Well, we've made it!
The end of Days of Reckoning... Part One.
This will be the last update on this fic.
It's been 6 weeks to the day since I started posting it and I'm so glad I did. It's carried me - and hopefully you somewhat too - through half a dozen weeks of a really strange time in the world and I'd be honoured if your memories of the pandemic of 2020 include escaping the madness for a while by reading a fic written by a Butler-Family obsessed writer haha
A few of you have said you don't want it to end - and me neither! This chapter grew from about 4K words to 9K, I think because I just didn't quite want to let it go...
There is a 'Post Credits' scene if you don't mind a bit of a cliffhanger as it's a scene from Part Two. If you do mind a cliffhanger, don't read it haha
Part Two is in production, but we all know how long it takes to get a fic written. I don't intend it to be four years until the next update of the series focused on Domovoi Butler's 'origin story', but then again I didn't intend that last time either.
All I can say is I wrote another two fics in the gap last time and with nothing of that nature planned, every spare writing minute I have should be dedicated to DoR II and then, at some point, the final instalment of the series: Dead Reckoning.
(Which is plotted out, but nowhere near written... sorry!)
It is a massive project to get these fics written. I don't have a lot of time, so to dedicate what I do have to writing FanFic takes quite some discipline and encouragement. Especially since, if I'm going to write, I should really be working on original stuff I might actually get paid for one day.
So a massive *Thank-You* to all of you who convince me it is worth the effort, for showing me it really is worth getting this story out of my head and into a format that you can not only read, but apparently enjoy. It makes me ridiculously happy to read what you all think of my work. And not only that, I read them all and sometimes you mention something and I'm like - oh I haven't put anything about that in but I guess if people are wondering about it then I guess I better get writing a scene about it! So if you do ever wonder something, stick it in a review and I may add it to the next chapter - I mean, there was nothing originally in this chapter about Pa being at the WI meet, I had left that to your imagination but then Shadow914 asked so... haha
Anyway. I sit there grinning with every review - nearly 200 of them this time - and for me, that's kind of a big deal because I am, in general, widely regarded as a sullen, miserable bastard.
Without you lot, all these stories would stay locked in my head for my own amusement only, with the only occasional outlet being batting scenes back and forth with Steinbock.
So if you appreciate my fics and you review your thoughts on them for me to read in return, please give yourself a great big pat on the back for making me smile, giving me a reason to light up instead of think 'urghhh what now?' when my phone buzzes with a notification and, most of all, for encouraging me to keep on writing.
Here's the Reviewers Roll Call for the Whole Fic!
*Shadow914*
*FowlFox*
*Alchemechanist*
*kunoichi*
*Jolinnn*
*6000j*
*Laura*
*P.S. Sword*
*Spencerblue*
*shiningpearls*
*The Littlest Mouse*
*Readergirl99*
*TaleWeaver*
*Refugeeoftumblr*
*Guest*
*ghost235*
and, of course,
*Steinbock*
(and especially for being my constant source of Young!Dom and Gang-related amusement, inspiration, support, encouragement and era-fact-checking)
You're all awesome - all 17 of you, even if you only reviewed once or twice to say you're reading - but special big thanks to this fic's 'Magnificent Seven' - you know who you are! The ones who have been there for pretty much every chapter, without fail. I watch them coming in and I'm like "... and there's the seventh, anything else is a bonus - I can reply to everyone and post now knowing everyone's ready for the next chapter!"
OK, I'll shut up now! Here we go. Epilogue Chapter coming up!
WARNINGS: You know these all by now. Swearing, gruff!fluff and the fact that this is it for now...
EPILOGUE
Fowl Manor, Dublin
The gates opened automatically at the sight of the Bentley – something both The Major and Butler would have reprimanded the night watchman for, for who was to say the car had not been stolen or hijacked? The guard was indeed surprised to see the driver as they pulled up to the secondary barrier, so clearly he had not been able to see who was driving through the windscreen on the approach.
"Hey!" the man shouted, rapping the window with his knuckles in a way which made even the youngest Butler's teeth grit in annoyance…
He had a sudden, vivid flashback of his uncle stepping smartly from the vehicle and holding a hotel valet six inches off the floor by the front of his tunic with a fierce growl.
'Touch my car like that again and…'
"S'up?" he said, buzzing the window down.
"Junior?" the man frowned. "What the hell are you doing driving? You're not old enough for a license yet!"
"And your point?" asked the boy, coolly.
Even a half-grown Butler could dish out a glare cold enough to chill a man at twenty paces.
The security man coughed and changed tack.
"Where's Butler?" he asked. "He went out in that car."
"Yeah and he asked me to bring it back."
"Oh really?" the man said, disbelievingly.
"Yeah – what exactly do you expect I did? Mug him for the keys and hog-tie him with my shoelaces?"
The man had to admit this was an unlikely possibility, but he gathered his indignation and courage - it was only The Butler's grandson, after all, not the man himself - and spoke again.
"There's no need to be such a smart-mouthed little…" he began.
"He'll be back later," Dom interrupted. "He told me to tell you to keep the gates locked until he gets back. Even if it's the police."
"The police? What have you done now, kid?"
Domovoi growled internally at the suggestion that he was often a causer of trouble at the manor, but answered civilly all the same. Mostly.
"Nothing. Just follow orders, alright? That's all I'm doing."
"Follow orders off you, kid?" the man snorted. "Listen here - your grandpappy and uncle may rule the roost around here, but you? I think not."
