pullmeoutalive | Ramey

[ Madigan keeps her gaze firmly on the fellow doing the talking now- the one with the unsettling smile, made no better by his gaudy gold teeth. Her eyes narrow as they pass, and when the man addresses her directly, the look on her face looks rather like she stepped in something nasty and is contemplating how best to scrape it from her shoe. ]

I don't know what your quarrel with this gentleman is, but everyone within these walls is under my protection. One more threat, however vague, and you're gone. Understand?

[ With that, she turns sharply, snapping her fingers. The nearest girl- a short brunette with a pixie cut named Hannah- hurries over. Madigan motions to Peter and says to her "Be a dear and take him back, will you?" Hannah nods, taking Peter by the elbow and guiding him towards the back of the club, in the direction of the rooms where the girls conduct their business. Once they're out of sight, however, Hannah detours them back further, up to the areas where the girls and Peter live in their personal apartments. She drops him off at his door, assuring him that Madigan will be fine, and she'll probably be up in a few minutes.

A few minutes is more like thirty, but that's about how long it takes the mercs at the bar to get sick of the dirty looks every one of the girls threw their way and leave. Once they're gone, Madigan heads straight up and knocks softly on Peter's door. ]

Peter?

[ Peter offers a quiet protest ("Wait, hang on–") as Hannah pulls him away, but a selfish, cowardly part of him screams, Shut up. Get out of there, and he falls silent again. He casts a quick look over his shoulder at the men at the bar, catches the gaze of McKenna, who flashes him a feral smile before turning to his drink. Peter quickly turns back around after that, following after Hannah. Dazed as he is, he doesn't realize where he's being led until they stop at the red door of his apartment, adorned with its little "001" plaque. He offers another token protest as Hannah takes her leave, but she disappears down the stairs.

The thirty minutes he waits for Madigan to arrive should have been spent calming down, trying to gain back some semblance of composure. Instead, with adrenaline still buzzing in his system, with his heartbeat pounding in his ears, he spends that time pacing the room, freaking the hell out, trying to think about what the hell he needs to do to fix this. At some point in that half hour, a duffel bag makes its way onto his bed – because he's absolutely certain Madigan is going to tell him to leave. And it only makes sense, because the old team could be dangerous, could spell trouble for Madigan and the girls, and even with all the wards and protections in place in the club, Peter being here is still a fucking liability. Those protections don't extend beyond the walls, after all, and the old team could be petty as hell.

It's been a while since Peter's felt this vulnerable or this much like a burden – probably not since he first arrived in Maxwell's bookstore, or stepped through the portal into Madigan's club. He should have never gotten comfortable. He should have known this shit would eventually catch up to him. He needs to get out before this problem gets even bigger.

His pacing stops long enough for him to stare at the black bag on the bed, and something constricts around his chest. He needs to leave – he's sure of that – but, Jesus, he doesn't want to.

By the the time Madigan arrives, the bag remains empty, and Peter sits on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. The quiet knock snaps him out of his daze, and he scrubs his face roughly and takes a deep breath before opening the door.

The first thing out of his mouth: ] I'm sorry.

[ Well, that wasn't at all what she expected when he opened the door, and she blinks at him a couple of times. Her expression softens quickly- she didn't quite realize how much that encounter rattled him- and she reaches over to put her hand on his arm. ]

It's okay, really. Can I come in?

[ He nods mutely, stepping to one side to admit her.

His room isn't exactly what one would call tidy, with his things strewn around the room. Back when he was younger, he used to know the value of space, would keep his stuff contained in his area, like a little pocket of controlled chaos. Now that he has the luxury of space— well, it looks like he's taken advantage of it. ]

... Sorry about the mess.

[ She takes a look around- it really is a mess, but it suits him ] It's okay. It's nice to see you treating the place like home.

[ She then moves to the couch, sitting down and motioning for him to join her. ] Those men are from your old mercenary group, aren't they?

[ He shuts the door behind her softly, hesitating when she gestures for him to sit beside her. But, right, it's just sitting. He can manage that, at least.

So he does, with all the trepidation of a schoolkid about to be lectured. ]

They are. Were. Jaws— [ he probably means "the guy with the teeth" ] —was Wickman. The Greaser was Rivera. The guys with the muscles were Devlin and McKenna.

[ Then, as if the observation needs voicing, ] They're fucking assholes.

[ When he sits, she puts her hand on his knee. She's always been a very tactile person anyway, but right now she feels he needs the reassurance. ]

Yeah, I kind of noticed that.

Look, Peter, if you want me to, I can make it so they can never set foot in here again.

