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callsign-owl · 29 days ago

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Edinburgh - Part 6

This is a continuation of Edinburgh - Part 5

Edinburgh, Scotland - August 2008

The mirror in Owl’s guestroom reflected an image that he still wasn’t sure he could take seriously. The kilt fit perfectly, the family tartan falling in crisp pleats just above his knees. The sporran, a well-worn leather piece that Archibald had assured him was essential, sat at his waist. The white dress shirt and black waistcoat were tailored well enough to fit him despite originally belonging to his grandfather. The jacket felt unnecessary and Owl had ditched it without a second thought. And then there were the shoes: his beloved Converse. The sight of the scuffed black high-tops beneath the traditional kilt was enough to make him grin. If he had to do this, he was going to do it on his terms.

“*redacted*,” came Archibald’s voice from the other side of the door. “I assume you are, in some fashion, ready?”

Owl took one last look at his reflection before turning toward the door. He swung it open with an exaggerated flourish. “Oh, absolutely. Behold.” He gestured down at himself, turning slightly so Archibald could take in the full ensemble. His gaze swept over Owl in assessment, lingering briefly on the Converse before he exhaled quietly. “I see you have taken creative liberties.” Archibald stepped back just enough to allow Owl to pass. “Come along, then. Our car is waiting.”

Owl followed, feeling the odd weight of the kilt shifting as he walked. It was comfortable, surprisingly so, but still foreign. He didn’t hate it, but he’d never admit that out loud. As they descended the grand staircase, a few members of the staff stole discreet glances, no doubt surprised to see him in anything resembling formal attire. He gave one of the housekeepers a mock salute as he passed, earning the faintest flicker of amusement in response.

The car waited outside, the driver, as always, stood patiently by the door, giving a polite nod as Archibald and Owl approached.

As Owl slid into the car, he shot his grandfather a sidelong glance. “You really think this is a good idea?”

Archibald settled into his seat. “That depends entirely on your definition of ‘good idea.’”

Owl scoffed. “So, no.”

Archibald gave him a look that was almost amused. “If nothing else, it will be an experience.”

Owl leaned his head back against the seat, exhaling slowly as the car pulled away from the estate. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

As the city lights of Edinburgh flickered in the distance, the weight of the evening settled over Owl. He had agreed to this, not because he wanted to, but because Archibald had done more for him in the past few weeks than anyone had in years. And if putting up with a few hours of polite conversation, expensive champagne, and whatever else these people did at galas was the price to pay, then so be it.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The Signet Library loomed ahead, its grand neoclassical facade illuminated by the warm glow of the evening light. Owl stepped out of the car and followed Archibald up the stone steps. The older man carried himself with the same effortless authority he always did, his posture straight, every movement deliberate. The very image of an untouchable aristocrat, without actually being an aristocrat.

As they stepped into the entrance hall, the sight that greeted Owl made him stop in his tracks, his expression immediately twisting into a scowl.

Standing near the entrance to the main hall was none other than Percival. Unlike Owl and Archibald, who had both adhered to Scottish tradition with their kilts, Percy had opted for a more conventional black-tie look with a tuxedo. His posture was as poised as ever, hands clasped neatly behind his back as he observed the room.

“Oh for fuck‘s sake,” Owl muttered. “You invited him?!”

Archibald did not break his stride. “Naturally.”

Owl shot him a sharp look. “And you didn’t think to mention that?”

“Would you have attended if I had?” Archibald asked.

Owl didn’t need to answer that question.

Percy watched their approach with his usual stoic expression, though Owl knew him well enough to detect the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes.

First Percival politely greeted his Grandfather before turning his attention to his younger brother. “*redacted*,” Percy greeted, his tone maddeningly neutral. “You look…” His gaze flickered downward, stopping at the Converse. “…charming.”

Owl's retort came instantly. “And you, dear brother, look like you’re one deep breath away from popping a button off that overpriced tux.”

Percy’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, but otherwise, he remained composed. “How delightful,” he said dryly, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. “I see you are as insufferable as ever.”

Archibald sighed. “If the two of you are quite finished, we do have an event to attend.”

Owl rolled his eyes but fell into step beside them as they stepped into the grand hall. The Signet Library was bathed in the warm glow of chandeliers, the towering bookshelves lining the walls lending the space an air of old-world sophistication. The crowd was precisely what Owl had expected: aristocrats, politicians, and businessmen, all dressed to perfection, sipping expensive champagne while engaging in conversations that were undoubtedly insufferable and boring.

As they moved on, Owl shot sidelong glance at his brother. “You know,” he said, voice pitched just low enough for Percy to hear, “you look like a Bond villain.”

Percy didn’t even blink. “And you look like an escapee from an indie rock festival.”

Owl grinned. “Good.” But even as the words left his mouth, Owl could feel the tension creeping in. The venue itself was nice. The bookshelves were the kind of thing he could actually appreciate. There was something oddly comforting about being surrounded by books, even if he had no intention of reading a single one. However, with the constant hum of voices, the clinking of crystal glasses, the shifting bodies, the cacophony of stimuli coming in from every direction, it was already becoming hard to handle.

Archibald moved through the room with the ease of someone who belonged, his presence naturally commanding respect. Percy followed with the same level of ease, as if he had been designed in a lab specifically for these kinds of events. Meanwhile, Owl lagged behind, hyper-aware of the way eyes flickered toward him and the whispers that followed in his wake. He caught snippets here and there.

“Archibald’s grandson… the younger one.”

“…unconventional, isn’t he?”

“…heard about his graduation, absolute scandal…”

“…a bit odd that one…”

As they weaved through the crowd, Archibald was soon intercepted by a group of men who, judging by their appearance and demeanor, were the type of people who spent their lives in boardrooms making decisions that affected the world while sipping whisky worth more than most people’s rent. Owl barely paid attention to the introductions. Names, titles, pleasantries, it all blurred together into something distant and meaningless. He needed something to drink. If he had to endure this, he might as well make it a little easier on himself.

“I’m getting a drink,” Owl muttered, more to himself than to anyone in particular. Without waiting for a reaction, he turned on his heel and slipped away.

As Owl maneuvered through the clusters of finely dressed guests, he could feel the occasional flicker of attention on him, sometimes curious, sometimes judgmental, and a few times just outright disapproving. He ignored them, zeroing in on the bar at the far side of the room. It was a grand thing, manned by bartenders who looked like they had been personally selected for their ability to mix expensive drinks and pretend not to notice the affairs and scandals unfolding around them.

Owl leaned against the bar, waiting for the bartender to notice him. The man was currently engaged in polite conversation with an older gentleman nursing a neat whisky. When the bartender finally turned to Owl, his polite professionalism faltered for just a fraction of a second as he took in Owl’s appearance: kilt, Converse, rolled up sleeves revealing the faded remnants of bruises that hadn’t fully healed yet. The brief hesitation was barely noticeable, but Owl caught it.

“What can I get you, sir?” the bartender asked, his tone carefully neutral.

“Vodka Red Bull,” Owl said without hesitation.

There was a pause. A small, barely perceptible pause, but once again Owl noticed. Owl arched a brow, offering the bartender a lazy smirk. “What? Not classy enough for this fine establishment?”

The bartender recovered quickly, reaching for a glass. “Not at all, sir. Just an uncommon choice for the evening.”

“Yeah, well,” Owl shrugged. “I don’t exactly fit the demographic, do I?”

The bartender didn’t respond, simply pouring the vodka into the glass before reaching for the can of Red Bull. The older gentleman at the bar, gave Owl a slow once-over before scoffing quietly and turning his attention back to his drink. He probably thought vodka Red Bull was a crime against the sanctity of alcohol. Owl bit back the urge to say something.

Finally the bartender slid the drink toward him. “Your drink, sir.

Owl grabbed it, took a long sip, turned slightly, and leaned against the bar and letting his gaze drift across the room. Archibald was still engaged in whatever conversation was far too important for someone like Owl to be included in. Percy was nowhere to be seen.

Owl tried to remind himself why he was here. Archibald had done more for him in the past few months than anyone else ever had. This was Owl's way of showing gratitude. His way of proving that he could, for once, be what someone needed him to be without screwing it up. And yet, every whispered comment that drifted his way, every sidelong glance that lingered too long, chipped away at the fragile composure he was desperately trying to hold onto.

Owl didn’t belong here. He knew it and everyone else knew it too. The worst part was that, for a second, he thought maybe he could handle it. That he could play the part, wear the kilt, smile politely, and pretend he wasn’t constantly two seconds away from losing his shit. But he couldn’t. He didn’t know how to be here.

Owl cast another glance toward Archibald, still perfectly at ease, effortlessly charming the room, commanding respect without even trying.

I’m here for him.

The thought didn’t help. Owl swallowed the rest of his drink in one go, set the glass down and ordered another one.

He felt the presence before he saw it, that particular brand of carefully measured silence that only his brother could manage. Percy came to a stop beside him, glancing briefly at the drink in Owl’s hand, then at the empty glass next to it. He didn’t comment. Not yet.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Percy said finally, voice carefully neutral.

Owl didn’t bother looking at him. He took another slow sip, eyes still fixed on the swirling mass of people. “Likewise.”

“And grandfather didn’t have to force you?”

“Nope.”

“That’s… surprising.”

Owl huffed. “What, you think I came here to poison someone’s drink or set the place on fire?”

Percy almost smiled. “The thought has crossed my mind.”

Owl snorted. “Relax. I’m not here to ruin anything. Just playing the part.”

Percy studied him for a long moment, “You hate these things.”

Owl shrugged. “Yeah, well. He asked.”

Percy’s brow furrowed just slightly. “And you actually said yes.”

Owl’s fingers drummed restlessly against the bar. “Don’t make it a thing. I am just trying to show some gratitude.”

Percy’s gaze softened a fraction. “I’m just, well, surprised.”

Owl sighed. “Yeah me too.”

For a moment, they stood in silence. Percy’s eyes lingered on his brother, truly taking him in: the kilt, the scuffed Converse, the awkward yet genuine effort to be present. It wasn’t the chaos incarnate he was used to wrangling. It was something else. Something unfamiliar. It was a version of Owl he rarely saw: someone making an effort. Someone trying. And it struck him more deeply than he expected.

“You could have just declined the invitation,” Percy said, his tone lacking its usual sharpness.

Owl shrugged, his fingers absently tracing the rim of his glass. “Yeah, well. He’s done a lot for me. Figured I could manage one night without burning the place down.” He offered a wry smile but there was sincerity beneath it.

“I think,” Percy began, “he’s proud of you.”

Owl blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Grandfather,” Percy clarified. “I think he’s proud. He wouldn’t have asked you to come otherwise. And for what it‘s worth, I'm proud too."

Owl stared at Percy, trying to figure out what game he was playing. Percy didn’t do this. Percy didn't do nice like this. It was deeply unsettling. “Okay. Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”

Percy’s mouth twitched into something that almost resembled a smirk. “I’m capable of sincerity on occasion.”

“That’s what worries me,” Owl muttered, eyes narrowing. "Seriously, though. What is this? Some weird covert attempt to lure me into emotional vulnerability so you can later use it against me?”

Percy gave a quiet sigh. “Believe it or not, I’m just telling you the truth.”

Owl exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to do with this version of you.”

“Don't get used to it.”

Owl gave him a skeptical look. “You’re not going to start hugging me or anything, are you?”

Percy actually laughed. “God, no.”

As quickly as it had come, the moment of levity passed, and they both fell back into their default states of mild exasperation with each other.

Percy straightened his cuffs, glancing around the room. “Though I do recommend you attempt to mingle.”

Owl stared out across the sea of polished smiles and effortless conversations again. The thought of 'mingling' alone made his skin itch. Mingling meant small talk. Small talk meant following a script he didn’t understand, responding with facial expressions he had to consciously arrange on his face like pieces on a chessboard. It meant smiling at the right moments, nodding just enough to seem engaged, asking the right meaningless questions. All while making sure his tone wasn’t too flat, or his gaze too intense, or his posture too stiff.

“Yeah no, not happening.” Owl eventually replied with a shrug, turning back to the bar, as if it might offer him sanctuary.

Percy sighed softly, resting his forearms on the bar beside Owl. “You do realize the point of coming to these things is to be seen, don’t you?”

“I’m here. People can see me just fine.”

“Hiding at the bar doesn’t count.”

“I’m not hiding,” Owl said, though they both knew that was a lie. “I’m… strategically observing.”

Percy huffed a laugh. “Right. Observing.”

Owl didn’t respond. He was about to make some half-hearted quip, maybe something about writing a thesis on the mating habits of rich people in their natural habitat but then he saw it and his body went rigid.

There, stepping through the grand arched entryway as though he owned the place, because he always behaved as though he did, was Bartholomew. Dressed in a custom-tailored tuxedo that was almost a mirror image of Percy’s.

Owl’s breath caught in his throat. The din of conversation faded into a muted buzz. His vision tunneled, focusing only on that singular figure moving through the crowd, shaking hands, exchanging greetings, all of it so smooth, so perfect. Bartholomew wasn’t supposed to be here. Archibald had said he wouldn’t come.

“*redacted*?” Percy’s voice cut through the static. Owl couldn’t answer. He could barely breathe. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

Bartholomew’s gaze swept lazily across the room and then it landed on Owl. For just a moment, their eyes locked. And Bartholomew smiled. Not warm. Not polite. It was cold, knowing, subtle. A smile that promised nothing good. His presence wasn’t just arrogance. It was a move on the board. A deliberate, calculated reminder that he could go wherever he pleased, whenever he pleased, and no one could stop him.

“He wasn’t supposed to be here.”, Owl whispered. His eyes stayed locked on his father as he took his time crossing the grand hall, pausing here and there to exchange pleasantries. No one questioned his presence. No one dared. The whispers that followed him were not born of surprise but respect, admiration and probably fear.

Archibald of course had noticed Bartholomew the moment he arrived. He knew exactly what this was. Bartholomew had not come for the company, for the influence or for the gala’s social posturing. He was here for one reason and one reason only: to remind Archibald and Owl that control was still his to wield. However Archibald had spent a lifetime mastering this game. A public spectacle would not happen. After all reputation mattered and both Archibald and Bartholomew were counting on that.

Across the room, Bartholomew exchanged one final handshake and then began making his way toward Owl and Percy. But before he could quite reach his sons, Archibald intercepted.

“Bartholomew,” Archibald greeted smoothly, his voice a perfect balance of civility and warning.

“Father,” Bartholomew returned, all silk and poison. “I trust I’m not intruding.”

“I wasn’t aware you would be attending,” Archibald continued, tone still polite.

Bartholomew smiled faintly. “Last-minute change of plans.” He gestured broadly, as if to encompass the grand hall. As he did, his gaze flickered past Archibald, briefly landing on Owl before returning. “I couldn’t miss such a fine gathering, could I?”

Archibald’s gaze never wavered. “Of course.”

Their exchange was perfectly civil on the surface, every word carefully measured, but the tension underneath was palpable if you knew better.

Bartholomew’s smile widened just enough to be seen by those lingering nearby. “Of course, beyond the business and the politics, I find myself here for something far more meaningful.” His gaze flicked between Archibald and, pointedly, toward where Owl and Percy stood by the bar. “Family.” He let the word linger in the air, warm enough to fool anyone who didn’t know him. His tone was smooth, charming, threaded with just enough sincerity to sell the performance to any casual observer. “It’s such a rare occasion, isn’t it? To have us all together under one roof. These moments are precious.”

Archibald inclined his head slightly, smiling politely. “We are fortunate indeed.” He knew exactly what Bartholomew was doing, the play was too obvious. If Archibald showed even the slightest hint of disapproval or hostility, Bartholomew would only need to appear confused, hurt even, and the narrative would write itself: a loyal son, only wishing to honour family, met with unwarranted hostility from his aging father. A perfect scandal.

Bartholomew reached for a glass from a passing waiter’s tray, raising it in an elegant toast. “To family,” Bartholomew said smoothly, his gaze locking onto Archibald.

Archibald raised his own glass. “To family.”

The clinking of glass was followed by murmurs of agreement from those within earshot. It was a picture-perfect moment. All civility and charm on the surface, with venom lurking beneath.

The second Bartholomew’s glass met Archibald’s, Owl moved. Nobody noticed. No one cared. Everyone‘s attention was fixed on the power play unfolding between the two titans.

Owl made a beeline for the restroom. He didn’t stop at the sinks or the mirrors. He kept walking until he reached the last stall, pushed the door open, stepped inside, and locked it behind him. Be pressed his back against the door and he slid down until he was sitting on the cold tile floor, knees pulled up tight against his chest.

For a while, Owl just sat there. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, willing himself to get a grip. This is exactly what he wants. Bartholomew wanted him to fall apart. To run. To crumble. To be weak and predictable. Yeah fuck that. He reached into the inside pocket of his vest, fishing out a tiny plastic bag he hadn’t planned to use tonight. But emergencies were emergencies and this? This definitely qualified.

But Owl hesitated. He just stared at the pills in his hands for a while before he shoved them back into the pocket. Then, with a sigh, he pushed himself back to his feet, unlocked the stall and stepped back out into the brightly lit bathroom. Owl squared his shoulders, took one more steadying breath, and walked out of the restroom as if he hadn’t just fallen apart behind a locked door.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Owl had barely taken three steps toward the bar when Bartholomew appeared at his side like a shadow. “*redacted*,” his father drawled, voice soft and warm enough to fool the world, but Owl knew better.

Owl didn’t stop and just kept moving towards the bar. Bartholomew matched his pace, the perfect image of a caring father catching up with his wayward son. To anyone watching, it would have looked almost affectionate.

“I was beginning to think you were avoiding me,” Bartholomew murmured, keeping his voice low.

Owl’s mouth curled into a lazy smirk. “Well, you know me. Always busy. Places to be, drinks to drink, people to horrify.”

Bartholomew chuckled. “Still hiding behind your little performances.”

Owl finally stopped at the bar, resting his elbows on the polished wood. He didn’t look at his father. “And you’re still pretending anyone’s impressed by yours.”

Bartholomew’s smile didn’t falter. “Careful now.”

Owl finally turned to face his father, meeting his gaze. His heart was racing, his body flooded with adrenaline. “I’m not the one who has to be,” Owl said quietly taking a deliberate step closer. “What are you gonna do? Hit me? Right here? In front of all these people? Go on. I dare you. I‘ve got nothing to lose here. You on the other hand do.“

“You think hiding behind your grandfather will protect you forever?” Bartholomew’s voice was silk and steel. He reached out, placing a hand on Owl’s shoulder. A perfectly innocent gesture for anyone watching. But his fingers tightened just enough to hurt. “Eventually, he won’t be here to shield you. And when that day comes, *redacted*, you’ll have to answer for everything once and for all.”

Owl didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he smiled. Slow. Cold. Calculated. A smile that didn’t belong on his face, one that felt borrowed from someone else entirely, yet in this moment it fit him perfectly. Bartholomew’s grip on Owl‘s shoulder tightened by a fraction, just enough to register surprise and unease as the pieces shifted unexpectedly on the board.

Owl leaned in, his voice soft and deliberate. “You think I’m afraid of you,” he said, the words almost tender in their delivery. “Maybe I am but the truth is, you should be afraid of me too. Because the difference between us is that you still have things to lose. Your reputation. Your empire. Your carefully curated legacy.” Owl‘a smile widened. “I’ve got none of that. I‘ve got nothing left to lose.”

Bartholomew’s jaw tightened. Barely. A flicker in his otherwise perfect facade. Owl saw it, and it fed something vicious inside him. “You don’t get to win just because you’ve always been the biggest monster in the room,” Owl continued.

Bartholomew’s eyes narrowed. “This bravado doesn’t suit you.”

Owl chuckled. “That’s the thing. It’s not bravado. I’m just done pretending you’re a god I have to worship or fear.” He took another step forward, so he was close enough to whisper into his father‘s ear. “And I swear to you, if you ever lay a hand on me again, public or private, I will destroy you and everything you ever cared about. That‘s a promise.”

Bartholomew didn’t move. His grip on Owl’s shoulder didn’t tighten further but it didn’t release either. For a long, loaded second, the two of them stood there frozen in place. There was a flicker of something in Bartholomew's eyes. It wasn’t fear but it wasn’t the smug certainty he usually carried either. For the first time, he didn't see his son as just a failure, a pawn, or a mere inconvenience but as a potential threat. He was used to Owl's outbursts: loud, messy, emotional displays that could be dismissed as youthful defiance or the product of a self-destructive spiral, dangerous in their unpredictability, yes, but never truly threatening. Not in a way that mattered. However this was different. The voice that had just whispered into his ear wasn’t trembling. It wasn’t wild or erratic. It was steady. Cold. Measured. It lacked the usual emotional edge that made Owl so easy to provoke. There was no desperation in it, just intent. And that was what made it dangerous.

Finally Bartholomew slowly pulled his hand back from Owl’s shoulder, straightening his jacket, almost like he was buying time. For a moment he studied Owl like one might study an animal they thought they understood, only to suddenly realize it had grown teeth while they weren’t paying attention. Then, in a sudden shift, Bartholomew’s expression smoothed over and his usual mask slid back into place. He took half a step back, adjusted the cuffs of his tuxedo as if nothing had happened.

“You’re playing a game you don’t understand,” Bartholomew said at last, but the words lacked their usual weight. They sounded more like a reminder to himself than a threat.

Owl didn’t back down. “Wanna bet?,” he said softly, "I've been learning from the best after all."

“You’ve changed.” There was no amusement in it. No mockery. Just observation. Bartholomew had expected Owl to break. To run. To crumble and beg or lash out like a cornered animal. But instead, he was met with this and whatever it was, was horrifyingly familiar.

Owl tilted his head slightly, the smirk never leaving his face. “No. You just never bothered to get to know me in the first place.”

There was no answer. Bartholomew just gave a final nod, turned and walked away.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

From across the room, Archibald observed the entire interaction like a chess player watching pieces move across the board. Archibald had known, the moment Bartholomew stepped through the doors of the Signet Library, that the evening would take a turn. Bartholomew’s presence had been a calculated move, a provocation disguised in formality. The man had always known how to weaponize moments like these. But what Archibald had not expected was the way Owl responded. Not with panic. Not with retreat. But with something else.

Archibald had seen many things in his life. He had known powerful men, arrogant ones, reckless ones. He had seen them falter under pressure and legacies crumble beneath the weight of incompetence and sentimentality. And while he had always believed Owl possessed potential, as untapped and wild as it was, he had not quite realized the extent to which that potential had already crystallized until now.

There, in the middle of the gala, surrounded by people who would never understand the true stakes of what had just occurred, his grandson had not merely stood his ground. He had turned the board. For the first time in his life, Owl had seized control and left Bartholomew not victorious, not gloating but unsettled. And it hadn't come from a rival executive or from a political adversary, but from the boy Bartholomew had spent years dismissing as weak, unstable, useless and broken. To Archibald the irony was both amusing and deeply satisfying.

Archibald felt something rare stir in his chest. Pride and the quiet recognition of seeing something take root where once there had only been chaos, that Owl had finally begun to understand what it meant to wield power. He had brought Owl here tonight as a gesture, a show of trust. He had been prepared for the possibility of Owl unraveling especially after Bartholomew's arrival. But instead, he had watched him transform.

You’re a one of us after all, Archibald thought, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Percival had watched Owl return from the restroom with the same casual defiance he always wore like armour. The moment Bartholomew emerged from the crowd, Percy had already started to move, ready to intercept before things escalated. But he stopped in his tracks. He had expected the spiral, the usual pattern he knew all to well: Owl lashing out like a cornered animal, his emotions getting the better of him. Defiance and anger followed by retreat. Always predictable. Always reactive. However, today was different. No raised voice. No wide-eyed panic. No dramatic scene for the public to consume like carrion. His brother stood his ground. Percy watched with growing astonishment as Owl held his father’s gaze. How Owl didn’t flinch when Bartholomew touched his shoulder, a gesture clearly chosen to remind Owl of his place. How Owl met it with a smile that Percy had never seen on his brother before. Not mocking. Not manic. Something else entirely. It was calculated and controlled.

And Percy watched how Bartholomew hesitated. It was slight. Barely perceptible. A microsecond of stillness where his control slipped just enough to let a sliver of uncertainty bleed through. Percy recognized that particular brand of unease in their father. It was what he looked like when someone moved a piece on the board he hadn’t accounted for. And for the first time in years, Percy didn’t feel the overwhelming urge to intervene.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

What the fuck just happened?

Owl stood frozen for a few seconds, just watching his father walk away, retreating into the crowd like nothing had happened.

It was like something in Owl's head had finally clicked into place. A switch he hadn’t known existed. He had always been reactive, volatile and impulsive. But that exchange hadn’t been a reaction. It had been a move. Deliberate. Controlled. Tactical. Owl had known exactly what to say and exactly how to say it.

Owl turned slowly, gaze flickering toward the center of the room. Archibald was watching him from across the hall. Their eyes met briefly, and in that glance, Owl saw something he hadn’t seen before. Approval? Recognition? Maybe even pride? Owl knew that part of what had just happened was Archibald’s doing. Every cryptic lesson. Every time he’d challenged Owl to think over the past few weeks. Archibald had taught him not just how to survive but how to play.

With a satisfied little smirk, Owl finally turned back toward the bar, signaled the bartender and ordered another Vodka Red Bull. A moment later, Percy appeared at Owl's side. He didn’t say anything at first, his gaze lingering for a second on the fresh drink being pushed across the bar towards Owl. “You know,” Percy finally broke the silence, “there are other coping mechanisms. Ones that don’t come in a highball glass and taste like battery acid.”

Owl gave a short, amused snort. “Yeah, well. Those don’t usually kick in fast enough.”

Percy’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned against the bar and glanced sideways at Owl. “So. What the hell was that? I’ve never seen him look at you like that before.”

Owl hummed, and took a sip of his drink. “That makes two of us.”

“You scared him.” Percy added.

Owl turned his glass slowly in his hands, watching the condensation bead down the sides before flashing Percy a smug grin. “Yeah,” Owl said, almost gleeful. “I did, didn’t I?”

Percy’s brows drew together, the faintest crease forming between them. “You’re enjoying this,” he said, not quite accusatory but not approving either.

Owl shrugged. “A little,” he admitted, taking another sip. “Okay, a lot. Come on, can you really blame me?”

Percy didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted back toward the crowd, where their father had seamlessly resumed his charade, He glanced back at Owl, who was still basking in the aftermath of the confrontation like a cat that had just knocked over a priceless vase and dared someone to complain.

“You acted like him,” Percy said quietly.

Owl’s smirk faded just a fraction of a second. “Excuse me?”

Percy didn’t flinch. “The way you spoke. The way you looked at him. You mirrored him.”

Owl set his drink down with a faint clink. “So what? Maybe it's time someone gave him a taste of his own medicine.”

“I didn’t say it was wrong,” Percy said, expression unreadable. "I was just stating a fact."

Owl let out a dry laugh. “Right. Just a fact. Not, you know, subtle judgment wrapped in brotherly concern.”

Percy gave him a sidelong glance. “It’s unsettling. That’s all.”

“What is?”

Percy hesitated. “Seeing pieces of him in you.”

Owl just gave a humourless little laugh and picked his drink back up. “Yeah, well. Genetics are a bitch.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense, but it wasn’t comfortable either. Percy’s mouth opened like he was about to say something but then thought better of it. They both just stood there, neither of them wanting to continue that particular minefield of a discussion. Before Percy or Owl could pivot the topic back to safer ground, a voice behind them called out Percy's name. Owl watched as three people approached: two men in expensive suits and a woman in a navy-blue dress. All of them with the unmistakeable air of old money and inherited status.

“Percival,” the woman greeted with a polite smile, paying no attention to Owl at all. “We were hoping to steal you away for a moment.”

“Of course,” Percy said smoothly, seamlessly shifting back into his usual persona.

His eyes briefly flicked to Owl, who just shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”

And just like that, Owl was alone again.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The evening wore on and on and on, seemingly with no end. Owl was nursing what had to be his fourth or fifth Vodka Red Bull in a quiet corner of the library, partially shielded by a grand bookcase. No one seemed to notice him there or if they did, they politely pretended not to.

Owl's gaze drifted through the crowd, catching glimpses of Archibald and Percy in their natural habitats. Archibald was surrounded by a circle of men in expensive suits and large egos. Percy, ever the golden boy, drifted from one cluster of guests to another, delivering polite smiles like party favours.

Bartholomew moved through the space as unbothered and regal as ever. He didn't approach Owl or Archibald again, but he spoke with Percy multiple times. Always brief, always quiet. It looked perfectly fatherly, intimate even. Owl could only guess what kind of bullshit he was whispering into his brother's ear. Nevertheless, Percy remained perfectly composed.

At one point, someone tried to engage Owl in a conversation. It was a older woman in an emerald silk gown Owl didn't recognize. She introduced herself with a last name that sounded like it belonged on a wing of the British Museum and made a polite comment about his kilt. Owl gave her a mischievous smirk and replied, “If you’re looking for someone with ambition and a trust fund, you want the other one,” jerking a thumb in Percy’s general direction. She laughed awkwardly and excused herself with impressive speed.

Finally, the evening seemed to be approaching it's end. Speeches were given, all of them long, self-congratulatory, and full of empty platitudes. Applause followed. Owl didn’t listen to any of it. He just watched the crowd and counted the seconds until it was finally time to leave.

When the last speech ended and the final applause faded, the crowd began to disperse. People began to move towards the exits, some of them lingering just long enough to exchange some last-minute pleasantries. Owl spotted Archibald near one of the tall arched windows, speaking with an older man. Percy wasn't far away, engaged with a pair of middle aged women who seemed far too interested in every word that left his mouth.

Owl pushed off from the bookcase he’d been leaning against and made his way toward his grandfather. Archibald noticed him instantly, his eyes flicking briefly toward Owl before returning to the man he was speaking with. He politely but quickly concluded the conversation, before turning fully to his grandson. “Ready?”

Owl nodded once. “Beyond.”

“Where’s Percy?” Archibald asked, scanning the thinning crowd.

“Over there,” Owl said, jerking his chin toward the now-diminishing huddle of admirers still orbiting his brother.

Archibald didn’t call out. He didn’t need to. As if on cue, Percy looked up, met his gaze, and offered a quick nod of acknowledgement before excusing himself from the conversation and making his way over.

The three of them fell into step and moved through the crowd with unintentional synchronicity. Outside the car was already waiting as the library doors closed behind them.

#call of duty #call of duty oc #my ocs #oc rp #original character #task force 141 #tf 141

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callsign-owl · 2 months ago

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Edinburgh - Part 5

This is a continuation of Edinburgh Part 4

Edinburgh, Scotland - July 2008

The soft rustle of paper was the only sound that disturbed the comfortable silence in the study. Archibald sat at his desk, meticulously reviewing the details of several properties in Lucerne. Across from him, Owl slouched in one of the leather armchairs, staring at the ceiling, still trying to wrap his head around the entire situation.

His own place. An actual apartment. It was a strange thought, surreal even. For so long, his life had constantly been dictated by other people, leaving him with little room to make his own choices. And now, for the first time, he had been given something that was just his. No strings attached, no suffocating conditions, no elaborate game of control like his father likes to play. Just a place. A fresh start.

Owl‘s fingers drummed absentmindedly against the armrest of the chair. “So,” Owl finally said, tilting his head to look at Archibald. “When you said you were looking for an apartment, I figured you meant, you know, rent. Not outright buying the place.”

Archibald didn’t even glance up from the folder in front of him. “Renting is an inefficient long-term investment,” he replied smoothly, flipping to another page. “A purchased property provides stability. And I expect you to have stability, *redacted*.”

Owl let out a quiet huff, shaking his head slightly. Of course Archibald had a pragmatic, almost clinical reasoning behind it. “Right. Stability.” He let the word roll off his tongue like it was some foreign concept. “And this isn’t, I don’t know, some elaborate bribe to make sure I don’t crash and burn spectacularly?”

Archibald finally looked up then, his eyes locking onto Owl’s. “If I wished to manipulate you, *redacted*, I would be far more subtle about it.”

Owl snorted. Fair enough.

Archibald leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers as he studied his grandson. “I did not offer this to you as a means of control. I offered it because I believe you require a proper foundation to move forward. A stable environment where you can begin to shape your future on your own terms. Whether you choose to make use of that opportunity or squander it is entirely up to you.”

Owl shifted uncomfortably. The weight of those words settled in his chest in a way he wasn’t sure how to deal with. He wasn’t used to this, this kind of trust, this kind of autonomy. It was a lot. He exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “And we will fully furnish it, you said?” he asked, more to distract himself than anything.

“Yes. I will ensure that the selected property will be adequately equipped with everything you will require.” Archibald gestured toward the folder on his desk. “You may review the options and decide which best suits your preferences.”

Owl hesitated before leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he scanned the neatly arranged documents. Most of the photos and descriptions were of absurdly polished high end apartments with scenic views overlooking the city or the lake. It felt too refined for him. Too put-together. Like something a functional adult would have, rather than a walking disaster like himself. “These feel like the kind of places where people actually have their shit together,” Owl muttered, mostly to himself.

Archibald merely arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps it is time you consider the possibility that you could be one of those people.”

Owl let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Yea sure.”

Archibald didn’t argue the point. He simply pushed the folder a little closer to Owl. “Regardless, the decision is yours. Take your time.”

Owl didn’t need time. He already knew what he wanted.

He flipped through the pages with a deliberate slowness, but his mind had already settled on the one that had caught his attention the moment he saw it. Unlike the other polished, high-end properties Archibald had selected, this one stood out. It modest compared to the other listings, and notably lacking the luxury that defined the rest. It was the smallest of the lot, tucked away on the top floor of an elegant, older building, its architecture exuding quiet character rather than sterile perfection. The place had history, it had personality, hinting at a bygone era. It wasn’t pristine, wasn’t showy. It was perfect.

Owl slid the page out of the folder and tapped it against the desk. “This one.”

Archibald took the paper, scanning the details once more before nodding slightly. “A sensible choice,” he remarked.

Owl leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “You sound like you disapprove.”

“I would not have included it if I disapproved,” Archibald replied, setting the paper aside. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Owl slouched further into one of the library’s sofas, his laptop balanced precariously on his stomach. His fingers hovered over the trackpad, aimlessly scrolling through yet another list titled “Everything You Need to Furnish Your First Apartment”, his expression shifting from mild frustration to outright despair

He had been at this for days. Archibald had given him the task of selecting furniture, probably under the assumption that Owl was capable of making basic decisions about his own living space. Clearly, his grandfather had overestimated him.

Bed, desk, table, chairs, wardrobe, bookshelf, those had been straight forward. But then the lists had started. Owl had naively thought that once the big stuff was out of the way, he’d be done. But no. Every website, every article, every condescendingly cheerful home blog insisted he needed a million other things, things he had never even considered.

Pots, pans, plates, utensils, fine, that made some sense. At least if you intended to cook like a normal human being. But then there were things he had would have never thought about. How the fuck did people know how to do this? His frustration bubbled over as he glared at an absurdly pristine stock image of a “starter apartment,” filled with colour-coordinated furniture, decorative vases, and a pointless ladder leaning against a wall for no discernible reason.

Owl slammed the laptop shut with a sharp thud and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Fucking bullshit,” he muttered to himself.

“You are overcomplicating the process.”

Owl cracked an eye open, finding his grandfather standing near one of the bookshelves,

“I am not overcomplicating it,” Owl grumbled. “There’s just too much shit to think about. This is ridiculous.”

Archibald hummed, stepping closer with the air of someone preparing to fix an inevitable mess. He reached for Owl’s laptop and flipped it open. The screen blinked back to life, revealing the mess of tabs Owl had abandoned: furniture guides, kitchenware breakdowns, somehow three separate articles on why rugs were a “fundamental part of any living space.”

Archibald scanned the chaos before glancing at Owl, one eyebrow raising in quiet amusement. “You’ve managed to make furniture shopping look like a existential crisis.”

Owl threw his arms up. “Because it is!” He gestured wildly at the screen. “Look at this! I started with ‘buy a bed’ and now I’m reading about fucking Feng Shui and whether or not my living room needs an accent chair! What the fuck is an accent chair? Why does it exist?”

Archibald sighed and shut the laptop again. “Enough of this.” He gestured for Owl to sit up properly.

Owl hesitated before begrudgingly pulling himself into a sitting position. Archibald sat down in the armchair opposite Owl. “The problem is that you are attempting to approach this with the same mentality as you would an exam. You are treating it as if there is a singular correct answer, a definitive list that must be followed.” Archibald leaned back in his chair. “This is not about passing or failing. There is no right or wrong way to do this. It is about determining what you require. Not what a checklist tells you. Not what is traditionally expected. But what will make your space functional for you.”

Owl scowled, sinking further into the sofa. “That’s the problem. I don’t know what I need. I don‘t know where the hell am I supposed to start. Every time I think I’ve figured out something basic, I end up down a fucking rabbit hole of options and decisions I didn’t even know I had to make.” Owl let his head fall back against the cushions, exhaling sharply. “Can’t you just pick for me? Or at least tell me what to do?”

At that, something flickered in Archibald’s expression, the faintest trace of amusement. “You,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “who have built your entire existence around defying authority, now wish for me to make decisions on your behalf?”