"Perhaps you outrank Junior," Artemis said, leaning across from the passenger seat, much in the way a normal teenager may do at a fast-food restaurant drive-thru. "But you damn well answer to me. If you remember, you work for the Fowls, not the Butlers. This is our roost, as you say. Now return to your post and do as you are asked before I have you fired at once for insolence, understood?"
The man blanched and stepped back. Artemis Fowl may not yet be the head of the household, but sometimes there was more than a touch of his father in the way he wielded his power.
"Ah… Sorry Master Fowl. Sorry, didn't see you there. I just thought…"
"You just thought Junior had taken the car out for a joyride? Perhaps you envisaged him entering a rally competition of sorts and thought he would convince me to come along as a navigator? Really, I have had words with my father in the past about testing the IQ of our potential future employees as part of the interview process, but I shall be strongly suggesting to him our existing staff undergo some sort of assessment to test their suitability for continued employment..."
Dom pulled the Bentley away before the unfortunate security man could babble any further apologies and they were soon parked up in the garage, Bertha safely tucked back into her slot between the Rolls Royce and the Jaguar.
Only when the handbrake was on and the engine was off did Domovoi allow himself to relax completely, closing his eyes and breathing in the comforting smell of the polish, deeply. He could see why his uncle loved this car. And also why it was not entirely unusual to find him in a quiet, private moment with his forehead resting against the comforting leather of the steering wheel after a particularly stressful 'outing'. Dom decided to try the technique out.
Yep. Very calming.
"Are you alright?" Artemis asked. "You didn't hit your head of anything did you? Have you got concussion?"
"I already had a concussion from my bloody cycling accident, remember?" he mumbled.
"Well, I have to say if that was your driving ability with brain bruising, then without we would have won hands down!" Artemis chuckled, a little nervously. "Although are you sure you're quite alright?"
"I'm decompressing," he explained. "You should try it. Really helps combat PTSD."
"I see," Artemis said quietly. "Yes. Sorry about that. It really went quite awry tonight..."
"You could say that," Junior muttered.
The Fowl bit his lip. He had a lot of making up to do with the Butlers, it would seem.
"'envisaged he might have taken part in a rally competition with me as navigator'?" Dom snorted suddenly, uncontrolled laughter bubbling up inside him as he revelled in the miracle of survival.
"Well it really is quite a ridiculous idea," Artemis grinned. "Honestly, nobody would believe any sane person would coerce their friend into stealing their mother's car and racing it around the backroads of rural Ireland, surely?"
"Absolute insanity," Dom agreed. Had Artemis been a different friend, he might have punched him on the shoulder.
"In all seriousness, did you pick up any injuries? I think I may have whiplash..." Artemis said, rubbing his neck thoughtfully. "I'm going to book myself in for a massage at the parlour's earliest convenience. I can book you one too, if you like?"
It was a nice enough gesture, but Dom had seen the Fowl's idea of a massage and it was a far cry from a proper session with the Academy physios and the ice baths he was used to.
"Erm... no thanks. I'm alright. Just pretty relieved we made it back in one piece, if I'm honest," Dom said, although it felt almost like a weakness to admit it.
"Well, thanks to you, I have to say," Artemis said, unclipping his seatbelt and opening the door – carefully – it would not do to dint the car now and especially not on another of their fleet of precious vehicles. "Christ – I think he'll know his car has been moved though."
Dom felt his adrenaline levels take another spike at the comment. The 'he' was well loaded enough to know who the Fowl boy meant. A man they were both in equal awe and apprehension of.
"Ah crap – how bad is it?"
He slid carefully from the car, slinging himself around the rear of it to see what the Fowl had spotted. He couldn't believe his grandfather had hit anything and surely he had been so careful on the way back that nothing could have happened to it then…
"No – it's not damaged…" Artemis continued – Dom let out a sigh of relief. "Just… look at all the mud. Butler must have come over the field."
"Mud I can fix. I thought you were going to say the alloys were scuffed."
"Well I'm afraid I can't very well tell on account of all the… ah… ah - you know - oh I'm too tired to think of a higher-class word… all the shite."
Domovoi laughed, and this time he did clap a hand on his future employer's shoulder, albeit much more gently than he would with one of his Academy counterparts.
"Well, that's certainly the word for it," he said with a small chuckle.
"I realise I've got you into rather a lot of 'it' recently," Artemis said with a sigh. "I do apologise, old friend."
"Look," the Butler said frankly. "To be honest, now we've all got out with being maimed or killed, looking back - with rose-tinted glasses and all that - it was kind of... well... fun."
"Fun?" Artemis raised an eyebrow. But then he remembered the boy's wild whooping in the midst of the storm, his snarling grin as he slung the car around the corners... "Well, it was exciting in places - I'll give you that."
"I mean," Junior clarified. "You know - apart from the whole stealing the car, crashing the car, nearly getting barbecued by an exploding car and..."
"So on," Artemis rolled his hand in agreement.
"Yeah, apart from that," Dom grinned. "It was just like old times. Like that time you tied me to Ethel and Gertrude and..."
"And accidentally began a re-enactment of pre-execution torture from the Middle Ages," Tim completed the sentence. "Yes I remember."
"So do the donkeys, I imagine."
"That's elephants, isn't it?"
"What?" Dom frowned as they made their way to the stairs that lead into the manor itself.
"That never forget."
"Equines have good memories too, believe me. Those two won't so much as walk in front of me in case I suddenly decide to attach myself to them and go for a spin around the grounds."
"Well I'll take your word for it," Artemis shrugged.
"Good. Because I'm not trying it again. Nor are we hunting down some pachyderms to see what they think of the idea, either."
