A Moment Of Weakness for Ciaran

[Reuben Slade]

A Moment Of Weakness

Ciaran O'Malley

[Ciaran O'Malley]

16. My muse is kidnapped and yours has just rescued them.

CIARAN'S HEAD LULLS TO THE SIDE.  He's dazed from the head wound he has.  The Irishman mumbles under his breath, tied to a chair in a warehouse by the docks.  A rival gang got the best of him -- cornered him and grabbed him for ransom.  Honestly?  He's not sure if Slade is coming.  Even if Ciaran is his right hand, he may not be worth the trouble of saving, so he's just been biding his time.  

"Fishing all day and fishing all night, and all that he caught was a little crab. . .  Oh, oh, Johnny Daddlum a day,"  he calls out, slurring as he sings, "he put the hook up he crab's backbone, and he slung it over his shoulder and he fucked off home. . . Oh, oh, Johnny Daddlum a day. . ."  It's his way of saying he's not giving anything up -- they can fuck off.  If he really wants to piss them off, he should sing in Gaelic. . . but he feels his head heavy again and drifts back out of consciousness. . .

When he wakes, he feels a gloved hand gripping his chin.  Ciaran blinks a few times, looking up to see. . . "Slade,"  he murmurs.  Ciaran is bloodied and bruised, and in that moment he looks vulnerable as Slade's hand keeps his head upright.  But a smile forms across his face, one that is soft and unguarded.  "Didn't think. . . you'd take the risk."  He can feel the rope slacken on his wrists behind him.  Ciaran lets his arms fall at his sides, waiting for his savior to say something.

Tagging: Reuben Slade
Notes: Johnny Daddlum is the Irish version of a song called The Crabfish!

[Reuben Slade]

Tag: Ciaran O'Malley

what doesn't

KILL ME BETTER RUN

There were not many things that would enrage the Crime Lord, nor were there many instances where he had felt genuine anger. Fortunately, his empire was strong, surrounding himself with the most trustworthy and skillful group of individuals that ever did walk the Earth. But, there was indeed one particular . . . circumstance that would leave Slade undoubtedly furious. And that, was when harm was brought to those he cared about. So when he received news that Ciaran O'Malley had been kidnapped, and that there was a ransom note attached . . . Slade had just fallen quiet. Too quiet. For what he lacked in words, he compensated with actions. And while he was already laconic in conversation . . . anger made him fall even more silent. But it could be felt. Filling the air that would send a chill down anyone's spine from the sheer ferocity, the utter severity of it. So in this moment, Slade had only two words to offer. "Find him." And he would tear the city apart.

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Using every resource available, and even ones that were not, he stormed through any establishment where there was even a whisper of who had done this; who had taken even the most minimal of parts in this ploy. It was not about the money. Slade could pay the money. It was about Ciaran and . . . he knew the man well enough that he would not go quietly. So therefore, he knew that whomever had taken him, would have left their mark. And for that, they would pay. Slade did not rest, nor allow any others to until they received a name. Until it was confirmed as to who he was dealing with. The money would be delivered, but Slade would ensure that every single person within this group, was slaughtered. He used this same force to kill anyone who came into their path affiliated with this group, ensuring they no longer had allies. That they were stripped of all connections. And any informants, anyone who aided them, was handled as well.

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Whereabouts of Ciaran had been revealed. He was in a warehouse by the docks, heavily protected by whatever men they had left . . . but ones who would not know the action Slade had taken in the city, for they were undoubtedly stationed here, guarding the apprehended. Slade held a small bag that contained the money. He was after all, a man of his word. But the moment the warehouse doors were opened, and Slade saw even at a distance, even in this darkness, the battered Irishman . . . mercy and compliance were far from Rueben's mind. Shots filled the air, the men guarding and securing this exchange falling lifelessly to the ground. Did they truly think, that it would be so easy? Did they truly believe, that they could take Ciaran and that there would be no repercussions? Anyone else -- anyone outside his group of dearest friends and allies -- perhaps. But most certainly, not Ciaran O'Malley.

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He approached the barley conscious man, his gloved hand upon his chin to lift his head as it felt limp. Inspecting him, and knowing that their physician would already be awaiting them at his estate. Hearing him somewhat coherently say his name, giving a smile, Slade slightly clenched his jaw. There were moments, where the stoic male felt as if he could become undone. But unravelling served no one, and right now . . . emotions were best kept back. But the Irishman's words, sent a shot right into Slade's heart. Rueben lowered his head a little, hunching over so that his head was level to Ciaran's; so that his eyes were level to his. So that O'Malley could see him, and know that he was not only a man of his word, but now one of the utmost sincerity.

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"You were wrong." His words strong, firm, and also . . . reflective of the loyalty he felt towards him. A seemingly simplistic statement, but one that held so much power and strength, particularly in Slade's belief of them. And his urging, his demand to never let Ciaran believe otherwise. For he was wrong; so incredibly wrong for thinking that it was not worth the risk. He had destroyed the entire gang out of the anger and rage; out of punishment and consequence . . . for laying a single finger upon this man. Once his hands were no longer bound, Rueben took a small step back to allow the others to help O'Malley to this feet. Slade's own physical limitations preventing him from being able to assist in this manner. "The carriage is not far," he assured him, needing him to make it only a few steps towards it and should he be unable to . . . they would carry him.

[Ciaran O'Malley]

Oh.  Doesn't that make Ciaran's heart go pitter-patter?  He's quiet as Slade meets his eyes, his own nearly glistening with tears.  What an act of devotion that is.  Someone who doesn't know them would probably ask what did he even do?  But that look is everything to Ciaran.  He swallows, lips pressed together.  "M'sorry,"  he says quietly, "for ever doubtin' you."  And they remain like that for a moment, don't they, lost in each other's eyes?  At least the romantic deep, deep inside Ciaran would say that.  

Then, the moment is over, and Ciaran comes back to his reality of the aches and pains in his body.  He slowly rises with the others' help, but he manages to stand on his own once he's up.  He wants to show Slade that he's strong, that he can handle anything thrown his way. "Right,"  he says with a nod, taking a step forward and damn near crashing right back down to the floor.  He grunts, knee twinging with pain.  He reaches out for Joe -- at least, he thinks it's Joe, his head is getting fuzzy again.  "Mm, think I need. . ."  He slurs a bit, squeezing his eyes shut for a few seconds.  Ciaran shakes his head, trying to right himself.  And with help, he begins to make his way outside. 

"Slade,"  he says after they're all outside, and he turns to look at him with teary eyes once more.  "I won't -- I won't ever let you down again.  These f--fuckers'll never get their hands on me.  No one will.  I promise you this, I -- "  And he grunts, the pain in his side flaring once more.  He nearly goes down again, grasping onto "Joe" for dear life before he's being tugged into the carriage.

Tag: Reuben Slade