Owl made a frustrated noise. “Thats different.”

“Is it?” Archibald leaned forward slightly. “From where I stand, it seems remarkably similar. However, I do understand.” His gaze settled on Owl with something bordering on sympathy. “You are overwhelmed. Not because you lack the intelligence to make these decisions, but because you often approach problems from the bottom up rather than the top down.“

Owl frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you fixate on details before looking at the broader picture.” Archibald explained.

“Okay, but how the hell else am I supposed to figure it out? I’ve never furnished an apartment before. I didn’t exactly take Home Essentials 101 at boarding school.“

Archibald watched Owl with his usual quiet scrutiny. “You were excited about this at first, were you not?”

Owl tensed, immediately defensive. “I mean, yeah,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “But then it turned into this giant nightmare of decisions, and now I just want it to be done."

Archibald studied him for a moment longer before nodding slightly, as if he had expected this answer. “Then perhaps it is time to reassess your approach.” He closed the laptop with an air of finality.

“I mean,” Owl suddenly had an idea, “I could also just steal some of your furniture.”

Archibald raised a single brow, entirely unimpressed. “Steal?”

Owl grinned, some of his usual mischief creeping back in. “Borrow, indefinitely. Relocate. Whatever makes you feel better.” He stretched his arms out dramatically. “Come on, you’ve got this whole estate filled with fancy old furniture you don’t even use. I’m sure you wouldn’t miss a chair or two.”

Archibald sighed, the kind of long-suffering sigh that only Owl seemed capable of pulling out of him. “And what, pray tell, do you intend to do? Smuggle an antique writing desk onto the train to Switzerland?”

Owl’s grin widened. “Don’t underestimate me.”

Archibald regarded him for a long moment before exhaling, his expression shifting just enough to betray the faintest trace of amusement. “If there is something here you wish to take, I suggest you make a list, and I will arrange for proper transport. That would be far less ridiculous than whatever ill-conceived plan you were about to concoct.”

Owl blinked. That was not the response he had expected. He had been half-joking, trying to push past his own frustration, and now Archibald was seriously offering to let him take furniture from the estate. “Wait, you’re actually letting me do this?“

“Would you rather return to your exhaustive internet searches?” Archibald asked mildly.

Owl scoffed. “No, I’m just -” He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just weird. People don’t normally just give me things without a catch.”

Archibald gave him a pointed look. “I am not Bartholomew.”

The words settled between them, heavier than Owl expected. He shifted uncomfortably, looking away for a second. “Yeah. I know.”

A pause. Then, Archibald gestured toward the doorway. “Come. If you are going to insist on furnishing your apartment with my belongings, I would rather you select with care than abscond with whatever you find first.“

Owl let out a short laugh, pushing himself to his feet. “Fine. But if I take one of the fancy armchairs from the library, you can’t complain.”

Archibald shook his head, already walking toward the hall. “I would expect nothing less.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The vast corridors of the estate were lined with an eclectic mix of antiques and heirlooms, each piece carrying its own quiet history. Owl trailed behind Archibald, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, as they browsed through the various rooms filled with furniture and artifacts that had been accumulated over generations. Some of it was grand, opulent in that distinctly old-money way, while other pieces were more understated, practical, well-worn, and lived-in.

Archibald inspected a writing desk near the window, fingers tracing along the edge. “This would do well in your study, should you choose to have one.”

Owl eyed it with a skeptical frown. “Bit formal, don’t you think?”

“Better than working hunched over a kitchen counter,” Archibald remarked. “I assume you will need a proper workspace for your studies, unless you intend to submit your assignments written on the backs of takeaway menus.”

Owl snorted but didn’t argue.

They continued on, strolling through the estate at a leisurely pace, stopping now and then whenever Owl found something that didn’t make him feel like he was about to inherit a family estate of his own. A comfortable, well-worn armchair from one of the smaller sitting rooms. A set of shelves that weren’t ostentatiously carved with unnecessary embellishments. Slowly, a list was forming.

And then, as they passed into another hallway lined with paintings of long-dead ancestors who all looked equally unamused, Archibald spoke again. “There is a charity gala next week,” he said, tone casual, as though he were discussing the weather. “I have been invited. I would like you to accompany me.”

Owl stopped in his tracks.

He turned his head slowly, narrowing his eyes as if trying to figure out if he had misheard. “You want me to go to a gala with you?”

Archibald, ever composed, didn’t even glance at him. “That is what I said, yes.”

Owl let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Yeah, no. Absolutely not.”

“Your father will not be in attendance.” Archibald added, preempting the question already forming in Owl’s mind

Owl blinked, his throat tight. “You’re sure?”

“I confirmed it personally.” Archibald’s voice held no room for doubt.

Owl hesitated. His instinct was to argue, to tell Archibald he was wrong, that his father had a way of being everywhere, always lurking just out of sight, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. But if Archibald said Bartholomew wouldn’t be there, then maybe he was right. Still, the thought of walking into a gala of all things made his skin crawl. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Yeah, well, my answer’s still no.”

Archibald tilted his head slightly, regarding him with that infuriatingly calm expression. “And why is that?”

Owl scoffed. “Seriously? You know how I feel about those things.”

“Yes,” Archibald acknowledged, “but I would still like to hear you articulate it.”

Owl groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “Because they suck. Because they’re full of pretentious people in overpriced suits talking about things I don’t care about. Because I’d rather stick my head in a bucket of ice than have to smile and pretend I give a shit about what some billionaire thinks about the state of the economy. Take your pick.”

Archibald exhaled through his nose, the closest thing he ever came to outright amusement. “An eloquent assessment, as always.”

Owl rolled his eyes. “Glad you think so.”

Archibald studied him for a moment longer before simply saying, “Nevertheless, I would like you to consider it.”

Owl let out a laugh. “Oh, I have considered it. And I’m saying no.”

Archibald was undeterred. “It is merely an evening. One that would require nothing from you other than basic decorum. I will handle the rest.”

Owl squinted at him. “And why do you even want me there?”

Archibald met his gaze evenly. “Because you are my grandson and I enjoy your company.”

That threw Owl off more than anything else. He frowned slightly, studying his grandfather with open suspicion. “Thats it?”

Archibald inclined his head. “Yes.”

Owl hesitated. He had been expecting an argument, a list of reasons why attending was necessary for some practical purpose. But Archibald had flipped the script on him.

Archibald sighed, recognizing the hesitation in Owl’s expression. “I will not force you,” he said simply. “But I will ask that you give it proper thought.”

“I don’t exactly have the wardrobe for a gala,” Owl said after a pause.

Archibald merely nodded, as if he had already accounted for this. “That problem can easily be solved.” Of course, it could.

Owl let out a slow breath, rubbing his temples. “…Fine. I’ll think about it.”

Archibald nodded. “That is all I ask.”

Owl shook his head, muttering under his breath as he turned back toward the hallway. “I swear, you Jedi mind-trick me more than anyone I’ve ever met…”

Continue reading here

#call of duty #call of duty oc #my ocs #oc rp #original character #task force 141 #tf 141

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callsign-owl · 2 months ago

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Edinburgh - Part 4

This is a continuation of Edinburgh Part 3

Edinburgh, Scotland - July 2008

The morning sun filtered through the thick curtains of Owl’s room, painting long golden streaks across the polished wooden floor. Dust motes drifted lazily in the warm light, undisturbed by movement. The entire room was still, save for the slow, steady rise and fall of Owl’s breathing.

He was awake. Had been for hours. But he hadn’t moved. He lay flat on his back, one arm draped over his face, shielding his eyes from the unwelcome intrusion of daylight. His shoulder still throbbed with a dull, relentless pain, a lingering souvenir of last night’s encounter.

Breakfast was happening downstairs but Owl had no intention of going. Not today. Not after last night. Not while Bartholomew was still here. The thought made his skin crawl.

A knock at the door made Owl flinch. He forced himself to remain still. If he pretended to be asleep, maybe whoever it was would leave.

A pause. Then, “*redacted*.”

Not his father. Archibald.

Owl didn’t answer. He wasn’t in the mood for one of his grandfather’s cryptic conversations. He wasn’t in the mood for anything.

Another pause. Then, the soft sound of the door handle being tested. It didn’t give. Owl had locked it after the confrontation with his father.

A moment later, Archibald spoke again. “Your father left.”

Owl’s throat felt tight. His body remained frozen, his mind sluggishly trying to process the words. He should have felt relief. Should have been glad that his father had left, but he didn’t feel relieved. He felt … Owl didn’t even know.

“Take your time.” his grandfather said finally. There was no further attempt to enter. No forced conversation. No demand. Just the sound of measured footsteps retreating down the hall, growing fainter with each passing second.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The soft glow of his laptop screen was the only source of light in the dimly lit bedroom. The heavy curtains remained drawn, blocking out the world beyond, sealing Owl inside a cocoon of his own making. Outside, life carried on as it always did but inside these four walls, time had lost all meaning.

Owl lay on his side, half-buried beneath a mess of blankets. His fingers lazily traced the edges of his laptop’s touchpad as a familiar blue police box flickered across the screen.

It was always the same. The same movies. The same series. The same episodes, the same stories, the same cycle. That was the point. There was something comforting about revisiting a story where Owl already knew every twist, every resolution. No surprises. No uncertainty. Just the predictable, structured progression of events that remained unchanged no matter how many times he watched.

Owl currently just existed in the numb haze of his own apathy. He shifted slightly, stretching his legs out under the blankets, his head sinking further into the pillow. He knew he should probably move at some point. Shower. Eat. Act like a functioning human being. But the thought was exhausting. Everything outside of this room felt exhausting. He hated this feeling. This awful, mind-numbing limbo where everything was too much and yet nothing was enough. He didn’t even know how long he had been like this. A few days, maybe? He had stopped keeping track.

Owl knew this state well. Had been here before and he would be here again. One moment, he would be fine, more or less functioning, talking, moving, doing things. The next, he would be here. Trapped. Stuck. Unable to force himself over that invisible threshold. His body refused to cooperate, his brain short-circuited the moment he tried to push through it.

Owl sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, pressing his fingers against his eyes until stars flickered behind his eyelids.

Archibald hadn’t intervened yet. He was probably watching. Waiting. It wasn’t like him to let things linger for too long, but so far, he had made no move to pull Owl out of this. Owl wasn’t sure whether he was glad for the distance or resentful of it. Archibald had given him space. More than Owl had expected. But the space wasn’t a reprieve. It was a quiet challenge. A test. One Owl knew he was failing. Because if Archibald wasn’t going to drag him out of this. No one was. Either he got up, or he didn’t.

Owl told himself he wanted to be alone. That he didn’t need anyone. That if he just waited long enough, the weight in his limbs would lift, the fog in his head would clear, and he would pull himself together. He had done it before. He could do it again. And yet. He was still here. Still stuck.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Archibald was a patient man. He always had been. He understood the power of silence, the weight of restraint. He knew that battles were not always won by force but by carefully applied pressure, by understanding when to hold back and when to intervene. But even his patience had its limits.

It had been days since Owl had emerged from his room. At first, Archibald had allowed him his solitude, knowing that forcing him to engage would only make him retreat further. He had given Owl the space to gather himself, to decide on his own when he was ready to rejoin the world. However, that moment never came. The door to Owl’s room remained stubbornly closed, a silent barrier between him and everything beyond. This had gone on for long enough.

Archibald stood outside Owl's guest room, fingers lightly resting on the door handle. He had knocked once. No answer. Again. Silence. It was a calculated pause, a final opportunity for his grandson to acknowledge his presence before he made the decision for him. Still no reaction. Archibald sighed quietly, then reached into his pocket and withdrew a key. The lock clicked and with one decisive turn, the door swung open.

The staleness of the air hit Archibald first. The curtains were drawn, blocking out the daylight. And then there was Owl. He was still in bed, half-buried beneath a mess of tangled blankets, his body curled inward, one arm draped haphazardly over his face to block out what little light remained. His hair was a disheveled mess, even more than usual. His clothes were still the same ones he had been wearing when Archibald had last seen him.

Archibald took a step inside, his presence a quiet disruption to the room’s suffocating stillness. “This has gone on for quite long enough.”

Owl didn’t acknowledge his grandfather. He didn’t have it in him. He wasn’t trying to be difficult, wasn’t being stubborn for the sake of it. He just… couldn’t.

Archibald stepped further inside, closing the door behind him. “You have not left this room in nearly a week. You haven't eaten and judging from the smell I imagine your last proper interaction with hygiene was before your father arrived."

Owl groaned, barely lifting his head from where it was buried in the pillow. “Glad to see your observational skills are still sharp,” he muttered, voice rough from disuse.

Archibald didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he strode to the window and, with one swift motion, pulled the heavy curtains open. The sunlight flooded the room instantly. Owl recoiled as if physically struck, letting out a pained noise as he threw an arm over his face, squeezing his eyes shut. “Jesus fucking Christ-” His voice cracked mid-curse, his body twisting further into the blankets as if he could hide away from the sudden onslaught of daylight. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Archibald’s expression remained impassive as he turned back toward his grandson. “You are not a vampire, *redacted*,” he said, dryly. “Though you’ve done your best to cultivate the aesthetic.”

That comment almost got a chuckle out of Owl. Almost. Instead, he exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. Owl's body ached in that unpleasant, heavy way that came from too much stillness, muscles stiff and uncooperative. He cracked one eye open just enough to squint at his grandfather. “Is this your way of telling me I look like shit?

Archibald arched a single brow, tilting his head slightly. “Do you require my confirmation for something that is already painfully obvious?”

Owl groaned, letting his head fall back against the pillow. "Your concern is truly heartwarming.”

Archibald hummed. “I find it difficult to concern myself with things that are entirely within your own power to correct.”

Owl rolled onto his side, burying half his face in the pillow, his voice muffled. “That’s a fancy way of saying ‘get your shit together'.”

Archibald gave a slight incline of his head. “If that is how you wish to interpret it.”

Owl knew what this was, what Archibald was doing. He was giving him a choice, a moment of control in a situation where Owl felt like he had none. His grandfather had always been like that. Calculated. Never demanding, never forcing, only applying pressure at precisely the right moment, leaving Owl to make the decision himself. It was infuriating. And, somehow, it always worked.

Owl turned his head slightly, squinting at Archibald. “Let me guess. If I don’t move, you’re going to start another one of your wise and cryptic old mentor speeches?”

Archibald considered for a moment before responding. “No,” he said simply. “I was going to open the window next.” Archibald was already moving toward the window latch.

“Alright, alright, I’m getting up. For fuck's sake.” Owl threw the blankets off with far more force than necessary, the sudden movement making his head spin. He winced, as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His body protested immediately, reminding him just how long he had been lying there. Owl scrubbed a hand over his face, dragging his fingers through his already-messy hair. “And this is the part where you tell me to go take a shower, isn’t it?”

Archibald gave him a pointed look. “I was under the impression you were not in need of my confirmation for things that are painfully obvious.”

Owl let out a tired chuckle, shaking his head. “Right. Got it. Shower first, existential crisis later.”

Archibald merely inclined his head. “A wise course of action.”

Owl pushed himself to his feet, wobbling slightly before finding his balance. His body felt like it had aged fifty years in the span of a week. “You’re not going to watch me shower, are you?”

Archibald didn’t so much as blink. “I would prefer not to. Though, if you require supervision, I am certain arrangements could be made.”

Owl huffed a quiet laugh. “I’ll pass, thanks.” Without waiting for a response, he turned toward the en-suite bathroom, dragging his feet across the wooden floor with all the enthusiasm of a man walking to the gallows.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The door clicked shut behind him, sealing him into the smaller space. Owl exhaled slowly. Right. Shower. Just… turn it on. Get in. Wash. Get out. Simple.

Except it wasn’t. Not really.

He stood there, staring at the shower like it was some insurmountable obstacle. His body already ached from too many days of stillness, his brain still felt sluggish. The thought of peeling off his clothes, of stepping into the stream of water, of enduring the whole ordeal, felt overwhelming in a way that made no sense. It was just a shower.

The way Owl felt was stupid. Objectively, logically stupid. This was a basic human function. A necessity. Something that other people did without thinking. And yet, for him, it was like standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing he had to jump but unable to make his body move.

There were too many steps. So many goddamn steps. Undress. Getting into the shower. Turn on the water. Adjust the temperature which ended up never being quite right. Step in. The transition from being dry to wet. The way the water clung to his skin. And then the actual process of washing: soap, shampoo, scrubbing, trying to remember all of it. And after all that? Drying off. The transition from wet to dry. Getting out of the shower. Too many steps. Too many sensations. Too many transitions.

Owl was still standing there, unmoving, staring at the shower like it might change into something less daunting if he waited just long enough.

Just do it. Stop thinking about it. Stop making it a thing.

Owl forced his hands to his shirt, tugging it over his head. The rest of his clothes followed. The air against his skin was another unpleasant sendation. The shift from clothed to unclothed was its own kind of discomfort, another layer of sensory bullshit he had to push through.

With a sharp inhale, Owl moved to the shower controls and twisted the knob. The pipes groaned before the water burst from the shower head. Owl stepped forward, one foot after the other. The instant the water hit his skin, his entire body locked up. The sensation of the water cascading over his body, the feeling of wetness, of his hair clinging to his head, of droplets trailing down his spine, was more than unpleasant. Owl squeezed his eyes shut.

Just get through it.

He reached blindly for the shampoo, fumbling with the cap. His fingers were clumsy, uncooperative, the bottle slippery from the steam and water already covering his hands. He squeezed too much into his palm but didn’t bother correcting it and just slapped it into his hair. The scent was too strong, making his head spin. He scrubbed his hair with quick, jerky movements, rinsing as fast as he could, trying to get it over with.

Soap. Rinse. Get it off, get it off, get it off.

Just finish. Almost done. Almost done.

Finally the last remnants of soap spiraled down the drain. That should have been it. But his body refused to move. Owl stood there, motionless, water cascading down his back, pooling at his feet, circling the drain in slow, lazy loops. He knew he needed to step out. It wasn’t hard. It was nothing. Just one step. And yet - the moment the water would stop, it would start. That horrible, jarring shift from wet to dry, from warm to cold. The air would bite at his damp skin. The towel would be damp and rough against his skin, and his clothes would stick, feeling all wrong.

Just step out. It’s not that hard.

And yet, Owl's body remained frozen, locked in place beneath the stream of water.

Get a grip.

With another sharp inhale, Owl forced himself to move. He reached for the faucet, twisted it sharply, and the water cut off. The cold hit immediately. The air clung to his damp skin like an unwelcome layer, sending a shiver down his spine. His hair dripped water down the back of his neck, the sensation making his breath hitch.

Owl reached for the towel hanging nearby, and scrubbed at his skin harder than necessary, as if he could scrub through the discomfort away. The towel was too damp now, clinging instead of drying, only making it worse.

Just get dressed. Get it over with.

Except - he hadn’t brought clean clothes.

His mind short-circuited for a moment, caught between disbelief and sheer, exhausted exasperation. Of course, he had forgotten. He had been too focused on getting into the damn shower, on pushing through every unbearable step, that he hadn’t thought ahead.

Owl inhaled sharply, fingers twitching at his sides. He didn't want to stand here, dripping wet and cold, while his brain decided to wage war over something as simple as putting on clothes. The thought of walking across the room, rummaging through his bag, trying to find something clean, was too much. Just another goddamn step in a process that already felt impossible. Furthermore Archibald was most likely still out there and there was no way in hell he was facing his grandfather wearing nothing but a towel.

Eventually Owl reached down and grabbed the clothes he had discarded earlier, the same wrinkled, unwashed ones he had been wearing for days. He didn’t care that they were dirty. He just needed them on. Needed something between himself and the open air, something familiar, something that didn’t feel all wrong.

The fabric clung uncomfortably to his damp skin but it was better than nothing. Better than the raw exposure of being fresh out of the shower.

Finally Owl stepped back into his room.

Archibald was still there, waiting. Of course he was. He sat in the armchair near the window, legs crossed, posture as composed as ever. His gaze flickered up the moment Owl returned. There was no judgment in his expression. No irritation. Just quiet observation.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, finally, Archibald tilted his head slightly, his voice as calm as ever. “You didn’t bring clean clothes.” It wasn’t a question. He gestured slightly toward the backpack that Owl had not bothered to unpack. “You should change.”

Owl just stared at it. The thought of peeling his clothes off, of digging through his bag, of picking something, of forcing himself through another series of steps - his brain short-circuited at the mere idea of it. He was done. He had nothing left. There was nothing he could do about it.

Archibald, of course, noticed. He always did. He exhaled softly through his nose, as if considering something. Then, after a moment, he stood. Archibald moved toward the backpack, retrieved it from the floor and unzipped it without another word.

Owl tensed. “What are you doing?”

Archibald didn’t answer immediately. He scanned the mess that was Owl's backpack for clothes before pulling out a pair of shorts, a plain shirt and a hoodie. He turned back to Owl and placed them on the bed beside him. “There,” he said simply. “No choices to make. No effort required. Just change.”

Owl stared at the clothes like they might attack him. He felt the familiar sting of frustration as his brain kept looping for a moment longer. With that small and simple act Archibald had just stripped away every barrier, leaving only the act itself.

Just change.

Owl didn’t speak. Didn’t argue. He just somewhat reluctantly reached for the clothes, his mind still sluggishly processing the situation. The weight of Archibald’s presence lingered in the room, quiet but unwavering. He wasn’t watching. Not directly, at least. Instead, he had turned his back, hands clasped neatly behind his back, giving Owl the illusion of privacy without actually leaving.

The fresh clothes were warm, dry, settling against his skin in a way that was instantly better than the damp discomfort from before. It was such a simple thing, so basic, and yet it felt like a monumental task completed.

For a long moment, the room was silent.

Then, Archibald finally turned back around. His gaze flickered over Owl. There still was no judgment. “Better?”

Owl wanted to say no, wanted to insist that everything still felt like shit, that changing his clothes hadn’t magically fixed anything, but that wasn't entirely true. So Owl just shrugged. “I guess.”

Archibald hummed softly, as if expecting that answer. He studied Owl for a moment longer before nodding toward the door. “Come downstairs,” he said simply.

Owl stiffened instinctively. “I—” He swallowed. “I don’t—”

But Archibald didn’t wait for him to finish. He simply turned and strode toward the door. He didn’t look back, didn’t pause, didn’t offer another word. He didn’t need to. The message was clear. He had given Owl the choice to follow or to stay behind.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

With slow, reluctant movements, Owl made his way downstairs. He found Archibald in the sitting room, standing near the unlit fireplace, his posture as composed as ever.

Owl hesitated in the doorway for a moment before making his way toward the nearest armchair. He dropped into it unceremoniously, pulled his legs up against his chest and wrapped his arms tightly around them. A subconscious effort to regulate and comfort himself.

“What do you imagine your life will look like once you leave this place?” The question was posed lightly, as if it were casual conversation, but Owl knew better. Archibald never asked anything lightly.

Owl frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

Archibald gestured vaguely. “You’ll be in Switzerland come September. Your own place, a fresh start. I assume you have at least given some thought to how you intend to conduct yourself.”

“I mean, I’ll go to class, I guess. Do the whole med school thing. Try not to fail spectacularly.” Owl shrugged, as if that was all there was to it. "Wait what do you mean with 'your own place'?"

“I mean precisely what I said,” Archibald replied smoothly. “I have taken the liberty of selecting a few properties in Zurich that I believe would be suitable. You will, of course, have the final say on which one you prefer.”

Owl blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Wait, you mean an actual apartment? I thought I’d just be stuck in a dorm like at boarding school.”

Archibald arched a single brow, as if the very idea of Owl cramming himself into a shared student accommodation was unfathomable. “You are no longer a schoolboy, *redacted*. You require a proper living arrangement, one conducive to your studies and well-being. The university dormitories are hardly appropriate.”

Archibald studied him for a moment before continuing. “I have narrowed the selection to a few locations that are both practical and well-maintained. You may look over the options and decide which one best suits you.”

Owl stared at his grandfather, still processing. He hadn’t even considered the possibility of getting his own place. The idea of living alone was unfamiliar, strange, yet not entirely unwelcome. But something about Zurich didn’t sit right. Of course Zurich made sense. It was where the university was. It was practical. Logical. But it was also unfamiliar, entirely new territory. The moment the idea of choosing his own place became real, a different thought crept in.

“…What about Lucerne?”

Archibald, who had been about to move toward his desk to retrieve the property listings, paused mid-step. “Lucerne?” He turned back toward Owl.

Owl shifted slightly in his seat. “Yeah. I mean…I already know the city. I lived there for years, I know my way around, and I actually liked it.” He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling strangely exposed. “It’s less than an hour away from Zurich by train. Close enough that commuting wouldn’t be a nightmare."

Archibald studied Owl for a moment. “Familiarity is a powerful thing,” he acknowledged. “If that is your preference, then I see no reason to deny it.”

Owl blinked. “…Wait. Really?”

Archibald arched a brow. “Did you expect me to object?”

“…Kind of?”

Archibald exhaled, moving toward his desk and retrieving a folder. “*redacted*, you have spent much of your life reacting to circumstances dictated by others. You assume that every decision is already made for you, that you must either comply or rebel with no in-between. But this -” he gestured vaguely toward him “- is a choice. And you have made one. I see no reason to interfere.”

Archibald flipped open the folder, skimming through the pages. “I will make arrangements to have properties in Lucerne added to the list of options.” He glanced at Owl. “I assume you will want to be within reasonable distance of the train station?”

“Uh… yeah.” Owl cleared his throat, still slightly thrown by how easy that had been. “That’d be good.”

“Very well." Archibald nodded once, then closed the folder with a decisive thud.

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callsign-owl · 2 months ago

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Edinburgh - Part 3

This is a continuation of Edinburgh Part 2

Edinburgh, Scotland – July 2008

The weight of his father’s presence settled over the estate like a storm cloud. Even without seeing him, without hearing his voice, Owl felt him there. A slow, creeping dread that coiled around his chest and squeezed, making it hard to breathe.

Owl had spent the past hour holed up in his room. Dinner was inevitable. And as much as Owl liked to pretend consequences didn’t faze him, he knew better. Bartholomew would not openly defy Archibald, not here. Not in this house. But that meant nothing. His father was patient when it suited him, methodical. He didn’t have to strike immediately. He only had to wait for the right moment. Owl was terrified of what would happen once the façade of civility cracked. Because it would. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually.

Owl sat on the edge of the bed, hands fidgeting with the restless energy he couldn’t contain. He knew he couldn’t go into that dinner like this. Totally frayed at the edges, wound so tightly he might snap. He needed something. Anything to keep it in check. Owl hadn’t touched his stash since arriving at the estate. He hadn't felt the need to but Bartholomew's sudden arrival had changed that.

Owl moved before his brain could catch up, pulling his backpack from beneath the bed and dragging it into his lap. He unzipped it, fingers brushing past the usual clutter until they found what they were looking for. He tossed the pills into his mouth and swallowed dry. He didn’t have time to wait for the effect to kick in. He had to go downstairs.

By the time Owl reached the dining room, his hands were ice-cold despite the summer heat lingering in the air. He hesitated for half a second, fingers hovering near the door handle, before forcing himself to push it open.

The room was exactly as it had been every night since he had arrived at the estate. Grand, but not ostentatious. A long table stretched across the center, perfectly set with polished silverware and crystal glasses. Candles flickered in their holders, casting a warm, golden glow over the entire setup.

Seated at the head of the table was Archibald and to his right sat Bartholomew. They seemed calm. As if nothing was amiss. As if this was just another evening, another meal. As if Bartholomew hadn’t upended everything simply by being here.

The two men looked up as he entered. Archibald’s expression remained unreadable. Bartholomew on the other hand, offered a small, almost amused smirk. Not a sneer, not outright hostility, just a quiet, knowing look that sent a chill down Owl’s spine. Bartholomew knew he could torment Owl by mere presence alone.

Owl forced himself to keep his expression blank. His seat had already been set, across from his father, but not directly. A deliberate choice, no doubt. Archibald’s doing. Keeping them close enough to endure each other but not so close that the air between them would combust immediately. The plan was simple: Keeping his head down, keeping his mouth shut. Don’t provoke. Don’t engage. Just get through this meal.

No one spoke. Not yet. The weight of expectation sat thick in the air. The silence stretched. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty or peaceful. It was charged with everything unspoken, everything restrained beneath layers of decorum and control.

Then, finally, Archibald spoke. “I assume the negotiations in New York were productive?” There it was. Business. A deliberate maneuver, executed flawlessly by Archibald. A topic that would keep Bartholomew engaged, giving him something to focus on beyond his desire to dismantle Owl at the first opportunity.

Owl barely heard them. He was aware of the conversation, the cadence of their voices, the way they maneuvered around each other like seasoned players on a chessboard, but the words themselves blurred together.

Finally the drugs were starting to kick in. Thank fuck. The tightness in his chest loosened as the familiar warmth spread through his limbs. He was still here, still aware, but the tension that had been strangling him since Bartholomew arrived was fading into the background.

Archibald continued steering the conversation with a masterful hand. Politics, economics, global markets, topics Owl had no interest in, topics that gave him a perfect excuse to fade into the background. He could let their voices wash over him, let the words dissolve into meaningless sound while he focused on the feeling of weightlessness settling in.

Then, before he even registered what he was doing Owl yawned.

The pause in conversation was brief, barely more than a hiccup, but Owl felt it. Like a shift in air pressure, a static charge crackling beneath the surface. When he dared to glance up, his father’s gaze was already on him.

Shit.

Bartholomew arched a brow, tilting his head just slightly. “Are we boring you, *redacted*?”

Owl shrugged, feigning indifference. “Just tired.” He reached for his water glass, using the motion as an excuse to break eye contact.

Bartholomew hummed, a quiet sound of contemplation. “Tired.” He let the word roll off his tongue, as if testing its weight. “How odd. You’ve had days of rest, have you not? Tell me, *redacted* what exactly have you been doing to find yourself so fatigued?”

Owl lifted his head, slowly, as if it took actual effort. His eyes, half-lidded, flickered toward his father. A moment passed. Owl knew he had to answer, but his brain refused to catch up. The drugs were working too well. He felt calm. Too calm. Too detached. And, of course, Bartholomew had already sensed something amiss. He smelled blood in the water. And Archibald, he had noticed it too.

Owl forced a lazy smile. “Relaxing, mostly.” His voice was smooth, lacking the usual sharpness or defiance that often laced his words. “Enjoying the countryside. You know, appreciating the scenic views.” He gestured vaguely toward the window as if that explained everything.

Bartholomew’s lips curved into something that might have been amusement but carried none of the warmth. “How unlike you.” he mused, taking a measured sip of his wine.

Owl shrugged. “Guess I’m full of surprises.”

Archibald had yet to say a word, but Owl could feel him watching, his gaze flickering over him like a hawk assessing a wounded animal. Noticing too much. The unnatural stillness, the slightly too-smooth tone, the way Owl’s usual biting retorts were blunted, softened by something artificial.

Bartholomew hummed again, swirling the wine in his glass. “Yes,” he said, voice light, conversational. “You are full of surprises. And yet, some things never change.” He set the glass down. “It’s almost impressive, really. That you still think you can get away with it.”

Owl tilted his head slightly, feigning confusion. “Get away with what, exactly?” He knew full well that denying anything outright would be pointless. Instead, he leaned into the ambiguity, playing the game as he always did.

“Come now, *redacted*,” Bartholomew chided, “We both know you were never particularly skilled at subtlety.”

Owl let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re going to have to be a little more specific, Father. I do so many terrible things, after all. Hard to keep track.”

Bartholomew smirked. “Indeed.” He lifted his wine glass, taking a slow sip, the pause deliberate. Calculated. And then, without warning, he struck. “You’re just like her. Impulsive. Defiant. Reckless.” He took another sip of wine. “Weak.”

The air in the room changed instantly. Owl’s smirk vanished. Archibald’s gaze flickered to Bartholomew, something sharp and unreadable flashing in his eyes.

Bartholomew never brought up his mother. Ever. She was a ghost in this family, a name never spoken, a presence erased so thoroughly that sometimes Owl wondered if he had even existed. There were no pictures. No stories. No remnants of her existence left in the carefully curated world Bartholomew had built. Owl had learned early on that asking questions led nowhere, that any mention of her name resulted in cold silence, or worse, punishment. And yet, Bartholomew just mentioned her so casually, so offhandedly, like it was nothing. This was intentional. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Owl felt like the ground had been ripped out from beneath him, a sharp, visceral reaction that he couldn’t suppress. He had expected cruelty tonight. Expected the usual degradation, the veiled insults disguised as conversation. But this?

And then, in a voice as smooth as glass, Archibald spoke up. “Shall we talk about May, then?”

“I beg your pardon?” Bartholomew’s smirk faltered. It was a fraction of a second. So brief that most wouldn’t have even noticed it. But Archibald noticed. Bartholomew prided himself on his control, on his ability to dictate the flow of conversation, to keep others reacting while he remained composed, unshaken. But he had just made a misstep, an impulsive strike meant to wound Owl, and in doing so, he had left himself open. And Archibald, without hesitation, used it to shift the entire conversation to turn the knife back on Bartholomew. Archibald's eyes remained fixed on his son as if to say: You started this. Let’s see if you’re prepared to finish it.

“I was simply following your lead. You brought up *redacted*’s resemblance to his mother. What sort of host would I be if I didn’t offer you the opportunity to elaborate?” Archibald continued, his voice deceptively mild. “Unless, of course, you’d rather not actually talk about her.”

Silence.

Archibald had won, and Bartholomew knew it. He had been outmaneuvered, cornered with nowhere to go without exposing a weakness he refused to acknowledge. Then, in a move Owl had never seen before, Bartholomew did something entirely uncharacteristic. He retreated.

Bartholomew set his glass down, reached for his napkin and dabbed at the corners of his mouth. And then, in the most deliberate, calculated display of control, he pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me,” Bartholomew said smoothly, his voice carrying none of the fury simmering beneath the surface, “I find that I’ve lost my appetite.”

Owl blinked, his brain sluggishly processing what had just happened. He had seen his father angry before. He had seen the cold, terrifying precision with which Bartholomew dismantled his enemies, the quiet ruthlessness that defined every aspect of his existence. But never, not once, had he seen him walk away from a fight.

Archibald merely inclined his head, the picture of polite indifference.

Bartholomew said nothing more. He turned and strode towards the door, his movements measured, every ounce of his body language screaming restraint.

Owl watched him go, frozen in his seat, his mind still struggling to reconcile what he had just witnessed. Then the door clicked shut behind his father, sealing the room in silence once more.

It was Archibald who spoke first. “Well,” he mused, reaching for his own glass of wine, taking a slow sip before setting it down again with quiet finality. “That was easier than expected.”

Owl turned to stare at his grandfather, barely able to find his voice. “Did… did you just make him leave?”

Archibald exhaled, almost amused. “It would appear so.”

Owl let out a breath he hadn’t quite realised he was holding. “What the fuck just happened?”

Archibald reached for his napkin, folding it neatly as he considered his response. “Your father is a man who prides himself on control. He tries to dictate the terms of every interaction, ensuring he is always the one leading the conversation, maneuvering others into whatever position benefits him most.” He paused, his gaze flickering toward the now-empty seat at the table. “But in his eagerness to wound you, he overstepped. And I simply reminded him of that fact.”

Owl frowned, leaning forward slightly. “But he never just… walks away.” He shook his head, still trying to wrap his head around it. “He doesn’t back down.”

Archibald tilted his head, studying him. “No. He doesn’t. Which means he realised he had more to lose by staying.”

The silence stretched between them for a moment before Owl spoke again, his voice quieter now, more cautious. “Why does he hate her so much?”

“Because he couldn’t control her,” Archibald said simply. "Because for once in his life, he met someone who refused to bend to his will, someone who defied him. Much like you do.”

“He sees too much of her in you,” Archibald said after a pause. His voice was quieter now, not soft but measured. “And he despises you for it.”

Owl forced himself to look at his grandfather. “What was she like?”

Archibald regarded him for a long moment before answering. “Fierce,” he said. “Strong-willed. Intelligent. She was… remarkable.” He exhaled, as if considering how much to say. “She had a fire to her that could not be tamed. Your father tried, of course. He thought he could mold her into something that suited him. But she was not a woman to be controlled. She would have rather set fire to a bridge than be forced to walk across it."

Owl swallowed, the words hitting something deep, something raw. He had never heard anyone speak about his mother like this—not with admiration, not with respect. To him, she had always been a ghost, a name with no face, a presence only defined by her absence. But Archibald was speaking about her as if she had been real. As if she had mattered.

Before Owl even knew what was happening, he felt the tears roll down his face. Hot, unbidden, traitorous. He couldn’t take this. His chest ached in a way he didn’t understand. His throat felt tight. His hands trembled slightly as he wiped at his face, cursing under his breath.

Archibald had noticed the shift immediately. The way Owl’s usual bravado had crumbled in an instant. “*redacted*.” His voice was quiet.

Owl blinked in a desperate attempt to force the tears away. “I’m fine,” he muttered, but his voice was unsteady, betraying him again.

Archibald sighed. “You are many things, but fine is not one of them.”

Owl let out a sharp exhale, forcing himself to look away. He didn’t want to have this conversation. Not now. Not like this. “Can we just-” Owl’s voice wavered slightly, the drugs still softening the edges of everything, making his thoughts slow and uncooperative. He tried again, steadying himself. “Can we not do this right now?”