"Now that really would be ridiculous..."
"Almost as ridiculous as entering an unofficial rally competition in a stolen car after convincing your friend to steal and drive the damn thing and – "
"Alright, alright I've apologised, haven't I?"
"Have you really, though? I mean, you've expressed a general regret for the whole thing but..."
"And that is as much as you're getting! You were complicit in the whole thing!"
"Oh come on - like I could have stopped you. The best way I could make sure you didn't get yourself killed was by going along with it!"
"You can tell yourself that all you like, but you could have gone to your grandfather at any time..."
"I could have - could I fuck as like!" Dom protested.
"Well, I mean there wasn't actually anything stopping you as such..."
"Moral code of not dobbing my friend in, maybe?" he said, as they began to climb the stairs.
"Verses duty of care not to withhold pertinent information regarding said friend's safety from his security staff?"
"Oh so it's my fault," he half-laughed. "I might have known..."
"Well, you do have partial responsibility, I would say..."
"Typical Fowl!" Junior snorted.
"Typical Butler!" Tim retorted.
They carried on their good-natured bickering all the way up the stairs. When they reached Artemis's room, the older boy gestured his friend in as they continued their debate on whether or not they had, technically, won the race, given that there was likely nothing in the race's rules or literature – if it had any at all – that covered the eventuality of swapping vehicles mid-way through the process and had they actually managed to right their car, they would probably have managed to cross the line first in it regardless.
"Then again, you weren't driving so I suppose..."
"Yeah, but I wasn't driving when we won the second race, either."
"Ah yes - I wonder if it counts that..."
"Well we're not bloody well doing it again if it didn't!" the employee of the pair growled.
"Well I wasn't suggesting that of course, but I was thinking that once Romeo recovers we really should contact him about who came out triumphant in the bet, because..."
"Look, all I'm going to say is if there has to be a rerun can you please make it a bloody tennis match instead or something..."
"I abhor tennis! All that running and screaming - it's undignified!."
"As opposed to driving and screaming?"
"Yes!"
"Chess then," Dom suggested. "Surely there can't be anything life threatening about that!"
The Dublin WI Meeting, The Town Hall - Earlier
"Alright syn, yes I'll check on them," Xandr growled. "How's Eugene?"
"Drinking," said his son, equally as irritably.
"I see," drawled the giant. "Well, enjoy that, won't you?"
"Enjoy the WI," snorted Myles in response and hung up.
The Butler on Irish soil replaced the car phone. He had chosen to wait in the car for the lady of the manor. He had a good view of the building so he could keep an eye on who was coming and going, but he was not unduly worried about an assassination attempt or the likes. Mrs Fowl was not a high risk principal on paper, though her links to her husband exposed her to the threat of kidnapping. Besides that, she was not technically his charge, after all. He was her manservant at his principal's request, but he was, technically, currently assigned to Artemis. Who was possibly at the Devlin's residence, or possibly gallivanting around the countryside - hopefully in the company of Domovoi and very much more Butler's primary concern right now. If Lady Fowl could get herself into trouble arguing with the ladies of Dublin about the correct method of mixing cake batter, there wasn't a great lot he could do to stop that anyway.
Yet, despite not being her PPO on paper, Alexandr still felt a certain sense of protectiveness over Vivienne Fowl. She was his charge's partner of some quarter century now and the pair of them had a good working relationship when it came to keeping the Fowl patriarch safe and well. The lady was born into money and therefore it was a given that he was 'the help', but she treated him with respect, which is more than he could say for some of his previous charges. So no, he didn't mind guarding her on occasion. Even if she did drag him on her shopping sprees. And to these blasted Women's Institute meetings...
It was fortunate, really. Many a well-matched, smooth-running, long-standing partnership between bodyguard and principal could hit a bump when it came to life-partners. The way things were going, it looked like there would be friction on that front between Artemis' new love-interest and The Major. Xandr foresaw issues on that front and was, for once, pleased that Myles had no such interests in anyone. At least it kept the problems one-sided.
His own wife, Maud, was very much not an issue. She was rarely in the picture and even when she was, her visits were fleeting and Eugene usually, understandingly, gave him leave to spend time with her. And then she would be off again 'into the wild', as she put it. He loved her and he missed her, but it was ultimately easier for the pair of them to do their jobs when they were apart. That and the fact Xandr was fairly certain under a more traditional arrangement he would be divorced, widowed or - most likely - dead by now.
He got out of the car and caught sight of himself in the highly polished glass of the driver's window. He wiped away the small smile that had crept onto his face at the thought of his wife. It would do him no good to be looking anything other than professionally collected and disinterested when he entered the hall.
"Alright Xan, old boy," he muttered to his reflection. "Once more into battle we go..."
He locked the car and strode purposefully towards the large doors. He listened briefly at them to make sure the talk was over and he was not about to make an obvious entrance - or at least an even more obvious entrance than he could, as a nearly seven-foot tall man entering a room full of babbling women.
Sure enough, he had barely ducked across the threshold and clocked Mrs Fowl over by the coffee station than he was descended upon.
"Oh Mr Butler - what a pleasant surprise!" warbled one woman Xandr was quite sure had had a hand - or perhaps that should be a crook - in the embarrassment of his son at last year's county fayre. "We weren't sure if we should be expecting either you or The Major..."
"Good evening," he rumbled politely but dismissively, as he plotted his way between the maze of lacy table-clothed furniture.
"Can I offer you a drink?" she simpered.
"No thank-you," he said, firmly.
