a tender touch

[Reuben Slade]

Tag: Ciaran O'Malley
Note: Better gif coming soon!

what doesn't

KILL ME BETTER RUN

One would think that being in the public eye, a room full of fellow citizens of nobility with household staff of the estate hosts . . . would be a safe environment. But for Rueben Slade, it was sometimes the opposite. He felt he was more of a target at these places, especially for those who knew his guards and protectors would not be permitted within the hall of the event. Slade loathed to admit vulnerability, but he knew that if his rivals had any sense . . . they would pick such a time to make their move. As limited as that sense may be, considering the repercussions that would follow. His eyes had already caught sight of someone in the room, a Baron. And one that owed Slade a great deal of money. It was not difficult to see that he was displeased by it. His pride getting in the way of fulfilling his debt. But the way he had been casually glancing at Slade throughout the evening, alerted the gang leader that something was afoot.

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Deciding to exit the event early, he was soon proven correct. The moment he stepped out, he was immediately grabbed and dragged to a darkened alleyway. The rest . . . would be known through physical evidence. Slade was certain he got at least two men in the knee caps but physical combat was not one of Rueben's strong suits. It was why he had men with him to protect him. Men who had been dismissed for the night. He felt himself on the ground, kick after kick, punch after punch. Slade refused to make any sound, refused to give them any satisfaction. They were most certainly going to beat him to death. Had the sound an approaching carriage not startled them, perhaps they would have been victorious. But as soon as there was the risk of a witness, the men fled, and fled quickly, kicking Slade's cane out of reach. Shame. He would have liked to get at least one more whack in.

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The man lay there for a moment, steadying his breathing as he attempted to muster the energy to get up. The throbbing of his entire body was starting to kick in and he could taste blood in his mouth, his vision a bit hazy. Deeply inhaling he crawled over to his cane, using it to hoist him up to his feet. Staggering a bit to the side from the pain, he managed to regain balance . . . focusing on one foot in front of the other as he leaned on his cane for support, until he reached his carriage where his entrusted driver was waiting. The man took a look at Rueben, eyes wide with shock as he was about to jump off the driver's position . . . but Rueben immediately held up his gloved hand to stop him. "Just drive," he instructed bluntly, leaving no room for debate. He stepped inside, seething from the assault that took place tonight.

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Once he reached home, he said nothing to anyone, immediately walking straight into the house. The stairs seemed too difficult to manage at the moment, so he opted for going straight to his study, until he had the strength to make it to his bedroom. Pushing the door open with his cane, he used the same method to close it and make his way towards one of the chairs, and sat down in it, letting his body relax from the strain of movement after the attack. He did not know what he looked like at the moment, but could imagine. Glancing down, he saw his shirt was torn, he was fairly certain that his face was marred indicative of his assailants efforts, along with his chest. Yet at the moment, Rueben could not be bothered to move to clean himself off. If there was one thing they did wrong however for their own sakes it was that. . . they should have killed him.

[Ciaran O'Malley]

"CALM DOWN, WON'T YOU? S'A PONCY PARTY."  One of the other's says with a cigarette between his teeth.  They're playing cards, but Ciaran's been distracted all night with Reuben out of his sights.  Yes, it was a fancy party, but that didn't mean Slade was safe!  "I should be there," he says with a scowl, shifting in his seat.  "I don't think they'll be lookin' out for him in the same way I would."

"Wot, do ye fancy him, christ!" 

"Say that again!"  Ciaran growls, out of his seat and throwing back the offending enforcer -- Donovan?  Danny?  Who fucking cared what his name was; he's new to the group.  The Irishman has him by the neck, glaring into those eyes.  After a moment of silence, the helpless guy stammers: "T'was just a fucking joke, Ciaran.  Fuck."  And Ciaran lets him go -- and then socks him in the stomach.  "Don't fucking joke like that."  He hisses, rubbing his hand over his knuckles.  He turns back to the table, and the game resumes without delay.  Violence was quick way to settle quarrels, and they knew not to pick a true fight with Ciaran. 

As the hours pass, the discomfort builds in his stomach.  He's gone through a few cigarettes and a few pints of ale.  "He's gone too long,"  he murmurs, glancing behind him out of the window, hoping to see the carriage pulling up.  It's almost like Ciaran willed it to happen, because it comes into few -- with quick steps of the horses.  He's up out of his chair already, hurrying to the hallway -- --

Ciaran freezes as he sees Reuben's current state -- bloodied and bruised.  His mouth opens and then closes, and he watches him go.  He's a range of emotions: worried, scared, and angry.  He turns to the driver who runs in after him.  "The fuck does he look like that?"  and he's grabbing the guy's jacket, who just yells out: "I don't fuckin' know, mate!  He was jumped, and I saw him and got to him!"  The answer doesn't satisfy him;  he needs to know what happened. 

HE SHOULD HAVE BEEN THERE!

Ciaran goes up the steps after his employer, and then he finds himself pausing in front of the door.  He grimaces.  Should he bother Slade?  But fucking hell, all that blood. . .  He knocks hurriedly.  "Slade? Boss?  Fuck, you all right?  Can I come in there?" 

Tagging: Reuben Slade

[Reuben Slade]

Tag: Ciaran O'Malley
Note: I had him open/close the door and enter the room! Hope that's ok

what doesn't

KILL ME BETTER RUN

A knock at the door alerted Slade's mind though he showed no physical sign of it, keeping his eyes closed and body still as he tried to adjust to the throbbing. The voice on the other end belonged to one of the very few people that Slade did not hold objection to seeing him in this state. Ciaran after all was usually, if not always, right by his side. Rueben seldom went anywhere without the Irishman's presence. Yet of course the rare exception just happened to coincide with the night that such an assault was evidently planned.

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Slade knew that he should at least wipe the blood off his face before granting entrance, but at the moment, with the adrenaline wearing off left was the pain and the need to adjust to it enough to physically move. "Come in," he invited, assuming that there was no one else with him. Slade's eyes remained closed as he heard the door open, footsteps enter, the door then close. Slowly, the crime lord opened his eyes to rest on the other male.

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"I'm fine," he told him, answering his previous question of whether he was ok. It held truth, so Slade remained alive. These wounds would heal and he would recover. Which, was his enemies mistake. "Was all well here?" He asked, hoping the night remained uneventful at the estate. And that there was no threat on them or his daughter. Following his words, Slade used his cane to help support him to a stand, deciding that sitting here in this disheveled and bloody state had lasted long enough.