“As you wish,” Archibald said smoothly, as if the matter were as simple as changing the subject of a polite dinner conversation. “You should get some rest.”

Owl didn’t respond. He just pushed his chair back and stood. His limbs felt heavy, disconnected from him in a way that was almost comforting. The drugs still kept him just numb enough to not shatter completely. Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out.

Owl just wanted to get back to his room. He wanted to close the door, lock it, and let the numbness fully take him under before his thoughts caught up with him. Before the weight of everything crashed down in a way that even the pills wouldn’t be able to hold back. He finally reached his door and twisted the handle.

The moment he stepped inside, he knew something was wrong. It was an instinctual thing, a shift in the air, a presence that didn’t belong. The door clicked shut behind him, and then he saw him. Bartholomew was sitting in one of the armchairs, perfectly at ease.

Owl froze.

Bartholomew looked at him, head tilted slightly, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the corner of his mouth. He let the silence stretch, adjusting his cufflinks, his gaze still fixed on Owl.

Owl didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He knew better. He forced his expression to remain neutral. He wouldn’t give Bartholomew the satisfaction of seeing fear. Owl knew exactly why his father was here. After being outmaneuvered by Archibald, Bartholomew wouldn’t let the night end without reminding Owl exactly where he stood.

It happened fast. One second, Bartholomew was still adjusting his cufflinks, the very picture of poise and control. The next, he was on his feet, closing the distance between them in an instant. Owl barely had time to brace before Bartholomew’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist. He twisted it, forcing Owl down onto his knees. Then he wrenched his arm harder, making Owl’s shoulder twist into an unnatural position. The pain was instant, white-hot, but still, Owl didn’t make a sound. He wouldn’t give him that.

Bartholomew crouched slightly, lowering himself just enough so that their faces were nearly level. His expression was perfectly composed, as if this were nothing more than a casual discussion between father and son. As if he weren’t twisting Owl’s arm to the point of nearly dislocating it. “You think tonight was a victory?” Bartholomew spat. “You think the old man can protect you from me?”

Owl swallowed hard, blinking rapidly to clear the haze of pain clouding his vision. He knew better than to answer. It wouldn’t matter what he said.

Bartholomew studied him, easing his grip, not out of mercy, but with a slow deliberation to remind Owl that he was in control. Then, in one swift movement, he released Owl’s wrist entirely, shoving him backward with just enough force to send him sprawling onto the floor. Bartholomew straightened, adjusted his sleeves and strode out of the room, as if nothing had happened.

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callsign-owl · 2 months ago

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Edinburgh - Part 2

This is a continuation of Edinburgh - Part 1

Aboard a Private Jet - July 2008

Bartholomew sat in one of the plush leather seat of his private jet, fingers steepled, his expression carved from stone. The ambient hum of the aircraft was the only sound in the cabin, save for the occasional rustle of paper as he reviewed the latest financial reports from his New York office. The numbers were good. Of course, they were. Efficiency was his forte, control his currency. Every aspect of his empire ran with precision, an extension of his own unyielding will.

And yet, despite the undeniable success of his business dealings, Bartholomew’s mind was not on quarterly profits or acquisitions. No, his thoughts were consumed by an altogether different matter. One that had nothing to do with corporate strategy and everything to do with his own flesh and blood, or at least, the disgraceful shadow of it.

Even thinking the boy’s name was an irritation. He had always been a disappointment, a weak link in the otherwise pristine lineage of the family name. *redacted*’s behavior at his graduation had been nothing short of a public humiliation. A mockery of everything Bartholomew stood for. The image of the boy, standing on that stage, flashing crude gestures to the audience, was seared into his mind like a festering wound. And then there was the car. The Aston Martin. A vehicle not just of material worth, but of significance, reduced to wreckage by his reckless, insufferable wretch of a son. The very audacity of it made Bartholomew’s blood boil.

His jaw clenched as he reached for the crystal tumbler of scotch sitting on the lacquered table beside him. The ice clinked softly as he lifted the glass, taking a measured sip. His son needed to be dealt with, but Archibald's involvement complicated things.

Bartholomew had spent his life carving out his own empire, building a legacy of power that was his alone, and yet, Archibald’s shadow still loomed over him. His father’s presence had waned in the public eye, but in private? His influence remained infuriatingly intact. And now, that influence shielded *redacted*. For now.

Bartholomew set his glass down with a clink. He had considered waiting, allowing *redacted* to return to London on his own. It would have been easier. But no. Archibald would expect civility. If Bartholomew was to handle *redacted* as he truly deserved, he would need to be patient.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Edinburgh, Scotland – July 2008

Owl lay sprawled on one of the many sofas in the library, a book balanced lazily on his chest, unopened. His gaze flickered toward the high, arched windows where the late afternoon sun cast elongated shadows against the wooden floors. It was quiet. Stiflingly quiet.

For the past few days, he had drifted through the estate like a ghost, existing in a strange limbo of rest and frustration. He had briefly tried to think about Archibald’s questions. What do you want? Who are you? But the answers eluded him, as they always did. The more he tried to grasp at them, the more they slipped through his fingers. So instead, he had given up.

Owl shifted, flipping the book open just to stare at the pages without reading a single word. It wasn’t even something he was interested in. The Collected Works of Marcus Aurelius. Just something he had pulled off the nearest shelf at random, his fingers dragging across the spines in a listless search for something, anything to stave off the overwhelming monotony that was quickly becoming unbearable. It was the intense kind of boredom. Not the fleeting, restless kind that came from being stuck in class or waiting in line. No, this was a deeper, heavier kind, the kind that settled into his bones, stretching each minute into an eternity. There was no chaos to distract him here, no self-imposed disasters, no reckless choices waiting to be made. Just quiet. And Owl hated it. With a sigh, he shut the book and tossed it onto the table beside him, the heavy thud of its landing the only disruption in the stillness. He let his head loll back against the cushions, staring up at the ceiling.

This is hell. This is actual, literal hell.

Archibald had made no attempts to interfere. He hadn’t pressed, hadn’t lectured, hadn’t even asked if Owl had put any further thought into the questions he had asked. He simply existed in the periphery, watching, waiting. It was infuriating. Owl draped an arm over his eyes, groaning to no one in particular.

I’m going to lose my fucking mind.

A sharp knock at the door made him turn his head just enough to see a familiar figure step inside. Archibald’s ever-composed presence filled the space effortlessly, his gaze sweeping over Owl with its usual quiet scrutiny. “You look as though you’re contemplating self-destruction out of sheer boredom,” Archibald remarked dryly.

Owl let out a dramatic sigh, not bothering to sit up. “It has crossed my mind.”

“Shall I have the staff prepare something for your execution?”

“Please. Something with flair.”

Archibald hummed, stepping further into the room. He reached for the book Owl had so carelessly discarded and inspected the cover with mild curiosity. “Marcus Aurelius?” He arched a brow. “A rather ambitious choice for someone who looks like they’re considering throwing themselves out a window for entertainment.”

Owl shrugged, finally pushing himself upright. “I just grabbed the first thing I saw. Thought maybe I’d stumble into enlightenment or some shit. But no, turns out even the wisdom of dead emperors can’t fix this level of boredom.”

Archibald gave a thoughtful nod. “Yes, I suspected as much.”

Owl squinted at him. “Suspected what, exactly?”

“That you would be terrible at doing nothing.

Owl scoffed, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “Wow. Insightful. You should charge for that kind of groundbreaking analysis.”

Archibald ignored the sarcasm, placing the book back on the table with deliberate care. “You have spent so much time in a state of chaos that you have no idea what to do with yourself when it’s absent.”

Owl rolled his eyes. “Great. Another therapy session.”

Archibald sighed. “You act as though I am forcing you into some grand self-reflection. Yet you are the one who has chosen to sit here, stewing in your own thoughts, rather than seek anything of to occupy yourself with.”

Owl slouched further into the cushions, glowering. “Yeah, well, what exactly am I supposed to do here? Take up embroidery? Learn the violin? Develop a deep appreciation for hedge trimming?” He gestured vaguely to the bookshelves. “Or should I go back to pretending to read philosophy and hope I have some life-altering revelation?”

Archibald regarded Owl with the patience of a man who had seen this exact conversation unfold long before it ever happened. “There is an entire estate at your disposal, and yet you have confined yourself to this room, indulging in self-pity.”

Owl’s jaw tensed. “I am not indulging in self-pity.”

Archibald arched a brow, unconvinced. “No?”

“No,” Owl insisted, though even he wasn’t sure he believed himself.

Archibald sighed and gestured toward the door. “Come with me.”

Owl hesitated, glancing between his grandfather and the door. “If this is some weird trick to get me to start a hobby, I’m going to be very disappointed.”

“Your disappointment is the least of my concerns.”

Owl exhaled sharply but pushed himself to his feet anyway, if only out of sheer curiosity. “Fine. Lead the way, oh wise one.”

Archibald merely gave a knowing smile and turned toward the door.

Owl followed, dragging his feet slightly, half-convinced this was some elaborate setup for another cryptic lesson he wasn’t in the mood for. But as they walked, a small part of him wondered if, just maybe, his grandfather actually had something worthwhile up his sleeve. At the very least, it would be better than staring at the ceiling, waiting for boredom to kill him.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

They stepped outside into the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the gravel path. The estate grounds were vast: manicured gardens, ancient oak trees standing like silent sentinels, and further beyond, the rolling hills that bled into the Scottish countryside.

Archibald walked with his usual measured pace, hands clasped neatly behind his back. Owl shoved his hands into his pockets, kicking at loose stones as he trailed slightly behind. They wandered toward the garden terrace, where an old stone bench sat beneath the shade of a large oak tree. Archibald paused there, studying Owl with the same sharp, assessing gaze that made it impossible to tell if he was about to impart wisdom or dismantle an argument before it was even made.

Owl shifted under the weight of it, leaning against the stone railing. “Alright, let’s hear it,” he said, already bracing himself.

Archibald arched a brow. “Hear what, exactly?”

Owl exhaled, rolling his eyes toward the sky. “Whatever lesson this is supposed to be. The part where you tell me to embrace the peaceful countryside, find purpose in some bullshit hobby, or learn to appreciate the merits of self-discipline.” He gestured vaguely. “Go on, get it over with.”

Archibald didn’t immediately reply. Instead, he stepped closer, his gaze flicking over Owl with quiet precision, cataloging details the way only he could. His eyes landed on Owl’s neck. Owl went still. It was faint now, but not gone. The shadow of a handprint still lingered against the pale skin of his throat. An ugly bruise that had taken it's time fading, remnants of Bartholomew’s rage. Owl had stopped thinking about it. Or, more accurately, he had shoved the memory into the back of his mind and left it there to rot.

“You should have told me.” Archibald’s voice was calm. Too calm.

Owl feigned ignorance. “Told you what?”

A quiet sigh. “*redacted*.”

Owl forced himself to hold his grandfather’s gaze, but there was an unmistakable itch beneath his skin, the creeping discomfort of being seen too clearly. “It’s nothing.” He shrugged.

Archibald exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. He studied Owl for a long moment, his gaze like a scalpel peeling back layers of carefully constructed indifference. “You and I both know that’s not true.”

Owl clenched his jaw, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “It’s not a big deal.”

Archibald’s lips pressed together in a thin line, the only visible sign of disapproval. He turned slightly, his gaze drifting toward the far end of the estate grounds, where the land stretched out into rolling hills. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, but no less firm. “He should have never laid a hand on you.”

Owl scoffed, crossing his arms. “Yeah, well, he did. And it’s not exactly breaking news.” He tried to inject some levity into his tone, some shield of sarcasm, but it fell flat.

“No, I suppose it isn’t.” He turned his gaze back to Owl, his eyes holding something heavier now, something not often seen in the carefully composed man: regret.

Owl frowned. He didn’t like that look. That rare, almost imperceptible shift in Archibald’s demeanor. His grandfather was many things, but vulnerable wasn’t one of them.

“I failed him,” Archibald said, almost to himself.

Owl blinked, caught off guard by the statement. “What?”

“Your father.” The words were quiet, edged with something cold, something worn down by time. “Bartholomew was not always the man he is now. But I set him on a path that made him believe he had to be.”

Owl shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t know how to respond to that. He had never considered that Archibald might actually feel responsible for Bartholomew. Or that he might even regret it.

Archibald’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon, his expression unreadable, but his voice carried the weight of something long buried. “I was not cruel to your father. I did not raise my hand to him. I did not berate him with insults or beat him into submission.” His voice was calm, deliberate. “But I was… exacting. I expected discipline. I demanded excellence, and I did not make a habit of offering praise when it was met. Achievements were expected, not celebrated. I did not give him the warmth he may have needed. I did not allow for softness in his upbringing. I was not the father he needed.”

Owl tilted his head studying his grandfather. “Why are you telling me this?”

Archibald exhaled slowly, finally turning his gaze back to Owl. “Because I see history repeating itself.”

A sharp, uncomfortable laugh slipped from Owl before he could stop it. “Oh, come on,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s a stretch, don’t you think?”

Archibald’s eyes didn’t waver. “Is it?”

Owl scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m nothing like him.”

Archibald sighed. “You are not your father, *redacted*,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “But you carry the same anger inside you. The same defiance. The same tendency to push everyone away before they can disappoint you.”

Owl’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” Archibald arched a brow, as if daring him to argue further. “Tell me, when was the last time you trusted someone with anything real?”

Owl opened his mouth, but no answer came. When was the last time he had trusted someone? When was the last time he had let anyone see him, really see him, without the armour of deflection, of sarcasm, of anger? Owl couldn't remember. Because trusting people gets you hurt. Because the second you let someone in, they have power over you. Because Bartholomew had taught him, in excruciating detail, what happened when you allowed yourself to be vulnerable.

Archibald studied him, gaze steady. He had never needed force to get what he wanted. He wielded silence like a scalpel, precise and unyielding, cutting deeper than any raised voice or punishment ever could.

Owl scoffed, shifting his weight uncomfortably, his arms crossing tightly over his chest. “Right. So what, this is the part where you tell me to fix myself before I turn into him?” His voice was sharp, brittle, the words laced with something close to laughter but hollow underneath.

Archibald exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. “No,” he said simply. “This is the part where I ask you if that’s what you want.”

Owl let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Of course it’s not what I fucking want.”

“Then what do you want, *redacted*?”

There it was again. The question he had no answer to. The same question Archibald had posed days ago, hanging over him like a noose.

Owl dragged a hand through his hair in frustration. “Stop asking me that question!” His voice was raw, teetering on the edge of desperation. “I don't fucking know.”

Archibald remained silent, his sharp eyes still studying Owl with that same unwavering patience as always. The wind stirred through the trees, rustling the leaves, filling the space the outburst had left. Owl turned away, his hands braced against the cool stone of the terrace railing. “I don’t know,” Owl muttered again, quieter this time, but no less strained. “I never have.”

Archibald regarded him for a moment longer before stepping closer. “I never wanted this for you,” he said, his voice measured. “I failed your father, and in doing so, I failed you before you were even born.” Archibald exhaled slowly, looking past Owl, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance. “I raised Bartholomew to be strong. To be disciplined. To carry the family name with pride, with unwavering control. I shaped him into the man I thought he needed to be in order to succeed. And I did so without consideration for who he was, for what he needed beyond duty and expectation. I turned my son into a man who only understood power. And in turn, he sought to carve you into the same shape because that is all he has ever known.”

Owl frowned, his fingers twitching against the cool stone of the railing. “Then what is this? Some kind of redemption arc? Your chance to make peace with the past by steering me away from the same fate?”

Archibald exhaled through his nose, a quiet sound that was neither amusement nor irritation. “Not everything is about atonement, *redacted*,” he said. “I cannot undo the choices I made with your father, nor can I rewrite the path that led him to where he is now. But you?” He inclined his head slightly. “You are not beyond saving.”

Owl let out a dry, humourless laugh, shaking his head. “You really do have a talent for making everything sound like some grand philosophical lesson.”

Before Archibald could respond, the quiet was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of tires crunching over gravel. The sound drew both their gazes toward the tree-lined driveway, where a car came into view: a sleek, black luxury sedan, its polished surface gleaming under the late afternoon sun

Owl frowned. “Are you expecting anyone?”

Archibald didn’t answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the approaching vehicle, his expression unreadable. Then, with a quiet exhale, he murmured, “Not officially but I expected this.”

Owl felt a flicker of unease crawl down his spine. The weight of unspoken understanding settled between them. There was only one person who would show up here uninvited, without warning, yet with absolute certainty that his presence would be tolerated. Bartholomew.

Owl’s hands clenched into fists, every muscle in his body tensing with an instinctive, visceral reaction he couldn’t control. His father’s presence was like a toxin, leeching into the air, poisoning the very ground he stepped on. Beside him, Archibald remained composed, but Owl could see it: the slight shift in his posture. His Grandfather had expected this. Not today, perhaps, but eventually. Archibald turned to Owl. “Come,” he said, already moving toward the entrance. Owl hesitated for half a second before following, his pulse picking up with each step.

By the time they reached the the driveway, the car had stopped. And then, with all the grace of a man who had never once been told he was unwelcome anywhere, like some fucking monarch descending upon his subjects, Bartholomew stepped out. And then he smiled. Cold. Calculated. Not quite human. The kind of smile that meant nothing.

“Father,” Archibald greeted, his voice smooth, polite and deceptively neutral.

Archibald stepped forward slightly, his position an unmistakable barrier between his son and grandson. “Bartholomew,” he said, tone measured. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Bartholomew’s smirk didn’t falter. “Do I need a reason to visit my own father?” He gestured vaguely toward the estate, his gaze skimming over the grand façade with feigned admiration, as if this were merely a social call and not a carefully calculated move.

Archibald, ever the picture of composed authority, didn’t react immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch just long enough to remind everyone exactly who dictated the rhythm of this conversation. His eyes remained fixed on Bartholomew, reading every unspoken intent behind the polished exterior.

“Of course not,” Archibald finally said, voice smooth as ever. “Though I can’t recall the last time you visited without a clear purpose.” A slight pause. “I assume this is no exception.”

Bartholomew chuckled, a low, humourless sound. “Must I always have an agenda, Father?” His voice was the perfect blend of wounded innocence and amused detachment, but there was an unmistakable sharpness beneath it. “Can a son and father not simply wish to see his family?”

Archibald tilted his head slightly, considering the statement for a moment before responding. “Of course. You, however, rarely do anything without intention." There it was. The subtlest of jabs, delivered with the kind of effortless precision that only Archibald could manage. It wasn’t a direct accusation, nor was it outright dismissal. It was merely an observation, carefully placed, its weight undeniable. Bartholomew’s smile didn’t falter, but something shifted in his posture, a flicker of tension so slight it would have been imperceptible to anyone who hadn’t been trained to notice. But Owl noticed. He had spent his entire life navigating the carefully veiled battlefield of his family, where words were wielded like weapons. Owl observed the exchange with quiet amusement. His father was good at this game, no doubt, but Archibald had been the one to teach him. And now, watching them dance around each other like two apex predators testing the waters, Owl couldn’t help but find it weirdly fascinating.

If Bartholomew felt the weight of his father’s scrutiny, he didn’t show it. Instead, he exhaled softly, as if indulging the conversation despite its absurdity. “Well, if you insist on assigning motive, I suppose you could say I was…concerned.”

Archibald raised a single eyebrow. “Concerned?” The word was perfectly balanced between skepticism and amusement.

“Yes.” Bartholomew’s gaze flicked past his father for the first time, landing on Owl.

Owl let out a quiet snort at that. He could already tell that, for now, Bartholomew wasn’t here to engage with him directly. No, his father was playing the long game, as he always did. Right now, he was testing the waters, probing Archibald’s defences, gauging how much leverage he actually had in this situation.

Archibald hummed, a soft sound of amusement. “I was under the impression you were indifferent to his whereabouts.”

Bartholomew’s smirk returned, colder this time. “Indifference is not the same as lack of concern. Regardless of how you choose to interpret my presence, I will be staying for a few days.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a statement.

Archibald, to his credit, didn’t so much as blink. “I assumed as much.” With the practiced ease of a man who had spent a lifetime orchestrating high-stakes conversations, Archibald turned smoothly, gesturing toward the entrance of the estate. “Come inside, then. No need to loiter on the doorstep like a solicitor.”

Bartholomew’s smirk deepened, as if he had just won the first round of an invisible battle. He inclined his head slightly, stepping forward with his usual air of authority.

Owl, still lingering at the edge of the exchange, felt his stomach tighten. He had no desire to be under the same roof as his father, let alone sit through whatever polite but razor-edged verbal sparring was about to unfold between him and Archibald. But before he could turn to leave on his own, Archibald spoke again, this time directing his attention to Owl.

“*redacted*, that will be all.”

Owl knew a dismissal when he heard one. This was Archibald's way of controlling the situation and keeping him out of the line of fire. For now.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The heavy oak doors of Archibald's study shut with a soft but definitive click, sealing the two men inside. The forced civility that had been maintained in the presence of an audience no longer needed to be upheld. Here, behind closed doors, they could drop the pretense.

Archibald moved toward the grand desk at the center of the room, his steps unhurried, deliberate. Bartholomew, never one to wait for permission, strode to the leather armchair opposite the desk but did not sit. Instead, he placed a hand on the back of it, his grip firm, fingers pressing into the leather with quiet, contained frustration.

Archibald settled into his own chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he regarded his son with that same piercing gaze that had unnerved far greater men.

“You’ve been busy,” Archibald finally said. “Making a mess of things, as usual.”

Bartholomew’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “And you’ve been busy undermining me. As usual.”

Archibald tilted his head slightly, his sharp blue eyes betraying nothing. “Undermining you?” he echoed, as if the very idea was amusing. “Is that what you call it?”

Bartholomew let out a low, humourless chuckle. “Oh, don’t feign ignorance. You took him in. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Archibald sighed. “I did what was necessary.”

“For whom?” Bartholomew’s voice was low, but there was venom laced in every syllable. “For him? Or for yourself?”

Archibald studied his son for a long moment, his gaze unwavering. “For you,” he said simply.

Bartholomew scoffed, shaking his head. “Spare me the self-righteous lecture, Father. If you think I don’t see through this little charade, you’re sorely mistaken. You’ve always had a soft spot for him. Indulged him. Allowed him to wallow in his mediocrity while making excuses for his failures.”

Archibald exhaled through his nose, a quiet sound of something between disappointment and mild amusement. “You and I have very different definitions of failure.”

Bartholomew’s jaw clenched. “He is weak.”

“No,” Archibald corrected smoothly, his voice sharp as a blade. “He is defiant.”

“A distinction without a difference.”

Archibald’s expression darkened. “That’s where you’re wrong.” He leaned forward, the space between them shrinking. Though he was older, there was no mistaking the authority in his posture, the way the very air in the room seemed to shift around him. “Defiance is not weakness, Bartholomew. If anything, it is the only thing keeping that boy alive despite your best efforts to crush him.”

Bartholomew’s mouth twitched, his temper barely contained beneath his perfectly controlled exterior. “Oh, come now. Don’t act as though you don’t see it. He is a disgrace to this family. Reckless, impulsive, an embarrassment. He has no respect, no discipline, no ambition.”

Archibald’s gaze bore into him, unyielding. “And whose fault is that?”

Bartholomew laughed, a sharp, cutting sound. “Ah, I see. This is my failing, then? Not his own inadequacy?”

“Yes.” Archibald’s voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the weight behind it. “Because you did everything in your power to ensure that he would never be anything but broken.”

Bartholomew’s fists clenched at his sides. “You speak as though I was too hard on him. That I should have coddled him. I just treated him as you treated me.”

There was silence for a long moment. Then Archibald said, with quiet precision, “And look what it made you.”

Bartholomew’s eyes flashed with something dangerous. “You say that as if I am some kind of failure.”

“No,” Archibald said simply, his voice carrying something even sharper than disappointment—regret. “I say that as if I regret the man you became.”

Archibald didn’t let the silence stretch for long. “You think I do not see you for what you are, Bartholomew? You think I do not see the way you tear *redacted* apart, piece by piece, and call it discipline? You call him weak, yet you are the one who needs to belittle him, to break him, to make him small, because the very idea of him standing on his own terrifies you.”

Bartholomew’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Am I?” Archibald?s gaze never leaving his son’s face. “You hate him because he does not fear you. You hate him because no matter how much you beat him down, no matter how much you degrade him, he still gets back up. That is why you despise him. Because deep down, you know that in the end, he will outlast you.”

Bartholomew’s nostrils flared, his entire body coiled with barely restrained fury. “You’ve grown soft in your old age,” he spat. “You used to understand. You used to know what it took to shape a man. But now? Now you coddle him, you protect him, you let him defy me—”

“Yes,” Archibald interrupted, his voice cold as steel. “I do. Because I refuse to let history repeat itself.”

Bartholomew’s fingers pressed into the leather of the chair as he fought to keep his composure. A lesser man might have flinched at Archibald’s words, but Bartholomew had spent a lifetime steeling himself against weakness, against sentiment, against doubt. His father’s regret did not wound him but it infuriated him.

Bartholomew let out a humourless laugh, shaking his head. “I am the product of your making, Father. You raised me to be strong, to be disciplined. You made it clear that success was the only currency of value in this family.” He spread his hands, his smirk hollow. “And yet now, you pretend to mourn what I’ve become?”

“I taught you discipline,” Archibald said evenly. “I taught you the importance of control, of responsibility, of carrying the weight of your own name with dignity. But never did I teach you cruelty.”

“Spare me the moralising,” Bartholomew bit out. “This world is not built on sentiment. It is built on control. Strength. You, of all people, should understand that.”

“I am a man who has learned from his mistakes.” Archibald said simply. “And I will not allow *redacted* to become another one.”

Bartholomew let out a sharp breath, straightening to his full height. His presence was commanding, but it did nothing to shake the unflinching steadiness of his father’s gaze. “He is already a mistake.” he spat. “A disgrace. He is weak, self-destructive, and pathetic. He is a stain on this family and you know it. You see it just as clearly as I do.”

Archibald studied him for a long, silent moment, his expression unreadable. “And yet,” he said finally, voice measured, “despite everything, despite the damage you have inflicted upon him, he still stands. Despite everything you have done to him, he is still here.”

"You speak as if his survival is some grand triumph, but look at him, Father. He is lost. A man with no purpose. That is not strength. That is failure.” Bartholomew spoke, his voice laced with disdain.

Archibald’s gaze did not waver. "Unlike you, he still has the capacity to be something else.”

Bartholomew scoffed, but there was an unmistakable flicker of something, something raw, something unguarded, behind his eyes. “You’re delusional.”

Archibald exhaled slowly, as if suddenly weary of the conversation. “Tell yourself whatever you must, Bartholomew. But know this: you will not lay a hand on him again.”

Bartholomew’s expression darkened, his gaze narrowing. “You think you can stop me?”

Archibald did not so much as blink. “Yes.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with tension, the air charged with decades of unspoken resentment and old wounds that had never truly healed. Then Archibald stood. Though the years had etched lines into his face, his presence was no less commanding than it had ever been. “You have no control here, Bartholomew. Not over this house. Not over *redacted*. And certainly not over me.” He stepped around the desk, stopping just short of his son. “So I suggest you take a moment to consider your next words very carefully.”

Bartholomew stared at him, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. For a moment, it looked as though he might lash out, the air between them crackling with barely contained fury. But then, just as quickly as it had come, the fire in his eyes cooled. He inhaled slowly, smoothing his expression back into something eerily neutral.

“You always did underestimate me, Father,” he murmured, his voice quiet but filled with venom.

“And you always did overestimate yourself,” Archibald countered, just as soft.

A beat of silence stretched between them. Then, Bartholomew gave a slow, deliberate nod, stepping back. “I will be staying,” he said simply, his tone devoid of emotion.

Archibald merely inclined his head slightly. “You may stay as long as you wish, as is your right,” he said, voice smooth as ever. “But do not mistake my hospitality for tolerance.”

Bartholomew held his gaze for a moment longer before turning sharply on his heel and striding toward the door. He paused with his hand on the handle, glancing over his shoulder. “He will ruin himself, with or without your help.”

Without another word, Bartholomew left the study. Archibald did not stop him. He did not need to. The battle lines had been drawn and Bartholomew was not the one dictating the terms.

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#call of duty #call of duty oc #my ocs #oc rp #original character #task force 141 #tf 141

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callsign-owl · 2 months ago

Text

Edinburgh - Part 1

This is a continuation of Roadtrip Part 3

Edinburgh, Scotland – July 2008

The morning light poured through the curtains as Owl blinked blearily at the ceiling. His entire body still ached like hell. He hadn’t slept much. The over-the-counter painkillers had taken the edge off just enough to stop him from clawing at the sheets, but not enough to let him rest. Every movement sent another wave of pain through him, as if to punish him for every bad decision he ever made.

His body screamed for him to stay exactly where he was but Owl knew better. Archibald hadn’t said it outright, but Owl had learned that there was an unspoken rule in this house: if breakfast was served, you were expected to attend. And unlike Bartholomew, Archibald didn’t demand respect; he commanded it by simply existing. Owl might have defied his father in this kind of situation, but his grandfather? That wasn’t really an option. Because, for once, it wasn’t about fear, it was actually about respect and not disappointing him. So, begrudgingly, Owl dragged himself out of bed. Though he didn’t bother changing. The worn-out T-shirt and the pair of shorts he’d slept in would have to do. He couldn’t summon the energy for anything else.

The hallway was quiet, save for the faint creak of the old wooden floors beneath Owl‘s bare feet. The scent of fresh coffee wafted faintly through the air as he approached the dining room. The door was already open and after hesistating for a moment Owl entered.

Percy was already seated, impeccably put together as always, wearing that familiar mask of calm composure that Owl hated more than he could explain. His brother didn’t look at him as Owl hovered in the doorway. He just continued sipping his coffee, eyes focused on the neatly folded newspaper in front of him. No acknowledgment, no recognition. Just cold, calculated indifference.

And then there was Archibald. The old man sat at the head of the table, looking like a king without a throne. His silver hair was neatly combed back, and his attention turned toward Owl the moment he stepped into the room. His gaze was assessing, sharp but not cruel, taking in every detail. For a heartbeat, no one said anything.

“Good Morning *redacted*,” Archibald said finally.

“Morning,” Owl mumbled, as he slipped into the chair across from Percy, who still refused to look at him.

“Eat,” Archibald said, as though the matter wasn’t up for discussion, gesturing toward the untouched plate in front of Owl. Toast, eggs, bacon. Simple, but rich and masterfully prepared.

Owl stared at the plate, his mind sluggishly trying to process the command. He wasn’t hungry. At least, he didn’t think he was. Then again, he could barely tell when he was hungry on a normal day, let alone now, when his body was still a mess of lingering pain, exhaustion, and the dull fog of whatever was left of the painkillers in his system.

Finally Owl picked up a piece of toast and took a bite. He chewed slowly, the texture feeling foreign in his mouth. He swallowed, and then — oh.

His stomach clenched faintly, something deep inside of him twisting in recognition. Like his body had just now realized that food was an thing. That oh, right, we need this to function. Owl had been hungry. He just hadn’t noticed. Typical.

It wasn’t until his Owl‘s fork scraped against the empty plate that he realized that he had actually finished the whole thing. He barely had time to process it before Percy, who had been infuriatingly silent the entire meal, just had to open his mouth.

“Well, that’s a rare sight,” Percy remarked, setting his coffee cup down with a soft clink. His voice was mild, laced with that perfectly even tone that somehow still managed to be insufferably smug.

Owl’s eye twitched. Of course Percy couldn’t just let it go. “Fuck off Percy,” Owl shot back.

Percy arched an eyebrow, entirely unbothered. “I’m simply making an observation.”

“Yeah? Well, observe quietly.” Owl leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he shot his brother a glare.

“That’s enough,” Archibald interrupted, his voice mild but carrying just enough weight to cut through whatever argument was about to unfold.

Owl and Percy both went silent. Not because they were afraid of their grandfather, Archibald had never ruled through fear the way their father did, but because his authority was absolute. There was no room for discussuion when he decided a matter was settled.

Owl exhaled sharply through his nose and slumped further into his chair. Percy, ever the picture of control, merely picked up his newspaper again, flipping it open like the conversation had already ceased to exist.

Archibald studied them both for a moment before turning his attention back to Owl. “I assume you’re going to rest today?”

Owl blinked, caught slightly off guard. He hadn’t really thought about it. He hadn’t expected to be given a choice. For a moment his brain simply stalled before he finally replied. “Uh… I guess?”

Archibald hummed in acknowledgment, taking a sip of his tea. “A wise choice.”

Owl shifted slightly in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. “So you’re just gonna let me do whatever?”

Archibald arched a brow, the barest hint of amusement flickering across his face. “Should I not?”

Owl hesitated, narrowing his eyes slightly. “That’s not usually how this works.”

Archibald leaned back in his chair, his expression as unreadable as ever. “You are not under house arrest, *redacted*. I will not chain you to the furniture and monitor your every movement.” His gaze flicked toward Percy briefly before returning to Owl. “Unless, of course, you require supervision?”

Percy, without missing a beat, turned another page of his newspaper. “I think we all know the answer to that.”

Owl scowled. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

Percy didn’t even look up. “So I’ve been told.”

Archibald sighed, setting his cup down. “Enough, both of you.” He regarded Owl carefully. “You are an adult, *redacted*. You are more than capable of deciding how to spend your time. I suggest you use it wisely.”

The words carried weight, subtle but firm. It wasn’t a demand, but it wasn’t entirely a suggestion either. Archibald had always had a way of making his expectations clear without needing to say them outright.

Owl exhaled through his nose, his fingers drumming idly against the table. “Right. Sure. I’ll, uh… use it wisely.”

Hidden behind his newspaper Percy rolled his eyes while Archibald merely nodded. “See that you do.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Percy stood near the window, watching the sprawling estate grounds below. Archibald sat behind his desk, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he regarded his eldest grandson with that same piercing gaze that had unnerved far greater men than Percy.

“He is getting worse.“ Percy stated, his voice devoid of emotion but carrying an underlying weight of concern.

Archibald hummed in quiet agreement. “That would be an apt description.” His eyes flickered toward Percy. “And whose fault is that, I wonder?”

Percy turned from the window, his expression tightening just slightly. “If you’re implying it’s mine - ”

“I am implying nothing,” Archibald cut in smoothly. “I am merely observing.”

Percy exhaled sharply, folding his arms across his chest. “I brought him here in one piece, didn’t I?“

Archibald studied him for a long moment before leaning back in his chair. “And yet, despite your supposed good intentions, you saw fit to leave him on the side of a motorway.”

Percy’s entire body went rigid.

“It wasn’t supposed to go that far,” Percy admitted after a long pause. “It was meant to be a wake-up call.”

Archibald let out a quiet, humorless chuckle. “And you thought that would be the thing to wake him up? You disappoint me, Percival. I thought you were smarter than that.”

Percy’s teeth ground together. “I was frustrated,” he admitted, the words tasting bitter even now. “I was tired. I was tired of his recklessness, tired of watching him destroy himself while pretending everything is fine.” His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You haven’t seen him these past few months. You haven’t—”

“No,” Archibald interrupted, his tone cool but firm. “But I have seen what has come of him. And I have seen you, Percival.”

Percy remained silent, his posture stiff, waiting.

“You are angry at him,” Archibald continued. “But more than that, you are angry at yourself. Because despite all your so-called discipline, despite your careful control of every aspect of your life, you cannot control him. And you hate that.”

Percy didn‘t bother denying it.

Archibald let the silence linger for a moment before he continued. “And *redacted*…” He shook his head. “He is exhausting himself fighting battles that do not need to be fought.” His gaze flickered back to Percy. “And you, my dear boy, are only making it worse.”

Percy inhaled sharply, barely restraining his frustration. “What would you have me do, then?” he asked, his voice clipped. “Coddle him? Pretend he’s fine when he’s clearly not?”

Archibald sighed, shaking his head. “No. But you cannot strong-arm him into salvation, Percival.”

Percy frowned. “You think I should simply let him self-destruct?”

“No,” Archibald said simply. “You are his brother,” the older man continued. “Not his captor. Not his keeper. If you truly want to help him, then stop trying to mold him into something he is not. He does not need another judge.” Archibald leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable.

Archibald studied Percy for a moment longer. “Let him rest,” he said, his voice softer now. “Give him space.” He gestured slightly toward the door. “Go and handle whatever crisis requires your attention elsewhere. I will keep an eye on him.”

Percy hesitated but ultimately nodded. He had nothing left to say, not to Archibald, and certainly not to his brother. Not yet. Without another word, he turned and strode toward the door. Just as he reached it, Archibald’s voice cut through the quiet once more.

“And Percival?”

Percy turned slightly, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Do not make the mistake of thinking you are so different from him.”

Percy didn’t respond. He simply left.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Owl lay sprawled on the bed in his guestroom. The pain was finally gone, or at least the physical kind. The bruises had faded to ugly yellow remnants and the soreness had dulled into nothing more than an occasional ache. The past few days had passed in a haze of sleep, silence, and avoidance. Archibald hadn’t pushed, hadn’t prodded. He had simply let him be. Until now.

