#benefacto

AU where Fitz gets the Hunting Dogs!

apparently this is going to be a thing now.

         “but...sir...I...” 

Poe wasn’t aware his hands could shake any harder, but suddenly the gun was no longer a mere suggestion. It was a tangible demand, placed into his reluctant grasp- cold and heavy and so terribly real, weighed down with expectations that the author doubted he could meet. It was a wonder his trembling didn’t cause him to drop the weapon the second Fitzgerald released it to move behind him.

The words murmured into his ear pulled forth an anxious whimper in response. He didn’t want to disappoint his employer. He was certainly no saint, nor was he a stranger to death. Since childhood, he and death had walked hand in hand, silent companions that crossed paths often. He had seen countless corpses, lost many people and written plenty of murders...but he had never...

He had never liked guns. He never wrote about them, never held them and had never fired a single shot at any target, let alone a one such as this. 

He stared straight ahead at said ‘target’, shoulders shaking violently beneath the fixer’s hands as he slowly raised the firearm. The mousy detective took a deep breath and held it, struggling to steady his aim. With one eye peeking out from behind a curtain of dark curls, he glanced up at Fitzgerald uncertainly...

“W-w-whhy...?” The author gulped, struggling to speak over the pounding of his heart in his ears, but no more sound passed his lips. He wanted so badly to question...but he couldn’t even make himself vocalize, let alone protest. It wouldn’t get him anywhere, anyway.

He had no choice. There was no way to run from this.

He squeezed the trigger.

The sound cut through the air, causing Poe to yelp and nearly drop the damn thing. The recoil knocked him backward into his boss, eyes shut tight and knees buckling. He knew he’d most likely missed. He had to have missed, right? His hands were shaking, he was aiming with only one eye uncovered...there was no way he had just killed someone...

               '   ...   You   know,   Mister   Moneybags.   '

「 ★ 」   ⋮    Ｃ Ｕ Ｒ Ｓ Ｅ Ｄ．   ⋮  ━━   This   couldn't   be   good;   not   when   his   usually   bright   eyes   (   an   expression   he   was   once   good   at   FAKING   )   were   tainted   by   hatred   that   was   just   so   clear   in   the   Guild   Leader's   eyes.   On   that   day   when   he   was   released;   the   child   had   been   tasked   with   TAKING   DOWN   the   American   organization   with   his   ability   ...   and   though   this   man   was   not   the   one   that   ensnared   him   with   those   cursed   vines   ...   he   still   knows   this   face.

              THE   GRUDGE   WAS   ALL   THE   SAME.

              '   You're   like   a   FLY.   Buzzing   and   annoying   and   never   knowing   when   to   LEAVE.      Underneath   your   fancy   white   suit,   you're   just   an   UGLY,   DISGUSTING   fly.   '

              A   grin   spreads   itself   across   his   face;   though   it   is   NOT   that   of   innocence.   No,   it   is   of   ANGER   at   all   the   atrocities   committed   against   a   CHILD   like   him.

              '   If   you   want   anything   from   me   or   the   mafia,   you're   NOT   getting   it.   '

              And   oh,   he   couldn't   resist   one   last   insult.

         Careful, decisive footsteps. All evenly paced, a sense of superiority apparent just from the way that Frances carried herself-- Though such was to be expected from an individual such as herself. Associations with Europe’s Order of the Clocktower meant that she had to always be on her best behavior. Any and all actions that she made would not only reflect on herself, but on the organization that she was a part of. 

           It was the sight of one person in particular that caused any and all composure that she held to jump out the window for a few short seconds-- Frozen in the small crowd, eyes wide at the sight of the man she now loathed so much-- 

          There was only a moment of hesitation before Frances recomposed herself, her stride holding even more confidence as she strode forward. How long had it been since the two of them had seen each other? Since he’d even spoken to her-- Heels clicked against the concrete, suddenly coming to a stop behind him. Without missing a beat, her right hand reached up to grip his shoulder. 

See into my muses past! ; accepting ; @benefacto

       The first time Edgar was abandoned, he was young. Too young to be on his own, certainly, but old enough to understand what was happening. He still isn’t sure if that made things better or worse. At least he knew, but was such knowledge truly worth the anguish that accompanied it?

Only days after he’d found his mother’s body, cold in her bed with a handkerchief clutched in her hand, blood blooming through the white fabric like roses in spring, he watched his father turn his back on him without a word. Leaving him with his uncle, of all people. 

Edgar wanted to call out. To beg him not to leave. Was it his fault? He had always been a strange child, but was it enough to warrant this? 

But his voice so often failed him and this time was no exception.

His uncle was a person who would never understand him, or even try to do so. He knew that from the very start. The way the man glared down at him from the corner of his eye, not even deigning to truly look at the burden he had been saddled with. The way the hand on his shoulder tightened painfully as he steered the boy inside.

The way the word ‘worthless’ dripped from his lips in place of a greeting.

That night, bundled up in the attic that had become his new abode, Edgar allowed silent tears to fall in mourning for how little the world wanted him. Then, he picked up a pen and wrote his first escape.