said, picking up his medic-bag. "But I've been doing this job a good few years now, and I ain't never seen a hit do that to a person in a cage fight. Scoot out the way - I best go see if Paul has any teeth left in his head..."

Dom moved to allow the medic to pass, uttering a final, disbelieving; "Shh-it me…" as he went.

In the ring, The Major nudged Paul's hip with his foot, turning to the ref.

"Think he's probably out," he said with a shrug. "So do I win now or what?"

The ref gaped slightly and nodded, just once, reaching for his hand. The Major let his wrist be grabbed and held in the air, not even at head height for him. He may as well finish the show he started.

"Erm… we… ah, have our winner folks. Mister Mick Kendrew with a knock-out blow. Alright. Nothing to see here. Bets can be collected in the morning so... ah, go grab yourself a drink at the bar. Happy Hour until next year!" Eddie shouted over the tannoy, eager for the crowd to move off.

Billy opened the cage door and gave The Major a cursory, albeit impressed, nod of acknowledgement as he strode past him, dropping his bag on the floor and firstly checking Paul for a pulse before he even began to contemplate the man's various injuries.

The Major pushed the door to the cage open and jogged down the steps to the changing rooms.

Dom rose out of his chair again rapidly. He had to see him. He had to get to him before he inevitably disappeared.

"Hey – hey Flex – Dom, wait!" someone – Vinco, he realised - called after him.

Dom ignored him, but was not surprised when someone grabbed his arm.

"Not now, Vince," he said shortly.

"Just one thing – that guy, the big guy. You know him?"

Dom wondered if it mattered if he told him or not.

"Yeah," he said hesitantly. "You could say that."

"I knew it!" Vince grinned. "Your fighting style - not the first round, but the second after that big hit - his were the same and..."

It made Dom uncomfortable - as observant and knowledgeable about fighting as Vince Devlin was - that the other boy had noticed the similarities.

"He's your real trainer – am I right?" he took a punt.

Dom didn't answer and, thankfully, Vince didn't push it. For then Dom would have had to lie to him; and it wasn't often he found he didn't feel like doing that to someone. Especially not someone who had recently over-extended his elbow joint. Especially not someone who he had even-more-recently knocked out.

He was on the move again before Vince could speak again, but the crowd was milling around, crushing and folding like a shoal of fish as they made their way to the bar or the exits, chattering excitedly about the fight.

"Paul's lost it, I reckon," said one of the regulars.

"Ah I dunno - he was doing well til the end."

"The end? He lost it in the middle, you mean!"

"Ah yeah, but give him credit - did you see that hit at the end?!"

"Did I see it? Whaddya take me for? Aye I saw it - an' you know who he reminds me of, though?"

"Our kid the Dubby-boy wonder! You was gonna say it, right?"

"Damn right - hey there he is now! Flex - Flex!"

He pushed past them. Precious seconds were wasting. Minutes, even. Far too long. His route to the changing room doors was blocked by a group of people eagerly waiting to see in what condition Paul was dragged off through the 'stage door'. It was no good. His uncle would be changed out of the ridiculous fight gear and gone into the night before he'd so much as reached backstage.

"Shit," he growled, changing tack.

He turned and sprung onto one of the tables in the seating area, his progress tracked by the tinkling of broken glass and shrieks and yells of alarm as he leapt from one to the next, across the top of the bar and onto the wood-topped half-wall that separated the seating area from toilets. Foot in front of foot, he ran quickly along it. Or at least he did until he misjudged the sharp right-angle and slipped. People parted in surprise as he fell to the grimy carpet with a thud, which was at least a positive side-effect of his unbalance. He shook his head to clear it and crawled forward, taking advantage of people's bemused reactions before he rose back to his feet and shoved past the distracted security man standing guard over the entrance to what Eddie proudly referred to as 'back-stage'.

He got all the way into the corridor before a runner made an ill-advised attempt to stop him.

"Hey – you can't be down here on your own…"

"Seriously?" he snapped, grabbing the man's shirt and shoving him bodily out of the way.