A sharp knock at the door broke the monotony.

Owl sighed, forcing himself to sit up. “Come in,” he called out.

The door swung open, and there stood his grandfather, as composed as ever, a small tray balanced in his hands. Tea. Of course.

“I thought you might like some tea,” Archibald remarked, stepping inside. It wasn’t a question. Archibald set the tray down on the small writing desk near the window and took a seat in the armchair next to it.

Owl ran a hand through his disheveled hair and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know,” he said after a long pause, “most people would have given me a speech by now. Something about wasted potential or at least a thinly veiled demand that I pull myself together.”

Archibald tilted his head slightly, considering. “Most people lack patience.”

Owl snorted. “You say that like I’m some kind of rare plant that just needs the right amount of sunlight and water.”

“You're not a plant,” Archibald said simply. “But some sunlight and water might still do you some good.”

Owl chuckled before he reluctantly went to pick up the cup of tea. More out of a need to do something with his hands than any real interest in drinking it. “Percy’s probably fuming that you’re not lecturing me into submission.”

A flicker of amusement passed over Archibald’s features. “Percival enjoys structure,” he admitted. “He believes in logic, in discipline. In rules. He does not do well with disorder.”

Owl smirked faintly. “And I am the very definition of disorder.”

Archibald inclined his head. “You are… chaotic,” he agreed. “But that does not mean you are without reason.”

Owl glanced at him, something wary flickering behind his gaze. “And what do you think my reason is?”

Archibald took a slow sip of his tea. “Your father seeks control through force. Percival seeks it through order. You, however, reject it entirely. You fight so hard against control because you have never been given the choice to have any. You rebel not for the sake of rebellion, but because defiance is the only thing that has ever belonged to you entirely.”

Archibald of course was right but Owl wasn't exactly sure what his grandfather was trying to tell him. “I don’t suppose we could skip to the part where you actually tell me what you’re getting at?”

Archibald looked at Owl with the kind of scrutiny that made him feel like a specimen under a microscope. “Very well,” he said. “Tell me, *redacted*: what do you want?”

Owl blinked. “What?”

“What do you want?” Archibald repeated, slow and deliberate, as if he were speaking to someone particularly dense.

Owl scoffed. “You make it sound like I have options.”

“You do,” Archibald countered smoothly. “You always have.”

Owl let out a short, humorless laugh. “Right. Sure. That’s why my entire life has been a series of other people making decisions for me.”

Archibald hummed thoughtfully, tilting his head slightly. “And yet, I have never known you to accept a single decision without resistance. Even when compliance was the easier path.”

Owl frowned at that, caught somewhere between irritation and reluctant acknowledgment. He crossed his arms over his chest but before he could say something Archibald continued. “You have spent most of your life reacting, *redacted*,” he said calmly. “Fighting, rebelling, lashing out. You do so not because you are defiant by nature, but because you believe it is your only means of control.”

Owl shifted uncomfortably but didn’t reply. Because, of course, his grandfather was right. Archibald stepped toward the window, his posture straight but not rigid, hands clasped neatly behind his back. He looked outside for a moment before turning back to face Owl once more. “You live in absolutes. All or nothing. You have convinced yourself that your only choices are to either conform and become something you despise, or to reject everything and embrace the chaos. But that is a false dichotomy. And now you are so accustomed to fighting against everything that you have never stopped to consider what you want to fight for. So I will ask you again, *redacted*: what do you want?”

Owl’s fingers twitched against the ceramic of his teacup. His grandfather had a way of speaking that made everything sound so definitive, so precise, like he was stating a law of the universe rather than an opinion.

“I - I don't know.” Owl replied quietly. It was a question Owl had asked himself before, and every time, the answer had felt just out of reach, like something he should know but never quite did.

Archibald studied him, his sharp, assessing gaze never wavering. “I find that difficult to believe,” he said smoothly.

Owl scoffed, shifting uncomfortably. “Yeah, well, it’s the truth,” he muttered. “I never had some grand plan like Percy. No carefully crafted trajectory to success. No -” he waved a hand vaguely in the air, “- sense of purpose. I just sort of… exist.”

Archibald hummed, tilting his head slightly. “And yet, despite what you claim, you have made a significant choice fairly recently.”

Owl frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Archibald arched a brow. “Medical school.”

Owl blinked. “That - ” he hesitated. “That doesn’t count.”

“Oh?” Archibald challenged. “And why is that?”

Owl opened his mouth to answer but came up short. He knew what he wanted to say, hat he hadn’t chosen medicine because of some deep, burning passion for saving lives, or some noble sense of duty. It hadn’t been a grand, defining moment of ambition. He just liked biology. The human body was fascinating, the way it functioned, the way it broke, the way it could be repaired. It was logical. Something he could understand in a way people never quite made sense to him.

It had been a choice, hadn’t it? His choice. No one had pushed him into it. No one had forced his hand. If anything, Bartholomew would have outright denied him the opportunity had he known. But Owl had wanted it enough to go to Archibald, to ask for his help, to maneuver around his father’s inevitable disapproval.

Finally Owl spoke. “That was just - I mean, it’s not like I had some deep reasoning behind it.”

“And yet, you chose it,” Archibald countered simply. “No one decided it for you. No one dictated your path. You pursued it because you wanted to.”

Owl looked down at his hands, his fingers idly tracing the rim of the teacup. “I just thought it was interesting,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “That’s all. Not exactly a grand calling, or something.”

Archibald leaned back slightly, regarding him with something that might have been amusement. “Who told you that ambition must be grand to be worthwhile?”

Owl scoffed. “Everyone, apparently.”

“People are fools,” Archibald said simply. “The idea that purpose must be some great, world-altering force is a fallacy. The pursuit of knowledge for the sake of understanding is no less valuable than any other ambition.”

Owl hesitated. He hadn‘t thought about it like that before.

Archibald’s gaze remained steady. “You have spent too much of your life defining yourself by what you are not, by what you refuse to be. You are not your father. You are not your brother. But I suspect you have given very little thought on who you are beyond those distinctions.”

Owl exhaled sharply through his nose. He hated this. Hated how Archibald had the uncanny ability to slice through his carefully constructed bullshit with a few well-placed words. Hated how, no matter how much he wanted to argue, to roll his eyes and brush it off, he couldn’t, because Archibald was right.

“Yeah, well, that’s great,” Owl muttered, his voice edged with frustration. “Real insightful. But what exactly do you want me to do with that information?”

Archibald merely arched a brow, taking a measured sip of his tea. “That is not for me to decide.”

Owl groaned. “For fuck’s sake, can you stop being cryptic for like two seconds?” He waved a hand. “I swear, every time we have these conversations, it’s like you’re some wise old monk sitting on a mountain, dispensing riddles and expecting me to have an epiphany or some shit.”

A faint, amused smile tugged at the corner of Archibald’s lips. “I enjoy making people think.”

“Well, congratulations,” Owl shot back, rubbing his temples. “Mission accomplished. I’m thinking about how much I want to jump out that window.”

Archibald chuckled. “Melodramatic as always.”

Owl huffed and turned his gaze toward the window. Despite his best efforts to remain unaffected, something about this conversation had lodged itself uncomfortably in his mind.

After a long moment, Owl let out a breath, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “So, what? You expect me to just… what? Sit here and have an existential crisis? Figure out my entire purpose in life over a cup of tea?”

The faint smile didn’t leave Archibald’s lips. “That would be an ambitious goal for a single afternoon. However some things are worth taking the time to understand.”

Archibald always seemed to know exactly when to let silence do the work for him. He simply sat there, waiting, just allowing the weight of the conversation to settle. It was maddening.

Owl let out a frustrated sigh, raking a hand down his face. “Fine. You win, alright? I’ll think about it.”

Archibald merely nodded, as if that had been his expectation all along. “You assume that reflection is a punishment, when in reality, it is a gift.”

Owl rolled his eyes. “If that’s the case, I’d like to return it for store credit.”

Archibald chuckled softly but said nothing more. With the same quiet grace he carried in all things, he rose from his chair and left without another word. His footsteps echied faintly in the hall until they disappeared altogether.

Continue reading here

#call of duty #call of duty oc #my ocs #oc rp #original character #task force 141 #tf 141

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callsign-owl · 2 months ago

Text

Roadtrip Part 3

This is a continuation of Roadtrip Part 2

London to Edinburgh, United Kingdom - July 2008

The sharp edge of anger that had propelled Owl out of the car was beginning to dull under the crushing weight of what if. What if Percy didn’t come back? What if this wasn’t just another round of their endless, exhausting game of chicken?

Owl’s gaze drifted down the motorway, the shimmering heat rising off the asphalt like a mirage. The cars that passed didn’t slow, didn’t hesitate. They just sped on toward their destinations, leaving him behind in the middle of nowhere.

Without thinking, Owl turned away from the road and toward the barrier lining the motorway. The thick, sun-heated metal railing groaned faintly as he hauled himself over it with more effort than he cared to admit but he didn’t stop until his feet hit the dry, brittle grass on the other side.

The field stretched out ahead, the landscape rolling lazily under the summer heat. Owl’s focus was drawn to a small cluster of trees just beyond the embankment. A sparse pocket of shade but better than baking under the sun like roadkill.

Once Owl reached the trees, he dropped his backpack and sank down with as much dignity as a half-broken body could muster, settling with his back against the rough bark of one of the trees.

Shortly after the full effect of the drugs finally started to hit. The sharp edges of reality softened into something distant and blurred. A lazy numbness spreading through him, thick and heavy and so damn comforting, that perfect weightlessness that pulled the world just far enough away to stop it from feeling like it might crush him. Owl let his head fall back against the tree, eyes half-lidded as he stared up at the sky through the jagged canopy of leaves.

The minutes stretched, time blurred around the edges. The low drone of insects buzzed lazily in the background, mingling with the distant hum of traffic. Owl let his eyes slip closed, the warmth of the drugs washing over him like a tide pulling him out to sea. It was easier this way. No pain. No anger. No Percy. Just nothing.

The wind stirred the grass around him, sending a dry, whispering sound across the field like nature’s own lullaby. Owl couldn't get himself to move. This was fine. He could stay here. Future Owl could deal with the fact that he was stranded in the middle of nowhere. That wasn’t his problem right now. He could think about what to do next later. Every ounce of anger, fear, and pain had been smothered under the chemical lull, leaving him floating just above the surface of consciousness.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Meanwhile, Percy sat in the parking lot of the next service station. The engine was off, but the faint ticking sound of cooling metal still echoed through the car’s frame. He stared straight ahead, jaw tight, hands resting on the steering wheel like he was still driving.

You left him.

The plan had been simple: scare him. Make him realize there were consequences to his actions. But instead, Percy had actually left him. On the side of the road. Alone. High as a kite, injured and vulnerable. Percy hadn't meant to go this far. And yet, here he was. Having abandoned his brother on the side of the road.

Percy exhaled slowly, letting his forehead rest against the steering wheel for a moment. The logical part of his brain, the part that usually ruled him, that always had a solution, a plan, an answer, kept insisting this was necessary. He deserved it. Maybe this is the wake-up call his brother needed. But what if something happened to him out there? What if he didn’t just sit there and wait? What if he wandered off? What if someone stopped, not to help, but to hurt? What if…

The thoughts spiraled, fast and relentless, wrapping around Percy‘s throat like a noose. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel, nails biting into the leather. No. No, he’ll be fine. *redacted* was stubborn enough to survive a nuclear fallout; surely he could handle a few hours of being alone by the side of the road. Right? But that wasn’t the problem. The problem wasn’t if *redacted* could survive, it was how he would survive.

What the hell were you thinking?

The words echoed in Percy‘s head, but they didn’t sound like his own. They sounded like Grandfather’s. Cold, sharp disapproval laced with a kind of disappointment that cut deeper than anger ever could.

You were supposed to handle this. You were supposed to be responsible. You’re not supposed to lose control.

But that’s exactly what this was. This wasn’t control. This was failure dressed up as authority, an emotional reaction masquerading as calculated logic. Kicking his brother out of the car wasn’t a plan. It wasn’t the solution Percy always prided himself on finding. It was anger. Frustration. Exhaustion. The very things he always swore he would never let dictate his actions. And yet, here he was.

Percy sat in the stifling silence of the car, the weight of his own actions pressing down on him like lead. For a moment, Percy let himself feel it: the failure, the regret curling sharp and sour in his stomach. His pulse hammered in his ears, every beat a reminder of how badly he had just screwed up.

But feelings didn’t solve problems. Rationality did.

Percy straightened abruptly, dragging in a slow breath and forcing the chaotic storm of emotions back into the tightly sealed compartment where they belonged. He corrected his posture into that perfectly measured stiffness that had been drilled into him from childhood. The familiar armor of control slid back into place like it had never left. Cold. Efficient. Practical.

The facts were simple: His brother was vulnerable and unpredictable. Every second Percy spent sitting here added to the risk. Percy restarted the engine and his mind shifted into familiar territory: logistics, strategy, outcomes.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The haze was starting to thin. Not by much, just enough for Owl to feel the sharp, scraping edge of awareness clawing its way back in. The drugs were still doing their job, numbing the worst of everything, smoothing out the sharp corners of his thoughts.

Percy actually left him. That realization lingered, sticky and uncomfortable. It should have hurt more. It should have carved something deep and jagged through his chest. And maybe it would later, once the drugs wore off, it probably would rip through him like wildfire. But right now? It didn’t hurt. Not yet. Instead, it just settled. Like a fact. Nothing more.

The drugs were still trying to drag him under, whispering just lie back down, it’s easier this way, but he knew that staying here wasn't an option. Eventually, the drugs would wear off, leaving him stranded here in a lot of pain. But still, he couldn’t make himself care enough to move. What was the point?

Walking along the motorway? Suicidal. Hitchhiking? Not a chance. He wasn’t about to roll the dice on some Good Samaritan fantasy that would probably end with him stuffed in someone’s trunk. And walking further into the field? Just as useless. What would that solve? No, staying here was better. Easier. The drug's familiar and comforting embrace was too tempting to resist, wrapping around him like a warm blanket.

This is fine.

As some more time passed, Owl's thoughts began to unravel entirely, becoming nothing more than disconnected shapes and colors behind his eyelids. The wind in the grass, the distant hum of cars passing on the motorway, the slow burn of the sun against his skin all faded into the background.

And then something broke through the fog.

“Get up,” a familiar voice said.

Owl forced his eyes open, squinting against the harsh light. Percy stood there, arms crossed looking down on him.

“I said, get up,” Percy repeated, his tone icy.

Owl didn’t move. “Not happening,” Owl muttered, voice low and scratchy. At this point the lingering effects of the drugs weren't enough to overpower the weight of betrayal and resentment sitting in his chest.

“Stop being dramatic,” Percy said with a sigh.

“You fucking left me.” Owl snapped. The words came out raw, slurred at the edges. His voice lacked that sharp, venomous edge he usually wielded like a blade, it wasn’t anger, not really. It was disappointment. Hurt.

Percy stared down at him, arms still folded. His jaw tightened as he tried not to let the flicker of guilt in his chest crack through the icy veneer he had so carefully rebuilt on the drive back.

“Funny,” Percy said, voice smooth, measured, but razor-sharp underneath. “You spend half your life telling me to leave you alone. And the second I finally do?” He tilted his head. “Suddenly, I’m the villain for listening?”

That hit. Percy saw it. The way Owl flinched, the slight twitch of his shoulders like someone had landed a clean punch. It was satisfying for half a second. Then it just felt ugly.

Owl just sat there, slouched against the tree like his body had finally given up on trying to keep him upright.

“Get up,” Percy said again. “You don't get to sit there and act like you didn’t bring this on yourself.”

Owl’s eyes snapped up to meet Percy’s, something dark flickering beneath haze of the drugs still clawing at the edges of his mind. For a heartbeat, Owl just stared at Percy before he finally spoke. “You sound just like him, you know that? Father would be proud.” Each word was delivered slow and deliberate, every syllable dipped in acid.

Percy stiffened. His hands flexed at his sides, the same way their father’s did right before the worst of it started. But Percy didn’t react. Not physically, anyway. No explosive outburst. No sudden, terrifying burst of violence. Instead his expression froze. The same icy demeanor that had always made Percy dangerous in his own way.

“You think I enjoy this?” Percy’s voice was low. “You think I wanted to come back for you after that? To drag you off the side of the road like some pathetic, self-destructive parasite who can’t go ten minutes without throwing his entire life away?”

Pathetic. Parasite. The words hit harder than Owl liked to admit, slicing clean through what little remained of his defenses. "You done yet?" The question came out flat and empty.

For a second, Percy didn’t respond. His lips were pressed into a thin line. The air between them was thick with everything unsaid. Anger, disappointment, resentment but underneath it all was something else: Recognition. The words had rolled off Percy’s tongue too easily. Too naturally. Like Bartholomew himself had been standing there, speaking through him. And Percy realized it too. The recognition flickered in his eyes for just a second. It was barely there, but unmistakable. Owl saw it, and it was almost funny, really. Almost.

Bartholomew’s voice echoed in both their heads, sharp and cutting.

“You’re weak. Pathetic. A fucking waste of potential.”

Owl let out a humorless laugh. “Congratulations, Percy. You really are turning into him.” His voice was ragged, but there was a vicious sort of satisfaction in saying it out loud, in seeing the way Percy’s posture stiffened even more. The words had hit home.

“Don’t,” Percy warned.

But Owl wasn’t done. Not yet. The drugs dulled the edges of his fear and regret and left nothing but reckless momentum behind. “You’re just like him, you know? Cold. Controlling. Cruel. Acting like you’re better than everyone else.”

Percy’s nostrils flared, but his expression didn’t crack. “And what about you, *redacted*? You think you’re any better?”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Neither of them spoke, but the weight of the truth settled like between them and they both hated it. Hated how much of their father they saw in each other. Percy was everything Bartholomew pretended to be: composed, successful, ruthless in his pursuit of power and control. Owl on the other hand was everything Bartholomew actually was beneath the mask: angry, volatile, desperate to keep anyone from seeing the truth.

Owl swallowed hard, the fire in his chest replaced by something far colder. He didn’t have the energy to fight anymore. Not with Percy. Not with himself.

“I’m not him,” Owl muttered, voice low and cracked.

“No you’re not. But neither am I.” Percy said quietly. “And now, for god's sake, get up and get back in the car." Without another word, Percy turned away and headed back up the embankment toward the car that was parked at the edge of the motorway.

Owl sat there for a moment. Get up, Percy had said, like it was that simple. Like dragging himself back toward the person who had just abandoned him on the side of the road was something he could do without swallowing every last shred of his pride first.

With a heavy sigh, Owl pushed off the ground, swaying slightly as he climbed back up the embankment. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else: heavy, unreliable, a reminder of how much his body hated him right now.

The car sat idling on the breakdown lane, Percy already behind the wheel again, staring straight ahead like a statue carved out of stone. Owl yanked the door open, slid into the passenger seat with as little grace as humanly possible, and slammed it shut behind him. Owl didn’t spare Percy a glance. He couldn’t. Not without losing whatever fragile thread of composure was keeping him together. Instead, he put his headphones back on and pulled his hood up. The fabric falling low over his face forming a flimsy barrier that shielded him from Percy's gaze.

The car rolled forward and merged back onto the motorway seamlessly as if nothing had happened. As if Percy hadn’t left him behind, discarded like a unwanted piece of trash.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

At first, the numbness lingered, wrapping around Owl like a cocoon. The drugs still dulled the worst of it, smoothing out the sharp edges of anger, and betrayal. But it didn’t last. Minute by minute, the drugs’ effects began to fade. The warmth seeped out of his limbs, replaced by something colder, something sharper. A slow-burning ache that had nothing to do with the bruises on his body.

Owl squeezed his eyes shut, the weight of it all pressing down on him with suffocating clarity. He tried to push it back down. Tried to ignore it. Tried to pretend it didn’t matter, that he didn’t care. But it did matter, and it hurt.

Every inch of his body throbbed, but the physical pain was dull and distant compared to the sharp, all-consuming ache in his chest. The drugs had been his shield, wrapping him in soft cotton and bluering the edges of reality just enough that nothing could touch him. But now? Now he was left raw and exposed. Every breath scraped against his ribs like glass shards. Every bump in the road sent a flash of agony shooting through his spine. But it was nothing compared to the hollow, crushing weight of betrayal sitting in his chest like a stone.

Don’t cry. Not here. Not now. Not in front of him.

But the pain didn’t care about pride. It clawed at Owl‘s throat, thick and suffocating. His chest tightened with every shallow breath until it felt like he couldn’t pull any air in at all. His shoulders tensed, trying to hold it back, trying to keep the dam from cracking open, but the pressure just kept building.

“*redacted*.” Percy’s voice cut through the silence like. Sharp. Controlled. Too fucking calm.

Owl didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

“*redacted*.” Percy repeated.

If Percy spoke again, if he said anything else in that careful, measured tone like he gave a shit, Owl was going to lose it.

“I didn‘t mean to….”

“Don’t.” The word tumbled out of Owl’s mouth before he could stop it, hoarse and raw, cutting off Percy mid sentence.

Percy didn’t respond right away. “I came back.” The words were quiet.

“Yeah,” Owl spat. “How long exactly did it take until your precious sense of duty finally forced you back? Or was it guilt? Or did you just realize how bad it would look if you left me there for good?”

The silence that followed stretched for too long.

Owl let out a breathless, bitter laugh, the kind that didn’t hold a shred of amusement. “That’s what I thought.“

It wasn’t like Owl was wrong. Percy had come back for all those reasons. But that wasn’t the whole truth. Underneath it all was something else. Something Percy didn’t like to admit, even to himself. He had also come back because despite everything, despite how much Owl infuriated him, despite the endless cycle of chaos and destruction, he cared. And Percy hated that he cared. Hated how it felt like weakness.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

An uncomfortable and tense silence followed them all the way to the front steps of their grandfather’s estate, an old, looming stone structure, partially covered in thick ivy that clawed it's way up the walls. The sun was setting at this point, turning the sky above a deep indigo streaked with firey shades of red and orange.

Owl sat stiffly in the passenger seat, eyes fixed ahead but unfocused. The drugs had worn off by now, leaving nothing to soften the edges anymore. Every inch of his body body screamed with exhaustion, tension, and pain.

Swallowing hard, Owl eventually forced himself to open the door and to follow Percy. The grand oak doors opened before they reached them. A familiar figure stood there: Archibald *redacted*, their grandfather. Tall and imposing, even in his old age, with steel-grey hair and a presence that could silence a room without uttering a word. His gaze swept over them both with piercing clarity, eyes lingering on Owl. The older man studied him for a heartbeat, eyes narrowing just slightly, as if cataloguing every bruise, every injury.

“Percival. *redacted*.” His voice was smooth, measured like tempered steel. “You’re late.”

Percy respectfully dipped his head slightly. "Apologies,” he replied, his voice flat, professional. Like nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.

Archibald only nodded. “Come inside.”

Continue reading here

#call of duty #call of duty oc #my ocs #oc rp #original character #task force 141 #tf 141

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callsign-owl · 2 months ago

Text

Roadtrip Part 2

This is a continuation of Roadtrip Part 1

London to Edinburgh, United Kingdom - July 2008

Silence was a luxury Percy treasured. But this? This wasn’t really peace. The quiet was deceiving. The way Owl‘s restlessness only ever truly settled when his bloodstream was flooded with chemicals. The way he currently was curled into himself, too loose, too relaxed, like a marionette with its strings cut. It made Percy’s skin itch.

Owl was a pain in the ass on a normal day, but Percy at least understood why he had taken the drugs this time. Owl was in pain. Real, actual, unbearable pain. Not just the vague, gnawing kind Percy knew he carried with him constantly, but something acute and immediate. That didn’t mean Percy had to like it.

Percy exhaled sharply through his nose, pushing the thoughts away. It was time to stop for a proper break. And not at some shitty rest stop.

Percy had planned ahead. The halfway point of their trip landed them near a fairly nice restaurant, one of those countryside places that catered to travelers with money. A proper meal, a decent place to stretch his legs, and hopefully, something that didn’t come prepackaged in plastic wrap. Percy had no intention of eating gas station sandwiches or soggy motorway burgers.

The exit came up, and Percy pulled off the motorway, the road shifting from wide asphalt into narrower, tree-lined paths leading into a quaint little town. A few turns later, he pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot, the place sitting comfortably between rustic charm and upper-class establishment. It wasn’t overly busy, which suited Percy just fine.

The engine hummed to a stop, and Percy unbuckled his seatbelt before glancing over at Owl, who was still slumped against the window. He looked younger like this. More like the kid Percy remembered, the kid didn’t exist anymore.

Percy sighed and reached over, giving Owl’s shoulder a firm shake. “Wake up.”

Owl didn’t stir.

Percy frowned. He shook his brother again, harder this time. “*redacted*.”

A slow, sluggish groan escaped from the depths of the hoodie, followed by a barely audible, “Fuck off.”

Percy pinched the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t in the mood for this. “We’re having lunch and you can either wake up and walk, or I will drag you out of this car myself. Your choice.”

That, at least, got a reaction. Owl cracked one eye open, squinting against the light. His pupils were still too small, his expression groggy and unfocused. He blinked slowly, processing the change in scenery before letting out a tired groan. “Where the hell are we?”

“Somewhere with real food,” Percy said. “Now move.”

Owl made a noise of protest but reluctantly peeled himself away from the window, stretching his limbs with a wince. The Oxy was obviously still in his system, but it probably wouldn’t be long before the pain started creeping back in.

Owl scrubbed a hand down his face, blinking blearily at the restaurant. “Fancy,” he mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.

Percy ignored him and stepped out of the car, waiting just long enough to ensure Owl was following. To his credit, Owl did get out, albeit slow.

Percy locked the car and started toward the entrance. “Try to act like a functional human being,” he said over his shoulder.

The restaurant was exactly as Percy had expected: tasteful, upscale and a little pretentious, the kind of place where travelers stopped for quality over convenience. They were seated quickly at a polished wooden table near the window.

Owl slumped into his chair with all the enthusiasm of someone being dragged to their own execution. The crisp white tablecloth, the softly glowing candle in the center, and the meticulously arranged silverware only made him feel more out of place. His hoodie was wrinkled, his sweatpants were barely hanging onto the definition of “acceptable public attire,” and his entire demeanor screamed I do not belong here.

Percy, of course, fit in seamlessly. His posture was impeccable, his clothes were annoyingly pristine, and he looked perfectly at home scanning the menu with a casual ease that only a life of fine dining could teach.

Owl, on the other hand, had barely picked up the menu before his stomach twisted with something unpleasant. It wasn't hunger. No, just the sheer overwhelming nature of the options. The menu wasn’t just a menu. It was a goddamn novel. Every dish had a paragraph-long description, half of which were in French or Italian. Even the simplest items were dressed up in a way that made them sound like the pinnacle of human achievement.

Locally sourced, pan-seared organic chicken breast, glazed with a balsamic reduction, served alongside a delicate truffle-infused potato purée, garnished with edible flowers.

Owl rolled his eyes. It’s fucking chicken and mashed potatoes. Just say that.

He flipped the page. Another assault of overpriced nonsense. His fingers tightened around the menu as his brain rapidly shut down from decision fatigue. Owl stared at it like the menu had personally insulted him. His brain, already foggy from the effects of the drugs, refused to process anything written in front of him. Every option felt overwhelming, too much, too complicated.

The waiter returned, notepad in hand, his polite but slightly judgmental gaze flicking over Owl’s appearance before turning to Percy expectantly.

Percy, of course, had already made his selections. Because of course he had. “I’ll have the ribeye,” Percy said smoothly. “Medium rare. And the duck confit. Oh, and the gnocchi to start.” He barely glanced at the menu as he recited his ordet. “And sparkling water.”

The waiter nodded approvingly before turning his attention to Owl. “And for you, sir?”

Owl could feel Percy watching him. Waiting. Owl's skin prickled with irritation, and he felt the sharp, familiar burn of frustration clawing at the edges of his exhaustion. He hated feeling like this, trapped between too many choices, stuck in a situation that should have been simple but wasn’t. “I’ll just have chips.”

The waiter hesitated, as if mentally scanning the menu to confirm whether chips were even an option. He shifted slightly. “Our pommes frites are served with—”

“Just. Chips.” Owl cut him off, his voice sharper than intended. “Plain.”

Percy inhaled through his nose, but to his credit, he didn’t say anything. Not yet. The waiter, clearly unimpressed but too professional to argue, simply nodded as he jotted it down. “And to drink?”

Owl pretended to consider. “I don’t suppose you have a Red Bull and a lack of judgment?”

Percy intervened. “He’ll have water.”

The waiter gave a polite nod and retreated.

The moment he was gone, Percy leveled Owl with a knowing look.

“What?” Owl snapped, already irritated.

Percy tilted his head slightly. “You’re overwhelmed.”

Owl scoffed. “Oh, please. I'm just not in the mood for an eight-course gourmet experience.”

Percy gestured subtly to the menu still clutched in Owl’s hands. “You didn’t even read it.”

Owl clenched his jaw, because Percy was right. He hadn’t read it. Not really. He had skimmed, gotten overwhelmed, and then shut down completely. And now, he was sitting here, stuck in the middle of a restaurant he didn’t belong in, with nothing but a plate of chips on the way while Percy dined like a goddamn Roman emperor.

Percy sighed, shaking his head. “You do this all the time.”

“Do what?”

“Refuse to eat properly because you can't to deal with the process of picking something.”

Owl scowled, fingers tightening around the edges of the menu.

He wasn’t in the mood for this. Not for Percy’s keen-eyed dissections of his every flaw, not for the restaurant’s pretentious atmosphere, not for the way his brain refused to cooperate with something as simple as picking a goddamn meal. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t snap back immediately. Not because he didn’t want to - oh, he did - but because the Oxy and Xanax still had him drifting somewhere between sedated calm and simmering irritation, making his usual sharp comebacks feel sluggish.

“Jesus, Percy,” Owl eventually muttered, voice low but sharp. “Did you wake up today and decide to analyze all my fucking faults in excruciating detail, or is this just a special treat for the road trip?”

Percy arched a brow, unbothered. “You make it easy. You have patterns. I notice them.”

Owl scoffed. “Of course you do.”

Percy ignored the sarcasm. “You get overwhelmed when there are too many options, so instead of working through it, you default to the simplest choice possible or avoid making a choice entirely.” He gestured subtly toward the discarded menu.

Owl’s fingers twitched against the table. He wanted to argue, wanted to tell Percy to shove his observations where the sun didn’t shine, but the words weren’t forming fast enough in his head. He hated that Percy was right. And worse, that he had noticed. Owl had never put much thought into it before. He just knew that certain things in life were harder for him than they seemed to be for everyone else. Decision-making, following through on plans, organizing anything that required more than a few steps. Even eating was weird for him. He either forgot about it entirely, went for hours without realizing he was hungry, or hyper-focused on one specific food for weeks at a time before suddenly never wanting to look at it again.It wasn’t that he didn’t want to eat. It was just not something his brain prioritized. Not until it was unavoidable. And as for the menu? Yeah. He had felt it. That frustrating, constricting feeling of his brain just not cooperating. Too many choices. Too many descriptions. Too many variables. And instead of pushing through it, his instinct had been to just pick the easiest option and move on. Because that was always easier than dealing with the mental gridlock that came with trying to process it all.

“Do you ever wonder why you always leave things until the last possible second?” Percy asked, his voice deceptively mild. “Why you can never just start something without a looming sense of crisis?”

Owl’s smirk wavered. “I work well under pressure.”

Percy continued, voice smooth, methodical. “Do you ever notice how you can focus on certain things for hours, obsessively, even but the second something doesn’t interest you, it might as well not exist? And conversations? You zone out halfway through them unless they’re particularly engaging.”

Owl shrugged, feigning indifference. “Everyone does that.”

“No, they don’t.”

Owl tapped his fingers against the table, restless energy building under his skin. These were all things Owl knew about himself. But hearing them laid out so plainly was annoying.

When the waiter returned, Owl was still trying to come up with something to say. Something that would either shut Percy up or at least shift the conversation back to neutral ground. The waiter set down Percy’s elegantly plated meal and, in stark contrast, Owl’s sad little plate of plain chips. The difference between them was almost comical. Percy’s meal looked like something out of a Michelin-starred magazine spread, enough to feed at least two people. While Owl’s looked like something a picky five-year-old had chosen.

The waiter hesitated, clearly uncertain about this whole situation, but professionalism kept his face neutral. “Enjoy your meal,” he said, before briskly retreating.

Percy, to his credit, dropped the conversation. For now. Instead, he turned his full attention to his food. The plate in front of him was a ridiculous display of decadence. It was the kind of meal that would be considered “modest” by Percy’s standards but was still excessive by any reasonable measure.

Percy had always been like this. When other people got stressed, they drank, smoked, or lashed out. Percy, however, coped by stress-eating enough food to feed a small country while maintaining the illusion of complete composure. Owl had seen it before. The only sign that Percy was actually unraveling was the sheer volume of whatever overindulgent meal he had decided to consume.

Owl, still sluggish from the drugs dulling his usual sharp wit, considered bringing it up, maybe throwing in a snide remark about how Percy’s gluttony could single-handedly solve world hunger, but in the end, he simply couldn’t be bothered. The effort wasn’t worth it. Instead, he picked up one of his chips and popped it into his mouth. The taste was fine. It was food. Currently just bland sustenance, consumed more out of obligation than hunger.

They ate in relative silence. Well, Percy ate. Owl mostly sat there, occasionally moving fries around to create the illusion of progress. Every once in a while, he’d actually eat one, just to keep Percy from commenting.

By the time Percy had cleared his plates, it was painfully obvious that he had gone overboard. His normally impeccable composure remained mostly intact, but Owl had spent enough time around him to notice the slight tension in his posture, the way he adjusted his position ever so slightly as if trying to make room for the sheer volume of food he had just consumed. His shirt, always perfectly fitted, now strained just a little around the middle, the buttons pulling ever so slightly. The expensive fabric of Percy’s tailored trousers looked snugger than it had when they’d first arrived. Though Percy, in all his stubborn dignity, would never acknowledge it. To anyone else, Percy still looked like the perfect picture of poise and control, but Owl had known him his entire life and even in his drug induced haze he noticed.

Owl didn't say anything though. Not out of tact, tact had never been his strong suit, but because he simply couldn’t be bothered. His mind was slow, thoughts drifting aimlessly, too detached to summon the usual snark. Instead, he simply observed, his half-lidded gaze flickering between Percy’s empty plate and the subtle discomfort written all over his face.

The waiter approached, clearing the empty plates before seamlessly offering, “Would you gentlemen care for dessert?”

Percy didin't even hesitate. “Yes. I'll have the chocolate soufflé and a double espresso.”

The waiter gave a small nod. “And for you, sir?” He turned to Owl expectantly.

Owl leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out slightly under the table. “I’ll pass.”

The waiter nodded politely and disappeared without further comment.

Owl exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face before glancing at Percy. “You look like you’re one deep breath away from popping a button.”

“If I wanted dietary advice from a malnourished raccoon, I would have asked,” Percy said dryly.

Owl actually laughed. A real, genuine laugh, not the usual bitter scoff or sarcastic chuckle he used to deflect. It was unexpected, even to him, the sound bubbling up unfiltered, slipping past his usual defenses. Maybe it was the drugs, maybe it was just that Percy, in all his uptight, insufferable glory, actually being funny for once was too good to ignore.

Either way, Owl laughed. And then, just like that, he shut up.

Percy blinked, momentarily thrown off by the silence that followed. Owl, who usually had a sharp retort lined up before Percy even finished speaking, just stopped. No immediate comeback, no smug little quip, no drawn-out argument for the sake of pissing him off. Just quiet. Percy narrowed his eyes slightly, studying Owl like he was a puzzle suddenly missing a few crucial pieces. “You’re being suspiciously quiet,” he said, his tone wary.

Owl shrugged, sinking further into his chair, looking a little too comfortable. His mind was still foggy and his limbs sluggish with that pleasant, floaty numbness. He wasn’t completely out of it anymore but still high enough for it to be enjoyable.

The sounds of the restaurant, muted conversations, clinking silverware, the occasional burst of laughter, faded into the background, blending into an indistinct hum. It was easy to let go, to sink into the haze where everything felt distant, weightless. The usual pressure of existing, of thinking, of reacting, was dulled into something manageable.

Owl barely noticed when the waiter returned with Percy’s dessert. His mind drifting, thoughts scattering like dry leaves in the wind. If he hadn’t been high, the restaurant would have been unbearable. Too much. Too bright, too loud, too many things competing for his attention, demanding processing, demanding effort. But right now? It was fine. It was nice, this feeling of detachment, existing without actually being present.

Percy finished his soufflée without a word, checking his watch only once before neatly folding his napkin and placing it beside his empty ramekin. Without a word, he signaled the waiter, who approached with the check already in hand and Percy settled the bill. “Come on,” Percy said, standing up smoothly, tugging his suit jacket into place. “We should get going.”

Owl exhaled slowly, forcing his body to move. The numbness was beginning to fade just enough for the dull ache to creep back in, reminding him that he was still stuck in this fragile, aching shell of a body. He rose from his chair, swaying slightly, as if his body had forgotten how gravity worked, ignoring the way Percy’s eyes flicked over him.

