MORDECAI
*** EMERGE #18 - Backstage ***
Well, wasn't that a delightful surprise?
Even in my own head, I think in sarcasm.
Although, things weren't entirely bad. Mordecai didn't murder Dante in the ring (although it was close) and pinned him for a three count. I was so pleased that I made a rather undignified noise which I can't even deny as it was caught on camera.
And I was very much surprised when Mordecai chose to stand in front of Dante as Tombstone came a menacing. Pleasantly surprised, mind, after all, my offer does no good if it's offered to a corpse.
All in all though, a resounding success for the first match.
Even with the blood.
Mordecai must be in pain, but is still mute, the blood drying already on his face to create a mask that suits him. Under the blood, the bruises are already starting to flower in sickening shades of black and purple. But there is an air of satisfaction about him, deep in his eyes.
We've taken up residence in one of the medical rooms, and maybe the resident tech needs further training as he blanched at the sight of my blood covered mystery, and vanished. Just as well I'm perfectly capable of tending injuries myself. Goddess knows my boys have given me enough practise at it.
Mordecai sits stoic as I soak the cotton in warm water, before carefully starting to wipe the blood away. The pressure on the bruises must hurt, but he shows no sign of it as I swipe the cloth around. Even when I have to press harder to get at a dried bit, he barely flinches.
His eyes move behind me as the door opens, and my family pour in. Mark goes straight for a high five, alight with delight, and to my own joy, Mordecai doesn't leave him hanging. Their hands slap together like a thunderclap. John gently pushes me out of the way, taking the cloth from my hand, as Chris starts rummaging for needle and thread.
“We’ve got this, Lins,” he says absently. “Go do something imposing.”
“Go talk to Gwen,” John says quietly to me, before he turns his attention to Mordecai and patching up my mystery. I back away towards the door, turning just in time to avoid bumping into Gwen, standing in the doorway.
I wasn't certain how she'd react, but her face is a study in compassion. Perhaps I should have expected it.
“He'll be okay?” she asks.
“He's tough,” I tell her, thinking back. “This isn't the first time he's taken a beating.”
Gwen nods. “Tell me about it?” she requests.
With nothing else to do, I oblige.
***The Past***
It’s been a week now, a week feeling like my household is walking on eggshells, waiting for the other shoe to drop, or the sword of Damocles to come down on all of our heads.
Mordecai hasn’t left my side for one moment since I accepted him into my family. He still hasn’t spoken a word to anyone, at least not that I’m aware of. I don’t think that he’s mute, or that he can’t speak, I think that he just chooses not to speak. Another one of his mysteries to be solved, although there is not much solving going on at the moment.
Living on top of a powder keg requires all my concentration at the moment. I've already had to break up an argument between Josh and Mark, and Chris came close to punching Mark after a few jabs.
It doesn't help that Chris has decided to take a break from globetrotting for a while, and so he and John are back in the house, adding more fuel to the fire.
I could step in and put my foot down, assert my authority, but that would start resentment breeding faster than mold. And I love my family too much than to do that to them. So I'll break up the spats, the arguments and the meaningless fights, until they finally decide what it is they're fighting about.
Spoiler, it's Mordecai. Although they bonded in booze, some wounds are not yet fully healed. And the sooner they figure that out, the better for all of us.
They've got another week before I shut them in the barn and padlock it shut till they figure it out.
Mordecai is sitting on the couch, in the den, as close to me as he can be without standing behind my shoulder. I've got the account books open, but the numbers are just one big blur, dancing over the page and making no sense. I sit back from the desk and rub my eyes, willing the headache to not blossom.
“You okay, Lindsay?” and John steps into the room, his voice concerned. He steps behind me,and his fingers dig into the muscles of my neck and shoulders. Immediately the pain starts to lessen as he works his fingers and I lean back into his strong grip.
“I've been better,” I admit.
“Yeah,” he says gruffly. “Gwen just hightailed it out of here.”
I can't help it, and feel myself tense up again. John... he's been a Goddess blessing, and a calming influence. But, if one of my boys hurt Gwen... then John is on the warpath.
Fuck.
He digs his fingers into my shoulders again, but this time it's not to relieve tension. I may be the Mistress of the household, but I know when to submit. I go limp in his grip, and tilt my head back, pliant and passive.
“Get Mordecai to the barn, and get yourself out. This ends today,” he growls.
“Yes,” I exhale.
He lets go of me then, and I hear him retreating. I adjust myself upright again, rubbing the back of my neck. Mordecai hasn't moved from his seat, but his eyes show his confusion. I muster up a faint smile for him.
“If you stay around long enough, you'll get used to that,” I tell him. “But for now, we better get you to the barn. Time to pay the piper, and let the sword fall.”
I look at him, and I realise that he knows exactly what I'm talking about, and exactly what is going to happen to him. And still he rises to walk by my side as I escort him to the barn.
Of course, I have no intention of absenting myself.
The barn is a fairly derelict structure on the edge of my property. Well, it looks derelict from the outside. Inside, it’s a lot sturdier than it would appear. We use it for various things, some honest, some nefarious. At the moment we have no grand plans going on that need it so the ground floor is cleared out, covered in sawdust and bits of straw that have drifted down from the first floor.
Mordecai watches in silence as I scale the ladder to the first floor, and settle in amongst the straw bales that I’m storing for a neighbour. There is a perfect knothole in the floor that lets me look straight down to the floor, and with a judicious coating of straw, I should be indistinguishable to anyone looking up.
And if John wants to take umbrage that I didn’t do as I was ordered...well, I’ll deal with that when I get to it. For now, I have to see this.