"Whoa – sorry Flex! Sorry man. Didn't realise it was you…"

Dom let go of him, angry with himself for losing his temper like that. That was not how Ko would have him act. It wasn't how his uncle would have him act, either.

His uncle…

Where would he have gone?

The corridor was empty, so he shoved each dressing-room door as he passed them, giving the interiors a cursory glance. But they were empty of people. They'd all gone to watch the fight.

A door thudded in the distance.

The fire door! he realised. Of course - a prime bodyguard exit. Especially in a joint like this where opening one wasn't likely to trigger an alarm. Also, his uncle would have seen that door earlier and know where it lead...

He broke into a sprint, bursting out of the very door he had come into the gym through, what felt like days ago now, out onto the alley into the ankle-deep grey sludge that passed for snow in the city...

The backstreet was empty.

"Uncle!" he shouted into the night, clinging onto the hope that the man would stop if he was even still within earshot. What he had done for him was, of course, unrepayable. But if he had left him here alone to face the music... Dom wasn't sure what he was going to do. As grateful as he was, his life was quite possibly about to get a whole lot more difficult when Paul eventually came round… "Uncle!"

"Jay-sus, boy," a voice drawled from very close by indeed and just this side of supercilious. "I might be getting on a bit, but I'm not deaf yet."

Dom swung round – ashamed that he had burst through the door without a second's thought to the fact that there could be someone stood right next to it.

Luckily for him, the 'someone' was his uncle.

The smug grin the man was sporting nearly pushed Dom over the edge. He'd had a pretty stressful evening and all his uncle could do was laugh about it.

"What," he growled, clenching his fists. "The hell, did you think you were you doing?"

"Fighting," he said, infuriatingly jovial about the whole thing. "Rather well, if I do say so myself."

"I meant what the hell were you doing going in there?!" Dom almost yelled at him. "Getting put into a fight draw and – fucking hell you rigged it, didn't you? The slip Brickie gave me - how did you...? You rigged the whole thing?"

He shook his head incredulously, realisation dawning.

"Obviously," The Major rumbled. "Catch on, lad. I know you're not as dense as the chumps in there, come on now."

"I'm the stupid one? I'm the stupid one?" Dom said, repeating himself in his frustration. "What were you thinking?!"

The Major's smile faded slightly. "Of having a little fun. I thought you'd approve."

"Well I…" Dom stopped short of throwing his hands in the air. He growled instead. "Well I bloody-well don't!"

"Because?" The Major prompted, rotating one hand in a 'go on' gesture. He frowned, turning over his hand and inspecting the back of it with mild intrigue. "Spit it out, boy."

"Because now the fucker will think I set you on him and… and well... it won't be good," Dom finished, somewhat lamely.

"Look," The Major sighed. "Before you can say it; I know you can fight your own battles. And as for backlash, all you have to do is let me know."

His nephew scowled back silently.

"And if you don't, I will find out," The Major added firmly, locking eyes with the boy.

Dom let his fists unclench. There was nothing he could do but sulk about now, and that would be ungrateful at best.

"Fine. You could have been injured, then," Dom pointed out, not willing to drop the topic when for once his uncle was the one at fault. Wasn't he?

The Major looked at him as though he had also suggested he could have knocked the wing-mirror off the Bentley.

"Pa is gonna kill you," Dom said, as his argument breaker.

It didn't work.

"Kill me? It was his idea," The Major snorted - most amused when his nephew's eyes widened in surprise. "And injured? Please. I've had better fights off the manor punchbags than that wet lettuce in there."

"Pa put you up to this?" Dom asked. The notion seemed bizarre. Of course he knew his grandfather cared about him a great deal, but he was a man of protocol and sensibility. Letting his son loose on his grandson's abuser in a semi-legal cage match was neither of those things.

"Well, he suggested it and I felt like stretching my legs, so why not?"

"You did more than stretch your legs, Uncle," Dom pointed out. "I thought for a second there you were going to kill him."

