Thrall Games - (Lancaster dArtois)

[Pi dArtois]

‹Michael Porter› Michael didn’t frequent Lancaster’s. He’d learned pretty early in the peace, that the tall Australian wasn’t exactly his number one fan. He wasn’t sure why, Michael rather thought he had a glittering personality. It was sharp, like diamonds. Of the first water even.

Nah, he knew he was an asshole. He didn’t function under a false sense of who he was and he understood his own mutinous lack of common courtesy. He just rarely cared enough to try to be anything different. As a dubiously talented physician he’d done enough to get by, work the system and then sit back with the life plan to do piss all. He ******* hated sick people and their whinging.

He also disliked the fact that he was walking through the front door of this kitchy Irish pub intent on tracking down the man Pi loved. It’s not that he held a great deal of affection for her. Not like that. Well, sometimes like that. He was a man, and he wasn’t ******* blind. But she had never been someone he could get his hands on, and he’d learned to leer and leave alone. What he felt for her was a visceral thing. A longing seated at the base of his spine, that worked its way through his body squeezing at his internal organs when she was too far away, or he hadn’t talked to her in a while. Like, ******* now, his stomach felt like it wanted to turn itself inside out, the clawing hunger cramping him up like the worlds worst Delhi Belly.

“Hey, hot stuff… where is the tall ugly Australian?” Michael called out, walking towards Bunk at her frowned gesture towards that door. “Attic.” Was the nameless woman’s reply, her frown cut short cause he hadn’t lingered long enough for it to impact his single minded pursuit of the wayward musician. Michael pushed through the first door, ignoring again, another smile, cut short as yet another service industry employee attempted to greet him congenially. He - just moved to the stairs beside Bunk’s reception and up to where he knew the supplies were kept. Stepping out into the attic Michael dug his hands into his jean pockets, the loose trousers sinking lower on his hips as he slouched into the space.

“Hey man… where are you?” Michael called, moving deeper into the open room. He had no idea what the hell he was going to say to this man. He had never, ever intruded into the personal space of these two people. Sure he was Pi’s thrall. Sure he hung around the Den, pissed off a few people with his off colour advances, but mostly he was damn happy not to have to pay bills, pay for any damn thing. Getting in the middle of this obviously tense emotional situation between to estranged lovers was his idea of a freaking nightmare. He’d rather stay home and stab himself in the eyeball with knitting needles. He probably could still opt for that. He amused himself with that lie as he moved forward.

‹Lancaster dArtois› The staff had started to comment on Lancaster’s often drunken state. A couple of times, the more senior of the staff members had told him to go home; they’d said it with a frown and with frigid consternation. None of them knew him well enough to know what to do about it. Someone had suggested talking to Pi about it – but they’d soon found out that the Frenchwoman wasn’t answering calls, and couldn’t be contacted. They all knew that their bosses were a couple. Most of them assumed the two were married – and why not? They wore the rings. Soon, they just guessed – Pi wasn’t there and Lancaster was often drunk. Something had happened. The more vociferous rumours suggested the marriage had gone kaput.

Regardless, they were still getting paid. Lancaster still did the ordering; he was as vigilant as ever with the things that needed to be done. Sometimes, he liked to micromanage, to tell the duty managers what to do when they already knew exactly what needed done. They still got paid enough, and on time. Lancaster was never unkind, or inappropriate. In the end, they could do nothing but wait for it to pass – if it ever passed. They realised that perhaps, he had changed. There was nothing they could do about it.

Tonight, Lancaster had told himself he wouldn’t drink. No, he’d get it together. He’d showered and, resolving to try to relax and take a night off work, he sat in the armchair in the attic, a book open in front of him. The Sick Bag Song – a new collection from Nick Cave. He hoped it might jump start some inspiration. Except it didn’t.

Within fifteen minutes, however, his resolve was broken. Yes, he was still reading. But there was a bottle of fine red wine beside him. Not empty, yet. But it would be soon. An vaguely familiar voice called through the space, jarring Lancaster from his blurring thoughts. Michael, making himself at home. A low growl resonated in Lancaster’s chest. “You ever hear of knocking? It’s ******* grand…”

‹Michael Porter› Michael didn’t know the man well enough to gauge his overarching mood, but he wasn’t stupid. The wine, the sullen expression and the lack of warm greeting wasn’t that hard to interpret. He shrugged the coat off his shoulders, throwing it over the cases of wine which acted like small wall partitions. “Well, **** you too.” He replied, swooping to grab the neck of the open bottle, lifting it straight to his lips. Slumping himself into the matching chair he lifted a leg over the arm and pulled the lever pushing his other leg into the air. He was lucky the damn chair didn’t eject him backwards onto his head. Of course, now that he’d found the poor ********, Michael had no idea what to say next.