He had hoped Vivienne would notice him and break away from her conversation to ask if anything was the matter, but despite catching almost everyone else's eye in the place, he was such a constant in her life she barely noticed his presence anymore than she did the pattern of the wallpaper. She also, unfortunately, lacked the somewhat 'psychic' link Butlers and Fowls shared that gave one the distinct feeling of 'being watched' when the other was trying to catch their attention.
He wasn't quite sure what he was going to actually say anyway. He couldn't worry the woman unnecessarily, but at the same time he was beginning to think that perhaps Myles' hunch was right. Something wasn't sitting well with him either this evening and he had long since learned not to ignore a gut feeling.
"Mrs Fowl," he coughed gently. "I have a message for you. Master Artemis telephoned."
"Oh!" she said, as though suddenly noticing him. "Is everything alright?"
"Yes, everything's fine. He wanted permission to visit Miss Devlin - I granted him it, I hope you don't mind."
"Of course not, Butler. The boy is nearly twenty, for heaven's sake! The fact he feels he has to ask is rather laughable," she chuckled. "Bless the poor thing."
"Well he may have been more asking on behalf of Junior," Xandr fibbed. "I gave my grandson leave to go with him. Miss Devlin has a younger brother, you might recall. Apparently they get along very well."
"Oh that's nice for him," she said. "He probably feels quite left out when Timmy goes courting. How old is the boy now?"
"Fifteen, m'am," Xandr told her. "Sixteen later this year."
"Ah, to be a teenager again! All those hormones driving one wild," she sighed in reminiscence Xandr couldn't say he concurred with. His own teenage years had been spent at The Academy, after all, having all thoughts other than 'protect the principal' driven out of his head by extreme exercise and rigorous training. If it hadn't been for the chance encounter with Maud, his branch of the Butler family tree would have ended with him. It was fortunate he had more prolific siblings who provided his own sons with more than enough cousins to carry the name, too. "Although I don't suppose he'll look for a young lady friend of his own - too much like his uncle, would you say?"
Xandr saw the gaggle of ladies' ears prick at that comment. Had Lady Fowl been stating that the younger Butler was available - he had not yet found himself a 'lady friend'? Or that - gossip be forthcoming - he was otherwise inclined? Scandalous. And it would explain why the man robustly rebuffed any of their advances...
"Yes, he seems to be heading that way," Pa said evenly, wondering if he had inadvertently got his son out of the sights of the younger members of the WI for good with the vagueness of his comment.
"Is that all?" Lady Fowl said, turning back to the group of ladies she had been chatting with.
She said it in a way which Xandr knew he should take the query as rhetorical and as his dismissal, but still he hesitated.
Myles, my boy, you'd better be right, he thought.
"Mrs Fowl," he started. "I was wondering if you would mind me calling one of the staff to collect you and Mrs Callaghan when you wish to leave, so that I am able to..."
'... go and find out what your son is really up to.', was what he had intended to say, but as it was, he was quite forcibly interrupted by someone - Mrs Kelly, the name came back to him suddenly - turning swiftly towards them with a tray full of teacups full to the brim with freshly poured, hot drinks.
She bumped the platter straight into his ribcage and he automatically spun himself between the threat and the nearest Fowl, taking the brunt of the near-boiling liquid to the chest as the woman - quite unnecessarily, Xandr would say - threw the whole arrangement into the air.
There was much shrieking from the WI members and Xandr grabbed a fistful of his previously white shirt and held it away from his skin with a restrained hiss, lamenting the fact he hadn't worn a bullet-proof vest to this event. There were very few occasions - save, perhaps, a shipwreck - that could not be improved by the wearing of a good quality bullet-proof vest. Including, it would appear, being covered in hot tea by a wantonly clumsy butcher's wife.
"My goodness! Butler - are you alright?" Vivienne gasped.
"Quite, thank-you m'am," he said. "Are you?"
"Not a splash on me," she said, covering her mouth. "But good heavens - you're covered! That must be burning you!"
"Yes, slightly," he said looking around the room for something to help remedy the situation.
"I'm so terribly sorry, Mr Butler!" Mrs Kelly exclaimed. "Lord - you must be scalded! We better get you out of that shirt!
Oh and wouldn't you all like that, Xandr thought, scathingly.
To his credit, he said nothing to the instigator of the 'accident' except to turn down her hurried and simpering apologies. Spotting just the thing he needed, he loosened his tie with one hand, undid half the buttons of his shirt, roughly ejected a bunch of flowers from their vase and unceremoniously tipped the contents straight down the front of himself.
The hallway had fallen into that awkward, semi-silence often associated with the period immediately after a plate is dropped in a restaurant.
Water dripped onto the wooden floor and he cleared his throat.
"My apologies for spoiling the floral display," he said, not quite the picture of professionalism he always strived to achieve; standing there soaking wet with his scarred and reddened torso on display in a hall full of stunned womenfolk.
He was uncomfortably aware of his socks currently being about the only dry item of clothing on his person and hoped that Mrs Kelly wouldn't make any more suggestions about what items of clothing he should be removing.
Oh his boys would love this one. Domovoi would laugh himself into a ball of winded tears, no doubt. And even Myles would have to admit this took the title from the cattle crook incident when it came to embarrassing WI-related incidents.
If they weren't before, all eyes were certainly on him now.
Not what he had intended, but given the hissed admonishments of; 'Control yourselves, ladies! Butler is a married man for heaven's sake - you're disgracing yourself with all your goggling!' from a mortified Vivienne, it may have had quite the unexpectedly fortunate result.
"I think we better be getting home, Butler - don't you?" she said, primly.
"Certainly, m'am," he said, gesturing for her to take the lead to the door.