Mordecai shows no signs that I’m here, standing in the middle of the floor with a blank look on his face. His eyes stare at the floor, and he somehow looks out of place in his jeans and t-shirt. Now that I know what I’m looking at, he still looks...brittle.
I have to trust that John knows what he’s doing.
The door opens with a creak of rusty hinges, and Chris bounces in on the balls of his feet. He’s grinning broadly, laugh lines around his eyes crinkled, and he salutes Mordecai before he heads for a corner and sits, cross-legged on the ground, coming to attention.
Behind him comes Mark, twirling his nightstick around his fingers like a majorettes baton. He struts into the barn with a look of sick anticipation spread across his face.
Next, comes Josh, baseball bat resting on his shoulder. He’s trying to keep a calm face, but I can see by the way that his brows bunch together, and the white knuckled grip on the bat, that my boy is angry. Very angry.
Finally, John steps in, and closes the door behind him. The knuckles on both hands gleam with ruddy brass, and he’s opted to go shirtless. His hair is scraped back severely into a ponytail, and he’s discarded his eyepatch, staring at Mordecai with the ruin of his eye clearly visible. If anything, I’d say that my oldest friend was feeling regretful.
The air is thick with tension, and I can feel it crawling over my skin. Mark is shifting from foot to foot, Josh is clenching and unclenching his grip on the bat, and Chris is drumming a staccato riff on his thighs. Only Mordecai and John are still and silent as they stare each other down.
I almost expect Mordecai to make the first move. My boys are all obvious threats to him. But he doesn’t. He stands still and passive. At least, until he doesn’t.
Mordecai kneels.
He drops to one knee in the straw, bowing his head, submitting to my boys in the same way that he submitted to me in the shower.
He broke Mark’s arm. He dislocated Josh’s shoulder. He brutalised John. And he was implicit in the kidnapping of Chris. He was a powerhouse, a true threat, relentless and ruthless.
And now he kneels to them.
Oh monster, what happened to you?
The bruises begin to flower as the dance begins. I’ve never seen my boys so in sync with each other as they move in a tight circle around the kneeling monster. No, the kneeling man. They each know their place, know their turn, and what I can only call a punishment beating is delivered with panache.
The first splash of blood decorates the straw, gleaming wetly in the shafts of light that stream in through the gaps between the boards. More follows, a steady drip that masks the face of the monster and stains this moment into the world. The tension is purged from the room, dissipated in the harsh breathing of exertion.
And Mordecai remains motionless, even as one by one, my boys come to a halt, their weapons lowering to the floor.
Chris rises from his almost forgotten position in the corner, and stalks like a great cat towards my kneeling monster. His boot comes up, and even from this high, I can hear the crack as it impacts. Blood trickles from the corner of Mordecai’s mouth now, adding yet more stains.
And then, all four of my boys help Mordecai to his feet. Even though Mordecai is battered, bruised, bloody and broken, there is still something triumphant about the scene.
John remains behind as the rest of my boys escort Mordecai out, hopefully to get medical treatment.
Oh yes, he knows that I’m here.
But as I stand up and dust the concealing hay from my form, there is a change in our situation. I descend the ladder, head held high, and John tilts his head back now to expose his vulnerable throat. His skin is warm in my grasp, slicked with sweat, and I feel my fingers slip as I exert just enough pressure to constrict his air.
And then I release my grip entirely, and press a light kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“That was well done,” I tell him softly.
“It was needed,” he says gruffly, before sighing. “I wish that it hadn’t been.”
“Mordecai doesn’t,” I said, and my mind was sure on this. My intuition told me that Mordecai knew that there had be some penance done for what he did to us, and would take whatever we demanded with silence.
“As you say,” John nodded, before crooking his elbow to me. I slipped my arm through his, and felt unseen tension ebb away from John. For so long we have been the Mistress and the Minions, and bless them, it always worries my boys when they have to rise to the role of Master and dictate their will to me. If it’s for a good reason, then I will submit, and happily, but if it’s not...well, the chastising can be fun in it’s own right. Mark is fonder of that than he ought to be.
But when things have settled back to normal, they always worry that I will hold it against them, and no matter the reassurances that I offer them, they still have this in the back of their heads. I don’t mind the reassurances, and as John takes me back to the house, I’m already working out the words that I can use to show my boys that we are still as strong as we ever were. Even stronger, now that Mordecai had joined us.
*** EMERGE #18 - Backstage ***
“I remember that,” Gwen says, as she watches the buzz of activity as Mordecai is patched up. “At least, I remember everyone being snappy, and getting out of there before someone said something that Dad would take the wrong way. You know what he’s like. ”
“And we wouldn’t have him any other way,” I agree.
“Even if we’re an odd sort of family,” she comments. “I can still remember stitching up Dad’s head after Mordecai got to him that first time. But that’s not that Mordecai any more. He’s our Mordecai, if that makes sense.”
“Clear eyes, Gwen,” I compliment, and she ducks her head, still shy about accepting praises where praise is due. “He’s our now.”
“Will this be us and Dante?” she asks.
I consider. “That, I don’t know. I don’t even know if Dante will accept the offer I made. If he does, I suspect that an alliance would be more convenient for him. We are not the most conventional of people, and he might baulk at being tied that closely to us. And you know what the boys are like. There’s no way that they’d let him close to us without some form of guarantee, some payment.”
“And not everyone can pay our price,” she says, and I glance sideways at her. Even as John’s daughter, Gwen still paid her own price for acceptance into our little family. But there is no resentment in her eyes, and a clear pride in her tone.
“Not everyone can pay our price,” I echo. Will Dante?
We’ll see.