"I was," The Major admitted amicably. "But then I thought, you know, bloody..."

"Paperwork forms," Dom finished the sentence.

"Exactly."

"What about your knuckle?"

"What about it?"

"You've cracked it, I'd guess," Dom diagnosed. He hadn't missed the man's earlier extended glance at his hand.

The Major scowled. "Observant little shit, aren't you?"

"I don't need to be when you did something as daft as hit a guy that hard in the jaw!" Dom argued. "'Tools of manipulation' versus 'box to protect brain' equals 'bad idea' - you taught me that yourself!"

"Pssht - worth it this time," his uncle rebuffed, waving the comment aside and managing not to wince as he did so literally with his injured hand.

Dom's face was best described as 'stern mother hen', which was quite frankly hilarious on the young teen. Not that his uncle would tell him that.

"Besides, did you see the look on his face when I put him on his arse?" The Major smirked again.

"I did," Dom said, stubbornly taciturn, although he was tempted to ask 'which time?'

"And?"

His uncle looked at him, eyes daring him to admit that, even if it was not what he had asked for, he was glad it had come to occur.

"And it was brilliant, OK?" Dom confessed, barely refraining from rolling his eyes – partly because it was childish and partly because presently his eyebrow hurt when he made excessive facial expressions. "It was one of the best moments of my life."

"Just one of, eh?" the man asked, sounding almost disappointed.

"Right after the time Charlie swallowed a stinkbug for a dare and that time you almost beat Gramps with Krav Maga in a spar…" Dom said, imagining the scene. "And then he whupped your ass with Systema Spetsnaz."

The Major barked a laugh, not knowing whether to be pleased or not that he featured in two of the top three 'best moments' of his nephew's life. Regardless, he was pretty sure the boy was making the chart up on the spot.

"And Kendrew - really? That's the one that means warrior, right?" Dom asked, finally realising where he knew the name from - it was one of his grandfather and uncle's very many aliases.

"Your point?" The Major asked candidly.

"Mister Michael Kendrew?" Dom snorted. "Mister 'Patron Saint of Soldiers: Conqueror of Satan' Warrior? Could you have picked anything more melodramatic if you tried?"

The Major let out a low chuckle. "Rather fitting, don't you think? And someone's been listening to Artemis's religious education studies, I see. I didn't think etymology was your thing."

"It isn't," Dom informed him, still annoyed. "But Artemis made me look his up to prove it wasn't just for girls. Means 'hunter' or something."

"I know. He's told me. Several times."

"Yeah? Well then he tried to trick me into looking up mine. So I looked up, like, five random ones."

"Your name is very fitting," his uncle said. "I liked it the moment your mother told me what you were called."

"Yeah?" said Dom, for what else was one supposed to say when someone complimented their name? "Well it's only going to be fitting if I manage to survive to getting my Diamond."

A wailing siren hailed from the rough direction of the hospital. The older Butler gave a self-satisfied huff. Job well done, it would seem. The younger pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a headache coming. It was almost funny; the way their roles seemed temporarily reversed. He was stood there, somewhere between impressed and exasperated. His uncle was still smirking, basking in the glow of his unanticipated accomplishment.

"Are you happy now?" Domovoi asked. "Can we go home? Because I sure as shit don't shine ain't staying with that prick tonight."

"After a detour," The Major said with a smile.

So there you go! I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it! If you did, it'd be pretty awesome if you'd let me know :)

Some of you 'observant little shits' as The Major would say, are far too damn attentive and predictive and probably already guessed before you read this chapter that Mick was a certain somebody else. And 'Kendrew' was a alias the Butlers (Major and Dom) used in 'In the Path of Bullets' when they checked into a hotel. How many of you spotted that?

Well, it's that time of year again. I have lambs to bottle feed 2-3 hours - and yes, that includes through the night. Two little tups (boys) so if you have any name suggestions fire away! Myles and Beckett, maybe? Enjoy your normal sleep schedules!

Wolfy
ooo
O

13/02/16