"We're leaving, Primrose," she said to Mrs Callaghan, who downed her cup of tea in one gulp and picked up another slice of cake to go.
"Lead on, m'am," she said, brusquely. "I don't expect any of these ladies' husbands would have shirts and shorts big enough to lend to Butler and he can't very well be standing around like that. I suspect somebody may faint if he's here any longer."
"Quite right. Good evening, everybody," Vivienne said stiffly and then, with all the poise and elegance of the Fowl wife she was, strode to the door with her head chef and her bedraggled, open-shirted bodyguard in tow.
Fowl Manor, Dublin, Ireland
Hours later, once Alexandr Butler had changed his shirt and his vehicle, located 'the boys', rescued his grandson from an explosion, driven everyone to safety, flipped his fake badge at the officers who had turned up to round up the teens who had not already scarpered at the sound of the sirens and handed the case over to his very own 'pet policeman' Constable Jim Holt, he rolled the Mini back onto its wheels, kicked out the windscreen as his grandson had suspected he would have to, and drove it very carefully back to Fowl Manor on its four, rather wonky wheels.
He recognised the vehicle, of course. He would have to grill Domovoi on how exactly it ended up in the Fowl garages, but he was beginning to piece together the untoward occurrences and suspicious circumstances of the past few days and come up with a story he would not be surprised to hear was not all that far from.. the truth...
As for how he had found out about the whereabouts of his errant grandson and the young master, that had been a case of another educated guess. He had not been expecting the teenagers to be home when he returned to the manor with Mrs Fowl and Mrs Callaghan, but upon checking the CCTV of the main gate and finding no unidentified vehicle picking them up, he had then checked the garage cameras, expecting to see them taking one of the sports cars from the East block. What he had seen instead had surprised even him. Of course, after watching them hare around the manor carriage track for a few laps, then after a break - during which evidently they had phoned him - fuel up the clapped out Mini and take that out of the unmanned gates to the North... He took a punt that it would be something to do with the Devlins and made his way over in that direction. After that, it hadn't taken him long to sniff out the makeshift rally track and from there set up a stakeout to keep watch.
And a bloody good job he had, too.
He checked on Artemis first, with the intention of next going to his grandson's room and giving the boy 'Part One' of the dressing down he deserved for taking part in such idiotic antics. As it was, when he cracked the door to his employee's son's room, he found the young man fast asleep, fully dressed on his bed and the younger teen slumped, chin down onto his chest, arms folded, legs stretched out, ankles crossed in front of him, in the heir's office chair.
The one he would expect to, jolted awake at the disturbance and he beckoned him silently towards him.
The younger teen rose out of the chair ad slunk towards him with the air of a guilty dog belly-crawling towards its master for an easily-predicted telling off after rolling in something despicable.
Out in the corridor, Domovoi began his apology in a whisper almost immediately, managing only a few words before his grandfather cut him off.
"The Mini is your mother's car, isn't it?" he asked.
"Yeah," Dom looked at his shoes. "Where... where is it now?"
"Back in the East garages - I drove it back," Xandr told him. "I take it she doesn't know you took it?"
"No," Dom mumbled. "I... borrowed it."
"Without the keys or permission, I gather?"
Dom nodded, keeping his gaze low. He noticed his grandfather's usually highly-polished boots seemed to have been splashed with something he would have guessed was hot liquid, but he wasn't sure where that would have come from. He hoped it wasn't spilt petrol or engine oil, for doubtlessly he would be the one cleaning them tomorrow as part of his penance.
"So you stole it," Xandr stated, uncompromisingly blunt as always.
"I was hoping the insurance would pay out," he mumbled. There was a familiar smell in his nostrils, beyond the smokey after-scent that clung to his clothes. Something comforting that reminded him of quiet chats and steady come-downs after stressful situations. He wondered if the smell was to do with petrol or engine oil too. Or if it was something else. He could have sworn it was something like a familiar drink sort of smell, but doubtlessly if he started asking strange questions about phantom odours he would be treated to another round of concussion assessment, so he kept the thought to himself.
"Well... that can be arranged," Xandr sighed. "And is there is a perfectly reasonable, well-thought out, reasonable rationale behind this whole affair you would dearly like to inform me of, vnuk?"
The boy chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment before answering. "Not really, Pa. No."
"I thought as much."
Dom wished the man would just shout at him. The quiet disappointment was so much worse... But that was, of course, why his grandfather was doing it. He knew yelling at the boy would be about as much use as tackling a vault door with a ping-pong ball. It would simply bounce off and the boy would shut down. And besides that, he received quite enough screaming, shouting and corporal punishment from that sorry excuse of a partner Theresa had saddled herself with. And Alexandr Butler had zero intention of being likened to that useless piece of filth in his protégé's eyes.
"Go to bed, Junior," he said, with quiet severity. "I'll speak to you in the morning."
Dom nodded, still not looking up as he turned to make his way to his room.
"Oh and boy?"
The teenager looked around, almost hopefully.
"Nice driving," said the giant, with a curt nod.
"Thanks," Dom smiled, weakly. "We got back fine. I'll clean her up tomorrow. Lucky Uncle's not back for a while, eh?"
"Not the Bentley, Domovoi," Xandr said, his mouth twisting into a smile of his own at the corner. "The races."
"You... you were watching?" Dom frowned incredulously.
"Well of course I was watching, Kingdom," said Pa with a low chuckle as he strode off for a few hours less rest than he had hoped for tonight. "What else would I be doing when my grandson sneaks off to partake in an illegal rally race?"
"But you were with Mrs Fowl and..."
Xandr snorted. There would be a time to relay the story involving Myles' hunch, the tea-tray incident and his logic behind finding the pair of them, but it was not tonight.
"You don't think by now I've mastered the art of being in two places at once?" he asked, turning and raising an eyebrow. "Honestly, boy. You need to pay more attention. Spokoynoy nochi, mal'chik."
Dom watched him leave, shaking his head slightly in disbelief.
Sometimes his family still never failed to surprise him.
"Spokoynoy nochi, Pa," he said, walking down the corridor to his own room.
He slipped through the door and sat down on the bed, blowing out a long, slow breath.
He was barely a third of the way into his month-long break from The Academy and he already felt more exhausted than he did after one of the longer stints her spent there.
So much for rest and recuperation...
He had tomorrow off, at least. 'Off', that was, other than the likely lengthy debrief he'd have to go through with Pa and the beginning to make amends for his misdemeanours, some of which he may have to begrudgingly admit to in the aforementioned dressing down, unless his mysteriously omnipotent, omniscient grandfather already knew about them all. Which Dom suspected he probably did... How, was another question entirely.
The next day he would have to tackle the uncomfortable situation of heading back to the flat for this doubtlessly ill-fated holiday. And, presuming he survived that, he would likely suffer a second round of admonishment from his uncle when they both got back to the manor.
And then there was the Dublin County Summer Fayre, which fell before The Academy term restarted and he would most likely be asked to attend and assist with. Partly in penance and partly because he was a Butler and therefore expected to help with whatever the Fowls wanted them to, whether the 'arrangement' in question was anything from the criminal to the floral kind and everything in-between.
But these were all problems for future him. Present him was concerned only with stripping off his damp and muddy clothing, pulling his pyjama bottoms over his grubby knees to save adding 'washing his bedding' to his list of things to remember to do tomorrow and sinking into his pillow to sleep off the whole ordeal.
And so that was what he did.
And that night Domovoi Butler dreamed of storms; of rain and of thunder and of lightening, and of driving and explosions, and of Artemis and sandwiches, and of his grandfather and his uncle, and of looming mountains coated in thick snow, and, for some inexplicable reason, something to do with cups of tea...
END OF DAYS OF RECKONING PART ONE
So, this is it for now, I guess!
I really hope you enjoyed the ride. This has turned out to be my longest ever posted fic on FanFic - even longer than my combined fic set Lil Rems so far.
I nearly didn't even start posting it, because this and Part Two were supposed to be one big fic.
Then I realised this would push 100K+ words and the next part would probably be the same again and take a long time to get finished.
And I felt like with everything going on in the world, we all needed a bit of distraction.
I'm gonna miss your reviews.
So I guess I better start working hard on getting Part Two written!
Until next time, the author really does thank you for your continued support.
Wolfy
ooo
O
POST CREDIT SCENE
(Ha ha ha - you knew I couldn't leave it there - shoutout to the Marvel fans who stick around until after the credits)
Undisclosed Mountainside, Switzerland
The Major hoped that the sickening snapping sound was a ski pole.
Or a ski.
Or a snow-submerged branch – which was presumably what Mr Fowl had snagged himself on before he had gone tumbling face first into the fresh powder.
Myles sensed quite easily from the immediate and dramatic bout of screaming that it was, unfortunately for all involved, none of the above.
He slid to a controlled stop above his current charge, shouting back over his shoulder and holding up a clenched fist to signal for the rest of the party to pull up.
They were travelling in convoy down a wide gully of snow, lined either side with a thick forest of evergreen trees. Easy terrain, really. The lords weren't really here for the skiing, after all. They were here for their annual social - away from 'the wives', as they put it. Mostly that meant drinking beer, playing cards and only occasionally venturing out onto the summer slopes often enough to call the whole thing a 'skiing holiday'.
Those on point carried on regardless, the pair of Swiss ski-guides who doubled as bodyguards - and whom Mr Matherson had hired for himself - not even thinking to look back.
Idiots.
"Oh my ankle – Major, its my ankle!" Eugene spat through gritted teeth. "I think I've broken it!"
The Major considered this. Fowls were not famed for their high pain thresholds, after all. And he distinctly remembered this very member of the family causing a considerable level of panic and rushing about for a ruptured appendix, which turned out merely to be a bad bout of gas...
He and Beckett had laughed a lot at their future employer for that at the time.
But on this occasion, he considered he should probably give the man the benefit of the doubt.
"Alright, sir. Hold still," he said, clearly and calmly, stabbing his ski-poles into the ground above his employer. "Take some deep breaths for me and... woah, woah, woah!"
"Oh shit!"
Mr Simmons – who had shot straight past the stationary Lord Westlund and old Henderson's replacement, Hinkley – ploughed into him without even attempting to slow up. The Major took the brunt of the collision to protect his father's charge from further injury. He bent his knees and wrapped his arms around the clumsy aristocrat like a professional rugby player making a tackle. Even so, he slid sideways with the force of the impact and although he dug his skis into the snow, they crashed onto their sides, just down-slope from the injured Fowl.
"I'm terribly sorry, Major," Simmons laughed shakily, thankfully unhurt.
Myles muttered dismissively and clambered to his knees as the man's own bodyguard pulled up swiftly alongside them.
"You OK there, sir?" the man - Turner - asked, concerned.
"Oh, right as rain – The Major caught me," he said. "I feel Eugene didn't come off so lightly though."
"Major!" the Fowl gasped. "Please – my leg..."
"Coming now, sir, just a moment," he said curtly, deciding that crawling – however ungainly – was the quickest and safest way to reach the man.
Which was of course, when Brannagh arrived.
"Oh-ho, what have we here?" he chuckled. "Run into the back of your own charge, did you Major-man?"
The Major ignored him entirely, scrambling to Eugene's side. The Fowl was taking short, shaky breaths, his face contorted with pain.
"Alright, sir," he said, heaving the man into a more upright position. "Let's have a look at what we're dealing with, shall we?"
Eugene clamped a gloved hand over his grimace as Myles unclipped his boot from his ski very carefully.
"Mother of God!" the Fowl cried out, his other hand slapping onto his bodyguard's arm and gripping tightly.
"Right, OK you hold still, sir," Myles said, patting his wrist firmly, mind already formulating a plan to get the man off the hill safely. "Turner – the radio's with the point team. Get them to call this in. We going to need an evac. Helicopter, preferably. If the weather holds."
That last part was tagged on as a not entirely subtle 'I told you so'. The Fowl bodyguard had been less than thrilled with the upcoming forecast when they had checked it this morning before heading out - exactly for this sort of reason.
"Yessir," said Turner, then called down the hill in broken German to the the blond pair of bodyguards who had finally noticed the commotion and pulled up either side of their unconfident charge.
Further up the mountain, Myles was pleased to see that Mr Walsh's guard, Moses - in his opinion the best of the security team, after himself of course - seemed to have the situation under control, gathering his own charge and Brannagh's to one side with Lord Westlund and Hinkley.
The Major didn't have to move his employer's foot very much to come to the conclusion that it was indeed, most likely broken. The man let out another howl of agony and he patted him on the shoulder in what he deemed to be a comforting sort of manner.
"OK, looks like no more skiing for you today, Mr Fowl," he said, brightly. "Let's get some painkillers into you and sort out a way of getting you down. Turner – First Aid Kit too, when you can."
There was a note to the Butler's voice that warned the younger guard that he did not mean 'at your earliest convenience' and did, in fact, mean 'ASA-f'in-P'.
"On it," said Simmons' manservant, relaying the request to Keller and Weber below, skiing down to meet them as Mr Matherson struggled back uphill towards the rest of the group. He was by far and away the weakest skier among them, and for the first time The Major appreciated the fact he had hired two assistants to account for this. At least that meant he could use one of the other guards to help him with Mr Fowl and still maintain a 1:1 ratio of PPO to principal for everybody else.
Not that he was either paid not inclined to care much about anybody else.
His priority was Eugene Fowl and his presence in a hospital as soon as physically possible, if not earlier.
"Anything I can do to help, Major?" asked Hinkley, with an intensity which annoyed Myles when he was trying to keep his charge calm.
You can fuck off somewhere out of my line of vision, he thought, scathingly.
"You can, actually," he said instead. "Alright everyone listen up. Hinkley, Brannagh team up – keep Lord Westlund and Misters Simmons, Dover and Walsh together. Turner's gone to go fetch the medi-kit and tell Keller and Weber to bring Mr Matherson back up so we're all back together as a group. Moses, I want you with me to help lift Mr Fowl. That understood?"
"No problem," said Moses, breaking away from his rear-guard position at the back of the group.
Planning and delegating came easy to the Blue Diamond. It was second nature for him to take charge of any situation life threw at him and he usually found whoever was tossed into the fray with him took comfort from that in the midst of a crisis.
But not always. And, of course, not today.
"Oh yeah? And who put you in charge?" drawled Brannagh.
"We've discussed this, Brannagh," Myles said, evenly as he stripped off his own skis in preparation to carry Eugene over to the snowline at the edge of the trees. They could set up a shelter there to wait for the rescue team and everyone would be warmer and more comfortable sat there than they were out here on the open snow.
"Yeah, yeah," he snorted. "You're the highest ranking here – you said. Highest ranking what, though? Baby-sitter? How old is your usual charge?"
"Turner – where's that kit?" Myles called as Mr Fowl let out another whimper.
"Coming now, sir!" Turner shouted back, slogging uphill with one of the rucksacks the Swiss guards had been wearing. Keller was speaking rapidly into a radio whilst Weber hovered behind Mr Matherson. Myles hoped he was paying attention to him. The last thing they needed now was another injured principal amongst them.
"Good ," he said, as Moses copied him by removing his skis. "Hinkley, when Turner gets up here with the bag, the pair of you look into making a shelter so we're comfortable while we're waiting for evac. Any luck on the radio yet?"
"They're getting through now," Turner shouted to him.
"Oh so you're just going to ignore me?" Brannagh scoffed. "Childish. Then again, I suppose you are used to hanging around with children so...
"Mr Brannagh... my son is almost... twenty," panted Eugene. "Now... is really... not the time for... dick measuring!"
Moses covered his laugh with a cough and The Major shot him a look.
"My apologies, Mr Fowl," Brannagh said, smirking. "Just a little lighthearted fun, you understand?"
"I don't want your apologies or your mal-timed attempts at humour! Just do as you're damn well asked!" Fowl said through gritted teeth, calling over to his associates who were huddled against the treeline now, some distance away. "Dover – give your man some damn orders if he won't follow mine's!"
Dover made a haughty noise and everyone still out on the channel of snow ignored him.
"One on either side," The Major said to Moses. "We'll chair lift him. Just sit still Mr Fowl. We'll get you over to the trees and then see about getting you some pain relief, that sound good?"
"Excellent, Major," Eugene muttered, breathing a shaky sigh of relief. "Any chance of getting rid of the pain in all our arses whilst you're at it?"