Percy said nothing, but Owl could practically hear the internal monologue running through his head, cataloging every unsteady step, every slow movement, calculating how much longer Owl had before his body completely gave up on him. Owl stuffed his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie and followed Percy out of the restaurant.

The midday sun glared down on them, too bright, too harsh, making Owl squint as he stepped outside. The car sat waiting where they had left it, parked neatly in the shade of a tree. By the time Owl reached the passenger side, Percy was already inside, adjusting his seatbelt and checking his mirrors like they were preparing for takeoff instead of another few hours of driving.

Owl slid into his seat with a quiet groan. He let his head fall back against the headrest, closing his eyes for a moment. The brief respite from pain had been nice, but it was definitely starting wearing off. He needed a top-up befofe it got too bad again. Owl decided to go just the over-the-counter painkillers he’d been given at the hospital for now. That was perfectly reasonable. Even Percy couldn’t argue with that.

Owl grabbed his backpack and rummaged through his belongings until he found what he was looking for. Owl twisted the bottle in his hands, pressing down against the cap, but the stupid thing wouldn’t budge. His fingers twitched in irritation, adjusting his grip before trying again. Nothing. His jaw clenched. Another attempt. Still nothing. For fuck’s sake. The child-safety cap mocked him yet again. The more he struggled, the more his frustration mounted.

Percy, already focused on driving again, let out a slow, measured exhale. Owl could feel his brother’s gaze flickering in his direction, assessing the situation, cataloging every second of his struggle. He knew Percy was debating whether or not to step in.

Owl gritted his teeth. No. He wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. He adjusted his grip, pressing down harder, twisting with more force. For a moment, it felt like it was going to resist forever. And then finally the cap gave way with a sharp pop, nearly slipping from his grasp in the process.

Owl shook two pills into his palm, tossed them into his mouth, and dry-swallowed them before shoving the bottle back into his backpack. His eyes flicked toward Percy, who was still watching him.

“What?” Owl snapped.

Percy didn’t look away. “Nothing.”

Owl scoffed. “Oh, come on. I can practically hear you thinking. Just spit it out.”

Percy‘s focus remained on the road as he pulled back onto the motorway. “I was just wondering how long it was going to take.”

Owl rolled his eyes, slouching further into his seat. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. It’s ibuprofen, Percy. Not heroin. I’m using painkillers for my pain. Shocking concept, I know.”

Percy hummed, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel. There was something calculated in his silence, something deliberate. Owl could feel it, the way Percy was carefully choosing his words, weighing them before letting them slip past his lips. And then -

“Have you?”

Owl blinked, turning his head slightly to glance at Percy. “Have I what?”

Percy’s gaze remained fixed on the road, his expression unreadable. “Have you done heroin?”

For a second, Owl just stared at him, caught off guard by the quesrion “Jesus, Percy. That’s a bit of a leap, don’t you think?”

“Is it?”

Owl huffed, rubbing a hand down his face. “No, I haven’t done heroin,” he muttered, his voice clipped. “Happy?”

Percy didn’t immediately answer. He just nodded slightly, like he was processing something, storing the information away for later. That should have been the end of it. That should have been the moment Percy let it go, but Owl knew his brother better than that. And sure enough -

“But you’ve thought about it.”

Owl hesitated. It was only for a fraction of a second, but it was there and of course Percy caught it..

Percy arched a brow. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

Owl rolled his eyes. “Everyone’s thought about it,” he said casually, waving a hand.

Percy’s jaw tightened slightly. “Not everyone thinks about doing heroin or other drugs.”

Owl scoffed, his fingers drumming against his knee. “Oh, come on. You can’t tell me you’ve never been at least a little curious.”

Percy’s expression didn’t waver. “No. I haven’t.”

Owl blinked, tilting his head slightly, studying his brother like he had just declared himself a devout member of some puritanical cult. “Never?”

Percy exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes locked on the road ahead. “No, *redacted*. Never.”

Owl frowned. “You’re telling me that not once in your entire perfectly controlled, tightly wound existence, you’ve even considered trying out drugs? Not even a little?”

Percy’s grip on the wheel tightened ever so slightly. “Correct.”

“Well, congrats, Saint Percival. Gold star for you.“ Owl exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. „It‘s because it would require you to actually let go of control for once in your life, isn‘t it?“

Percy’s nostrils flared slightly, but his expression remained neutral. “I simply don’t see the appeal of chemically impairing myself.”

Owl just shook his head, his expression something between disbelief and amusement. “Of course, you don’t.”

Percy was a control freak to the core. The idea of surrendering even a fraction of that control, of letting anything loosen his rigid grip on reality, was probably as alien to him as basic impulse control was to Owl.

Owl slumped further into his seat and stared blankly at the blur of the motorway outside. The silence stretched between them, neither brother particularly eager to fill it.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The motorway stretched endlessly ahead, a monotonous stream of grey asphalt and green countryside blurring past in a never-ending loop. Owl‘s fingers traced the edges of his hoodie pocket, searching for something to ground him, something to distract from the steady, gnawing ache pulsing through his body. The shitty hospital ibuprofen had done almost nothing. A mild, useless dulling of the pain, like throwing a wet napkin at a house fire. Every bump in the road still sent another wave of discomfort through him, radiating from his neck down his spine, pulsing in his skull like a dull drumbeat. Yeah. Fuck that. He wasn’t about to spend the next several hours in a state of half-baked misery.

Without bothering to be subtle, Owl reached for his bag, dragging it into his lap as he rifled through the contents. Percy already knew. And at this point? Owl really didn’t care. He found what he was looking for quickly: his own stash, the real stuff, the only thing that actually worked. Two Oxy. One Xanax.

Percy saw. Of course, he did. His gaze flickered sideways, just for a second, his fingers tightening subtly around the steering wheel. But he didn’t say anything. No sharp reprimand. No lecture. Just a heavy silence, filled with the quiet hum of the engine and the dull, rhythmic sound of tires against asphalt.

Owl smirked slightly, leaning his head back against the seat, stretching his legs out just enough to get comfortable. “Nothing to say?”

Percy exhaled through his nose. “Would it make a difference?” His tone was even, but Owl could hear the restrained tension beneath it, the quiet exasperation laced into every syllable.

Owl hummed, pretending to consider. “Not really,” he admitted, his lips curling into something that was almost a smile. “But you usually at least try.”

Percy didn’t immediately respond. He rolled his shoulders, as if physically shaking off whatever comment was sitting on the tip of his tongue.

His fingers drummed once, twice, against the wheel, as if debating whether or not to engage. Then, finally, he spoke. “Do you even know where the line is?”

Owl blinked, the question catching him off guard. “What?”

Percy’s gaze remained fixed on the road, his posture rigid. “The line,” he repeated, quieter this time. “Between control and losing it completely. Between recreational use and dependency.”

„Of course I know.“ Owl scoffed. „You make it sound like I‘m some sort of junkie.“

“Aren’t you?”

Owl’s smirk faltered for half a second before he forced it back into place. “Oh, fuck off.” He shifted in his seat, wincing as the movement sent a dull ache rippling through his ribs. “I have it under control.”

Percy inhaled slowly, like he was restraining himself from saying exactly what he wanted to say. “Do you?” His voice was cool, measured, but there was something sharper lurking beneath it.

Owl groaned, dragging a hand through his already messy hair. “Jesus, Percy, can you not? I don’t need a fucking intervention.”

Percy exhaled through his nose, his eyes never leaving the road. “I’m just wondering if you’ve actually considered what ‘having it under control’ looks like.”

Owl sighed and rolled his eyes. “I could stop if I wanted to. I just don’t want to.”

Percy glanced at Owl. “That’s what everyone says. Until they can’t.”

“Well, I’ll cross that bridge when or rather if I get there.” Owl said with a shrug. “But right now, I’m in pain, you know, from the car accident I was in? Kinda justifies the painkillers, don’t you think?”

Percy exhaled sharply through his nose. “You took more than needed. And you mixed them. That’s not ‘treating the pain.’ That’s making sure you don’t have to feel anything at all.”

Owl hummed, tilting his head slightly. “Well, that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

Percy shot him a sharp look, but Owl just offered a lazy smile, his limbs sinking further into the seat.

For a moment, Percy said nothing. Then, in a voice far too measured, far too casual, he asked, “And what exactly do you think Grandfather’s going to say when you show up on his doorstep like this?”

Owl’s lazy smirk didn’t falter, but something flickered behind his eyes. Just for a second. Just enough for Percy to catch. “Like what?” Owl drawled.

Percy didn’t rise to the bait. “High as a fucking kite.”

Owl exhaled through his nose, the barest huff of amusement. “I was in a car accident. Pretty sure that justifies being on a little medication.”

“Grandfather isn’t stupid, *redacted*. You think he won‘t figure it out?” Percy asked, voice deceptively casual.

As the drugs were working their way through Owl’s bloodstream, he couldn’t bring himself to care too much right now. “Whatever,” Owl muttered eventually. “He hasn’t said anything so far.”

“That doesn’t mean he hasn’t noticed.” Percy’s tone was edged with something Owl couldn’t quite place. “And just because he hasn’t called you out on it doesn’t mean he approves.”

“If Grandfather has something to say he is free to do so once we arrive.” Owl drawled and stretched out his legs until his feet rested against the dashboard. He knew it would irritate Percy. That was half the point.

“Get your feet off the dashboard,” Percy said, voice low and clipped in that perfectly restrained way that always preceded him completely losing his patience.

Owl didn’t move. If anything, he stretched out just a little more, letting his heels dig in, scuffing faint streaks across the pristine leather. “Or what?” His voice was syrupy-sweet, lazy and laced with challenge. His smirk curled up just enough to be infuriating. “You gonna write me a strongly worded letter of disapproval?”

The car was silent for a beat. Then Percy’s voice cut through the air like glass shattering.

“I’ll throw you out of this car,” he said, every syllable coated with ice. His eyes remained locked on the road ahead, but his entire body radiated tension, like a loaded gun waiting for an excuse to go off. “Right here. Right now. And leave you in the middle of fucking nowhere.”

Owl let out a snort, rolling his head lazily against the headrest so he could glance over at Percy with a grin. “Do it, then,” he dared, voice soft, threaded with that same venomous playfulness that always seemed to surface when he was skating too close to the edge. “Go ahead. Pull over. Leave me here. I’ll find a nice little field to chill in. Maybe make some friends with the sheep.”

The words hung in the air, laced with that sharp, reckless arrogance Owl always wielded like a shield. And usually Percy would take the bait and throw it right back. Sharpened, cutting, but never enough to draw real blood. That was the rhythm of them. The endless, exhausting cycle. Push and pull. Threats that were never meant to land. But this time, something shifted.

Without warning, the car lurched as Percy swerved into the breakdown lane, tires grinding against the asphalt with a violent hiss before the vehicle screeched to a stop.

Percy’s hands remained clenched around the steering wheel. Then, slowly, Percy turned his head, just enough for Owl to catch the glint in his eyes. Flat, emotionless, but burning with something far more dangerous than anger.

For a split second, Owl didn’t see Percy. He saw Bartholomew. That same suffocating, iron-clad authority. That same tightly coiled fury wrapped in layers of icy restraint. That terrifying, quiet promise that you’re going to regret this.

“Get out.”

Owl blinked. “What?”

Percy’s voice was low, even. “I said. Get. Out.”

“You’re not actually serious,” Owl said, the cocky smirk faltering as disbelief started to bleed through the cracks in his armor.

Percy’s hand moved. Not toward him, but to the door controls. A sharp click as the locks disengaged echoed through the car.

“Out. Now.”

Owl stared at Percy, trying to gauge if this was just another bluff. A scare tactic. It had to be. Percy didn’t do things like this. Percy never broke the script. He was the responsible one, the composed one. Not this time. The realization slowly started to sink in. “You’re actually serious."

Percy’s gaze didn’t waver. “Get. Out. Walk to Edinburgh or back to London for all I care. I’m done playing this game with you.”

Owl forced himself to hold Percy’s gaze, searching for any sign of hesitation. But there was nothing. Just cold, quiet exhaustion. The quiet, hollow resignation that told Owl, without a single word, that Percy wasn’t bluffing. The weight of that realization settled like a stone in his stomach.

“Fine,” Owl bit out, his voice sharp, brittle like glass on the verge of shattering. He reached for his backpack, yanking it from the floor of the car and slinging it over one shoulder with more force than necessary.

The door slammed shut behind him with a satisfying thud, a final punctuation mark to a conversation that had gone far beyond its usual script.

The sun hit immediately, thr heat pressing down like an invisible hand, sticky and suffocating in the thick July air. The road stretched ahead in both directions, shimmering with heat haze, cutting through the countryside like a knife. The surrounding fields buzzed lazily with insects, a constant, droning hum.

Owl didn’t look back. He wouldn’t give Percy the satisfaction. Because this was the part where Percy was supposed to fold. Any second now Percy would call him back. The car door would swing open, Percy would snap something cutting but ultimately hollow, and they’d fall right back into their usual rhythm - insults, tension, that exhausting cycle of forced brotherly obligation.

But the door didn’t open. Instead, the engine roared back to life. Owl blinked, turning his head just enough to catch the sight of the SUV pulling back onto the road. The taillights grew smaller with each passing second until they were just two faint red dots swallowed by the shimmering heat of the road ahead.

A hollow laugh bubbled up from Owl’s throat, sharp and thin. “Okay, very funny,” he muttered to no one, his voice cracking on the last word. The dull ache in his body was starting to fade into something more manageable again. That familiar, creeping warmth settled in, smoothing out the sharp edges of everything. The drugs kept that thread of worry just distant enough to be dismissed. Percy was just trying to prove a point. He was dramatic like that. He’d drive for a few minutes and then his sense of responsibility, that constant, suffocating need to fix things, would drag him back.

But as the minutes crawled by, and the sun bore down relentlessly, doubt crept in like a slow, choking vine.

Continue reading here

#call of duty #call of duty oc #my ocs #oc rp #original character #tf 141 #task force 141

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callsign-owl · 2 months ago

Text

Roadtrip Part 1

This is a continuation of Contingency Plan

London, United Kingdom - July 2008

The next morning, Owl was reminded, once again, that moving was the absolute worst. Every muscle ached, his head was still wrapped in an unpleasant fog, and his entire body protested as he attempted to get dressed. He settled for the easiest, least effort option: sweatpants and a loose hoodie, despite the summer heat.

By the time he made it downstairs Percy was already there, standing by the door. He was dressed as impeccably as always, the usual air of someone who was permanently prepared for a potential meeting with the Queen herself. Owl, by contrast, looked like he had barely survived the apocalypse.

Percy gave him a once-over, lips pressing together in what might have been disapproval. “You look awful.”

Owl grinned. “Why, thank you. Just the confidence boost I needed.”

Percy sighed. “Just get in the car.”

Owl followed him outside, where the car was already waiting in the driveway. To his mild surprise, it wasn’t one of their father’s many extravagant vehicles, nor one of the ostentatious town cars Percy usually opted for. It was a sleek but practical black SUV, clearly chosen for comfort rather than aesthetics.

Percy moved toward the driver’s side and Owl hesitated for just a second. “Still weird,” he muttered under his breath.

“What is?” Percy asked, opening the door.

“You. Driving.” Owl gave him a scrutinizing look. “You never drive.”

Percy sighed. “And yet, I am perfectly capable of doing so. Get in.”

Owl didn’t argue, partially because he didn’t have the energy, and partially because he was genuinely curious to see how this would go. He slid into the passenger seat with a wince, ignoring the way Percy subtly watched to make sure he didn’t keel over in the process.

As Percy adjusted the seat and mirrors, Owl leaned back against the headrest, watching him with lazy amusement. “Should I be concerned about your driving skills? I feel like this is a very rare event. Practically mythical.”

Percy ignored him, pulling out of the driveway. Owl was mildly disappointed. He had half-expected his brother to drive like an old man, tense and overly cautious, but Percy was as methodical behind the wheel as he was in everything else. Efficient. Controlled. Annoyingly competent.

Owl glanced at Percy with a smirk. “So, tell me, dear brother—what’s your road trip playlist like? Beethoven? Gregorian chants? The sound of your own voice giving tax advice?”

Percy exhaled sharply, gripping the wheel a little tighter. “I already regret this.”

Owl grinned, shifting slightly to get comfortable. “Oh, don’t worry. By the time we hit Scotland, you’ll regret it even more.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The car hummed steadily along the motorway and to Owl’s growing horror, Percy had made absolutely no attempt to put on any music. No radio, no CD, no tape. Nothing. Complete silence. It was unnatural. Inhuman. He didn’t get how anyone could just sit in silence for hours or even a few minutes.

Owl frowned, glancing at the dashboard, then back at Percy. “Are you seriously just going to sit here in silence for the next eight hours?”

Percy didn’t even flinch. “Yes.”

Owl blinked at him. “You’re joking.”

Percy’s grip on the wheel remained steady, his posture infuriatingly composed. “I‘m not. Not everyone requires constant auditory stimulation to function, *redacted*.”

Owl let out a dramatic groan, slumping back against the seat. “Oh, my God, you are the most boring person on the planet.”

“Feel free to take a nap,” Percy replied flatly.

Owl scowled. “I can’t nap. I can barely sleep in my own bed , let alone a car.”

“Sounds like a you problem.”

“Well, fortunately for you, dear brother, I do happen to have a solution.” Owl twisted slightly in his seat, reaching into his hoodie pocket and pulling out his iPod.

Percy’s eyes flickered to the device, his expression barely shifting. “Don’t.”

Owl grinned, deliberately ignoring the warning as he plugged in the cable and scrolled through his library. “I’m doing you a favor. You’re about to be educated.”

Percy’s jaw tightened. “*redacted*.”

But Owl was already selecting a song, and the car’s speakers crackled to life as the unmistakable opening of I'm not okay by My Chemical Romance filled the car. However, Percy was having none of it. He simply reached over and plucked the auxiliary cord from the input. The music cut out instantly.

Owl gaped at him. “Are you serious?”

Percy’s expression remained impassive. “Yes.”

“You psycho! Who just sits in silence for eight hours?”

“Someone who enjoys peace and quiet.”

Owl scoffed. “Peace and quiet? You mean soulless monotony?”

Percy hummed noncommittally, eyes back on the road. “I’ll take that over whatever teenage angst anthem you were about to subject me to.”

Owl’s mouth fell open in mock offense. “Teenage angst anthem? That was My Chemical Romance, you heathen.”

Percy didn’t dignify that with a response.

Owl groaned, letting his head fall back against the seat. “This is torture. You’re torturing me.”

“Consider it karma.”

“For what?”

Percy sighed. “Take your pick.”

Owl huffed dramatically, slumping deeper into the passenger seat. “You’re really bad at making road trips tolerable.”

Percy didn’t even glance away from the road. “This isn’t a road trip. This is a necessary transfer of a reckless idiot to a safer location.”

Owl smirked, rubbing his temples. “You make it sound like I’m an escaped convict being relocated to a high-security prison.”

Percy hummed noncommittally. “If the shoe fits.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Despite the dull ache still pulsing through Owl's body, his mind was already itching, clawing at the edges of boredom. Boredom was the worst. Worse than pain, worse than exhaustion, worse than anything else. It settled under his skin like a parasite, gnawing, picking, prodding. It made him jittery, made him want to move, to do something - anything - to break the monotony.

Owl pulled out one earbud and tilted his head toward his brother, studying him like some kind of rare specimen. “Hey, Percy.”

Percy exhaled through his nose. “What?”

Owl smirked. “You ever considered getting a hobby?”

Percy frowned, his grip on the wheel tightening slightly. “I have hobbies.”

Owl arched an eyebrow. “No, you have ‘productive extracurricular activities that double as resume boosters.’ That doesn’t count.”

Percy gave him a dry look. “And what exactly do you suggest?”

Owl grinned. “I don’t know, something fun. Something that doesn’t involve financial reports, strategic networking, or judging me for my life choices.” He tapped his chin, feigning deep thought. “Ooh! What about video games? I could see you getting really into Civilization. It’s got strategy, world domination, a chance to micromanage entire civilizations - right up your alley.”

Percy shot him a deadpan look. “Yes, because spending my time on digital world conquest is exactly what I need in my life.”

Owl snorted. “Fine, then what about—”

“No.”

“You didn’t even let me finish.”

“Because I know whatever is about to come out of your mouth is nonsense,” Percy said flatly.

Owl sighed, dragging a hand down his face before shifting in his seat again, wincing as his body protested. His restless energy had nowhere to go, trapped inside a body that refused to cooperate. His fingers drummed absentmindedly against his knee, his leg bouncing slightly as the discomfort grew. Percy noticed. Of course, he noticed.

“You’re squirming,” Percy observed.

“Wow, how perceptive,” Owl muttered.

Percy gave him a look. “Do you need more painkillers?”

Owl hesitated for a fraction of a second, then shook his head. Pain wasn‘t the problem. Not really. Not yet. “No.”

Percy sighed but didn’t press the issue. Instead, he reached for the center console, popped it open, and pulled out a small, unopened bag of mixed nuts before tossing it onto Owl’s lap.

Owl stared at it. Then at Percy. “Seriously?”

“You haven’t eaten since yesterday,” Percy pointed out, ever practical.

Owl groaned. “Jesus, you’re like a mother hen.”

“Eat,” Percy ordered simply.

Owl scowled at him before looking down at the small plastic bag now resting in his lap. He exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers flexing slightly before curling around the edges of the packaging. On a good day, these things were annoying. The cheap, flimsy plastic always seemed designed to test his patience, the tiny perforated edge never quite tearing the way it was supposed to. It was just something Owl had learned to live with, to work around. But today? Today was not a good day.

Owl pinched the top of the bag between his fingers, trying to pry it apart. The plastic resisted. He tried again, pulling a little harder, but the damn thing refused to budge. His jaw tightened, his grip adjusting as he attempted a different angle. Nothing. He could feel Percy watching him. Not outright staring, but subtly glancing over, assessing, cataloging every second of his struggle in that infuriatingly analytical way of his. Owl’s fingers twitched. His frustration simmered, sharp and hot under his skin.

Alright. Fine. If it wanted to be difficult, then he’d just use more force. With an irritated huff, Owl tightened his grip and pulled harder. The bag gave way all at once. The flimsy plastic tore apart, the contents exploding outward like confetti. A shower of mixed nuts rained down onto his lap, onto the seat, and onto the car floor.

For a moment, there was only silence. Owl’s hands were frozen mid-motion, his fingers still clenched around the useless remains of the packaging. A lone almond tumbled off his knee, bounced once against the console, and landed at Percy’s feet.

Percy exhaled sharply through his nose. Not in exasperation. Not in frustration. No, it was something far, far worse. It was amusement. Owl didn’t look at him. He refused to look at him. His face burned with a mix of mortification and fury as he tried to brush the nuts off his lap, his fingers jerky and uncoordinated.

And then Percy, in the most unholy display of smugness Owl had ever witnessed, reached into the center console, plucked out a second bag of nuts, and - without even a pause - ripped it open.

Effortlessly.

With one hand.

While still driving.

Percy had done it with that infuriating air of casual ease, like it was the simplest, most natural thing in the world. And then, just to really make a point, Percy took a peanut between his fingers and popped it into his mouth.

“Oh, fuck you,” Owl snapped, finally turning to glare at his brother.

Percy chewed. Swallowed. Then, with the smuggest tone Owl had ever heard from him, said, “Problem?”

Owl’s fists clenched. His nails dug into his palms, his entire body coiled with unspent frustration. “You did that on purpose.”

Percy made an innocent noise in the back of his throat. “Did what?”

Owl’s nostrils flared. “Set me up.”

Percy hummed in consideration, as if entertaining the idea. Then he shrugged. “I gave you a snack.”

“Oh, go to hell.” Owl’s voice was sharp with humiliation, his hands waving wildly as he gestured to the absolute mess in his lap. “You knew that was going to happen!”

Percy didn’t even bother denying it. Instead, he reached into his freshly opened bag, plucked out a cashew, and held it up between his fingers as if examining it. “Interesting theory.”

The smugness. The audacity. The sheer bastard energy radiating off his brother was staggering.

Percy hummed again. Popped another peanut into his mouth. “That would imply I anticipated your specific failure.” He tilted his head, pretending to consider.

Owl nearly chucked the empty bag at Percy's head. Owl could have murdered Percy. The worst part? The absolute worst part? Percy was enjoying this. Not in an obvious way. Not in a normal, human way. No, this was Percy. His amusement was subtle, restrained, but it was there. In the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. In the way his posture was just a fraction more relaxed. In the way he was deliberately taking his time eating those goddamn nuts, stretching out the moment, prolonging Owl’s suffering.

“I wasn’t trying to humiliate you,” Percy said after a long moment, his voice unusually measured.

Owl scoffed, shooting him a glare. “Could’ve fucking fooled me.”

Percy sighed, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. “I was just making an observation.”

Owl huffed a bitter laugh. “Oh, an observation? Great. So glad you’re out here collecting data like I’m a fucking science experiment.”

Percy ignored the jab. “It’s difficult for you, isn’t it?”

Owl blinked, caught off guard by the shift in Percy’s tone. Less teasing. More… thoughtful. Owl frowned. “What?”

Percy kept his eyes on the road, but his voice was deliberate. “Things like that” he gestured vaguely with one hand “opening packages, wrappers, buttons, zippers, handwriting.”

Owl frowned deeper. “So?”

“So,” Percy continued, glancing at him briefly before returning his focus to driving, “it frustrates you. More than it should.”

Owl scoffed. “You think I don’t know that?”

Percy tilted his head slightly, considering. “I think you’ve never actually questioned it.”

That gave Owl pause. He opened his mouth to snap back, to throw out some sarcastic retort, but the words stalled before they could form. Because Percy wasn’t wrong. Owl had always struggled with those things. Always. Ever since he was a kid. He’d just assumed that was normal. That it was just how things were. Sure, it was frustrating, but that’s just how life worked. Some things were easy, some things were a pain in the ass, and you just dealt with it. That was how everyone functioned, right?

“Most people don’t struggle with packaging like that,” Percy added, matter-of-fact. "Or half the things I’ve seen you fight with over the years. Have you ever considered that maybe they’re not supposed to be that difficult?”

Owl shifted in his seat, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. “It's just how things are.”

“That’s how things are for you,” Percy corrected carefully. “That doesn’t mean it’s the same for everyone.”

Of course Percy was right. Owl had never really thought about it before. He had assumed that everyone found those things frustrating, that struggling was just part of the deal. But now, with Percy’s words hanging heavy in the air, the reality of it started to sink in. However Owl refused to give Percy the satisfaction of admitting it out loud. The silence stretched, thick and telling, and even though Owl didn’t say a word, he knew Percy had already drawn his conclusion.

Owl hated that Percy had figured it out before he had. Because now that Percy had pointed it out, it was so painfully obvious. Of course, it wasn’t normal. Of course, it wasn’t just some universal struggle that everyone dealt with. Owl felt something ugly clawing its way up his chest, a twisted mix of frustration and shame. He already felt broken enough, struggling through life in ways that other people didn’t seem to. And now this? Another thing. Another defect to add to the growing list of things wrong with him.

For Percy, it was just an observation. A simple fact. He had laid it out so cleanly, so effortlessly, like he was pointing out a mathematical equation that had always been there, just waiting to be solved. But for Owl, it wasn’t that simple. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with this information. It wasn’t like knowing it changed anything. If anything, being aware of it only made it worse. Before, it had just been an annoyance. A minor frustration that he had accepted as part of the background noise of his existence. Now every single thing that had alway felt just a little off became claringly clear.

He could hear Percy shifting beside him, could feel his gaze flicker toward him in that annoyingly perceptive way of his. Percy wasn’t done. Of course, he wasn’t.

“You’re being awfully quiet,” Percy noted.

Owl didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes on the blurred landscape outside. “And?”

Percy hummed, a considering sound. “I don’t think you like what I said.”

Owl scoffed, but it lacked its usual bite. “Wow. Brilliant deduction, Sherlock.”

Percy ignored the sarcasm. “Why does it bother you?”

Owl’s fingers twitched. He knew this game. Percy wasn’t actually asking to know. He had already figured out most of the answer. He was asking because he wanted Owl to admit it but Owl refused to play along.

“It doesn’t,” Owl muttered, but even he could hear how unconvincing it sounded.

Percy sighed. “Lying to me doesn’t work. It never has.”

Owl hated how Percy always managed to do this: poke at the things Owl had tried to bury, force him to acknowledge them when all he wanted was to shove them down and pretend they didn’t exist. Now Percy was waiting. He always waited. It was part of his strategy. letting silence work in his favor, using it like a weapon to force Owl into filling the space.

But Owl wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. “Just drop it, Percy.”

“Why?”

Owl let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Because what the fuck am I supposed to do with that information? Huh?” He turned slightly, finally meeting Percy’s gaze with a glare. “What does it change? Nothing. So I struggle with stupid shit other people don’t even think about. So what? It’s not like there’s a fix for it.”

Percy’s expression remained frustratingly neutral. “Not everything needs fixing.”

Owl snorted. “Tell that to Father.”

A flicker of something dark passed through Percy’s eyes. “This isn’t about him,” Percy said, his voice steady. “This is about you.”

Owl let out a long breath, his head tipping back against the seat. “It doesn’t change anything,” Owl said again, but this time, his voice was quieter.

Percy didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than before. “Maybe not. But at least now you know.”

Owl swallowed, staring out at the road ahead. Knowing didn’t make it better. It just made it hurt more.

Percy, ever composed, didn’t push any further. He had already delivered his blow, and whether he intended it or not, he had done what few people ever managed to do—he had shut Owl up.

But Owl had never been good at staying still for long. With his mind spinning and his body aching, he was nearing his limit. The restless energy was crawling under his skin again, amplified by the sharp ache still thrumming through his entire body. Everytime the car hit even the smallest bump, it sent a new wave of pain through Owl's body. His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against his knee before he finally let out an irritated sigh. “Can you pull over at the next rest stop?”

Percy didn’t even glance at him. “No.”

Owl rolled his head against the seat to glare at him. “The fuck do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I mean no,” Percy said simply, his grip on the wheel never wavering. “We’re making good time.”

Owl scoffed. “Oh, God forbid we waste five minutes of your perfectly scheduled journey.” He shifted in his seat, wincing as his body protested. “I need a fucking break.”

Percy exhaled sharply through his nose, gripping the wheel a little tighter. It was clear he wasn’t thrilled about the detour, but after one glance at Owl, who was looking increasingly pale, his posture tense with barely contained discomfort, he gave a curt nod.

“Fine,” Percy said, his tone clipped. “There’s a service station coming up. You have ten minutes.”

Owl rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue. Ten minutes wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

The next few minutes stretched longer than they should have, each bump in the road sending fresh spikes of pain through his system. By the time Percy finally pulled into the service station - a generic motorway stop with a petrol station, a few fast-food joints, and a convenience store - Owl was already fumbling with the seatbelt, eager to get the fuck out. The moment the car rolled to a stop, Owl was already reaching for the door handle. Percy shot him a warning look. Owl ignored him, pushing the door open and stepping out. Or at least, he tried to step out. The second his weight shifted, a sharp, searing pain lanced up his spine, nearly sending him sprawling back into the seat. He sucked in a breath, gripping the edge of the doorframe to steady himself.

Percy sighed from the driver’s seat. “Yes, clearly, this was a great idea.”

Owl shot him a glare over the top of the door. “Shut up.”

Percy just arched an eyebrow but didn’t comment.

Gritting his teeth, Owl forced himself upright, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to loosen the stiff muscles. Owl took a few careful steps, testing his limits. His body protested, but he pushed through it.

The rest stop was predictably bleak: overly bright fluorescent lighting, the scent of stale coffee, fried food and industrial cleaner lingering in the air. The usual groups of tired travelers milled about, stretching their legs, grabbing overpriced snacks, and mindlessly scrolling through their phones. None of them paid him any attention, which suited him just fine.

Owl made a beeline for the restrooms. His fingers curled tightly around the straps of his backpack as he pushed the door open and stepped inside. He locked himself in the furthest stall. The painkillers they had given him at the hospital were next to useless. They dulled the sharpest edges, but the deep, gnawing pain remained, stubborn and persistent. And considering he was about to be stuck in a car with Percy for several more hours, Owl needed something stronger.

Owl slipped the backpack off his shoulders and rested it against his knees, fingers quickly undoing the zipper. Inside, buried beneath some scattered belongings, was his stash. Of course he had packed it. First up: the prescribed painkillers, useless on their own, but he swallowed them anyway. Then, the real solution, Oxycodone, a leftover from last Christmas. It‘s tiny, unassuming form promising the relief he desperately needed. To smooth the rough edges further, he added a Xanax bar for good measure. He knew the drill. It would take at least twenty minutes for the first effects to kick in, but by then, he’d already be back in the car. Percy had only given him ten minutes, so he had no time to linger.

Owl shoved everything back into his bag, adjusted his hoodie, and stepped out of the restroom, quickly moving toward the convenience store. The shelves were lined with overpriced snacks, the kind of road trip essentials that no one actually needed but always ended up buying. The cashier, guy in his early twenties with a bored expression, barely glanced up as Owl made his way to the refrigerators in the back. The cold air hit Owl as he yanked open the glass door to grab a can of Red Bull. He shut the fridge with a quiet thud and made his way to the counter. The register beeped, change was counted out, and the transaction was over in seconds.

Owl shoved the can into the pocket of his hoodie, and he made his way back to the car. The painkillers hadn’t kicked in yet, but he knew they would soon. By the time he reached the car, Percy was standing next to the car, arms crossed, his expression locked somewhere between mild irritation and exhausted tolerance.“Get in.”

Owl didn’t argue, got in and cracked open the can the moment he slid into his seat. The sharp hiss of carbonation escaping filled the silence, and he took a long sip. The car pulled out of the service station and back onto the motorway. Owl settled into his seat, waiting for the combination of painkillers, Xanax and caffeine work their magic. Soon enough his limbs felt a little looser, his body no longer quite so stiff, the ache dulled into something distant, manageable. Much better.

Owl must have zoned out for a while because the next thing he registered was the weight of Percy’s gaze flicking toward him. Not often. Just brief glances. Calculated. Assessing. Owl forced himself to remain casual, fingers drumming lightly against his thigh, gaze fixed on the road ahead. He knew that look. It was the look Percy gave when he was piecing something together, lining up facts like chess pieces.

“You’re high.” The words were flat, factual. Not a question. A statement.

Owl scoffed. “What?”

Percy’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “Don’t insult my intelligence, *redacted*.” His voice was clipped, sharper than before. “You can pretend all you want, but you’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

Owl’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before he forced it back into place. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Percy's expression remained composed, but there was an unmistakable edge beneath it, a sharpness that cut through the usual barrier of practiced neutrality. “Right,” Percy said flatly. “Because you just suddenly stopped wincing every time the car hits a bump. Because your posture isn’t ten times more relaxed than it was 30 minutes ago. Because your pupils are the size of pinpricks.” He shot a quick glance in Owl’s direction.

Owl rolled his eyes, shifting slightly in his seat, feigning nonchalance. “Oh, for God’s sake, Percy. I took a painkiller. That’s what they do. They dull pain. That’s kind of the entire point.”

Percy’s jaw flexed, the muscle ticking as he adjusted his grip on the wheel. “Which painkiller?”

Owl scoffed. “What, you want a detailed inventory? Jesus, Percy, you’re acting like I just shot up heroin in the restroom.”

Percy’s knuckles went white. “I wouldn't put it past you. What did you take?”

Owl sighed, tilting his head against the headrest as if this entire conversation was exhausting him. “Fine. One Oxy. The stuff I got from the hospital wasn't cutting it.”

Percy made a low noise in the back of his throat. Something unimpressed. Unconvinced. “One,” Percy repeated. “Because you were in pain?”

Owl huffed, stretching his legs slightly. “Yes, Percy. Because I was in fucking pain. Imagine that.” That part, at least, was true.

Percy’s eyes flicked toward him, sharp, assessing. “And that’s all?”

"Yes that's all."

Percy’s expression didn’t shift. If anything, the tension in his posture only deepened. Because he knew that Owl was lying or at least omitting some details. Percy didn’t press immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch again. Owl could practically hear his brother thinking, sifting through the details, the inconsistencies, the things left unsaid. Percy knew him too well. The looseness in his limbs. The way his voice had shifted, just slightly, into something softer, slower. The way his usual sharp-edgedes had smoothed out into something more placid. One Oxy alone didn’t do that.

Percy's gaze flickered toward Owl every few seconds, reading him like an open book. “You’re lying.”

Owl let out a slow, exaggerated sigh, his head lolling against the seat. “Jesus, Percy, will you let it go?” His voice was languid now, dripping with that telltale syrupy smoothness that came when the drugs fully sank their claws in. “I took one pill. That’s it. End of story. You can stop playing detective now.”

Percy’s nostrils flared slightly, his expression betraying nothing but deep, simmering exasperation. “Bullshit.”

Owl turned his head lazily to look at him. “Why do you always have to make a thing out of everything?” He stretched out his arms, the motion slow, dreamlike, before letting them drop limply back into his lap. “I feel fine.”

“That’s the problem,” Percy bit out.

