Post by Eira on Jun 1, 2014 22:04:04 GMT -5
Face scrunched up in an endearing display of hesitation, Eira gazes into the study, a frosty mug of his favorite drink in one hand, a plate of cookies in the other. Without looking back over his shoulder, his voice rumbles forth from the depths of the room.
“You’re trying to sweeten me up for something.”
Eira’s shoulders slump for a brief second before she enters the room fully, setting the items on his desk. Resting her hands on his shoulders, she kneads away at the tightly bound muscles.
“Not necessarily. I wanted to talk to you, about our upcoming tag match.”
“What’s to talk about? We’ve done tag matches before, and higher stakes adventures out in the real world. I can’t make myself worry about whether or not someone’s going to pull out a steel chair in the ring when my frame of reference is situations where I have to worry about whether or not someone’s going to pull a gun.”
“That’s not quite what I meant. There’s some bad blood going on here, even you have to admit that.”
“Freely. However, I’m not interested in discussing this right now, I want to talk about how we’re evicting Jackson from the premises after that fracas of an artifact recovery mission he took you on.”
“But Beloved, the Order -”
“I don’t CARE what the Order has to say. Either he leaves voluntarily, or I assist him in doing so. Perhaps even gift wrapped for the Order in a body bag - I’m nothing if not thoughtful.”
“But honey -”
“NO.” Eira’s eyes widen and she takes an involuntary step backwards at the force of Murdoc’s voice. Seeing her reaction, a frown creases his features and he rises, reaching out to clasp his hands around her upper arms. “By your own account the whole event was RIGGED. You could have been hurt, and for no good reason.”
“It might have been a Trial of sorts, you know. Much like I was instructed to perform once - a trust exercise. “ Locking eyes with him she stares straight into his core, fiery amber burning into steely arctic blue. “Whether it was to see if I will trust him or if the Order can trust me remains to be seen.”
“One would think you’re in the Order’s good graces, especially considering our babysitting assignment.”
Eira leans one hip against the heavy mahogany desk, arms crossing loosely in front of her with a quiet snort. “I don’t think I’ve EVER been in the Order’s good graces. They’re a HOLY Order, Beloved, and I... well, remember LAST time we were in a church?”
A ghost of a smile crosses his face before he steels his features back into stern solemnity. “This is no time for distractions, no matter how pleasant. Back to the matter at hand; Jackson is going. I barely tolerate visitors under our roof as it is, let alone a live-in we can’t even trust.”
“We can’t prove that it one way or the other right now, but we DO know that breaking this contract will be considered a direct act of insubordination. As opposed to my many acts of indirect insubordination, I suppose.”
“Blame it on me, then. You can’t expect me to believe I’m not somehow on their bad side as it is.” Eira rubs at her forehead in frustration.
“Love. Think of it this way: if we make a huge fuss of this NOW, the only thing we’ll accomplish is to actively piss off an organization with reach that makes the CIA look like nothing more complex than a list of names at a neighborhood potluck. If we keep Jackson here, we have a much better chance of figuring out what’s going on. We’ll be FINE. As they say, ‘forewarned is forearmed’.”
“They also say ‘the best defense is a good offense’, but we’ll try it your way. For now.” His brows knit above his glare. “But if anything like this happens again -” Eira smiles, silencing him with a soft kiss.
“If anything like this happens again, I will take care of it. Back to what I came to you for - what do I need to worry about for this match? I’m going to enjoy hurting Whitey until it stops being fun - and I don’t think it’s going to stop being fun. What about LoKi, though? I don’t know much about him. Other than he’s another roster member with the asinine need to apply an idiotic label to himself beyond, you know, his name.”
“LoKi is a speed bump.”
“Is that... really all you have to say on the matter? He was PCW’s first ‘Triple Crown’ Champion.”
Broad shoulders shrug in total unconcern. “That’s an impressive achievement and all, but I’ve held two of those same belts as well as one he hasn’t. Feats of days past do not permanence make. I mean, look at Old Yeller.”
“Wait, who? Is that another obscure PCW reference from before my time?”
A hearty chuckle lifts from Murdoc at her tone. “No, Amba, the BOOK. Old Yeller was the best dog a kid could ask for, but they still took him out back and shot him when it proved a greater mercy than allowing him to live.”
“He’s only been back for a couple events, isn’t it a bit early to be judging whether or not he’s fit to compete anymore?”
“One win, one loss since his return. Hit or miss, which is par for the course for LoKi.”
“All those belts though...”
“...were at a time when the caliber of talent in PCW was not at the same point it’s at now. Stormm held the World Title once, too...and his most recent ‘achievement’ is just barely getting a scrabbling hold on the Genesis belt. It should prove much the same for LoKi - he quite simply cannot compete at the level required with the talent in Pure Class Wrestling’s top echelon.”
As Eira quietly mulls over this bit of information, Murdoc prods at her gently.
“Is there anything you need to tell me? I think at this point you know more about Whitey Ford than I do. That said, I rather think I know all I NEED to know. He’s a volatile, alcohol-addled rube.”
“He’s also the World Champion.” The bitter antipathy in Eira’s voice is unmistakable.
“Yes, he’s currently the World Champion, and yes, I’ll go so far as to admit he had an unprecedented reign with the International Championship. Even with all that, though... he’s just a man. And men can be broken.”
“He is everything I HATE.”
Fingertips softly gripping her chin, Murdoc tips her head back and looks deep into her darkening eyes.
“It is not in you to hate, Amba. You become that which you hate by the very act of hating it.”
A spark flickers in her eyes, the first show of real anger directed at Murdoc himself that he had ever seen.
“I will be God. Damned. Before I become anything like him.”
“Those may be the most literal words you’ve ever spoken. Look at yourself, Eira. Last Trauma a chance meeting had you seconds away from force-feeding him his own teeth off the end of your fist. That is not who I’m used to dealing with, and if I think your emotional involvement is going to become a liability to me in this match I WILL act accordingly.”
Eira glares straight at him for several seconds as she processes what’s been said, as secure in the knowledge that the man of few words rarely said anything without reason as she was in her loathing for Whitey Ford. Dropping her eyes, her expression settles into a thinly veiled sulk.
“It’s damnably inconvenient when you call me out on my bullshit.”
“I would be doing you a disservice if I didn’t. We’ll go into that match the same way we’ll leave - together and whole. Which I can promise you is more than can be said for LoKi and Ford.”
Eira’s features smooth into a composed expression, her shoulders relaxing under her diaphanous black top. Shifting away from the desk, she nudges Murdoc back towards his heavy leather armhair and his interrupted reading.
“I need to track down Jackson and make sure we... understand each other. Enjoy your snack, Love.”
“You mean my bribe.”
“You wound me."
“Only when you ask nicely. Go handle business, Amba, I’ll be here when you’re finished.”
