tyler

𝓅𝒶𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓃𝓊𝓈 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝒹𝒸𝒶𝓃𝑜𝓃: B R O W N   B E A R

No one looked at Marya the way Tyler did. When she had first noticed that fact, many years ago, it made her feel vulnerable. She had never before felt that someone saw her for who she really was. And for the first time in her life she felt self-conscious about what it was he was seeing. Like it was only a matter of time before the kindness he showed her turned to disdain at what he found in her.

But he saw her and he only grew to love her. Now when he looked at her like that, with an excited spark in his eyes that had nothing to do with whatever he had been drinking earlier in the night, she felt more comfortable than she could at any charity event or in any expensive dress. She felt at home.

“You’re in good spirits,” she said, trying to suppress a giggle. But it quickly bubbled up and over despite her fight, like she was a teenager again trying to keep quiet for fear of waking her parents and getting in trouble. With each step he took closing the distance between them, she felt lighter until she was practically floating as he reached her, tethered only by the gentle touch of his hand on her chin.

“Oh, actually-“ She diverted her attention from her husband to the houseelf that appeared as she called out her name. “Bring the bottle from earlier. And glasses.”

With a short pop she was gone again, and Marya reached up to cup his hand in both of hers, not caring how the necklace tangled and pressed against their skin. “I had pulled it out earlier and started to aerate it. Would be a shame to have it all go to waste.”

She was tired of sharing whispers in a dark hallway. The news she had wanted to share — the news she was now considering if she would keep secret until he was a little sharper — still sat at the forefront of her mind. It just now had to compete with her desire to be out of that dress and under the covers with him.

“Where did you go tonight?” she asked as she crossed the threshold of their bedroom, carefully closing the door behind them as to not make too much noise. The house was big but sound echoed. And she could never stomach keeping Nathanial too far away, shuttered into his own corner. “And how about you help me get out of this dress?”

- 

"Yes, we wouldn’t want to be wasteful,” Tyler laughed—genuinely laughed—as he leaned in to press his forehead against Marya’s. His laughter scratched through the air the same as the diamonds against their skin, hands joined around the jewels but never shying away from the matching indents they’d come away with. It was a perfect little inside joke, the fear of waste; told in the gilded hallway of their expansive mansion, the furniture and decor and even walls themselves erected or discarded on a whim, full banquets laid out for just the two of them on nights when they weren’t even hungry. 

But there was no judgment in his tone; only fondness, for the irony and the woman in front of him both. 

He pressed a kiss to her forehead before he straightened again. “My pragmatic wife.” 

Tyler trailed Marya into the bedroom, the quiet apparent as soon as his shoes passed from the marble corridor onto the plush carpet that stretched to their doorway. Once the door clicked shut behind them, it was even more palpable how alone they were; how much freer they were to speak with the cavernous ceilings and curious paintings of the foyer closed off and the boundary lines around their homey bedroom drawn. He stepped out of his shoes before he did anything else; his watch would come next, muscle memory now after a couple instances of tangling it in Marya’s hair or causing her to jump when the cold metal caught her bare skin. 

“I talked business over dinner at a restaurant you would have loved,” he said, unbuckling the clasp of his watch and laying it gingerly down on his bedside table before turning back over one shoulder and retracing his steps, eager to close the distance between them once more. “Which spilled into talking business at the most terrible little lounge; you would have hated it.”

At no point did he make it clear which type of business he’d been talking. If Marya pressed and seemed legitimate in doing so, he would of course answer her more directly...but one of the best things about his and Marya’s communication on the matter was that she rarely pressed, rarely wanted to know more than she had to. And so, he never had to lie. 

When Tyler reached Marya, he kissed the back of her hand and paused only long enough for her to see that he was smiling about the request. In one tender motion, Tyler lifted the hand he’d kissed up to the ceiling and spun his wife around in slow motion; like they were dancing, the fanciful end of some waltz in a carpeted ballroom where time chugged along at half speed. 

With Marya’s back to him, Tyler reached for her zipper with practiced ease and guided it down the line of her spine. As the material of the dress fell away, Tyler slipped his hands inside – fingers raking possessively around her bare waist. One hand roamed across the lace hem stretched below her stomach, drawn hipbone to hipbone; the other made a journey northbound and curved beneath the underline of her breasts. He drew her into a hug in the most personal way, the dress haphazardly a victim, forced to slouch around his continued touch, determined to drink in as much of Marya as he could without forgoing the skin-to-skin promise that bound them – too tempting to forsake, too intoxicating to consider alternative options. 