‹Lancaster dArtois› Normally, Lancaster enjoyed the company. If it were anyone else, he'd have been overjoyed that someone had sought him out. The email he'd sent to Skylar had still gone unanswered, and he didn't have it in him to go hunt down someone he assumed didn't want to see him. Why Michael? Why now? What the **** did he want? Lancaster watched with disdain as the thrall took the wine away. It probably wasn't a good thing, that Lancaster felt that twitch of rage. "What are you doing here, Michael? What do you want?" he asked. It had never crossed his mind to ask the thrall if he'd been in contact with Pi. It never even registered, that Pi would talk to her thrall, and not the man who was basically, for all intents and purposes, her husband.

‹Michael Porter› “I joined a club.” He replied, staring anywhere but at the man who was sending invisible ‘**** off’ vibes at him from the other chair. As far as starting points go, it was a random one but it made a sort of mad sense to him. He hadn’t really thought too far into the future when he’d gone into that warehouse. But it seemed like a good thing to confess to the other dude in this equation. Maybe he’d understand the madness of his actions. Or maybe he’d think Michael was a damn idiot. “I thought it would bring her back… but… yeah….” Snorting at his own stupidity Michael took another gulp of the wine. He let the open bottle dangle from his loose fingertips, swinging back and forth along the side of the armchair.

‹Lancaster dArtois› It didn't take much for Lancaster to lurch forward and snatch the bottle of wine back, refilling his own glass. He hadn't been drinking from the bottle. He wasn't that far down the rabbit hole yet, tonight. "I'm not going to sit here and pine with you. Not you. You sound like you ******* love her or something, and if you tell me you do, you'd better get the **** out of my place," Lancaster said. Michael had always seemed like a whoring, no-good piece of ****. He'd seen the way the thrall was with Pi, sometimes. It grated on Lancaster's nerves. Nor was he really in the mood to hear about any 'club'. "I'm glad you've found some hobby to keep yourself occupied. You should go do that..."

[Lancaster]

‹Michael Porter› He noticed Elliot didn’t hand the damn bottle back and he wasn’t sure he wanted to get off his *** to retrieve it. Lucky for him the whole damn attic was nothing but one big alcoholic wet dream. Rather than play tug of war with the half empty bottle Michael sat up and busied himself cracking open a new one, this one was white and tasted **** warm. “**** you.” Michael said around the rim of the white he was prepared to drink warm. “I’m a human thrall… this isn’t love. It’s some sort of shitty vampire jedi mind trick… and it didn’t work.” Leaning forward Michael waved the bottle in Elliot’s face. “Her phone isn’t broken you know.”

‹Lancaster dArtois› Lancaster tensed mid eye-roll. Although the attic was a storage space, somewhat, Lancaster had turned it into a living space. In one corner there was even a tub hidden behind a standing blind. In the other corner, a bed. The back rooms were for the storage - there was some overflow, where Lancaster hadn't yet moved the wine that had been delivered that day. It was more like a studio apartment, now, than a storage space. It should have bothered him that Michael was cracking open bottles of stock that Lancaster hadn't checked yet, but he was more concerned about the latter comment. "When I call, it doesn't ring. It goes straight to message bank. What the **** do you know that I don't?" he asked, voice bereft of the blurred outlines of alcohol. It was sharp, now. Sharp, and focused on getting a straight answer.

‹Michael Porter› “Obviously, her ******* phone number.” Michael said around the rim of the bottle, having very little care about the precarious balance of his own life. Not that he thought Elliot would do anything. The man was a tall lanky piece of wet blanket. If it weren’t for the fact Michael had seen first hand that the man was a vampire, he’d be sorely tempted to consider him about as dangerous as a freaking Giraffe. Giraffe’s were not, in any way, scary. “This was a mistake.” Michael spit out, gulping back as much wine as he could handle and not choke on it. The stuff threatened to snort out of his nostrils as he sucked it back then coughed like he was about to hack up a lung. Using the back of his arm he wiped excess of his mouth and slumped back in the damn chair with a heavy sigh. “She wants to know how you are. **** man… I just thought you knew what the hell was going on.”

‹Lancaster dArtois› Lancaster felt it. He felt what he so often sought to avoid. That piece of him that knew how to kill, and enjoyed it. That piece of him that knew exactly what violence was, and how to exact it with perfect, bloody precision. He unfolded from his chair like a live wire, standing with his hands clenched into fists. The book was forgotten, discarded. It slapped to the floor like a fish out of breath. There was a part of him that wanted to stay calm; to ask Michael everything. To get every skerrick of information out of him. The other half, however, realised that Pi was alive and well, and asking after Lancaster. That she communicated with this piece of ****, and purposefully left Lancaster in the dark. "Lie to her, Michael. Do what I can't. Tell her I'm peachy. I'm happier than ever. Tell her I'm as happy without her as she clearly is without me. And if you value the structure of your face, I suggest you get out. Now."

‹Michael Porter› “Don’t worry man, I’m out of here.” Shaking his head Michael stood, the bottle of white wine hanging from his right hand. This time he held onto the damn this with white knuckles. He might have enough self preservation to know when to make himself scarce, but he wasn’t leaving behind the bottle that couldn’t be sold anyway, since it had his goobs all over the open top. Snagging his jacket with the other hand he turned to face the angry Australia, his look pitying. He didn’t push out his chest in reaction to the obviously irate man. He was a lover, not a fighter. But he did flick the hair out of his face, the bottle with the wine dragging along his jaw as the hand did double duty. I’ll tell her you’re a drunk ******* mess…” Michael said scathing. “I don’t owe you any damn favours.” And with that Michael leaned in… “No wonder you don’t have her number… you’re a mess man.”

‹Lancaster dArtois› Lancaster had told the thrall he should leave. He had warned him. Instead of just saying goodbye and walking away, however, Michael couldn't help himself. He had to rub it in, that Pi hadn't been in contact. He had to insult Lancaster; had to appeal to the man's low sense of self-worth. The thrall's ego, Lancaster decided, deserved to be brought down a notch or three. Given Lancaster's superior height, it wasn't hard to reach out and grab the guy by the shoulders; with lightning-fast dexterity and inhuman strength, he yanked Michael forward while also swiftly lifting a knee. The thrall's head collided with Lancaster's knee cap. There was a satisfying crack. Briefly satisfying - underlying it, as always, was an anxious guilt. Had he inadvertently snapped the guy's neck? Was he dead?

‹Michael Porter› Michael hadn’t had a chance to blink, or even consider dodging whatever it was Elliot was about to do. He probably should have considered his words, but he was as riled as the lanky *** Australian and his need to poke at the man had brought him to his. The waning consciousness was a just desserts for the **** he’d just pulled but he wasn’t really in a position for philosophical hindsight. Instead, his brain kept slipping sideways, his visioning narrowing and expanding painfully before narrowing again to black framed pinpoints. Abstractly, he understood that his head had taken a knock, and he was either the bad side of a serious concussion or something worse. He’d seen the rehab on a concussion he was sorta hoping for the former. Unfortunately, that sideways slipping of his consciousness was not an ideal indicator and as his hand loosened its hold on the white wine, spilling its contents along the length of his prone body, Michael lost his weak battle with awareness and let the darkness take him. Pi was not going to be happy with him. Not happy at all.

‹Lancaster dArtois› As soon as Michael hit the floor, Lancaster was leaning over him to check for a pulse. As soon as he found one, he released a relieved sigh. Maybe nothing was broken. A good knock to the head would black anyone out. Lancaster decided that Michael would be just fine. That still didn't stop him from stepping over the body and finding his phone - it was still somewhere in the middle of the bed, where it had been charging the day before. He vaguely recognised the fact that he still had no return messages before he dialed Roxette. She answered on the second ring. "Michael. You like him, right? Yeah. He's unconscious on my floor. You have a key. Come get him. I'm going out," he said. He waited for Roxette's response - there was a quip about saying 'please', but otherwise the thrall couldn't say no. As soon as she said she was on her way, Lancaster collected his own keys. From one of the back rooms he retrieved his gun and his sword. He tomed to the Den, from where he would take a portal to the castle. He had to leave - otherwise he might start kicking Michael while he was down. And that wouldn't be good for anyone involved.