Myles felt a smirk play across his lips. "Well, if those are your orders, sir, you know I'd be happy to oblige."
"Best not, eh?" said Mr Fowl, his breath hitching in pain once more as the two bodyguards prepared to lift him.
"Maybe later, eh, sir?" Myles winked at him. Then turned to Moses. "Alright, on three then."
They had linked hands under Eugene's thighs and behind his back, making a sort of chair for the man to sit in. It wasn't exactly comfortable under the circumstances, but it was the best they could do - it certainly beat being dragged by the wrists across the slope, which was the other option avaliable to him.
The thirty-nine degree incline made progress slow and difficult, but they made it perhaps a dozen metres before Moses slipped, dropping to his knees and bringing The Major down with him as he tried to rebalance the trio with the least jostling to his charge.
"Sorry, sorry, sir," he rattled as Eugene's scream echoed across the mountain range.
"I thought you'd be good at those sort of playground games, to be honest, Major," came Brannagh's latest inflammatory line.
"Is he serious?" Moses said under his breath, as he flexed his fingers in preparation to lift again.
"Oh he's about to find out I am," Myles growled, leaping back to his feet.
"Major – don't..." Eugene forced through his clamped jaw.
But his Butler was gone from his side in an instant, charging uphill and grabbing Brannagh by a handful of the front of his ski suit, drawing them up close together. The slope made them almost of a height, but he was bigger in size and presence than any of the guards here and in that moment he let that fact shine.
"Another fucking comment comes out of your mouth, the next thing that's gonna follow it is your fucking teeth. Have you got that?" he snarled quietly.
Some of the cockiness slipped from Brannagh's face at the rage barely contained in those dark eyes and he grabbed at the thick wrist at his chest.
"Yeah?" he said, almost automatically.
"Yeah." said Myles, dangerously. "And if you want to compare tattoos and biceps when we're off this goddamn mountain, that's just fine by me. We can have ourselves a little arm-wrestle, if that's what you really want; play some real playground games. But until then, let's just act like grown-ups with some professional training behind them, shall we? Which means I'm in charge and you're going to stop obstructing what I'm doing and do as you're fucking told, or else I'm going to be removing you from the list of complicating factors we're up against, understood?"
He stopped short of outright saying; '...or else I'm going to knock you the fuck out...' - but the connotation was certainly there.
"Alright, calm yourself down," Brannagh said, licking his lips. "Wouldn't want another injury, would we?"
He made as though to break the hold the Fowl bodyguard had on his ski-suit and Myles shoved him heavily, standing on the front of the man's skis just long enough for him to pinwheel his arms in panic and pull one foot out of its boot clasp, before snatching him back upright.
"No we would not," he said, firmly. "Now go make yourself useful over there."
Dover had seen the exchange and waved a ski pole at them angrily.
"I say! Fowl – get a grip of your dog before he causes another accident!"
For a very short moment, Myles thought the deep, savage growl might have been emanating, unbidden, from his own chest. He could certainly feel it rumbling through his ribcage along with the frustration building at the repeated accusations that it was his fault his charge had suffered what he expected would show up on the x-rays as a double tib-fib fracture.
But then he looked up towards the peak of the mountain and saw the cloud-like billow building with every second above them, the decibels rising until it wasn't just a growl, but a roar...
"Lawine!"
Keller and Weber spoke Swiss-German first, English second. It was not an overly different dialect to the German language Myles knew well enough to hold a conversation in, but it was regionally accented enough that news channels often subtitled their programs if they broadcast across the border.
But he didn't need subtitles to guess what the two guards were yelling as they started to haul their principal towards the treeline.
He launched himself back across the snow, his boots sinking in the crust of powder layer.
"Come on, come on, move!" he barked, Moses blanching and breaking out of his freeze in time to grab Mr Fowl's other side as The Major began to unceremoniously drag him across the snow. "Head for the trees!"
The Fowl let out a wretched holler.
"Oh God, Major – stop! Stop!"
"Sorry sir, can't," he said, grimly.
"Lawine!" came the warning again. "Lawine!"
Brannagh turned awkwardly on his one ski, freezing in... shock? Horror? Panic?
It didn't matter. That prick was none of the Fowl bodyguard's concern.
"Move back! Move back!" Moses yelled towards the group on the edge of the forest.
"Brace yourself, Eugene," he told him firmly, as they hauled him towards relative safely. "We need to get off this slope."
The man nodded, locked his jaw and screwed his eyes shut, so The Major didn't bother to tell him what he could have seen rushing down the mountainside towards them in a deadly wave of churning snow had he left them open.
Myles' breath came in short, powerful snorts as he dug into his energy reserves and powered forwards across the slope of snow, dragging Eugene - and partly Moses too - with him towards the relative safety of treeline, where the rest of the group hollered helpless, horrified encouragement at them. Brannagh stumbled after them, likely too slowly to make it.
But his fate didn't even enter The Major's considerations.
His thoughts revolved around one, solid purpose; to save his currently assigned Fowl from a threat even he was powerless against.
Lawine, he thought, his mind throwing up a vast catalogue of survival tactics should they not make it to safety before it reached them.
What to do, what not to do, survival rates, survival rates after a certain amount of time...
How best to survive... an avalanche.
If you are reading this, whenever you are reading this, if there is not a Days of Reckoning: Part Two available on the list of stories on my profile and you would like there to be, please, please drop me a review. No matter how long it has been since this fic was posted, just send it. Takes two minutes and it might just be the kick I need to get writing again!
Until then...
Wolfy
ooo
O
24/06/2020