Kissing the back of her neck, deigning to suck at points; Tyler whispered against her skin: “Put the necklace on, though. We’ll do away with the rest,” and, a moment later after he’d made himself busy finding her collarbone with her lips, he added: “I missed you so much. You would have hated the night, but we could have hated it together.” 

classic male bonding rituals || tyler & antonin

The smile on Tyler’s face finally inching past a hint into real was enough to pull one of Antonin’s own out, charming and bright, perfectly accentuated by the droplets of blood unknowingly dotting his brow. It was a joke they were both in on, finally, an in for Antonin to slide through.

“That’s the price of the game, I’m afraid,” he sighed, back to adjusting the sleeves of his cloak: it was an expensive thing, despite how boringly black it was, and he didn’t dare get it too dirty lest he felt like bringing it in to a proper wizarding cleaners. “I can take as much pleasure as I want in mussing up Lucius’s perfect house, but if he doesn’t show up to our parties it’s like we needn’t have thrown them at all. Luckily, he loves to be the center of attention.”

As did Antonin, but he was not in the business of comparing himself to Lucius Malfoy.

Tyler’s initial assumption was true, not that Antonin knew what he was thinking. He was prepared to listen politely, hm-ing and nodding along as needed. But then the older man added in the magic touch; he made it, explicitly, about Antonin. That, as it always did, captivated him completely. Even the warning that he’d become a target appealed to his sense of importance, the giddy delight of this relative newcomer being able to see so clearly what Antonin knew was true was unthinkably wonderful.

The look in his eyes as he listened was hungry, ravenous; though the rest of him stayed perfectly normally pleasant.

“I’ll keep all of that in mind,” Antonin intoned, his best impression of humble he had stored away. “I suppose I’ll need to make sure I know exactly who is in my corner when the time comes.”

Would Tyler be one of those friends in his corner, or would he be eyeing that power once Antonin rose even further into it? Time would tell.

The shift in conversation was unexpected, but not more than the smoothness with which Tyler initiated it, slipping back into their previous topic with zero bumps. It was a commendable skill. Antonin’s smile relaxed again, despite the already-cooling body on the floor between them. He could hear yelling from upstairs; nothing shocking, just the protests of their next guest.

“A couple Dolohovas, of course - Sophia and Natasha, though they’ve both been married off now. One branch of my family broke off a long, long time ago and changed their surname to Dolokhov, just for that little extra punch, I assume.” His eyebrows raised in genuine curiosity as Tyler explained the system, not for the first time - as he often thought the same while being told stories of Durmstrang by his father - considering how much better his own education could have been with such changes made.

“I’ve tinkered here or there with creating new spells,” he admitted, slowly, with a more-naturally-humble-than-usual shrug. “We have books on it at home, you know. To various degrees of helpfulness. I’ve always thought it might give an upper hand to have something entirely new that the enemy doesn’t.” It had only been a few forays, here or there, nothing terribly dangerous; his own sense of self-preservation outweighed his desire to create for now. “Keep them guessing.”

- 

"Now that,” said Tyler, turning to face Antonin with a slow gaze. The look in his eyes wasn’t quite bright, but it was captivated; the slow burning of an ember, a long-lasting fire promising to warm through the night, if the coals were prodded in just the right way. It was a look that held promise and, most of all, it was a look that held. “Is one of the most interesting things I’ve heard in a long while.” 

He let that hand in the following silence for a few moments – even more glad that he’d not bothered with small talk or flattery earlier. Men like Antonin, in his experience, were always happy to brag but similarly cautious about having their genius, and the credit for it, stolen. Questions could stroke an ego just as easily as raise irritated hackles, so Tyler amused himself with looking merely quietly impressed, before lifting a brow and pressing on. 

“How involved in the theoretical side of things are you?” he asked. “Can they be taught, or are they personal variations of the way existing spells perform best under your hand?” 

At its heart, it was a straightforward discussion of tactics – could the Death Eaters use it widely, or would it be the thing to set Antonin apart, both as a weapon and a target? Tyler did not begrudge either option, but it was one of the rare questions to coax his curiosity out of hiding. 

“Regardless, I have some literature that you may find helpful. I’ll have to write back east for the books; some are with family friends, some housed in the Durmstrang library where they belong.” Tyler shrugged, and crossed the room to straighten the chair; some hospitality for their next victim, perhaps rubbed off on him from all Marya’s protestations about being good hosts. 

“I won’t get involved beyond where I’m invited,” he added. “But this is something worth nurturing. And if you’re so inclined to a demonstration...” Tyler arced his chin in the direction of the uprighted chair; a live practice dummy would be tied there in a few short minutes, if the young Dolohov felt up to a performance.” 

spinning in my highest heels: SUWHA auction

While Safiye was still at Hogwarts, Beren Fawley had put a great deal of time and effort, and most importantly money, into securing an invitation to the SUWHA action, and ever since it had been imperative that the Fawley family attend. Since Safiye’s graduation, that number has included her. It was not an obligation that Safiye looked forward to, perse, but it was at the very least a good excuse to order a new dress. She was quite pleased with how it had turned out, too, an elegant affair in silk chiffon with full, pleated sleeves, a nod to contemporary muggle fashion that she’d chosen just to see her mother raise her eyebrows. 

Safiye worked the crowd for as long as she could stand. She smiled, but not too wide, and laughed, but not too loud, with people who grated on her last nerve. Banalities such as the loveliness of the event and the impressiveness of the turn out were covered at length until Safiye felt as if she would fall asleep on her feet. Finally, she excused herself from her latest conversation partner with the excuse of bidding on some of the silent auctions.

Most of what was up  for auction was as dull as the conversation Safiye had fled. There were journals of prominent purebloods, portraits and tapestries, elaborately illuminated family trees, all of it being auctioned off for ridiculous sums. Safiye found a moment’s entertainment in contemplating bidding on a truly heinous tapestry in her father’s name, before she decided against it. When she looked up, she saw someone had been watching her examine the tapestry. She smiled. “There aren’t words for it, don’t you agree?” Safiye gushed to disguise her derision, but a bit of it still leaked through.

- 

The silent factor of the silent auction was a huge draw to Tyler. Though he hadn’t grown up in English pureblood society, he thought he’d known all there was to know about lavish parties. The Russians were no strangers to ballrooms, lingering afternoons and late evenings plied with too much vodka and champagne; decadent desserts and chandeliers and art and music and shouting. But it was just so...banal here on the island, even after all this time. And practice. 

It was like pulling teeth talking to some of these people. It did not help matters that Tyler always floated through these things more easily when he had Marya by his side to charm him—to charm everyone, truthfully—and to speed time along with a joke or a smile or a squeeze of his hand or a dance. But she was on hostess duty today, already stretched thin under the spotlight and responsibility she’d craved so badly. Tyler would not disappoint her by having anything less than a lovely time. 

A ‘lovely time’ for him in this moment, however, involved nothing other than a respite. He found the quietest corner of the silent auction and arranged his face in its usual, passive fashion – hoping that others might think him deeply engrossed in where he’d place his bids, rather than drawn to his quiet command of the corner. 

If he was surprised when Safiye spoke, Tyler didn’t show it. He tried to align the chirping silk creature beside him with the only story he could remember hearing about her offhand – some offense whispered among Marya’s book club ladies, about the little Fawley jumping into their husbands’ political discussion and taking some Selwyn to casual task over a recent WIzengamot debate. Whether she’d proved he hadn’t read it or simply disagreed with his opinion, Tyler couldn’t remember; most of the detail was distant fog. 

But it was interesting, especially lined up with the rosewater young woman to his left. It didn’t fit. 

“I can think of several words for it,” Tyler murmured, his eyes still on the tapestry, not Saifye. “I encourage you to bid on it. If not only because my wife will, if the offering price stays too low, and there is an empty space above our bed that becomes more and more ominous by the moment.” 

Bellatrix: You ate an entire cheesecake? Why didn’t you just throw it away?

a formidable pair || tyler & bellatrix

“Thank Morgana, it’s you,” Bellatrix said. It was closer to ‘thank the Dark Lord,’ she supposed, but when he had been incredibly fickle with her assignments the past couple weeks, she felt there was no need to say it. She could never quite read it; just when she felt certain she was going to be moved into the position at his right hand, she was knocked down a few pegs not by her own virtue but the idiocy around her. 

This felt like a chance to build it back up. Not every aspect of her preferential treatment faded—the lessons may be brutal, but they still made her better—but did she ever need this.

“I do not know what I would have done if I was stuck with Yaxley on another assignment. There comes a point where pushovers just hold you back,” she continued, stretching her arms in front of her as they walked out of the hall. “And I’m tired of the elder Rosier. At what point do I take matters into my own hands and bring Evan in myself? Another week? Two out of respect?" 

She did not ask these questions unless she was looking for a genuine opinion. For as much of a figurehead as he felt at points, she knew that getting on the wrong side of one of the more veteran members could easily turn all of them against her. It was a mistake she made early and one she avoided since—unless it was absolutely necessary. This was not worth it, not yet.

"Are you free now to talk strategy?” That was less of a question when she was itching to start. Her sisters being out of school came with a deadline; she told herself she wouldn’t wait long after they both graduated to tell them, and while no one loved a well-planned and well executed mission quite like she did, it had left her itching to jump into them. She would go now, if it made sense. Alas, it required some thought.

@tyler-whoisleft​

- 

"Yaxley couldn’t command the respect of a dog if he spent four years training it to heel,” murmured Tyler, not hushed out of any worry about being overheard; just a general lack of passion about the issue, and about the man at the center of it. Yaxley was an afterthought, his capabilities were an afterthought; the comment couldn’t have landed like a joke either, because it wasn’t one. Simply a dry observation about one of the weaker links in the chain he and Bellatrix shared. 

“There are too many political machinations at play these days,” Tyler complained, again the spokesman of someone bored, not overwhelmed. When he first came over from Russia, he’d been blinded – quite unpleasantly, like the sun glaring during a hangover – by all the complicated double-speak and the greased palms glittering in the ballrooms. Dozens of people had cautioned him that it make take ages to install himself in society; to learn how to play the game with the mastery that had taken everyone else a lifetime to pluck and perfect. None of them had considered that he might be interested in forgoing the playing of it altogether. 

“The little Rosier boy a recruit, not a hot potato. I say bring him in whenever you like if you find him at all capable. And if Rosier wants to raise his voice and call it disrespect, I will be around to find him what actual disrespect looks like; all that before someone is rightfully bound to raise that shielding his boy from doing his service to the Dark Lord was the first blood drawn in the little...respect chess match you all have going on.” 

It was simpler, to Tyler. Because he was not involved, yes; but because he didn’t think Rosier the elder had done enough to make himself deserving of much respect in the first place. Why should Bellatrix defer, and kneecap herself from building up respect for herself? 

He thought back, not for the first time, to his conversation with Antonin Dolohov a few months back – about the way power was so misunderstood and misassigned by all the cowing Englishmen. They wanted it, gave it, saw it as theirs when it was not; fancied themselves that it was something, once earned by another, that they had the right to take away. When really, any power that was worth anything could not be stripped by a jealous horde of dinner guests. The illusion of power could be an effective short-term solution to getting one’s way, but Tyler was only interested in the slower build and harder win of the truer, more permanent kind. 

“I’m free,” he confirmed, signaling with a curt nod. “Is it more agreeable to speak here, or to go to your manor first?” Tyler offered no explanation, but added: “My home is off limits to visitors for the time being. Even in an official capacity.” 

in my house // tarya

“Where did I put those dresses?” Marya asked to no one but herself as she searched the darkened room for the clothes she had just seen a few hours ago. Every moment she came up empty, she felt her nerves fray just a little bit more. Being given the chance to host this auction was an honor Marya did not take lightly, which meant she had been stressed about it for weeks. That morning especially had seen a litany of last-minute issues that had almost done her in. On top of needing to assure Tyler who kept insisting the tension was not good for the baby.

She tore through a few more drawers, about ready to let a few words slip out that did not become a lady like her. But finally her hand felt a familiar piece of fabric and her curses turned into a sigh of relief.

Closing her office door behind her, she took a moment to compose herself before heading back to the ballroom. This part of the house had been shut off for the event and the quiet hallways muffled the gentle music and polite chatter of the guests. Or at least, it should. But down the hall she heard something. The sound of voices – no, shouting. Followed by a thud that made her jump.

She took a few frantic steps towards the sound, but the low flickering candlelight did not inspire confidence in her. Slowing, she contemplated running for help. But a decision still hadn’t been reached by the time she rounded a corner and saw her husband in a fit with someone she didn’t know in tow.

The chatter from the event had become completely drowned out by the pounding in her ears. Now frozen in the middle of the hall like a misplaced statue, she waited as there was more stomping, a few more door slams, and finally Tyler coming back and catching her eye.

So much of him still looked familiar. He was still in the suit she had asked him to wear that night, handsome as ever. He still had his normal presence, one that never grabbed attention but commanded his space, a comforting constant she usually searched for in a crowded room.

But the look on his face was one she had never seen before. There was a hardness that stiffened his features, made him almost unrecognizable. She held her breath waiting for it to melt away to the softness she knew from him. “Tyler?” she asked, voice shaking like she half expected the person in front of her to confirm it wasn’t actually him. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

@tyler-whoisleft​

- 

Both of Marya’s questions were very good questions – but the first was impossible to answer. What was wrong? Nothing with him, he was sure; despite the way his hand shook slightly where he held it in a fish by his side, or the mounting anxiety of almost’s that were climbing the walls of his mind, stepping on one another’s heads to reach the level of Top Concern. 

And then there was the whole matter of what was wrong between them. Not in practice, or through anyone’s fault, but hanging in the air. A sparking, unfamiliar thing that was uncomfortable and foreign. Uncomfortable and foreign, like Tyler had been when he’d first showed up in England, but even then – seeing Marya for the first time, he’d felt like he’d known her his whole life. 

No, this was just a pesky issue of the face he wore outdoors colliding with his truer, realer one underneath—or so he liked to think, told himself when he began to suspect it was actually the other way around—and exposing a side of himself to Marya that Marya didn’t really need to see. Because this was simply: business, and if there was one thing Tyler Warrington Jr. knew how to do, it was take care of business. Swiftly, quietly, ruthlessly. 

(But if there was one thing he did not know how to do, it was answer his wife when she was looking at him with the levels of alarm that he worked so hard—was working, present tense, right now—to keep out of their home.) 

So, the second question seemed much easier to address. 

“The little journalist boy,” he said, sliding his hands into his pockets. As he tried to relax his face, the whole of his tension seemed contained in one eyebrow; one shoulder. Each arched unnaturally but allowed his face to find some semblance of calm. 

The power rush of owning this manor, the fierce protective instinct, the gutting shame of a near miss; they had to be replaced with a reminder that this was his home if he was ever going to come down from the high of wrapping his fingers around Vince Sinclair’s throat. And what better to remind him of home than Marya? The two were synonymous, so he gazed at her quietly. Stepped closer, chewed the inside of his cheek. Lightly, tentatively, extended a hand – though they were still too far to touch. 

“Gorynych knows who invited him, but he’d snuck away from the party...” As if he needed to prove himself, Tyler’s arm drifted in the direction of the muffled sounds of revelry below; the staircase that both of them could locate perfectly fine, without added reference. “He was poking around, going through the rooms. I saw him out.” 

The last sentence landed with more of a thud than intended. It wasn’t unwarranted, though; the scene had not been polished or pretty. “We cannot have events here anymore,” Tyler added, almost absently. He fixed the cuff of his sleeve, though he’d done it twice already since she’d happened upon him. “They’ll be going through our bedroom drawers before the year is out, at this rate.” 

black ties & little lies | vince & tyler | suwha auction

Vince Sinclair never felt truly out of place; everywhere was a place for him to be, when it got right down to it, even if it only meant it was somewhere he should be while wearing his press pass.

It clashed with his suit, unfortunately - to the nines, as he always was, but fitting the dress code requirements with a dark plum evening suit to at least have a bit of personality shine through - but he knew that wasn’t terribly important. His hair was pulled back in a sleek, as professional-as-possible ponytail and his best, most charmingly easy smile was plastered on his face as he navigated the grandiose Warrington home.

The catch that came along with his press pass being an Order-approved alibi to get into the Society For The Upkeep Of Wizarding Historical Artifacts - a name, and organization, that still sounded absolutely fake to Vince, faced with the reality of it and its teacakes and cocktails and ridiculous old cursed items nonetheless - was that he did, actually, have to do a write up on it for the paper. But that was second place to his actual job there today, fascinated and disgusted by the blatant show of pureblood excess in equal measure.

The silent auction was of little to no use for Vince’s purposes, professional and vigilante included. The higher stakes auction would be far more interesting to watch, surely, and the real goods would come during the dinner and cocktail hours - if he made it that long. 

It was easy, if bold, enough to slip away during that first part of the event. And Vince was nothing if not bold, and too curious for his own fucking good.

It was easy, he supposed, even moreso, because most of the people there were sober, and if they noticed him at all it was with a dainty sneer or a slight scoff at the very thought of him there. Whether it was just being part of the press, or some kind of I’m an obvious Muggleborn stench he gave off, who knew. Looser lips would come once the drinks started flowing and that was where Vince would always shine.

That’s how he found himself tucked away in a room not terribly far from the ballroom where the auction was being held; he could hear the soft conversation and footsteps that came with the elite crowd making their way among the tables to place their silent bids. If anything changed, if the next event was announced, he’d hear it and slip right back into the main action.

The room was built like a library, high ceilings and high bookshelves, and he busied himself with the scanning of a few of those books - not expecting anything like A Directory Of Known Death Eaters, A-Z, but still on the lookout for something - before testing his luck with another room. 

Vince heard the footsteps approaching him, though, before that became a reality. Seamlessly he turned, grinning, affable and charming as ever even as his adrenaline spiked. A blonde man had joined him, familiar but not familiar enough to place, but looking plenty… in charge.

“Got turned around on my way to the loo. Couldn’t point me in the right direction, could you?”

@tyler-whoisleft​

-

It had been said before—by people who had nothing better to talk about, which was far too many of them—that Tyler Warrington Jr. was not the same person without his house that he was within. 

Of course, it was all conjecture. True conjecture, even so; rock solid fact sifted, by accident, out of the fantasy. 

But those that crossed his path outside the house rarely saw the many masks he took off (or perhaps put on, depending on whom one asked) when he crossed the threshold and relaxed into the privacy of his own space; his own wife, his own son, his own world. Nobody except Marya knew what her cold, foreign husband was like when he locked himself away in the warm, homeland hearth of the manor; other than Nathanial, who’d yet to know his father outside of these walls. 

All this to say: Tyler fucking hated entertaining. 

He liked parties just as much as he was required to; liked socializing for the power gains, despite never quite learning the unspoken language that slithered between the flowery English words that tasted like rank perfume on his tongue. The shorter the better, was his preferred method of socialization. One drink, two tops, and as many long silences as could be packed in before the ice cubes melted. 

Events at his own manor? They were the worst of all. A dinner party he could make chilly peace with, because Marya was always charming and there was a reliable cadence to those affairs – drinks, dinner, dessert, drinks, goodnights. But beyond the stressed and frantic lead-up that spun Marya into a tizzy before any important event, and the echoes that overstayed their welcome long past the guests who’d done the same? Beyond the reminders of other people’s fingers touching this things; other people’s overfamiliar energies crowding his halls? Even beyond the recent pregnancy news and his protectiveness; lingering remnants of his Master’s bidding tucked away inside the house; the fact that objects were changing hands under the table even as money passed over it? 

It was fucking awful—чертовски ужасно—to have to be the world’s version of the Warrington heir when he was here, unplanted on his own soil; choking on the dirt and feeling like his roots were cut. 

So, with a charming and polite smile, Tyler excused himself from the auction for some air. 

Air was the last thing on his mind; it was motion he needed, a brisk walk and a room free of an audience. There were myriad ways to regain his composure, all of them at his fingertips once he was freed. Going over the accounts and family financial statements; scribbling off a quick letter in caustic Russian cursive to his mamochka; simply pacing his study and ensuring that the safe was still locked and the real artifacts he’d swapped for the cheap fakes downstairs had not been touched, could still be delivered to the Dark Lord after nightfall. 

It was the ajar door, not any of those things, that caught Tyler’s attention first. 

Nobody else was supposed to be in the library but surely this young man—this stranger—knew that already. 

Anyone who smiled as quickly and as persistently as him either thought they were getting away with something or didn’t have much capacity to think at all. 

Clearing his throat, Tyler set down the drink in his hand on a nearby console table. He watched as condensation sweat ran down the glass and pooled onto the unprotected wood, unable to realize that his temper was rising until he first realized where his caution came from – not wanting to leave potential evidence of having been here, rather than something petty like a stained ring. Tyler positioned himself solidly in the doorway, impassable as his expression. 

“Try again.” 

And though he said it with a smile, the words were not kind. HIs implication was clear enough: I don’t believe you, but I like to play with my food before I eat it. 

Tyler had burned too much energy today mollifying the people he needed to in order to make his life easier. He would not set himself aflame to warm this strange intruder that didn’t mean a thing to him. 

“Unless you were hoping to piss in one of my books,” he added. It was a very reasonable type of anger, the type he held onto. In his opinion, anyway. There was no sadistic gleam in his eye, no jumping desperately at the chance to let something out. Just a man who knew what had to be done, if it had to be done; if lines were crossed. 

Politely, Tyler readjusted one cuff of his shirtsleeve. 

“This area of the house is off limits. The right direction—for you—is likely through the front door, down the walk, and back to wherever you arrived from.”