Owl let out a quiet, amused hum. “Oh, come on.” His fingers traced idle patterns along the fabric of his hoodie, his touch slow and deliberate, like he was hyper-aware of every sensation. “I’m just… comfortable.”

Percy exhaled through his nose, trying to push down the mounting frustration. “Just tell me what else you took.”

Owl’s lips curled into a lazy, lopsided grin. “Does it really matter?”

Percy’s knuckles were white against the steering wheel. “Yes.”

Owl huffed out a quiet laugh, the sound loose, unfiltered. “Well, that sounds like a you problem.”

Percy’s patience snapped. “God, you’re insufferable.”

Owl grinned, his head tilting slightly as he blinked up at Percy with half-lidded amusement. “And yet, here we are. Stuck together. On a road trip. Just two brothers, bonding.” He gestured loosely with one hand, the movement slow and exaggerated.

Percy let out a slow, measured breath, gripping the wheel so tightly he thought it might snap.

Owl chuckled, the sound light and airy. “Why does it bother you so much?” His tone was almost childlike, like he genuinely didn’t understand. “It’s not like I’m hurting anyone.”

Percy shot him a sharp glance. “You’re hurting yourself.”

Owl let out another quiet laugh, barely more than an exhale. “Debatable.”

Percy’s grip on the wheel tightened. “It’s not.”

Owl let out a soft, dreamy hum, sinking further into his seat like he was melting into the upholstery. His pupils were pinpricks, his expression hazy and absent-minded, like he was only half in the car with him and half drifting somewhere else entirely. Owl’s lips twitched, as if he had just remembered something amusing. “Did you know that ducks have regional accents?”

Percy blinked, momentarily thrown by the sheer absurdity of the statement. “What?”

“Ducks,” Owl repeated. “Like, depending on where they grow up, they quack differently. Just like people.” He turned his head slightly toward Percy, blinking slowly. “Imagine a cockney duck. ‘Oi, mate, got some bread?’” He snorted at his own joke.

Percy closed his eyes briefly, inhaled deeply, and counted to five. Absolutely pointless. That was what any discussion with Owl in this state was. Percy focused back on the road, jaw clenched, forcing himself not to engage. He was not going to get dragged into whatever nonsensical, drug-fueled train of thought Owl had decided to latch onto. But, of course, Owl wasn’t done.

Owl shifted slightly in his seat before tilting his head to study Percy with newfound interest. “You ever think about how weird driving is?” Owl gestured vaguely. “Like, really think about it. We’re just… hurling ourselves forward in giant metal death boxes, trusting that everyone else is following some unspoken social contract that says ‘Hey, let’s not murder each other today.’”

Percy exhaled slowly. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Owl continued, undeterred. “I mean, what if someone just decided - nah. Not today. What if they just - ” He jerked his hands in an exaggerated steering motion, mimicking an imaginary swerve. “Boom. Chaos. Instant carnage.”

Percy shot him a glare. “You literally just survived a car crash.”

Owl blinked. “Oh, yeah.” He paused, then let out a soft laugh. “Guess that means I have first-hand experience, huh?”

Percy pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ.”

Owl turned his head, blinking out at the road, watching the scenery blur past. His fingers continued their restless tapping, and then -

“Hey, Percy.”

Percy didn’t respond. He knew better.

Owl grinned, undeterred. “If we were in one of those survival situations, you know, stranded in the mountains or on an island, no food, no help coming. Who do you think would eat who first?”

Percy’s hands flexed against the wheel. “I swear to God, *redacted*.”

“I’m just saying,” Owl mused, stretching again. “You’d probably last longer, all things considered. More, uh - ” He waved vaguely in Percy’s direction. “- body mass. But I think I’d be sneakier. You’d be making a fire, trying to set up a camp, and then BAM - ” Owl clapped his hands together suddenly, the sharp sound making Percy flinch. “- I take you out when you least expect it.”

Percy turned his head just enough to shoot Owl a flat, unimpressed stare. “You wouldn’t last five minutes in a survival situation.”

Owl gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Wow. Rude.”

Percy sighed. “You refuse to eat when food is readily available. You think you’re going to suddenly develop survival instincts when starving in the wilderness?”

Owl squinted, considering. “I mean… maybe?”

Percy gave him a long, slow blink. “No.”

Owl snorted, letting his head fall back against the seat. “Alright, fine. Maybe I’d die first. But I’d haunt you. Just out of spite.”

Percy didn’t even dignify that with a response.

Owl let the silence stretch for a moment. A beat passed, then -

“Hey, Percy.”

Percy clenched his jaw. “No.”

Owl pouted. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Yes, I do, and it’s going to be absolute nonsense.”

Owl scoffed. “Maybe it was profound. Maybe I was about to say something life-changing.”

Percy shot him a look.

Owl grinned. “Okay, fine. It was about whether fish get thirsty.”

Percy inhaled deeply, counted to five, then exhaled slowly. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Owl said brightly. “You loooove me.”

“I really don’t.”

Owl smirked. “You do, though.”

Percy didn’t respond. He just tightened his grip on the wheel and prayed for patience.

Owl, completely unfazed, let his head roll to the side again, his grin lazy, lopsided, utterly pleased with himself. He stared at Percy for a long moment, eyes half-lidded, placid and content in his drugged-up haze. Percy ignored him.

The road stretched endlessly ahead, the dull hum of the tires on asphalt the only sound in the otherwise silent car. Owl, for all his insufferable antics, was clearly losing steam. His eyelids fluttered, his body growing heavier against the seat, the telltale signs of sedation pulling him under. His fingers, which had been drumming an absentminded rhythm against his knee, finally stilled. His breathing slowed. The sharp edges of his usual restlessness dulled by the cocktail of substances coursing through his system.

Thank fucking God.

Percy kept his eyes on the road, his jaw still tight, tension still coiled between his shoulders. Even in sleep, Owl was a problem. This wasn’t just exhaustion finally catching up to him. This was a chemical lull, the gradual descent into a state Percy had seen too many times before. Too loose, too pliant, too out of it.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, flexing his grip on the wheel before forcing himself to relax. It wasn’t like he could do anything about it now. Owl had already taken whatever the hell he had mixed together. Percy could only hope it was within the realm of survivable.

The weight of the last twenty-four hours pressed against Percy’s skull, a dull, relentless pressure that had been building ever since he first got the call. When the hospital had rung him, his first reaction had been irritation. Of course Owl had done something. Of course it had involved recklessness. Of course Percy had to be the one to deal with it. But irritation had quickly twisted into something else, something he wasn’t willing to name. Something cold and tight and wholly unwelcome. It had settled low in his stomach when he arrived at the ER, seeing Owl in that hospital bed, bruised and battered and so goddamn unbothered by it all.

Percy inhaled deeply through his nose, forcing the thought away.

Owl let out a quiet, unconscious murmur beside him, shifting slightly, his face pressing further into the hoodie he had bunched up against the window.

The motorway signs above signaled the miles left until the Scottish border. They were making good time. Another few hours and they’d be at their grandfather’s estate, where, hopefully, Owl would be someone else’s problem for a while. But for now, he was Percy’s.

Continue reading here

#call of duty #call of duty oc #my ocs #oc rp #original character #task force 141 #tf 141

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callsign-owl · 2 months ago

Text

Contingency Plan

This is a continuation of Lucky

London, United Kingdom - July 2008

Pain was what finally pulled Owl from the depths of unconsciousness.

Not the dull, lingering ache he had grown so accustomed to over the years. Not the bruises, the cuts, the soreness that came and went like an unwanted guest overstaying its welcome. No, this was something else. This was deep, consuming, a fire licking through his veins, igniting every nerve, every muscle. It was the kind of pain that demanded attention, that refused to be ignored.

His body felt like it had been put through a blender and then carelessly stitched back together. Every fiber, every muscle screamed in protest the moment he so much as twitched. His head throbbed in time with his pulse, a relentless, pounding rhythm that made him want to claw at his skull just to relieve the pressure. His neck was stiff, locked in place, but the pain didn’t stop there. It radiated outward, twisting through his shoulders, his spine, his arms, even down to his legs.

For a long moment, he just lay there, staring blankly at the dark ceiling, his breaths coming in slow, shallow gasps as he tried to will his body into compliance. It didn’t work. When he finally mustered the strength to shift, a sharp, searing pain shot down his back, forcing a low, strangled noise from his throat. Fuck. Okay. Movement was officially off the table.

Owl let out a slow, measured breath through gritted teeth, trying to suppress the involuntary tremors racking through his exhausted body. He had been through pain before, more times than he cared to count. He had weathered broken ribs, sprains, bruises so deep they took weeks to fade. He had learned to grit his teeth, to swallow it down, to endure. But this? This was different.

This wasn’t just one localized injury he could brace against, push through, and compartmentalize. This was a raw, all-encompassing agony that left him utterly, completely helpless. The kind that stole the air from his lungs, that made even the idea of movement unbearable.

His eyes flickered toward the bedside table, where he knew the painkillers he had gotten in the ER were sitting. Owl wanted to move. Needed to move. But his body wasn’t cooperating, and the frustration of being trapped in his own skin, unable to do anything but lie there and suffer.

Gritting his teeth, he forced his arm to move, the motion sluggish and stiff, every muscle screaming in protest. His fingers barely grazed the bottle before it wobbled, threatening to tip over the edge of the nightstand. Owl sucked in a sharp breath, biting back a curse as he stretched his fingers further, finally managing to wrap them around the plastic container. The triumph was short-lived. As soon as Owl tried to twist the cap, reality hit him like a freight train. The damn child-safety lock. Owl let out a slow, controlled breath, the kind meant to steady fraying patience. He adjusted his grip, his stiff, shaking fingers pressing down against the cap as he twisted.

Nothing.

He tried again, applying more pressure.

Still nothing.

A flash of irritation sparked through the pain, a familiar, biting frustration he had known for years. Owl had always struggled with packaging: wrappers, bottles, boxes, anything that required fine motor coordination and an unreasonable amount of dexterity. It was just one of those stupid things, one of those invisible battles that no one ever thought about but managed to make his life hell at the worst possible moments.

The harder he tried, the more the cap refused to budge, his fingers slipping against the smooth plastic as his frustration grew. “Fucking come on,” Owl yelled, his breath hitching as another sharp pain lanced through his back. His frustration mounted, a mix of exhaustion, pain, and pure, unfiltered rage at something as absurdly simple as a damn bottle standing between him and relief. His fingers trembled as he tried again, his grip faltering at the last second, the bottle slipping from his grasp. It hit the floor with a dull thud and rolled just out of reach.

Owl stared at it. For a long moment, he didn’t move. He couldn’t. His whole body was locked in place, his breath coming fast and shallow as something inside him twisted violently. The pain was already unbearable. And now he had to deal with this too. A stupid, insignificant, fucking pill bottle that had the audacity to defy him.

Owl’s vision blurred at the edges, his chest heaving as frustration increases further. He wanted to scream. Wanted to throw something, break something, anything to release the fury boiling beneath his skin. But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t even sit up without pain tearing through his body like a blade. Not this. Not now. He clenched his teeth as if he could physically force the impending breakdown back into whatever dark, locked box it belonged in. But the pressure kept building, rising higher and higher, until it was unbearable.

“No, no, no…” The words were strangled, barely audible as he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to stop. To breathe. But nothing worked. His whole body was unraveling, shaking violently, his ribs hitching with the force of his suppressed sobs. He hated this. Hated that something as simple as a goddamn pill bottle had broken him.

And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop the tears from burning hot trails down his face, couldn’t stop the way his breath came in shallow, broken gasps, couldn’t stop the sheer helplessness clawing its way up his throat, choking him. Owl's fingers curled tighter into the sheets, his body trembling with the effort of containing something uncontainable. He wanted it to stop. He wanted everything to stop.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Percy moved quietly through the dimly lit hallway, his footsteps barely making a sound against the polished hardwood floors. He had been following the discharge instructions to the letter. Waking Owl every hour or so, checking his responses, making sure his concussion symptoms weren’t worsening. It was tedious and frustrating but at least Owl‘s responses so far had been coherent enough to suggest his brain hadn’t turned to mush, which was mildly reassuring.

Percy reached Owl’s door and pushed it open just enough to peek inside, expecting the usual sight: Owl sprawled across his bed in a tangle of blankets, asleep or at least half-asleep.

Instead, what he saw made his stomach drop. Owl was awake. He was curled in on himself, his body trembling violently, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. Even in the dim lighting, Percy could see the faint shimmer of tears tracing down his brother’s pale face, his expression twisted in something that looked dangerously close to panic.

For a moment, Percy just stood there, caught entirely off guard. Owl rarely cried. In all the years Percy had known him - which, to be fair, was all of Owl’s life - he could count on one hand the number of times he had seen his younger brother cry. And even then, it was usually behind closed doors, in the rare moments when Owl thought no one was watching.

The sheer helplessness in the way Owl’s fingers clenched the sheets, the violent way his body trembled, the broken, barely-contained gasps. It was raw and unfiltered, a level of vulnerability that Percy had never been meant to see.

For a fraction of a second, Percy debated stepping back, pretending he hadn’t seen anything, giving Owl the space to compose himself. But then he spotted the pill bottle on the floor, just barely out of reach.

Percy stepped fully into the room. “*redacted*.”

Owl flinched at the sound of his brother’s voice, his entire body tensing as if expecting a blow. His breath hitched and he squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would somehow make Percy disappear.

Percy's gaze flickering from Owl back to the pill bottle lying on the floor. It didn’t take long for him to put the pieces together. The child-safety cap.

Owl wasn’t crying because of the pain—well, not just because of the pain. It was the frustration, the sheer helplessness of being trapped in a body that refused to cooperate with him. Percy had seen it before. Not often, not like this, but he had noticed things over the years. The way Owl often struggled with packaging, bottles, wrappers or buttons. The way his handwriting had always been an illegible mess, no matter how much effort he put into it. Seemingly insignificant things that most people wouldn’t even think twice about. It had always been there. Subtle, buried beneath sarcasm and carefully crafted deflection. Owl never talked about it. Never acknowledged it. Never asked for help. He would fight with it until his patience snapped, and if he couldn’t win, he would simply act like it didn’t matter.

Owl heard Percy retrieve the bottle, the quiet pop of the cap being twisted open without an issue. That was the worst part, wasn’t it? How effortless it was for him. How easy. Owl’s jaw clenched as a fresh wave of frustration surged through him, burning beneath his skin, mixing with the pain, the exhaustion, the humiliation of being seen like this. Weak. Helpless. Vulnerable. He could feel Percy’s eyes on him, sharp and assessing, cataloging every sob, every ragged breath Owl was trying and failing to suppress.

A quiet rustle of movement. Then, Percy’s voice, low and even. “Here.”

Owl didn’t look. Didn’t move. His body remained rigid, muscles coiled so tightly he thought they might snap. He didn’t need to see to know what Percy was offering. The pills. The relief.

Owl swallowed against the raw lump in his throat. “I don’t need it,” he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper.

Percy exhaled slowly. “*redacted*.”

Owl squeezed his eyes shut, willing his body to hold out, to endure, to not give Percy the satisfaction. “I said I don’t need it,” he bit out, his voice sharper this time, more defensive.

Percy didn’t move. Didn’t react. He simply remained where he was, standing beside the bed, holding out the pills with that maddening patience of his.

Owl waited for it. The inevitable I told you so. The smug, condescending reminder that he had brought this upon himself, that if he had just listened, if he had just stayed in the hospital like a reasonable person, he wouldn’t be in this position. He deserved this. He had earned it. But Percy didn’t say it. He just waited.

The pain throbbed, relentless and unforgiving, Owl could feel his body losing the battle against itself, breaking down piece by piece, cracking under the weight of it all. His pride fought, kicked, screamed against it, but it didn’t matter. The pain won.

Finally, Owl forced his arm to move, his fingers clumsily brushing against Percy’s hand as he snatched the pills from his grasp. He didn’t meet his brother’s gaze. Couldn’t. Owl dry-swallowed the pills,still waiting for the inevitable commentary, the dry remark, the satisfaction in Percy’s tone. But it never came.

“Just say it.” Owl muttered.

Percy tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Say what?”

Owl let out a hollow, bitter laugh, wincing as the movement sent another sharp pang through his torso. “Go ahead. Tell me I’m an idiot. Tell me I should have stayed. Tell me this is my own damn fault. Just get it over with.”

Percy’s expression didn’t shift. He remained as rigid and composed as ever.“No,” he said simply.

Owl blinked, caught off guard by the sheer lack of judgment, of reprimand. “No?”

“No,” Percy repeated, his tone calm, steady. “I think you already know.”

Owl stared at him, waiting for the catch, for the inevitable turn, but Percy just remained there, unmoving, unrelenting.

Finally, Percy exhaled through his nose, as he checked his watch. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he said, his tone returning to its usual measured calm. “As per the discharge instructions.”

Owl let out a quiet scoff, tipping his head back against the pillow. “Of course, you will.”

Percy ignored the remark, already turning toward the door. He paused briefly at the threshold, his fingers grazing the doorframe, as if debating whether to say something else. But whatever thought lingered on the tip of his tongue, he swallowed it down. Without another word, he stepped out, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click.

Owl knew he should try to sleep. That would be the logical thing to do. Let the medication do its job, give his body the rest it so clearly needed. But the idea of sleep felt distant. Impossible. His body was still buzzing with frustration and the painkillers hadn’t kicked in yet. Sleep never came easy on a good day and this was definitely not a good day.

Owl‘s gaze flickered toward the pill bottle now resting open on his nightstand. That stupid, insignificant fucking bottle. It was ridiculous, really, how something so small could unravel him so completely. He had spent years building up his defenses, perfecting the art of indifference. And yet, all it took was a fucking childproof cap to remind him just how not in control he really was.

It didn’t make sense. None of it did. How could he struggle with something so basic—something so utterly mundane—when his hands were fine otherwise? He was good with his hands. He knew he was. His hands weren’t weak. He wasn’t clumsy. He could spend hours meticulously painting miniatures and models, his brush strokes precise, his hands steady as he brought each tiny piece to life with an almost obsessive level of detail. He could assemble intricate models, cut, glue, layer, his fingers working with careful precision. He could land perfect inputs on a game controller without even thinking.

And yet.

A plastic wrapper, a stubborn zipper, a cardboard box that needed prying open? A childproof cap? Handwriting? Suddenly, his fingers refused to cooperate. It was infuriating. It was humiliating. And the worst part was, there was no logic to it, no clear reason. Just another one of those stupid, unexplained things about himself that he could never quite fix, no matter how much he tried to ignore it.

Owl squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the heel of his palm against his forehead. He hated how his brain and body seemed to fumble with things that should be easy. About the gap between what he knew he should be able to do but somehow couldn‘t. It wasn’t a big deal. It shouldn’t be a big deal. So why did it feel like one?

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The hours stretched on in a blur of half-consciousness, the painkillers dulling the worst of the agony but never fully erasing it. Instead, Owl was left hovering in a strange in-between state, neither truly asleep nor awake. His body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion, yet his mind refused to fully shut off.

Like clockwork, every hour, the door would creak open, and Percy’s heavy footsteps would cross the room, stopping just beside the bed. Owl never fully woke for these check-ins, but he was aware of them.

By the time the sky began to lighten, shifting from the deep ink of night to the muted grays of early morning, Owl realized he had actually managed to sleep at some point. A restless, broken sleep, but sleep nonetheless. His limbs still felt heavy, and his head still ached, but the sheer bone-deep exhaustion had lessened just enough to be a little more tolerable.

The door opened again, and this time, Owl cracked his eyes open fully, blinking sluggishly as Percy stepped inside.

“You’re awake,” Percy observed, unsurprised.

Owl let out a quiet, groggy hum. “More or less.”

Percy didn’t immediately respond. He studied Owl for a long moment, then nodded slightly to himself before setting something down on the nightstand. Owl glanced at it blearily—water, painkillers, and a small plate of toast. Nothing fancy, just something functional.

“You should eat,” Percy said simply.

Owl stared at the plate, his stomach twisting slightly at the thought of food. “Not hungry.”

Percy sighed. “You never are.”

Owl didn’t have a response for that. Technically, Percy was wrong. It wasn’t that Owl was never hungry. It was that he rarely noticed when he was. Hunger wasn’t something that registered in the way it seemed to for other people. He didn’t get those clear, sharp signals that said hey, you need to eat now. Instead, it was vague. Abstract. A concept more than a sensation. He’d go hours, sometimes an entire day, without even realizing he hadn’t eaten. The signs were there—exhaustion, dizziness, headaches—but his brain never connected the dots until it was too late. And thirst? Even worse. It wasn’t that he didn’t need food or water. It was just that his body didn’t tell him in a way that made sense.

So, no, Percy wasn’t exactly right.But Owl wasn’t about to explain that. Instead, he just stared at the plate of toast like it was some kind of foreign object. The idea of eating felt distant, like trying to grasp smoke. Logically, he knew he should eat. That his body needed fuel to heal. That food wasn’t some optional side quest but a basic human requirement. And yet, he still felt… disconnected from the whole process.

Percy, as always, was watching him with that sharp, calculating gaze of his, reading him like an open book. Owl could practically hear the internal monologue running through his brother’s head, the assessment, the inevitable conclusion.

With a sigh, Percy uncrossed his arms and nudged the plate a little closer. “Just eat a little,” he said, his voice measured but firm. “You don’t have to finish it. Just something.”

Owl exhaled through his nose, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides. He didn’t want the toast. He didn’t not want it either. He just… existed in a state of vague neutrality toward it. And that was the problem. Most of the times food only seemed appealing when he was already halfway to collapsing from hunger. Anything before that just felt like an unnecessary chore.

With a sluggish sort of resignation, Owl eventually reached for a slice. The motion sent a dull ache through his arm, but he ignored it, tearing off a small piece of toast and popping it into his mouth. It didn’t taste bad it just didn’t register as anything pleasant either. He chewed slowly, more out of obligation than actual desire. The texture was dry, the taste bland. He swallowed, took another small bite, and then gave up entirely. Owl leaned back against the pillows, closing his eyes for a moment, his exhaustion pulling at him like a tide.

Predictably, Percy wasn’t satisfied. “You need to eat more than that,” Percy said, his voice laced with irritation, but not outright anger.

Owl cracked one eye open. “Yeah, well. It’s a little hard to eat when you feel like you’ve been flattened by a truck.”

Percy didn’t respond, but Owl could feel the weight of his stare. The scrutiny, the way Percy was always trying to dissect him, pick him apart like a puzzle he hadn’t quite figured out yet. Then, Percy shifted slightly, straightening his posture in that way he always did when he was about to bring up something serious. Owl knew that look. He braced himself for whatever was coming.

“We need to talk about Father,” Percy said finally, his voice measured, careful.

Owl groaned, tipping his head back against the pillows. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Percy. Can’t we just—” He gestured vaguely with his hand. “—pretend he doesn’t exist for a little while longer?”

Percy’s expression didn’t change. “No, we can’t.”

Owl sighed heavily, rubbing a hand down his face. “Yeah, yeah. I know. He knows. He’s furious. The reckoning is coming. Believe me, I got the memo.”

Percy’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh, fantastic,” Owl muttered.

Percy shot him a look but didn’t take the bait. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You should go and visit Grandfather.”

Owl blinked, caught off guard. He stared at Percy for a moment, trying to gauge whether or not he was actually serious. “Why?” He tilted his head, considering.

Percy exhaled, his fingers lacing together as he thought through his words. “Think about it,” he said, his voice calm but insistent. “Father won’t touch you while you’re with him.”

Owl let out a short, incredulous laugh. “That’s debatable.”

“It’s not,” Percy countered. “You know as well as I do that as much as Father resents Grandfather, he wouldn’t dare disrespect him. Especially in his own house. And if you’re there, under his roof, it buys you time. I don’t think you’re in any shape to deal with Father’s particular brand of punishment right now.”

“You really think hiding out with Grandfather is going to stop him from coming after me?” Owl asked, skeptical.

Percy exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly. “No of course not,” he admitted. “But it might make him reconsider how far he’s willing to go. And it gives you space. Also Grandfather likes you.”

Archibald—unlike his son Bartholomew—had never treated Owl like an inconvenience. The old man was sharp, unbothered, and somehow infinitely more tolerable than the rest of the family. There was a dry humor to him, a quiet understanding that had always made Owl feel like he could breathe just a little easier in his presence. Archibald never forced expectations onto him, never treated him like a disappointment waiting to happen. He simply… let Owl exist. That alone made him one of the only people in the family Owl didn’t actively resent.

“I don’t hate the idea,” Owl admitted slowly. “But what’s in it for you?”

Percy arched a brow. “Excuse me?”

Owl smirked, albeit weakly. “Come on, Percy. You never do anything without weighing all the angles first. You’re always thinking three moves ahead. So, what do you get out of this?”

Percy sighed, rubbing his temple. “I get to not spend the next few weeks cleaning up behind you.”

Owl snorted. “Touché.”

Percy sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as if this entire conversation was physically draining him.

Owl shifted against the pillows, wincing as his body reminded him exactly why moving was a bad idea. “So, let me get this straight,” he continued, voice laced with amusement despite the dull ache in his ribs. “Your grand solution to my latest fuck-up is to ship me off to Grandfather’s estate like some wayward Victorian orphan?”

Percy rolled his eyes. “Don’t be dramatic.”

Owl smirked. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Percy ignored him. “I’m serious. Grandfather has enough sway to keep Father from doing anything too drastic.”

Of course Percy was right. Staying at the mansion was a terrible idea, especially in his current state. And, well, it wasn’t like he minded Archibald’s company. The old man was as sharp as ever, his mind a weapon honed over decades of navigating power, influence, and the cutthroat nature of high society. Unlike his son, Archibald had never wasted time trying to beat Owl into submission. If anything, Archibald had been the only person who seemed to see him. And more than that, he had helped him get into med school. Archibald had been the one pulling strings, making calls, ensuring that Owl’s application had the right attention from the right people. Not that Owl hadn’t earned his place—his scores were solid, his qualifications more than enough—but getting into medical school wasn’t just about merit. It was about connections. Influence. And Archibald had plenty of both. It had all been done behind Bartholomew’s back, of course. And Percy’s, at the time. Just to avoid any possible interference. There were still some details to finalize, logistics to sort out before term started in September. So staying with Archibald would actually be helpful. But if Owl agreed too quickly, Percy would get smug. And Owl couldn’t allow that. So instead, he let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Percy narrowed his eyes slightly, as if he didn’t quite believe the lack of resistance. “Just like that?”

Owl smirked. “What can I say? I’m in a delicate condition.” He made a vague gesture toward himself. “Wouldn’t want to risk Father finishing what the car crash started.”

Percy huffed, clearly unimpressed. “Try not to make Grandfather regret this arrangement within the first twenty-four hours.”

Owl gasped dramatically. “Me? Cause regret? Never.”

Percy pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re insufferable.”

Owl grinned. “And yet, here you are, still looking out for me. It’s sweet, really.”

Percy shot him a withering look, the kind that spoke volumes without a single word. The kind that said I am this close to strangling you, but unfortunately, I still have some shred of self-control.

Instead of dignifying Owl’s remark with a response, Percy turned his attention back to his phone. Owl watched him with lazy amusement, his exhaustion pressing down like a weight but not quite enough to smother his usual mischief entirely.

“Let me guess,” Owl mused, shifting slightly against the pillows with a wince. “You already have everything arranged, don’t you?”

Percy didn’t bother looking up. “Obviously.”

Owl let out a low chuckle. “Of course you did.” He shook his head, immediately regretting the movement. “You really don’t leave anything to chance, do you?”

Percy glanced at him briefly before returning his focus to his phone. “I don’t have the luxury of leaving things to chance where you’re involved.”

Owl hummed, tilting his head. “You really don’t trust me to handle myself, do you?”

Percy scoffed. “Not even slightly.”

“In case you haven't noticed, I'm currently not exactly in any shape to be traveling anywhere,” Owl muttered after a moment, tilting his head slightly to look at Percy. “Or did that minor detail somehow escape your master plan?”

“It hasn’t,” Percy said smoothly, ever composed. “Which is why I’ve already arranged transportation.”

Owl frowned slightly, his mind still sluggish from pain and exhaustion. “Transportation?”

“Yes, *redacted*,” Percy said, voice flat. “That thing that moves people from one place to another.”

Owl rolled his eyes. “Oh, ha-ha. I mean what kind of transportation?”

Percy leveled him with a look. “A car.”

Owl hesitated, narrowing his eyes. “Who is driving?”

Percy exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ll be driving.”

Owl stared at him, dumbfounded. He blinked once, twice, and then— “You?”

Percy’s expression twitched, the barest flicker of irritation. “Yes, me. Is that a problem?”

Owl let out a sharp, incredulous laugh before immediately regretting it as pain shot through his ribs. “Just picturing you willingly spending eight hours in a confined space with me. Thought you had a stronger sense of self-preservation.”

Percy’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Believe me, if there were any other viable options, I’d be taking them. You’re not getting on a plane in your condition, and I refuse to let you take a train alone when you can barely sit upright.”

Owl tilted his head, studying Percy with a mix of amusement and skepticism. “Uh-huh. And you driving is the best alternative?” He smirked. “Since when do you even drive?”

Percy exhaled sharply, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves with a practiced air of indifference. “Since I got my license, like any functional adult.”

Owl snorted. “Yeah, and when was the last time you actually used it? Because I’m pretty sure I’ve seen Bigfoot more times than I’ve seen you behind the wheel.”

Percy’s expression remained unreadable, but there was the faintest twitch in his jaw. “I don’t need to drive when there are more efficient options.”

“Right. So what’s changed? Let me guess—this is about control, isn’t it?” Owl gave Percy a knowing look. “If you let the driver take me, I might make some more unsupervised poor life choices along the way. Do you realy have that little faith in me?”

Percy didn’t even bother denying it. “It's just to ensure you make it to Edinburgh in one piece.”

Continue reading here

#call of duty #my ocs #call of duty oc #original character #oc rp #task force 141 #tf 141

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callsign-owl · 3 months ago

Text

Lucky?

This is a continuation of Crash and Burn

London, United Kingdom - July 2008

The fluorescent lights overhead were painfully bright. Too bright. A relentless white glare that made Owl’s already throbbing head feel like it was being cracked open with a crowbar. His entire body ached, a deep, dull pain settling into his muscles like a persistent, unwelcome guest. The nausea wasn’t helping either, a slow churning in his stomach that made him feel like he was on the verge of being sick but never quite tipping over the edge.

He blinked sluggishly at the ceiling, trying to ignore the distant sounds of beeping monitors, muffled conversations, and the occasional rapid footsteps of overworked doctors and nurses. The ER was a mess of controlled chaos, a constant hum of movement and urgency, but Owl barely registered it beyond the sheer sensory overload it provided.

His head felt heavy, stuffed with cotton, his thoughts slow and disjointed. The CT scan had been a blur, just flashes of sterile white hallways, cold machinery, and the monotonous voice of a radiology tech instructing him not to move. They had taken their sweet time, making sure his skull wasn’t fractured, that his spine wasn’t completely fucked, that there wasn’t some internal bleeding waiting to kill him quietly. The verdict? A concussion. Whiplash. Cuts. Bruises. That was it. All things considered, he could have been dead. Instead, he was lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV, waiting for discharge papers.

Lucky. That was the word the doctor had used.

“You got lucky, Mr. *redacted*.”

Lucky.

Owl shifted slightly in the hospital bed. Every movement sent a fresh wave of pain through his battered body, but he ignored it. He’d had worse. Probably. He could deal with this.

The curtains rustled, and Owl’s gaze flickered toward the sound. A nurse appeared, her expression neutral and professional, a clipboard tucked under her arm.

“How are we feeling, Mr. *redacted*?” she asked, checking the monitor beside his bed.

Owl replied with a hoarse, “Like I got hit by a truck.”

The nurse huffed a quiet laugh. “Well, a car at high speed isn’t too far off,” she quipped, scribbling something onto his chart. “You got very lucky.”

There it was again. That word.

Owl forced a smirk. “Luck’s always been my strong suit.”

The nurse gave him a look that suggested she wasn’t in the mood for jokes, but she didn’t comment. “We’ll be discharging you soon,” she continued. “Your brother has been notified.”

Owl stiffened, the smirk vanishing from his lips. “What?”

The nurse glanced up from her notes. “Your brother. He’s on his way.”

Owl exhaled sharply, tilting his head back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling as irritation flared in his chest. Of course. Of course, Percy had been notified. Because this wasn’t bad enough already.

The nurse must have caught his reaction because her lips quirked slightly. “Don’t look so thrilled,” she said dryly. “He sounded concerned.”

That was the problem. Concern from Percy was worse than anger. Anger, Owl could handle. Anger was predictable, easy, something he could throw back like a well-practiced game of verbal tennis. But concern? That was different. And it also meant another inevitable lecture was coming.

The nurse, mercifully, didn’t push the subject. She adjusted the IV line, checked his vitals one last time, then tucked the clipboard under her arm again. “I’ll bring your discharge papers once they're ready. Do you need anything in the meantime?”

Owl shook his head. “No, I’m good.”

She nodded and disappeared back through the curtains, leaving him alone.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The first sign of Percy’s arrival was the sharp sound of his voice at the nurse’s station. Owl didn’t catch the exact words, but he recognized the clipped, controlled tone immediately: brisk, professional, and exasperated all at once.

Then, seconds later, the curtain was yanked aside.

Percy stood there, his large frame filling the small space, his expression unreadable. His usual composed demeanor was still intact, but Owl could see the cracks beneath it - the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was set just a little too tight.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Percy’s eyes flickered over Owl, taking in the bruises, the bandages, the IV still taped to his arm. Percy’s expression didn’t change. “Do you have any idea how many favors I had to call in to keep this off the news?”

Ah. There it was. Owl let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Right. Always about PR first, huh?”

Percy’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t take the bait. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Owl tilted his head lazily, offering a half-smirk. “That I wanted to go for a drive?”

Percy exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Jesus, *redacted*.” His voice was quieter now, but no less frustrated.

Owl avoided looking at Percy. “Relax, I’m fine.”

Percy’s eyes darkened. “Fine?” he echoed, voice tight. “You’re lucky you’re even conscious right now, let alone breathing.”

Owl sighed, shifting slightly in the hospital bed, wincing as a sharp ache flared in his ribs. “Can we just fast-forward to the part where you sigh dramatically and call me a reckless idiot?” He shot Percy a lazy smirk, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m really not in the mood for a discussion.”

Percy’s nostrils flared slightly, his fists clenching at his sides. “This isn’t a joke, *redacted*. You stole Father’s car and nearly got yourself killed.” His voice was controlled, but barely.

Owl’s smirk faded. He did understand. He just didn’t care. Or maybe he did. Maybe that was the problem. Either way, he wasn’t about to sit through Percy’s dramatics. “I’m here, aren’t I?” Owl muttered. “Still breathing. No harm, no foul.”

Percy opened his mouth, no doubt ready to unleash another tirade, but before he could, the curtain was drawn aside once more, this time by two uniformed police officers.

“Mr. *redacted*?” The taller of the two, a middle-aged man with graying hair, scanned the room with sharp eyes before settling his gaze on Owl. “I’m Sergeant Holloway, this is Officer Patel. We need to ask you a few questions regarding the accident.”

Percy took a step forward, his instincts kicking in instantly. “My brother isn’t answering anything without legal counsel present.” His voice was firm, cold, professional.

Sergeant Holloway barely blinked. “He’s not under arrest,” he said smoothly. “We just need his statement while the details are still fresh.”

Percy crossed his arms. “That doesn’t change anything.”

Owl, who had already started zoning out, spoke up. “Percy, it’s fine.” His voice was flat, tired. “Let them ask their questions. Not like I have anything to hide.”

Percy shot him a sharp look, clearly unhappy, but Owl just turned his head toward the officers. “Go ahead.”

Sergeant Holloway nodded, flipping open his notebook. “Let’s start simple. Can you walk us through what happened?”

Owl leaned his head back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling for a moment before responding. “I took the car out for a drive. Was heading back home when I took the exit ramp. Next thing I know, some idiot’s coming straight at me up the exit ramp, wrong way, full speed.” He shrugged slightly.

Holloway made a note before continuing. “You were driving your father’s Aston Martin DBS, correct?”

Owl nodded. “Yeah.”

“And do you have permission to operate that vehicle?”

Oh, here we go.

Percy shifted slightly beside him, the movement tense, but Owl simply met Holloway‘s gaze and let a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. “Not explicitly, no.”

Patel, the younger officer, exhaled sharply through his nose, almost like he was suppressing amusement, but Holloway remained unfazed. “So, to clarify, you took the car without permission?”

Owl shrugged. “Yeah. Guess that’s what they call grand theft auto, huh?” He smirked faintly at his own joke, but Percy’s sharp inhale of breath told him his brother was decidedly not amused.

Holloway merely nodded, jotting it down. “And how fast you were going at the time of the accident?”

Owl shifted slightly in the hospital bed, feeling the pull of the IV in his arm. “I don’t know exactly,” he admitted. “I was already slowing down before I got onto the exit ramp. Then even more on the ramp itself. Couldn’t have been very fast at that point.”

Holloway studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable before he made another note in his book. “So you’re saying you weren’t speeding when the crash happened?”

Owl gave a humorless huff. “That’s what I’m saying.”