[ When she reaches over, he has the sinking sensation that the other foot is about to drop, and he braces himself for impact, for the inevitable, "I need you to leave." Which means he's already nodding, eyes cast down to the floor.

It takes him a second to realize what she actually said, though, and his gaze darts up to her, confused. ]

What?

[ that's it that's all he says. ]

[ She tilts her head a little ] I'm asking you if you want me to ban them.

I— [ He searches her face, slightly tense. Banning them is a matter of course, he figures, and she doesn't really have to ask him that, but he answers anyway: ] I mean, yes. Of course. They're fucking pricks, and they're gonna treat the girls like shit, so— yeah.

Plus, they're lousy tippers, so.

Peter, honey, that's not what I'm asking. That confrontation rattled you, so I'm asking for your peace of mind.

[ That confusion? Still totally on his face, and he pulls back a little. ]

Does it really matter what I think?

Of course it does. You're my employee, but more than that, you're a friend. I want you to feel safe and welcome here, always.

[ He takes a moment to just— stare. Because in the thirty minutes he's spent stewing in his apartment, he had already mapped out the course their conversation would take. And maybe Peter's just used to certain type of people, or maybe his panic clouded his judgement, but— he's pretty sure they took a wrong turn, somewhere.

Which is why he ventures carefully, ] So, wait. Are you... you're not gonna ask me to leave?

What? [ And now the reason for his panic becomes apparent. That confrontation did more than just rattle him- he thought it was going to be grounds for expulsion. ]

Sweetie, I knew you came with big, bad leather coat-wearing baggage when I took you on. That doesn't change all that you've done for me, or for the girls. You'll always have a place here.

[ ... Oh.

His gaze drops again, because there's only a certain amount of sincerity he can take in one sitting, and, well, that was a whole lot, judging by the look on Madigan's face, the tone of her voice. That vice around his chest loosens a little, and that tight coil of fear shrinks, and finally he feels like he can take a deep breath. He swallows hard, hands twisting together. ]

Thank you. [ Slightly croaked, granted, but he means it – and he's a little surprised by that. It's been such a long time since he's felt like he had a place of his own, and he lets himself revel in that brief flash of warmth.

Just for a little while.

He licks his lips, taking another deep breath, then, ]

... I... I should leave, though, probably.

[ Again, it takes her a second to realize just why he says that, and she shakes her head a little ]

How much do you know about how this club works?

[ Is— is that a rhetorical question, he wonders, or...

He frowns a little, unsure of what kind of answer she's looking from him, exactly, or even if she wants an answer at all, but he shrugs a shoulder and gives it a shot. ]

I dunno. People come in, get some drinks, have some fun? They get too handsy, the wards kick their ass. Long as they're inside, anyway.

That's about the long and short of it, isn't it?

Well, yes, but it operates with the support of the wizarding community as a whole. Hell, some of my employees are the daughters of very, very influential people. It's a safe, controlled environment for girls who posses the closest thing to healing magic wizards have had in generations. Here they can train and offer their services to the whole community. There is no other place like it on Earth.

This is more than just a place where people can come to have fun. It's essentially holy ground. Your old buddies may seem big and scary, but if they come after you, I'll tell every client I have that they've essentially declared war on the Griffonix. They'll never work again.

So I really hope their boss is smart enough not to go there.

[ For a second or two, Peter does his best impression of a fish out of water, lips parting with several false starts. Then, slowly, ]

... Oh.

[ Evidently, someone didn't brush up on the history of the Griffonix before accepting board here. Whoops. ]

So... [ A pause, as he tries to gather his frayed thoughts. ] So— when you say "ban," you don't just mean "from the premises," do you? Like, we're not just talkin' getting a couple mugshots and pinning them onto a wall under a plaque that says, "Do Not Serve"?

Edited 2016-09-25 04:21 (UTC)

[ She giggles ] No, when I say "ban", I do mean from the premises. Most people don't push much further than that. If they do, then I'll get nasty.

[ Her giggle earns a sort of half-hearted look, like he's offended she's laughed at him, but it's gone as soon as it arrives. ]

Okay. Good. I was about to say, that seemed an awful lot like calling in the nukes after a guy gets punched.

[ In response to both his look and his comment, she actually pouts a little ]

But what if that guy who got punched is my favorite guy?

[ When she says "favorite guy," his mouth twists a little to one side as he casts her a slightly doubtful look. ]

Pretty sure it's still an overreaction, no matter how you dress it up.

But you are my favorite. I like watching you lift heavy things for me.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject