[ Oh - yes. When Richars broke his fingers. By shakes his head and says, dismissively - ]
No, that was years before.
[ There's no apparent awareness of how much goddamn worse it is that that happened at six, instead of at twelve. Instead, he says - ]
And yes, this is one of our charming family visits. Richars, Marcel, and Stamos, this time, I believe? I was still small enough to be sport for Richars, at that point - and thank heavens for that.
[ Thank heavens, because it meant that he was of interest. Thank heavens, because it meant he was a distraction. It had been three years since Richars had attacked Donna and murdered her puppy after she fought him off. Three years since Richars had talked the Count and Countess into believing that she had done it herself in a fit of girlish hysteria. Those years had taught Byerly that grown-ups were stupid and blind and wouldn't protect you, that they were too wrapped up in their own heads to even take notice when their children were being torn to shreds. No fucking need for magic to make that happen - they were fucking useless all on their own.
So thank heavens, because it meant that By could sit and adjust her virtual learning software, and then go, and draw the wolves off her scent. And he did. He thinks he probably got the shit kicked out of him, this visit, but he can't quite remember. He does remember this, though, and will always remember this: Nadine's fearful, desperate, loving, grateful look, the way that she knew he was sacrificing himself to save her and the way she adored him for it. He'd suffer ten broken fingers and ten broken toes if his reward was a moment of love from his little sister.
Younger By tilts his cheek towards her mockingly for a kiss. She hurls her arms around his neck instead, hugging him tightly. By, in the present day, smiles - again, a little bit of unguarded love showing up in his expression. ]
I think they're trying to torture us. Showing us our pubescent selves. God, look, I had acne. [ A theatrical little shudder, coupled with a mock-grimace, throws a blanket over his softer emotions. ]
no subject
[ Oh - yes. When Richars broke his fingers. By shakes his head and says, dismissively - ]
No, that was years before.
[ There's no apparent awareness of how much goddamn worse it is that that happened at six, instead of at twelve. Instead, he says - ]
And yes, this is one of our charming family visits. Richars, Marcel, and Stamos, this time, I believe? I was still small enough to be sport for Richars, at that point - and thank heavens for that.
[ Thank heavens, because it meant that he was of interest. Thank heavens, because it meant he was a distraction. It had been three years since Richars had attacked Donna and murdered her puppy after she fought him off. Three years since Richars had talked the Count and Countess into believing that she had done it herself in a fit of girlish hysteria. Those years had taught Byerly that grown-ups were stupid and blind and wouldn't protect you, that they were too wrapped up in their own heads to even take notice when their children were being torn to shreds. No fucking need for magic to make that happen - they were fucking useless all on their own.
So thank heavens, because it meant that By could sit and adjust her virtual learning software, and then go, and draw the wolves off her scent. And he did. He thinks he probably got the shit kicked out of him, this visit, but he can't quite remember. He does remember this, though, and will always remember this: Nadine's fearful, desperate, loving, grateful look, the way that she knew he was sacrificing himself to save her and the way she adored him for it. He'd suffer ten broken fingers and ten broken toes if his reward was a moment of love from his little sister.
Younger By tilts his cheek towards her mockingly for a kiss. She hurls her arms around his neck instead, hugging him tightly. By, in the present day, smiles - again, a little bit of unguarded love showing up in his expression. ]
I think they're trying to torture us. Showing us our pubescent selves. God, look, I had acne. [ A theatrical little shudder, coupled with a mock-grimace, throws a blanket over his softer emotions. ]