Patel, who had been mostly observing, spoke up. “Did you notice anything unusual before the crash? Any signs that the other driver might have been impaired or distracted?”

Owl’s jaw clenched slightly. “I didn’t have time to notice much of anything. One second, I was merging off the motorway, the next, there’s a car coming straight at me from the wrong direction.” His fingers twitched against the hospital blanket, remembering the flash of headlights, the sickening realization, the inevitability of impact. “They were coming too fast. Didn’t even try to stop.”

Holloway and Patel exchanged a glance before Holloway jotted another note. “The other driver was a tourist. Rented the car. It’s likely they got confused and took the wrong turn onto the exit ramp.”

Then Holloway closed his notebook with a quiet snap. “Now, regarding the vehicle.” His gaze flickered toward Percy, then back to Owl. “Your father is the registered owner of the Aston Martin. Which means whether charges are pressed for unauthorized use of the vehicle is up to him.”

Owl’s expression didn’t change, but something cold settled in his stomach. He already knew what was gonna happen. Bartholomew wasn’t going to waste time pressing charges. No, he would deal with this privately, in his own way, and that thought was far worse than a legal proceeding.

Holloway cleared his throat. “For now, we’ll leave it at this. If anything changes, we’ll be in touch.” He tucked his notepad into his pocket. “Rest up.”

With that, the officers turned and stepped out of the curtained area, leaving Owl and Percy alone once more.

Owl leaned his head back against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling. “Well, that was fun,” he muttered, voice flat.

Percy’s fingers twitched at his sides. “Do you have any idea what’s coming next?” His voice was dangerously quiet.

Owl huffed a breath, finally meeting Percy’s gaze. “Oh, I have a pretty good guess.”

Percy’s jaw tightened. “Father is going to destroy you.”

Owl’s lips twitched, but the smirk didn’t quite land. “What else is new?”

Percy pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience visibly fraying. “You’re not taking this seriously.”

“Oh, I am,” Owl replied, voice light but with a razor-sharp edge. “I’m taking it very seriously. I’m seriously considering whether I should just disappear before he gets back.”

Percy’s eyes darkened. “That’s not funny.”

“Wasn’t meant to be,” Owl shot back.

Percy exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand down his face in pure exasperation. His eyes flicked toward the curtain where the officers had just exited, his mind clearly still spinning with the implications of the situation. But something wasn’t adding up. Percy's brow furrowed slightly, his sharp gaze flickering over Owl, like he was reassessing something.

Owl narrowed his eyes. “What?”

Percy’s head tilted slightly, his voice suddenly cold and calculated. “How exactly did you talk your way out of a charge for driving without a license considering you don't have one?”

Owl turned his head lazily, a slow, smug grin unfurling across his face. “Oh, don’t I?”

Percy’s entire body went rigid. “…Excuse me?”

Owl stretched out his sore limbs with an exaggerated yawn, thoroughly enjoying the shift in conversation. “See, this is what I love about you, Percy,” he drawled, his voice filled with amusement. “You think you know everything, but every now and then, I get to remind you that you really, really don’t.”

Percy’s expression darkened. “*redacted*.”

Owl merely smirked. “What?” he said innocently. “Did you think I just magically managed to drive an Aston Martin without knowing how to operate a car? Please. I got my license in Switzerland. Months ago.”

Percy blinked. Once. Then again. “You what?” His voice was flat, but the sheer disbelief behind it was palpable.

Owl’s grin widened, delighted beyond words at the rare moment of catching Percy completely off guard. “Yup. Fully licensed. Completely legal.” He gave a lazy shrug, as if it were the most casual revelation in the world.

Percy was staring at him, his mouth pressed into a firm, thin line. “And when, exactly, were you planning on sharing this information?”

“Oh, I wasn’t,” Owl said smoothly, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Figured it’d be more fun this way.”

Percy pinched the bridge of his nose so hard it was a wonder he didn’t break it. “You mean to tell me,” he said slowly, voice carefully controlled, “that you went through the entire process of getting a license - studying, taking the test, passing - all without me knowing?”

“Correct.”

Percy let out a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a low, incredulous laugh, the kind that only ever escaped him when he was truly, genuinely baffled. “Unbelievable.”

Before he could continue, the curtain rustled again, and the nurse returned. She didn't acknowledge the tension crackling between the two brothers, her expression remaining carefully neutral as she stepped up to Owl’s bedside.

“Alright, Mr. *redacted*,” she said briskly, flipping through some papers. “I’ve got your discharge forms here. I need you to sign at the bottom.” She handed him a pen, her tone making it clear that this wasn’t a request so much as a formality.

Percy, still reeling from the revelation that Owl had been driving legally this whole time, frowned at the nurse. “Wait, he’s being discharged already?”

The nurse barely spared him a glance. “Against medical advice,” she said, as she was removing the IV. “We wanted to keep him for observation due to the concussion, but your brother has chosen to ignore that recommendation.” She turned to Owl, fixing him with a pointed look. “Not that I expect you to care, but just so we’re clear: if your symptoms worsen, if you experience confusion, dizziness, nausea, or any unusual drowsiness, you need to come back immediately.”

Owl flashed her a lazy grin. “Noted.”

Percy’s frown deepened. “Absolutely not,” he said sharply, turning his full attention back to Owl. “You need to stay here.”

Owl scoffed, signing his name with an exaggerated flourish. “Oh, please. It’s a concussion, not a death sentence. I’m not spending the night in this place.” Owl capped the pen with an audible click and handed the clipboard back to the nurse.

The nurse exhaled through her nose, unimpressed. She tore off a sheet of paper and handed it to Percy. “These are his discharge instructions. Make sure he actually follows them, which, based on what I’ve seen, is unlikely.”

Percy took the papers but kept his eyes locked on Owl, his glare heavy with frustration. “Oh, don’t worry,” he said flatly. “I intend to.”

The nurse gave them both a final glance before stepping back. “Good luck with that,” she muttered under her breath before disappearing through the curtain.

The moment she was gone, Percy turned on Owl, his eyes burning with barely restrained irritation. “You’re an idiot.”

Owl sighed dramatically. “You say that like it’s new information.”

Percy ignored him, waving the discharge papers in his face. “Do you even realize how reckless this is? Leaving now is beyond stupid.”

Owl rolled his eyes. “I feel fine, Percy.”

“You feel fine because you’re still full of adrenaline and whatever cocktail of painkillers they gave you when you got here,” Percy snapped.

Owl ignored Percy and pushed himself off the hospital bed, swaying slightly before he steadied himself. He reached for the plastic bag resting on the nearby chair, which contained his bloodstained his clothes. Owl peeled off the disposable hospital gown and put on his own clothes.

Once he was dressed, Percy gave him another once-over, eyes narrowing like he was debating whether to physically restrain him in the hospital bed. Percy scowled but didn’t stop him as Owl made his way toward the exit.

As they stepped into the main corridor, Owl tilted his head toward his brother with a smirk. “So, what’s the over-under on how long it takes before Father finds out?”

Percy sighed, rubbing his temple. “He already knows.”

Owl let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Of course he does.”

Bartholomew always knew. It didn’t matter that he was across the Atlantic. His influence stretched far enough that he could control the fallout without ever stepping foot back in London. And that was exactly what he was doing. He wouldn’t come back. Not for Owl. Not for anything short of a PR catastrophe that required his personal touch.

No, Bartholomew would let his people handle the logistics: the cleanup, the press control, the quiet bribes where necessary. The only thing that would truly matter to him was ensuring that his name wasn’t dragged through scandal. Owl was an inconvenience, a nuisance to be dealt with in due time. The wrecked car didn’t matter. The near-death experience didn’t matter. The only thing Bartholomew cared about was the potential damage to his pristine reputation. He could deal with Owl when he got back home and Owl knew exactly what was coming.

As the two brothers stepped out of the hospital’s main entrance, Owl immediately spotted the black Bentley parked at the curb and the unmistakable presence of Bartholomew’s driver standing beside it, posture rigid and professional as always. The sight made something twist in Owl’s stomach. He had half-hoped Percy had driven himself here, but of course not. No, Percy had arrived in one of his father’s cars, with his father’s driver, because that was how this family worked: appearances, control, and the ever-present, suffocating influence of Bartholomew.

The driver, who had been in their father’s service for as long as Owl could remember, opened the back door with a practiced gesture. He didn’t say a word, but his eyes flicked over Owl with something that might have been pity but it was hard to tell.

Percy gestured toward the open door. “Get in.” His tone left no room for argument.

With an exaggerated sigh, Owl slid into the back seat, sinking into the leather with a wince. Percy followed, settling in beside him as the driver closed the door and moved around to the driver’s seat.

The moment the door shut, a heavy silence filled the car. The kind of silence that wasn’t just an absence of noise but something heavier, something pressing. Owl shifted slightly, his body protesting the movement. He let his head lean against the window, eyes half-lidded as he watched the city pass by in a blur of muted colors and shifting shadows.

The drive home was slow, the London traffic predictably frustrating, but Owl barely registered it. His thoughts drifted, unfocused, slipping in and out of vague half-formed memories of the last few hours. The wreck, the flashing lights, the ringing in his ears, the moment of stillness right after the impact. Then the hospital, the questions, Percy’s arrival. It all blurred together, a hazy montage of bad decisions and their inevitable consequences.

He knew Percy was watching him. He could feel it - his brother’s sharp, assessing gaze boring into him, cataloging every detail, every bruise, every flicker of exhaustion Owl tried to mask behind indifference. But Percy didn’t say anything. Not yet. No, Percy was biding his time, lining up his words like weapons, preparing to unleash whatever carefully constructed speech he had been assembling since stepping into that hospital room. Owl could already hear it, the inevitable What were you thinking? Do you have any idea how reckless that was? Do you ever stop to consider the consequences of your actions?

The car wound through the streets, until they entered Hampstead. When the mansion finally came into view, Owl felt his stomach twist. Not in fear or dread, but in the quiet, simmering resentment that always surfaced when he was forced to return to this place. Home. That was what people were supposed to call it, wasn’t it? But the grand estate was nothing more than a perfectly curated illusion, a cold, lifeless monument to power and control.

The car rolled to a stop in the driveway, the engine humming for a beat before the driver stepped out, moving to open the door. Percy was the first to move, as soon as the door opened. Owl, on the other hand, took his time, dragging himself upright with a grimace before stepping out.

Owl's entire body ached, his head was still wrapped in a dull, persistent fog, and all he wanted was to disappear into his room, collapse onto his bed, and shut out the world.

Unfortunately, Percy had other plans.

The moment Owl started moving toward the stairs, Percy’s hand shot out, catching him firmly by the arm. It wasn’t rough, but it left no room for argument. Owl sighed heavily, not even bothering to fight it. He already knew resistance was futile, so he let Percy drag him along toward the living room, where he slumped onto the couch, head tipping back against the cushions.

Percy remained standing, looming over Owl. He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he studied Owl, the inevitable lecture winding itself up, ready to be unleashed.

And then, right on cue: “What the hell were you thinking?”

Owl huffed a tired laugh, rubbing his temple. “Oh, here we go.”

Percy’s nostrils flared slightly. “Yes. Here we go,” he shot back. “Because I’m still trying to figure out what possible thought process led you to steal Father’s car.”

Owl exhaled slowly, eyes flickering toward his brother with an exhausted half-smirk that didn’t quite land. “Do we really need to do this?” His voice was hoarse, lacking its usual bite. “We both know how this conversation goes.”

“Yes, *redacted*,” Percy said, his voice eerily calm. “We are going to have this conversation.”

Owl hummed, letting his head roll slightly to the side so he could meet Percy’s gaze. “Don’t take it personally,” he muttered, voice sluggish. “I’d love to give you my usual performance, but it turns out concussions and wit don’t mix.”

Percy’s eyes darkened. “Oh, so you do acknowledge that you have a concussion. That’s a start.”

Owl let out a slow, tired breath, tilting his head back again to stare at the ceiling. “Look, just yell at me and get it over with, yeah?”

Percy scoffed. “You think I want to yell at you?”

“Yes,” Owl replied without missing a beat. “It’s your second favorite pastime, right after making my life miserable.”

Percy pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly summoning every ounce of patience he had left. “Jesus Christ, *redacted*.” He let out a slow breath, forcing himself to regain control before fixing his brother with a glare. “I am this close to shaking some sense into you.”

Owl smirked, or at least, he tried to. “Careful. Could make the concussion worse.”

Percy stared at him, his fingers flexing at his sides, and for a second, Owl thought he might actually snap. But then, instead of yelling, instead of launching into the expected tirade, Percy’s shoulders sagged. And that was somehow worse. Because anger was easy. Anger was predictable. But this? This quiet, exhausted frustration? This was something else entirely.

Percy dragged a hand down his face and let out a long, weary sigh before finally sinking into the armchair across from Owl. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped together as he studied his younger brother with an expression Owl couldn’t quite read. “What am I supposed to do with you?” Percy finally said, his voice quieter now.

Owl blinked at him, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. He swallowed, throat dry. “Dunno,” he muttered. “Send me back to the manufacturer? Demand a refund?”

Percy didn’t even crack a smile. “You’re not funny, *redacted*.”

The silence stretched between them, heavier than before. Owl shifted slightly. His limbs felt like lead, his head ached, and his usual defenses felt sluggish, like he was trying to wade through thick mud just to keep up. Owl simply didn’t have the energy to fight back. He felt drained. More than usual.

“You need to stop,” Percy said, his voice quieter now.

Owl frowned slightly. “Stop what?”

Percy gestured vaguely at him. “This. The reckless, self-destructive bullshit. The way you push yourself until something breaks.”

Owl scoffed. “Alright, let’s pump the brakes on the dramatics, shall we?” He shifted slightly, wincing as pain flared along his ribs. “The crash wasn’t my fault.”

Percy exhaled sharply, his fingers pressing into his temples as though warding off a migraine. “You stole Father’s car and ended up in the hospital. That’s exactly the kind of reckless decision-making I’m talking about.”

Owl snorted. „Again, for the people in the back: the crash was not my fault. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Percy’s jaw tightened, his expression flickering between exasperation and something far heavier. “Do you hear yourself?” He leaned forward. “You think that changes anything?”

Owl huffed, shifting his weight. “Yeah, actually. It does change things. I wasn’t doing anything reckless when the accident happened. Some idiot took the wrong turn and nearly killed us both.” He spread his arms in a grand, sarcastic gesture. “Shocking, I know, but not everything is my fault, Percy.”

Percy’s stare was unwavering, cold and analytical. “You shouldn’t have been on the road at all.”

Owl let out a dry laugh, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Would it have made a difference if I were in a cab instead? Or walking? If it had happened somewhere else, in a different car? What then? Would I still be responsible for the universe deciding to fuck me over?” His voice had a sharp edge now, the exhaustion beginning to chip away at his patience. “Because that’s what happened. Not some grand act of self-sabotage. Just bad fucking luck.”

Percy’s nostrils flared, his grip on his own restraint visibly fraying. “This isn’t about luck. This is about you constantly putting yourself in situations where things go wrong. And if it’s not your fault this time, what about next time?”

Owl tilted his head, smirking slightly. “Then I suppose you’ll get to say ‘I told you so.’”

Percy shot up from his seat, pacing a tight circle before turning back to Owl, his composure cracking. “Jesus Christ, do you even care?”

Owl blinked at him, his smirk faltering just enough to reveal something beneath it. Something raw. “About what?”

“About anything,” Percy snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut. “Your safety, your life, yourself?”

Owl inhaled slowly, his fingers drumming idly against his thigh. “I don’t know,” he said, voice quiet but steady. “Should I?”

The words landed like a slap. Percy flinched - actually flinched - as though Owl had hit him. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. For a moment, the room was silent. The air between them heavy with something that neither of them wanted to name.

Owl looked away, his fingers tracing invisible patterns along the edge of the couch. “Sometimes shit just happens.” he muttered, his voice losing its earlier bite.

Percy exhaled sharply, his frustration palpable. “That’s not an answer, *redacted*. Thats just an excuse.“

Owl let out a dry chuckle, low and humorless. “What do you want me to say, Percy? That I had some grand, self-destructive plan? That I wanted to wrap myself around a pole just to see what would happen?” He tilted his head slightly, peering at Percy from the corner of his eye. “Because I hate to disappoint, but I really don’t think that far ahead.”

Percy’s jaw clenched. “That’s exactly the problem.”

Owl shrugged, the motion slow and almost lazy. “You keep acting like there’s some big reason for everything I do,” he said, his tone light, casual, but with an undercurrent of exhaustion. “Like I have some deep, ulterior motive behind every stupid decision. But most of the time?” He let out a breath, shaking his head. “There isn’t one.”

Percy stared at him, eyes dark with something that was hard to name - frustration, yes, but also something deeper. Something quieter. “So, what?” Percy asked, voice quieter now. “You really just don’t care?”

Owl hesitated. His fingers stopped their aimless tracing. Did he care? He should. He knew that much. And, in some way, he supposed he did. He wasn’t entirely indifferent to what just had happened. But at the same time, there was a strange, numbing distance to it all. Like watching it happen to someone else.

“I don’t know,” Owl admitted after a long pause, his voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe.”

Percy’s expression shifted, his usual frustration giving way to something closer to concern. “That’s not normal, *redacted*.”

Owl let out a quiet laugh, tipping his head back against the couch. “Yeah, well. We’ve already established that I’m not normal.”

Percy frowned, but before he could respond, Owl leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Look, I get it. You’re worried. You think I’m spiraling, or whatever it is you’ve convinced yourself is happening. And maybe you’re right.” He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I don’t have some grand revelation for you, Percy. I’m not going to sit here and promise to change or act like I’ve had some life-altering epiphany.”

Percy’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. “I don’t need a promise,” he said quietly. “I just need you to try.”

Owl sighed. “I am trying,” he muttered. “You just don’t like my methods.”

Percy let out a slow, measured breath, his fingers pressing into his temples as if physically restraining himself from snapping. “Your methods,” he echoed, voice tight with barely contained frustration. “*redacted*, your methods involve stealing cars, getting high, picking fights you can’t win, and nearly getting yourself killed.”

Owl groaned and slumped back against the couch, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Oh my God, will you stop being so dramatic?” His voice was hoarse, worn thin with exhaustion. “I wasn’t trying to die, Percy. That’s not-” He stopped himself, shifting his arm away and leveling his brother with an irritated stare. “You keep acting like I have some grand plan for self-destruction. I really really don’t.”

Percy’s gaze bore into Owl. “Then what do you have?”

Owl let out a humorless chuckle. “A headache. A wrecked car. A father who is going to kill me the moment he gets back. Oh, and you, sitting there, looking at me like I’m some fucking puzzle you can solve if you just stare hard enough.”

Percy’s fingers twitched. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to stare so hard if you actually talked to me.”

Owl scoffed, rubbing his hands down his face. “I am talking to you.”

“No,” Percy shot back, his voice edged with frustration. “You’re deflecting. You do this every time. You make jokes, act like none of it matters, and hope I drop it. But I won’t drop it, *redacted*. Because from where I’m standing, you look an awful lot like someone who doesn’t care if he lives or dies. You constantly do reckless and dangerous things full well knowing about the possible consequences. And yet, you still keep doing it. So tell me, if you aren‘t trying to die, what are you doing?”

Owl dragged a hand through his hair, fingers tangling in the already-messy strands. “I don’t know, Percy,” he snapped, his voice cracking at the edges.

Percy’s expression didn’t shift, didn’t soften. He just waited. Because that was the thing about Percy, he never moved first in a battle of wills. He let silence do the work for him.

Owl exhaled sharply, pressing his palms against his eyes before letting them drop to his lap. His fingers drummed against his knee. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “Do you think if I wanted to be dead, I’d still be here?” He shook his head, a hollow smirk tugging at his lips. “Trust me, Percy. If I really wanted to check out, I would have already done so.”

Percy’s throat bobbed slightly, his grip tightening where his hands were still clasped together. “Then why-”

“Because I don’t know how to live, either,” Owl interrupted, voice sharper than he intended. “Alright? Is that what you want to hear?” He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “It’s not that I want to die. It’s just… existing is a fucking nightmare and it’s exhausting.“

Percy’s fingers flexed again, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just looked at Owl, and for once, there was no immediate counter-argument, no sharp rebuke. Just silence.

Finally, Percy exhaled through his nose and stood. “You need some rest.”

Owl arched a brow. “That’s your big conclusion after all that?”

The truth was that this time Percy was deflecting, not quite knowing what to do with the statement Owl had just thrown at him. Percy had no answer and he didn’f like it. Percy gestured toward the stairs. “Go to bed, *redacted*.”

Owl considered arguing, out of habit more than anything, but he was too damn tired. With a resigned sigh, he pushed himself upright, wincing slightly and disappeared out of the living room.

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#call of duty #call of duty oc #my ocs #oc rp #original character #task force 141 #tf 141

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callsign-owl · 3 months ago

Text

Crash and Burn

This is a continuation of Something Fleeting

London, United Kingdom - July 2008

A dim, golden glow filtered through the kitchen window, casting elongated shadows. The mansion was silent, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator.

Owl stirred.

His limbs felt leaden, his body oddly sluggish yet not unpleasant. There was a warmth in his veins, a lingering haze dulling the sharp edges of reality. It was familiar and comforting. He blinked a few times, vision adjusting to the soft light. The kitchen ceiling loomed above him. Wait. Kitchen?

Owl frowned, forcing his sluggish mind to piece together his surroundings. He was slumped over the kitchen island, his head resting on his folded arms. His neck ached from the awkward angle, his limbs stiff from hours of being curled up against the countertop. With a low groan, he slowly pushed himself upright, stretching out the kinks in his back.

Owl felt… fine. Not great, not even good, but better than he should have, all things considered. His limbs were loose, his head wasn’t pounding, and his nerves, for once, weren’t firing on all cylinders. The lingering haze of the substances still dulled the sharper edges of his existence, making everything feel just distant enough to be manageable. He must have dosed just the right amount - not too much to black out completely, not too little to leave him suffering the consequences. It was a delicate balance, an art form, really.

Vague flashes from last night drifted through the haze. Percy cooking. Percy yelling. He strained to recall more, but his brain wasn’t cooperating. The memories were scattered, disjointed images that slipped through his fingers like sand. There had been laughter, he thought. Maybe a conversation? Or had he imagined that part?

His gaze flickered toward the clock on the wall. 6:14 AM. The house was still, everyone else presumably asleep. Meanwhile, Owl was here, awake, adrift in that strange space between night and morning, where time felt slower, stretched out.

He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the lingering stiffness. His body felt like it was stuck between two states: awake but not alert, exhausted but too restless to sleep again. What he needed was coffee.

Owl pushed himself off the counter, swaying slightly before steadying his balance. His limbs were still sluggish, but his mind was beginning to clear, sharpening just enough for the familiar weight of reality to settle back in. He ignored it.

The mansion’s kitchen equipped with one of those high-end espresso machines that required a PhD to operate, but Owl had neither the patience nor the motivation to bother with it. Instead, he went for the instant coffee. Cheap, bitter, and barely tolerable but easy and quick. He spooned a generous heap of granules into a mug, filled it with hot water from the kettle, and gave it a halfhearted stir. The dark liquid swirled lazily, dissolving into something that barely resembled coffee.

Mug in hand, Owl turned to leave, his mind already set on retreating to his room before anyone else woke up. He didn’t feel like talking. Didn’t feel like dealing with whatever fresh wave of concern Percy might throw his way. A few more hours of solitude sounded perfect.

But as he stepped into the hallway, something caught his attention. A voice - sharp, clipped, and unmistakably angry - drifted through the corridor. Owl’s stomach twisted as he recognized it immediately. Bartholomew.

Owl froze, instincts kicking in before his mind could fully register why. He moved quickly, pressing himself against the wall just beyond the doorway, keeping out of sight. His father’s voice carried through the hall, followed by the sound of his footsteps. He was talking on the phone, his words curt and edged with irritation.

“I don’t want excuses,” Bartholomew snapped into the phone, his voice low but forceful. “I expect results. If you can’t deliver, then I’ll find someone who can.”

There was a pause. Muffled words from the other end of the line. Then the sharp click of Bartholomew’s shoes against the floor as he resumed pacing. “No, I don’t care how complicated it is. I pay you to handle complications. Do your job, or don’t bother calling me again.”

Another pause. Bartholomew exhaled sharply through his nose, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Unacceptable,” he bit out. “I’ll be in New York by the afternoon. Have it handled before then.”

Owl remained frozen in place, his grip tightening around his coffee mug. His father was leaving. Another business trip. He should have figured as much. Bartholomew was hardly ever home for more than a few days at a time. That was how it had always been.

Owl peeked carefully around the corner. His father stood in the main hall, his back to Owl, still absorbed in his call. His suitcase sat by the door, neatly packed and ready to go.

Owl shifted slightly, pressing himself further into the shadows as Bartholomew finally ended the call with a clipped, “I expect a full report within the hour,” before snapping his phone shut and tucking it into the inner pocket of his tailored coat.

A brief silence followed and Owl held his breath, watching as his father adjusted the cuffs of his pristine dress shirt, smoothing down the fabric before finally reaching for his suitcase. Then he strode out the door.

Owl remained still, ears straining to catch the distant murmur of the driver greeting Bartholomew, the quiet thud of the car door closing, the low purr of the engine as the vehicle pulled away.

And then - silence.

Owl exhaled slowly, but stayed hidden for a moment longer, just to be sure, before finally stepping out from the shadows and into the now-empty hall.

Owl should have gone straight to his room. That had been the plan. Avoid Percy, avoid any potential morning lectures, crawl back under the covers and let the last remnants of his high lull him into something resembling rest. But as he made his way down the corridor, his steps faltered. His gaze flickered to a door he usually avoided. Bartholomew’s study.

A place where Owl was only ever summoned. Never invited. Never welcomed. The door stood slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness visible beyond the threshold. It was almost insulting, how little effort his father put into securing it. As if the mere idea of someone daring to cross that line was laughable. As if fear alone was enough to keep everyone in their place.

Owl hesitated. He should walk away. He knew that. But before he could second-guess himself, Owl pushed the door open.

The study was the same as always: dark, pristine, suffocatingly immaculate. A place devoid of warmth, just like the man who owned it. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, filled with perfectly arranged volumes that Owl doubted had ever been touched. The massive mahogany desk stood at the center of the room, an imposing structure that practically screamed power and control. Everything had its place, down to the polished brass pen holder and the neatly stacked documents.

Owl‘s eyes flicked around the room, searching for…what, exactly? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t interested in business dealings or financial reports, and Bartholomew didn’t seem to exist outside of those things. The man had no hobbies, no interests, no remnants of a personal life that could be glimpsed through photographs or sentimental keepsakes. The study was a reflection of its owner: cold, calculated, and wholly unapproachable.

Owl moved toward the desk, trailing his fingers along its polished surface. The wood was smooth, flawless, not a speck of dust in sight. He glanced at the documents stacked neatly at the corner, their precise arrangement tempting him to disturb their order just for the sake of it. Instead, he reached for the topmost sheet, scanning the text with mild disinterest. Business contracts, negotiations - boring. He let the page flutter back into place and leaned back against the desk.

His gaze flicked around the room, searching for something - anything - that might make this little trespassing adventure worth it. His eyes landed on the liquor cabinet, a collection of expensive, whiskys and cognacs displayed like trophies behind pristine glass. His father’s prized possessions, untouched except for the rare occasions Bartholomew allowed himself a single pour of something decades old and outrageously expensive.

For a moment, Owl considered it. Just one drink. Or two. Bartholomew probably wouldn’t notice. But then again, if he did - Owl knew better than to think the consequences would be worth it. He could drink in his own room.

That’s when he saw them. The car keys. Neatly arranged on a wooden board mounted on the wall, each one hooked in precise alignment, each key fob gleaming under the dim study light. His father’s collection of luxury cars. Yet another testament to wealth and status. A sleek Aston Martin, the ever-pretentious Rolls-Royce, the absurdly powerful McLaren and more. Most of them were never being used, sitting in the garage like trophies.

Owl had gotten his driver’s license back in January, while he was still in Switzerland. Neither Percy nor Bartholomew knew, at least Owl hadn't told them. It hadn’t been some great act of rebellion, he didn’t even particularly enjoy driving. It had just seemed like a skill worth having.

Now, standing in his father’s study, staring at the neatly arranged set of keys, Owl felt an idea forming. It wasn’t fully developed, more of a vague impulse than a plan. The kind of impulse that had always led him into trouble, the kind he knew he should ignore. But then, when had he ever been good at ignoring bad ideas?

Owl looked the various key fobs, some sleek and minimalist, others bulkier, bearing the insignias of automotive royalty—Ferrari, McLaren, Bentley and more. His fingers hovered indecisively before landing on one in particular. The Aston Martin DBS.

It was an easy choice. James Bond’s car. Even in his disinterest for cars, Owl had enough cultural awareness to recognize that. It had been in Casino Royale just two years ago. He might not care for the cars themselves, but he did appreciate a certain aesthetic. And if he was going to be reckless, he might as well do it in style.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The garage door loomed ahead. Owl pressed the button on the wall, and with a quiet mechanical hum, the door slid open, revealing the collection of pristine vehicles inside.

Even without knowing much about cars, Owl was well aware of the obscene wealth contained in this space. Every surface gleamed under the fluorescent lighting. The cars sat untouched, each one a meticulously preserved trophy, more status symbols than actual vehicles.

The Aston Martin was near the back, its deep metallic black paint reflecting the faint light in a way that made it look almost predatory. Low to the ground, sleek, and undeniably fast—it looked like the kind of car someone like him should absolutely never be allowed near.

Owl twirled the key fob between his fingers, exhaling sharply through his nose. This was a bad idea. An exceptionally bad idea. But what was the worst that could happen?…Okay, a lot of things. But right now, he didn’t care.

Owl pulled open the driver’s side door and slid in. The interior smelled expensive: leather, a faint trace of something polished and clean. The seats were low and firm, hugging his frame in a way that felt both suffocating and oddly secure. He adjusted his position, trying to get comfortable. The dashboard was… well, overwhelming. Buttons, dials, digital displays, everything was far more complex than the old Toyota Yaris he’d learned to drive in. That car had been basic, predictable. This? This felt like climbing into the cockpit of a fighter jet.

Owl wasn’t a bad driver by any means, but this was an Aston Martin. Not some tiny, old driving school vehicle with sluggish acceleration and a forgiving nature. This was a machine built for performance, for speed, for people who actually knew what they were doing. Which he absolutely did not.

Owl let out a slow breath, fingers gripping the steering wheel.

Alright. Focus. You’ve driven before. It’s just a car.

A car that could go from 0 to 60 in less than four seconds. A car worth more than most people made in a year. A car that, if he so much as scratched it, he would probably not live long enough to regret.

Then he pressed the start button and the engine roared to life, a deep, throaty growl that sent vibrations through his entire body. Owl focused on the pedals, feeling out the clutch. This was the part that threw him off. The Yaris had been forgiving, but this? This was very different. Everything was far more sensitive than he was used to.

Alright. He could do this.

With cautious movements, he eased the car into reverse, foot pressing gently on the gas. The Aston Martin rolled backward smoothly and Owl guided it out of its designated spot, carefully navigating the tight space of the garage. One wrong move, and he’d be scraping a car worth more than his existence.

After what felt like an eternity, he maneuvered it toward the garage exit. The wide door was still open. This was it. No turning back now.

He shifted into first gear and pressed the accelerator. The car responded instantly, a smooth but aggressive surge forward, the sheer power beneath his fingertips exhilarating. Even though he was trying to keep things somewhat under control, the DBS felt alive, eager to be let loose.

The usual bumper-to-bumper congestion of central London was out of the question. If he wanted to drive this thing properly, there was only one real option. The motorway. Owl navigated the quiet streets of Hampstead, his mind hyper-focused in a way that felt both unnatural and liberating.

Then, finally, he reached the motorway.

The moment his tires hit the open stretch of road, something inside him snapped. The last lingering threads of caution unraveled and the speedometer climbed.

130 km/h. 140. 150.

Owl barely noticed. The road ahead of him stretched wide and fairly empty, an open invitation to let the car do what it was built for. His foot pressed harder against the accelerator, and the DBS responded.

160. 170.

The world outside the car blurred. Owl‘s thoughts sharpened to a razor’s edge. This was it. Somehow the usual restlessness, the constant mental static that plagued him, was nowhere to be found.

The needle ticked higher. 180. 190.

He barely registered the cars he passed, just occasional blurs in his periphery, distant and inconsequential. He wove between lanes instinctively, fluid and precise, each movement calculated in the space of a heartbeat.

200.

The numbers on the speedometer were meaningless, an abstract concept detached from reality. The road stretched ahead in an endless ribbon of asphalt. Owl was no longer thinking - just doing. The usual weight of his mind, the chaos, the noise, the endless push and pull of emotions, was gone. At least for now.

Then - brake lights. A flicker of red in his periphery. The traffic ahead was growing denser. Not gridlocked, but enough to force him to slow down. The gap between cars was shrinking, and suddenly, his runway was disappearing.

Owl eased off the accelerator. The sensation was jarring, like hitting an invisible wall. His mind had been stretched so thin, so focused on speed, that slowing down felt unnatural. Like forcing himself to wake up from a dream he wasn’t ready to leave.

The motorway had become cluttered with taillights, the orderly chaos of early morning traffic forcing Owl to acknowledge reality again. He didn’t have the patience for this, didn’t have the nerves to navigate this growing mess of brake lights and hesitant lane-changers. The the constant adjustment of speed and the unpredictable movements of other drivers were simply annoying. The fun was over. It was time to head back home.

Owl scanned the road ahead, his mind snapping to the fastest way out of this. The nearest exit loomed ahead, the bright green overhead sign marking a way off this suffocating stretch of motorway. That was his best bet. He could take the exit, loop around, and rejoin the motorway in the opposite direction.

With a flick of his wrist, Owl signaled and veered onto the exit ramp. Then he saw it. A car. Coming straight towards him at a terrifying speed. For a split second, his brain refused to process it. The sight didn’t make sense. There should not be a car facing him, not on an exit ramp where traffic only went into one direction.

Owl barely had time to register the details: compact rental car, silver, probably a tourist unfamiliar with UK roads, before reality crashed into him like a sledgehammer. The other driver wasn’t slowing down. They were accelerating. His instincts screamed at him to swerve, to dodge, to do anything but there was nowhere to go. The concrete barrier boxed him in on both sides. Owl's foot slammed on the brake, but he knew it was useless. The impact was already inevitable.

Then, time stretched.

Owl had just enough time to throw his arms up to shield his face before -

Impact.

The world around Owl exploded with a deafening, shattering crunch as the front end of the Aston Martin crumpled inward, absorbing the force of the collision. The violent jolt slammed Owl forward, his seatbelt locking across his chest like an iron vice. His head snapped forward, then back, the airbag detonating in a blinding burst, slamming into him like a battering ram.

The screech of twisting metal continued. Glass shattered. His body was yanked sideways as the Aston Martin spun from the sheer force of impact, tires screaming as they fought against inertia. Then another sickening crunch as the car collided again, this time with the concrete barrier.

And then stillness.

Owl’s ears were ringing. A high-pitched, insistent whine filled his head, drowning out everything else. His vision blurred for a second before snapping back into sharp focus.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then again.

He was alive.

Owl's pulse was hammering, a wild staccato in his chest, but beneath the adrenaline spike, his brain was already sorting through the details with unnerving efficiency. It was always quick to reset under pressure.

Owl flexed his fingers first. No pain. Arms? Same. He lifted his head gingerly, testing his neck. Sore, stiff, but still working. Owl exhaled sharply through his nose, shifting in his seat. His body ached, but nothing felt particularly urgent. He barely noticed the trickle of blood running down his temple, or the shallow cuts across his arms where glass had splintered and sliced. Nothing important.

What was important was getting out. Owl reached for the seatbelt release and the strap retracted with a quiet hiss. He tried the doorhandle but it didn't budge. The door frame was warped, the whole thing jammed in place. He twisted, bracing himself against the console as he reached for the passenger door handle. This one moved with less resistance, and after a few shoves, it finally gave way. The door swung open with a protesting creak.

Owl hauled himself out, sneakers crunching against the shattered glass. His head swam briefly, his balance teetering for a second before leveling out.

The Aston was fucked. The long, elegant hood was a crumpled mess, the front end almost unrecognizable. Steam or smoke hissed from under the wreckage, the whole front section well and truly obliterated. The windshield was splintered and the front wheels were misaligned, one turned at a completely unnatural angle. Owl tilted his head, studying the wreckage with an odd sense of detachment. The absurdity of the situation registered somewhere in the back of his mind, but it wasn’t panic. It wasn’t fear. It was just observation.

His gaze flickered past the wreckage to the other car. Or what was left of it. A small silver rental, or at least, it had been. Now it was a mangled ruin of crushed metal, plastic and glass. The windshield had shattered completely, the hood crumpled inward like a tin can. Owl stared at it for a moment. He should probably care. Most people would but he felt no concern, no sympathy. That idiot had been going the wrong way up an exit ramp. That idiot had nearly killed him.

Owl didn't really register that other drivers had stopped and stepped out of their vehicles. Their faces were a mixture of shock, concern, and morbid curiosity. A few were on their phones, likely calling emergency services, though considering the distant wail of sirens, someone had already beaten them to it.

Eventually the sirens grew to a deafening blare as a fleet of emergency vehicles swarmed the scene. A police car pulled up first, followed by an ambulance, then a fire truck. The flashing lights painted the highway in chaotic, shifting colors.

Owl remained where he was, standing unsteadily near the wreckage of the Aston Martin, his head throbbing in time with his pulse. He could still hear the high-pitched ringing in his ears. His body was starting to feel like one massive bruise, the deep ache settling into his bones now that the adrenaline was starting to ebb.

People were moving all around him: police officers directing traffic, firefighters assessing the crumpled rental car, paramedics unloading equipment. Voices overlapped in a steady hum of urgency, but Owl barely registered them. His gaze was fixed ahead, watching as the firefighters worked frantically to extract the other driver from the mangled remains of their vehicle.

"Sir, can you hear me?" A voice cut through the haze. A hand, firm but careful, landed on Owl’s shoulder, breaking his trance.

Owl blinked and turned his head sluggishly. A paramedic was standing beside him, his expression a careful mix of concern and professionalism.

“You were in the Aston Martin, yeah?” the paramedic pressed, already giving Owl a quick visual assessment. “Can you tell me your name?”

Owl opened his mouth, but his throat felt raw, like he had swallowed sandpaper. He swallowed thickly before forcing the words out. “*redacted*.”

The paramedic nodded. “Alright, *redacted*, do you know what day it is?”

Owl exhaled through his nose, irritated by the question but aware of why it was being asked. “Saturday,” he muttered, though, in all honesty, he wasn’t entirely sure. The night before was still a hazy blur of bad decisions, and he wasn’t convinced time was even real anymore.

The paramedic didn’t look convinced either. He grabbed a penlight, tilting Owl's chin up to check his pupils. “You’re bleeding pretty badly,” he continued, nodding toward the gash on Owl’s forehead. “Do you feel any pain anywhere?”

That was a stupid question. Owl now felt pain everywhere. His entire body was one massive, throbbing bruise, each ache making itself known in waves as the adrenaline began to wear off more and more.

“Nothing important,” Owl said flatly.

The paramedic gave him a look that suggested he wasn’t buying it. “You have a concussion, whiplash, multiple lacerations, and more bruising than I’d like to see on someone still standing.” He gestured to his colleague. “We’re taking you to hospital to rule out anything more serious.”

Owl frowned. “That’s not necessary.”

The paramedic’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s not a negotiation.”

Owl huffed a humorless laugh, the motion sending a fresh wave of dizziness through his skull. “Of course it isn’t.”

Another paramedic stepped up beside him, unfolding a cervical collar. “We need to put this on before we get you on the stretcher, alright? Just a precaution.”

Owl considered arguing. He hated the idea of being strapped down, restrained but even he knew he was in no condition to put up much of a fight. Instead, he allowed them to secure the brace around his neck and let them guide him onto the stretcher. As they lifted him into the ambulance, Owl caught one last glimpse of the wreckage - the crumpled metal, the shattered glass, the swarm of first responders working tirelessly to pull the other driver free. Then the ambulance doors slammed shut. The paramedics moved efficiently, attaching monitors, checking his vitals, muttering to each other in a language of medical shorthand that barely registered. Owl let his head rest against the stiff, plastic-covered stretcher and closed his eyes.

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callsign-owl · 3 months ago

Text

Something Fleeting

This is a continuation of Caught in the Riptide

London, United Kingdom - July 2008

Owl pushed open the door to his room and tossed himself onto the bed with a heavy sigh. For a moment, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the slight buzz from the spiked orange juice. The eerie calm that had settled over him like a blanket still clung stubbornly, but Owl knew better than to trust it. It wouldn’t last. It never did.

With a grunt, Owl pushed himself up and reached for the controller on his nightstand. He flicked on the PlayStation, the familiar chime filling the room, and the screen lit up. The main menu of Grand Theft Auto IV appeared, and Owl selected his last save file.

The game world loaded, and Niko Bellic stood in the dimly lit streets, the distant hum of traffic filling the virtual city. Owl leaned back, his fingers working the controller with ease, sending Niko careening down the street in a stolen sports car. The tires screeched, people dived out of the way, and the digital chaos provided a strange sense of comfort.

As the minutes passed, Owl found himself getting lost in the game, stealing cars, evading cops, causing the kind of reckless destruction that he sometimes wished he could unleash in real life. It was cathartic in its own twisted way, a temporary escape from his own reality.

But no matter how many virtual heists he pulled off, how many NPCs he ran over, the nagging unease remained at the edges of his mind. He could feel it lurking, waiting for the right moment to claw its way back to the surface. The eerie calm was slipping through his fingers like sand.

Owl exhaled sharply, his grip on the controller tightening as his character crashed into a police roadblock. The in-game sirens blared, a relentless, grating sound that clawed at his nerves. His jaw clenched, and without thinking, he pressed down hard on the trigger buttons, sending Niko into a chaotic gunfight. The officers swarmed, bullets flying, and soon, the inevitable Wasted screen splashed across the television.

He stared at it, his reflection faint in the darkened screen. A bitter laugh escaped his lips. “Figures,” he muttered to himself, tossing the controller onto the bed beside him.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Owl leaned back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling. The numbness was already starting to dissipate, and in its place, the familiar weight of everything he was trying to outrun settled into his chest. The tightness coiled like a vice, pressing against his ribs, making it hard to breathe.

With a sudden burst of frustration, Owl grabbed the controller and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall with a sharp crack before clattering to the floor, skidding to a stop near the foot of his desk. The brief sense of satisfaction was fleeting and quickly replaced by a deep, gnawing sense of regret while the tightness in his chest remained.

Owl stared at the broken controller, trying to feel something other than the spiraling chaos in his mind. But it wasn’t working. It never did. His thoughts raced, careening wildly from anger to guilt to a desperate need to just shut everything out.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his temples, squeezing his eyes shut. The noise in his head was unbearable: fragments of past conversations, old memories, his father’s voice cutting through everything like a razor. The echoes of their last encounter in the foyer still clung to him, the bruises on his neck a painful reminder. He couldn’t escape it. No matter how much he tried to drown it out, it always came back. Louder. Harsher.

With a defeated sigh, he pushed himself off the bed and crossed the room in a few quick strides towards the bookshelf. It looked like any other shelf, stacked haphazardly with various books and trinkets. But Owl knew better. His fingers skimmed over the spines and pulled a book from its place. He opened it, revealing the hollowed-out center and the stash hidden within. Nestled inside the carved pages were the familiar players in his self-destructive ritual, an almost-empty bottle of codeine cough syrup, a little plastic bag with benzo tablets, and a flask of vodka he had refilled too many times to count. For a fleeting moment, he considered fighting it, sitting with the pain, letting it run its course. But the thought barely lasted five seconds before the familiar, insidious craving slithered into his mind. That gnawing itch, whispering the same promise it always did: shut it off. Just for a little while.

Owl knew, logically, how stupid this was. Mixing even two of them was a recipe for disaster, let alone all three. But logic had no place here. Logic wouldn’t silence the screaming in his head. In that moment, he didn’t care. All he wanted was silence.

Without a second thought, Owl twisted the cap off the cough syrup and took a long gulp straight from the bottle. The sickly sweet taste coated his throat, and he chased it with a quick swig of vodka, wincing as the alcohol burned its way down. His fingers trembled slightly as he popped a benzo from the blister pack, dry-swallowing it with another mouthful of vodka for good measure.

Owl lay back down on his bed. He could already feel the mixture settling in, spreading through his veins like a slow, creeping fog. The noise in his mind and body softened, blurring at the edges, losing its sharpness. It was working.

His limbs felt heavy, his body sinking deeper into the bed. The tension that had coiled in his chest for hours began to unravel, replaced by a distant numbness that was both familiar and comforting. He exhaled slowly, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. The worries, the pain, the guilt, all of it faded into the background, distant and irrelevant. He was weightless. Untethered. Free.

Time slipped away unnoticed, each passing second blending into the next. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, eyes half-lidded, staring blankly at the ceiling. The world felt distant, muffled, like it was wrapped in cotton. His limbs were heavy, but pleasantly so, and his mind floated somewhere between the clouds and the stars. It was the sweet spot: just enough to take the edge off, not enough to completely knock him out.

Owl’s stomach growled faintly, cutting through the haze and reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since… well, he couldn’t quite remember when. Sluggishly, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the motion slow and deliberate, as though he were testing whether gravity still applied to him.

Owl wobbled slightly as he stood, blinking in slow motion, his balance a little off and his limbs not quite cooperating. Step by step, he shuffled out of his room and into the dimly lit hallway. The grand corridors of the mansion stretched out before him, feeling much longer than they actually were.

The trip to the kitchen felt like an odyssey. Every step was an effort, and by the time Owl reached the marble-floored expanse of the kitchen, he was already regretting his decision to leave his room. He leaned heavily against the doorframe for a moment, letting his vision settle. The pristine counters and gleaming appliances looked as untouched as ever. Bartholomew probably didn’t even know where the kitchen was, much less how to use anything in it. Everything here, the carefully arranged spice rack, the stocked pantry, the neatly labeled jars, was Percy’s doing.

Owl dragged himself to the fridge and yanked the door open, the bright light momentarily blinding him. His eyes scanned the shelves, his hopes sinking with each passing second. He had been hoping for something simple, something greasy, salty, and satisfying. Pizza, chips, crisps, anything that could be devoured without thought or effort. But the fridge held no such treasures. No leftover takeout cartons, no frozen snacks, nothing even remotely convenient.

Instead, it was stocked with the kind of ingredients Percy favored: fresh vegetables meticulously arranged in clear containers, expensive cuts of meat individually wrapped and artisan cheeses with labels Owl didn‘t even recognize.

Owl groaned, resting his forehead against the fridge door. “Of course,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. Percy, ever the perfectionist, even in his vices, would never allow something as pedestrian as fast food to taint his carefully curated culinary temple. Even his indulgences were high-class: Binge eating, but make it sophisticated. Percy’s drug of choice, just like drugs were Owl’s. The difference was, Percy did his damage with class.

Predictably the pantry looked no different, it was filled with precisely organized shelves of grains, pasta, more vegetables and fruits, and an assortment of baking ingredients that Owl had no patience to even consider. There were no instant noodles, no pre-packaged meals, just endless components that required effort, patience, and skill.

His mind wandered to the idea of ordering something, pizza, maybe, or a greasy burger, but the thought of dealing with another human being, even over the phone, felt like too much effort.

Resigned, but not particularly bothered, Owl straightened up and cast a slow glance around the pristine kitchen. The hum of the fridge, the soft ticking of the antique clock on the wall, everything felt so distant, like he was watching the scene through a thick pane of glass. The numbness still held him in its grip. It was almost perfect.

Eventually Owl’s hazy gaze settled on the bottle of vodka he had left sitting on the counter earlier. A slow, lazy grin tugged at the corner of his lips. Food could wait. A drink, though? That sounded like a much more manageable endeavor.

Owl moved with a dreamy sort of detachment, grabbing the tomato juice from the fridge, followed by a few haphazard grabs at the spices Percy had so meticulously arranged: Worcestershire sauce, hot sauce, salt, pepper. Owl gathered the ingredients in a loose, disorganized cluster in front of him. Celery? Absolutely not. He wasn’t in this for the aesthetics.

Owl’s coordination was a bit off. His fingers fumbled slightly with the bottle caps, but the sluggishness didn’t bother him. He poured a generous amount of vodka into the glass, then topped it with tomato juice. A few liberal dashes of Worcestershire sauce followed, and then a heavy-handed splash of hot sauce, far more than the recipe called for.

He stirred the concoction with a sloppy flick of his wrist, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim, staining the marble countertop in dark red splashes. Owl didn’t notice or rather just didn’t care. The moment the mixture was done, he raised the glass and downed it in one go. The burning mix of alcohol and spice hit his throat hard, and made Owl wince. It wasn’t about the taste though, it was about the feeling, the blissful numbness creeping further into his limbs with each swallow.

Exhaling sharply, he set the empty glass down with a loud clink, his hand lingering against the counter as he tried to steady himself. The plan was simple: head back to his room, sink into the blissful haze, and let the world fade away. Owl turned unsteadily toward the doorway, but the universe, in its infinite sense of irony, of corse had other plans.

Standing in the doorway was Percy.

For a long, tense moment, Percy said nothing. His eyes swept across the kitchen first, taking in the mess of bottles, spilled tomato juice, and haphazardly discarded ingredients strewn across the counter. His lips pressed into a tight line, nostrils flaring slightly as he exhaled through his nose. Then, finally, his gaze landed on Owl. If the mess on the counter was bad, the mess in front of him was worse.

"Are you kidding me?” Percy’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and cold.

Owl, leaning heavily against the counter, gave him a lopsided grin, though it was a poor attempt at his usual defiance. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite brother,” he drawled, his words slow and syrupy. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Percy ignored the remark, stepping fully into the kitchen, his eyes never leaving Owl’s face. The signs were unmistakable. The glassy sheen in Owl’s eyes, the slight sway in his posture, the lazy, almost detached way he blinked at him. Percy had seen this too many times before.

“You’re high,” Percy stated, his voice clipped but not surprised.

Owl tilted his head, as if genuinely considering the accusation. “Am I?” he mused, before letting out a quiet chuckle. “Why must you always assume the worst of me?”

Percy ignored the deflection, his eyes narrowing. “Because you make it so damn easy,” he shot back. “And you’re not exactly subtle, *redacted*.”

Owl grinned, the kind of grin that made Percy’s blood boil, the lazy, lopsided one that dripped with amusement and not an ounce of concern. “Go big or go home, right?” Owl said with a nonchalant shrug. “Why don’t you just pretend I’m not even here? Go ahead, do whatever it is you came here to do.” He gestured toward the kitchen around them, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I’m sure you were about to whip up one of your famous five-course feasts. Don’t let me stop you.”

Percy pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. “God, you’re insufferable, especially when you’re like this,” he muttered. He moved past Owl to the fridge, yanking it open with more force than necessary and began pulling out ingredients. Percy’s movements were precise and calculated, each item placed on the counter with an almost ritualistic precision.

Owl, meanwhile, watched his brother with an almost childlike curiosity. “So what’s on the menu today, Chef Percy?” he teased. “Let me guess: something dripping in butter, drowning in sauce, and worth more calories than I’ve eaten all week?”

“Given your eating habits,” Percy remarked coolly without looking up, “I doubt you’ve eaten anything this week.” He reached for a knife and began chopping an onion with swift, practiced strokes.

Owl grinned, unfazed. “Eating’s overrated,” he quipped, leaning against the counter and watching Percy work. “Besides, food’s such a hassle, you know? First, you gotta find it, then you gotta prepare it, then you have to actually chew and swallow it. So much effort for so little reward.” Owl couldn’t actually remember the last proper meal he’d had. A handful of crisps here, a leftover slice of pizza there nothing that could be considered remotely nutritious.

Percy finally looked up, leveling him with a pointed stare. “A hassle?” He gestured at the mess Owl had left behind. “You just put more effort into making that god-awful concoction than it would’ve taken to make a sandwich.”

Owl grinned. “Yeah, but that god-awful concoction makes me feel better. Sandwiches don’t.”

Percy sighed, his grip tightening on the knife before he forced himself to continue slicing through the vegetables with precise, controlled motions. “You do realize that your body needs actual sustenance to function, right? That even your self-destructive ass has limits?”

Owl waved him off. "Don't worry, I’ll eat when I’m hungry.”

Percy sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “No you won‘t, *redacted*. I know you.” He moved to the stove, igniting the burner with a sharp flick of his wrist. The scent of sizzling butter filled the air almost immediately.

Owl, still leaning heavily against the counter, watched with dreamy fascination as Percy moved around the kitchen with his usual efficiency. His glassy eyes trailed lazily from the sizzling pan to the neatly diced vegetables, his lips curling into a slow, lopsided grin. “You worry too much, Percy,” he murmured, his voice syrupy and slow. “I’m perfectly...functional.”

Percy shot him a sharp glance, unimpressed. “Functional? You can barely stand up straight. You're high as a kite.” He dumped the onions into the pan, the sharp hiss of contact filling the kitchen. “And I don’t ‘worry too much,’ *redacted*. I worry exactly as much as you require, which is an exhausting, full-time job, by the way.”

Owl hummed thoughtfully, pushing himself up to a wobbling stand before promptly sinking into one of the barstools at the kitchen island. He rested his chin in his hands, blinking at Percy with a slow, exaggerated innocence. “Define high,” he said, dragging out the words. “Is it... ‘I’ve had a bit too much fun’ high? Or... ‘I’m considering my life choices and regretting nothing’ high?”

Percy didn’t look up, but his jaw clenched as he stirred the onions with quick, precise movements. “It’s the ‘you’re going to ruin yourself’ high,” he replied flatly.

Owl snorted, the sound lazy and muffled as he buried his face in his arms. “Oh, please,” he drawled. “You’ve been saying that for years, and look at me. I'm perfectly alive and well.” He peeked up at Percy with a hazy grin.

Percy glanced at his brother, eyes scanning the too-slender frame, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his fingers twitched faintly against the countertop but he didn't bother dignifying Owl's comment with a response. Instead, he reached for the heavy cream and poured a generous amount into the pan, the rich aroma mixing with the buttery scent of the sautéed onions. “You need to eat, *redacted*,” Percy said, his voice softer now. “And I don’t mean whatever junk you call sustenance. A proper meal.”

Owl groaned dramatically, dragging his hands down his face. “Not hungry,” he mumbled, his words slurred. “Besides, I had... uh... something earlier. I think.” He waved a hand vaguely in the air. “Might’ve been crisps... or... a granola bar? No... wait. That was last week.”

Percy froze for a moment before turning to face him fully, his eyes dark with restrained anger. “Jesus, *redacted*,” he muttered under his breath. “I really don't know how you have not starved to death yet.”

Owl blinked slowly, watching his brother an odd mixture of fondness and exasperation. “You’re so... serious all the time, Percy,” he murmured, his head tilting to the side. “It’s kind of tragic. Ever thought about, I don’t know... letting loose? Live a little?”

Percy ignored him, focusing instead on the dish coming together before him. Owl, still hazily observing from his perch at the kitchen island, blinked slowly as if in a trance, his gaze fixed on his brother’s movements. In his drugged-up state, everything felt distant, sluggish, like he was watching a scene unfold in slow motion. Despite Percy’s obese frame, he moved with an unexpected grace and precision that shouldn’t have been possible. His hands, thick but surprisingly deft, worked with a meticulous rhythm: chopping, stirring, and seasoning with an ease. Each motion was deliberate, controlled, a stark contrast to Owl’s own chaotic existence.

Percy plated the decadent pasta dish carefully, a dish so rich it could probably clog arteries on sight. The pasta was coated in a thick, velvety sauce made from heavy cream, butter, and an obscene amount of parmesan cheese, speckled with caramelized onions. To finish, Percy shaved another generous layer of parmesan over the top, the cheese melting slightly into the still-steaming dish, followed by a drizzle of truffle oil because, of course, Percy never did anything halfway. Sliding the plate in front of Owl, Percy folded his arms and leaned against the counter. “Eat,” he commanded simply.

Owl wrinkled his nose at the plate, poking at the food with childlike curiosity. "I'm really not hungry",” he sighed dramatically, resting his cheek on his hand.

“Eat, or I swear to God, I’ll force-feed you.” Percy shot back, his eyes unwavering.

Owl smirked, his movements sluggish but full of his usual mischief. “Kinky,” he murmured, winking.

Percy groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Just shut up and eat.”

"You're so bossy," Owl muttered, his voice slurred with lazy amusement, his cheek still resting against his hand as he toyed with a strand of spaghetti. His fingers twirled it absently around the fork, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, like he was drifting somewhere between sleep and consciousness.

For once, Owl wasn't lashing out, wasn't hiding behind his usual biting sarcasm or sharp retorts. Instead, he sat there, his glassy eyes blinking up at Percy with something almost... innocent. Vulnerable. Percy wasn’t used to seeing him like this: unguarded, pliant, and without the usual steel barriers of his defenses firmly in place.

A flicker of something warm settled in Percy's chest, a rare emotion when it came to his perpetually exasperating little brother. He exhaled slowly, shaking his head as he slid into the stool across from Owl. "And you're an absolute menace," Percy replied, his voice softer than before, the usual edge of frustration tempered by something gentler. "Eat the damn pasta, *redacted*."

Owl pouted in response, his lips pursing slightly in a way that was almost endearing. He twirled a forkful of spaghetti around lazily, lifting it toward his mouth with exaggerated caution, like he was performing some kind of delicate operation. “What if I choke?” he mused, blinking at Percy with an almost childlike expression.

Percy sighed, running a hand down his face, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Then I’ll perform the Heimlich maneuver, and you’ll survive just to annoy me another day.”

Owl giggled - actually giggled - his voice light and airy, and Percy nearly did a double take. That sound was so out of place coming from him that it momentarily stunned Percy. Owl, the perpetually brooding, self-destructive mess, giggling like he didn’t have a care in the world.

"You’re funny, Percy,” Owl mumbled around a mouthful of pasta, finally giving in and taking a few bites. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and he made a contented sound, letting his head loll slightly to the side. “This is actually... really good.” His voice was slower now, more sluggish. "You're like... a wizard... with food."

Percy arched an eyebrow. “I’ll add that to my résumé. ‘Wizard with food,’” he said dryly, watching as Owl continued to eat with a sort of sleepy satisfaction, chewing slower and slower.

Seeing Owl like this was… strange. A version of him that Percy rarely got to witness: unguarded, stripped of his usual defenses, and for once, not lashing out at everything in his orbit. The snark and defiance were still there, but dulled, softened by the haze of whatever toxic cocktail he had consumed. There was a quietness to him now, a rare stillness that Percy almost didn’t recognize. It was unsettling and also sad. Because Percy knew, deep down, that this was probably the closest thing to peace Owl ever felt. And it wasn’t real. It was borrowed, temporary, hanging by a thread that could snap at any second. The only way Owl could ever let his guard down, even a little, was with substances dragging him under, numbing the sharp edges of his existence.

“You’re staring,” Owl mumbled, his head lolling slightly to the side as he twirled another forkful of spaghetti, his movements slow and deliberate. “Is it because I’m eating? Is it that fascinating for you?”

Percy exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he leaned his elbows onto the counter. “I’m just surprised, that’s all,” he said, keeping his tone even. “It’s not every day I see you actually consuming something that isn’t ninety percent proof or stuffed with preservatives.”

Owl snorted, but it was softer, less biting than usual. “Don’t get used to it,” he mubeled with a mouthful of pasta. “This is a one-time miracle, courtesy of your guilt-tripping and world-class culinary skills.”

Percy arched an eyebrow but didn’t comment, watching as Owl absentmindedly pushed the food around his plate with his fork. The initial eagerness had waned, and now Owl’s movements had slowed to a lazy crawl, twirling the same bite over and over again without actually eating it. His eyelids drooped slightly, the telltale signs of the cocktail of substances still humming through his system. Percy took another bite of his own plate but his gaze never strayed too far from his brother.

Owl eventually set his fork down with an exaggerated sigh, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms above his head. “Alright, I’m tapping out,” he announced, his voice thick with contentment and exhaustion.

Percy rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. After finishing his own plate, he reached over and also finished Owl's abandoned portion. Owl watched in mild fascination as Percy polished off the meal with the same level of dedication he applied to everything in life. Owl's eyes drifted over Percy’s slightly too-tight shirt, the way the fabric stretched over his stomach struggling to contain it but he didn't say anything.

Owl hummed softly, his eyes drifting over the kitchen lazily. “You know, for me food is like… an obligation. Just another thing on the endless to-do list of existing.” His voice was softer now, devoid of the usual sarcasm. There was something in his tone that made Percy pause mid-bite, his eyes flickering toward his brother. For a brief moment, Percy saw it, beneath the haze of substances and deflection, the raw truth Owl never willingly exposed. The exhaustion, the quiet resignation, the sense of always being out of sync with the world around him. It was fleeting, but it was there.

Percy sighed, setting the empty plate aside. “You don’t have to make everything so damn difficult, you know,” he said, his tone gentler now, as if treading carefully.

Owl blinked slowly, his expression momentarily unguarded. “I don’t mean to,” he admitted, a quiet confession slipping through before he could stop it. “It’s just... everything is so loud all the time. The world. People. My own thoughts. And food? It’s just another thing I have to try and keep up with.”

Percy watched him for a long moment, the weight of understanding settling between them. “Have you ever considered that maybe it’s not supposed to be that hard?” he asked carefully.

Owl huffed a laugh, though it lacked its usual bite. “Wouldn’t that be nice?” he murmured, eyes flickering toward Percy before looking away again, his expression tinged with something that resembled longing. “But when has anything ever been easy for me, Percy? I feel like I’m always… running behind everyone else, trying to catch up. But I never do no matter what I try.”

Percy swallowed the lump that formed in his throat at Owl’s quiet admission. He had always known, in his own way, that Owl struggled with things he couldn’t quite name, but hearing it so plainly now, in this rare moment of vulnerability, hit differently.

Owl leaned forward, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the marble countertop, his gaze distant. "It's like... everyone else got an instruction manual," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "And I'm just... here. Trying to figure it all out, but nothing makes sense. People, expectations, life, it's like they're all playing on easy mode, and I’m stuck on hard with no cheats and no walkthrough."

Owl just kept going, the words spilling out in a slow, tired stream, like he'd been holding them in for too long. "I watch people, you know. How they just... do things. How they talk, laugh, move through life without a second thought. And I think, ‘How the hell do they do it? How do they just know what to say, when to smile, when to shut up?’" He exhaled sharply, a hollow laugh escaping his lips. "I feel like an alien half the time. Like I landed on the wrong planet, and I keep waiting for someone to notice and send me back to wherever the hell I came from. I’m trying. I’m trying so goddamn hard, but it’s never enough."

The words hung heavy in the air, raw and exposed. Owl’s fingers drummed against the countertop, his eyes fixed on his hands, avoiding Percy’s gaze. What the hell was he doing? He wasn't supposed to say things like this. “Forget it,” Owl muttered quickly, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm just high and talking crap."

Percy didn’t respond right away. He sat there, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line, clearly debating whether to challenge Owl’s deflection or let it slide. Eventually, Percy sighed and shook his head, choosing to file the conversation away for later. “Right,” Percy muttered, his voice carefully neutral. “Just high and talking crap.”

Owl let his head drop onto his folded arms on the countertop. His body relaxed, the weight of the earlier conversation slipping away as the drugs dulled the edges of his thoughts again. He closed his eyes, letting the warm fog settle back in. He was slipping back into that dreamlike, pleasant haze where everything was muted and distant. This was better. Easier. Just floating, not thinking, not feeling too much.

Percy watched his brother for a moment. Owl’s breathing was slow and steady, his face half-buried in the crook of his arm, a soft hum escaping him as he drifted somewhere between awareness and oblivion. The brief flicker of vulnerability Owl had shown lingered in Percy’s mind, unsettling him in a way he couldn’t quite articulate. He got it, on a rational level at least. The way Owl always seemed like he was trying to keep up with something invisible, something Percy himself never had to think about. But understanding it wasn’t the same as truly getting it, and Percy wasn’t sure if he ever could.

With a heavy sigh, Percy began tidying up the kitchen, methodically wiping down the surfaces and putting things back in their rightful place. It was an automatic action, something to occupy his hands while his mind churned with unspoken thoughts. The rhythmic clatter of dishes, the hiss of the faucet, and the quiet scrape of a sponge filled the otherwise quiet space.

Behind him, Owl remained slumped over the counter, breathing slow and even. Percy stole a glance at him over his shoulder and noticed how still Owl had become, his usual jittery energy absent for once. At first, Percy thought Owl was just sitting in silence, but as he continued cleaning, it became clear: Owl had fallen asleep.

Percy paused and he took in the sight of his younger brother. Owl looked so small like this. Vulnerable. The sharp angles of his face were softened in sleep, and the faint rise and fall of his shoulders gave him an almost childlike appearance.

For a moment, Percy considered waking him. The kitchen counter wasn’t exactly the most comfortable or appropriate place to sleep, and he knew Owl would probably wake up stiff and sore if he stayed there too long. But then Percy hesitated. Owl looked peaceful, and Percy realized how rare that was. Whatever battle Owl was fighting inside himself seemed to have quieted, at least for now. Waking him would only disturb the fragile calm that had settled over him.

Instead, Percy turned back to his task, his movements quieter now as he finished tidying up. He wiped down the last bit of the counter, carefully rinsed the sponge, and set it aside. The kitchen was spotless, everything in its proper place, just as Percy liked it. He glanced at Owl again, still motionless except for the steady rhythm of his breathing.

Percy wasn’t sure what to do. This wasn’t new territory for him - cleaning up after Owl, both literally and metaphorically. But it never got easier. Percy stood there for a moment, watching his brother sleep. The faint traces of exhaustion etched into Owl’s face made Percy’s stomach twist. He wondered how long Owl had been running himself into the ground like this, how many nights he’d gone without proper rest, how many meals he’d skipped, how many times he’d drowned his thoughts in substances instead of facing them.

“Idiot,” Percy muttered under his breath, though his voice lacked any real bite. He turned and left the kitchen, leaving Owl sleeping in peace.

Continue reading here

#call of duty #call of duty oc #my ocs #oc rp #original character #task force 141 #tf 141

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callsign-owl · 3 months ago

Text

Echoes of a Past Life

Hereford, United Kingdom - September 2019

The evenig sun cast long shadows across the military base as Owl, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz made their way back from the shooting range. Their boots crunched against the gravel path in a steady rhythm, the smell of gunpowder still faintly clinging to their clothes. The air was carrying the faint tang of freshly mowed grass from one of the nearby fields.

Soap, ever the talker, was mid-story about an incident involving a poorly rigged grenade and an overzealous rookie. Gaz, walking beside him, added his own commentary, poking holes in Soap’s version of events while occasionally doubling over with laughter himself.

“And I’m telling ye,” Soap exclaimed, gesturing animatedly, “the lad looked like he’d seen his life flash before his eyes! I thought he’d burst into tears when he realized he’d pulled the pin too soon.”

Gaz smirked. “More like you scared him half to death, shouting like a banshee. Pretty sure you’re the reason why he fumbled it in the first place.”

Behind them, Owl and Ghost walked in silence, a stark contrast to the lively pair ahead. Ghost’s imposing figure moved with an unspoken authority, his sharp eyes scanning their surroundings out of habit. Occasionally Ghost delivered a dry remark or a deadpan response to Soap’s relentless antics. The humor, though subtle, hinted at the camaraderie beneath Ghost’s stoic exterior, and Owl found himself smirking more often than not, even as he chose to keep his own thoughts unspoken.

As they rounded a bend in the path, the imposing silhouette of the obstacle course came into view. It loomed over the training field like a twisted jungle gym, its towering structures designed to break bodies and mold soldiers. Rope climbs, towering walls, and narrow beams stretched across the course in an unforgiving maze of physical challenges. A squad of soldiers was midway through the course, their shouts of encouragement and the rhythmic clatter of boots against wood echoing across the open field.

“Look at ’em go,” Soap mused, stopping to lean casually against the fence bordering the course. “Bet I could beat their best time blindfolded.”

“Blindfolded, eh?” Gaz countered, folding his arms. “What’s next, running it backwards with your boots tied together?”

Soap grinned, his signature cocky expression lighting up his face. “Aye, but that’s just the warm-up, mate.”

They all burst into laughter, leaning against the fence as their attention turned to the squad running the course. The group of soldiers moved with varying degrees of skill and determination. One powered up the rope climb with commendable speed, while another struggled on the monkey bars, their legs kicking wildly for balance. Soap provided a running commentary, his voice adopting the cadence of a professional sports announcer.

“And here we’ve got Private First-Day over there,” he drawled, pointing to the struggling soldier on the monkey bars. “He’s puttin’ in a valiant effort, but I reckon he’s about to take a wee tumble.”

As if on cue, the soldier lost his grip and dropped into the safety net below. Soap let out a theatrical gasp. “Ah, what’d I tell ye? Down he goes! He’ll feel that one in the mornin’.”

Gaz shook his head with a grin. “You should charge tickets for this.“

The conversation ebbed and flowed as they continued to watch the squad. Despite Soap’s teasing, there was an underlying respect in the way he observed their efforts, even offering the occasional genuine critique.

“That one’s got decent form,” he noted, nodding toward a soldier scaling the wall with surprising agility. “Bet they’d shave a few seconds off their time with better footing.”

“Don’t tell me you’re actually impressed,” Gaz said with mock surprise.

“Just givin’ credit where it’s due,” Soap replied smoothly. “Can’t all be me, after all.”

The banter was suddenly interrupted by a sharp cry from the obstacle course. Owl’s head snapped toward the sound. On one of the higher platforms, a soldier had lost their footing while attempting to transition between two obstacles. Time seemed to slow as the figure flailed, his grip slipping from the rope. With a sickening thud, he hit the ground below.

Shouts erupted as the squad on the obstacle course rushed to their fallen comrade, their movements panicked and chaotic. From where they stood, Owl could already make out the unnatural position of the soldier’s leg and the way they cradled his arm close to his body.

“Looks bad,” Ghost said, his voice low and steady.

Owl was already moving. Time seemed to slow as he crossed the gravel path to the fallen soldier. The chaotic shouting from the squad blurred into background noise, irrelevant as his mind snapped into a state of singular focus. Years of training and experience surged to the surface, guiding his actions as if on autopilot. By the time he reached the injured man, Owl’s demeanor had shifted entirely—gone was the quiet, unassuming presence his teammates knew. In its place was someone else entirely.

“Out of my way!” Owl barked, his voice cutting through the commotion. The nearby soldiers froze for a heartbeat before obeying, stepping back instinctively. Soap, Gaz, and Ghost exchanged brief glances but hung back, watching the scene unfold.

Owl dropped to his knees beside the injured man, his eyes already cataloging the damage. The soldier’s right leg was a mess: A compound fracture, the jagged ends of bone piercing through flesh, staining the ground beneath crimson. His left arm hung at an unnatural angle, the shoulder clearly dislocated. The soldier’s face was pale, contorted in pain, sweat beading on his brow as he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out.

“Somebody grab me a first aid kit and call the medics. Now!” Owl snapped without looking up. The commanding tone sent one of the bystanders scrambling. Owl turned his attention to the dislocated shoulder first—quicker to fix and a source of pain he could alleviate immediately, even though it went against the usual trauma response protocol.

“Alright,” Owl said, his voice softening just enough to calm the injured man. “This is going to hurt like hell, but you’ll thank me later.”

Before anyone could register what he was doing, Owl firmly gripped the arm and then manipulated the shoulder with a quick, fluid motion. There was a sickening pop, followed by the soldier's guttural groan of pain. Then, relief. His arm settled into a more natural position, and the tension in his body eased slightly. Owl didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. His focus had already shifted to the leg.

The sight that met him would have made most men recoil, but Owl remained unnervingly calm. Owl was in his element, completely undeterred by the carnage before him. The soldier's right leg was a mangled mess: bone protruded through torn flesh, the ground beneath it dark with blood. Several bystanders shifted uncomfortably, their faces pale, a few looking like they might lose their lunch. Owl mind was racing through a mental checklist as though he'd done this a thousand times before—because he had. A - Airway. B - Breathing. C - Circulation. D - Disability. E - Exposure.

Owl assessed the injury quickly, pressing his fingers against the soldier’s pulse points, feeling for warmth and circulation beyond the break. The signs were there: major vascular and potential nerve damage. Finally someone appeared at Owl's side, thrusting a well stocked first aid kit into his hands. Owl immediately reached for the tourniquet, looping it around the soldier’s thigh. He tightened it in smooth, precise increments until the bleeding slowed to a near stop. The soldier let out a strangled cry, his breathing ragged, but Owl was already moving on to the next pressing issue: splinting the shattered leg to prevent further damage.

Owl pulled out gauze, padded splints, and bandages from the med kit. Every move he made was deliberate, measured. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion, only the eerie precision of someone who had done this more times than they could count. Owl packed gauze around the exposed bone, careful to avoid further contamination. His fingers applied just the right amount of pressure, wrapping the leg securely with the splint.

With the leg immobilized, Owl shifted gears again, his eyes scanning the soldier's body for other injuries. His hands moved with the same calm efficiency, starting from the soldier’s head and working downward. He gently palpated along the skull and neck, checking for signs of a concussion or spinal trauma. The soldier winced but didn’t exhibit any alarming neurological signs. His pupils were reactive, and he followed Owl’s commands with a dazed but coherent gaze

Moving down, Owl's hands pressed gently against the soldier’s ribcage, feeling for instability or asymmetry that might indicate internal damage. He noted the shallow, rapid breathing but found no immediate signs of flail chest or punctured lungs. A few bruises were forming along the ribs, likely from the fall’s impact, but nothing life-threatening.

Owl’s attention shifted to the soldier’s abdomen, his fingers pressing along the quadrants, feeling for rigidity or distension. No signs of internal bleeding, at least, none that required immediate intervention.

Satisfied with his assessment, he finally moved on to E, peeling back the soldier’s clothes enough to check for hidden injuries. His trained eyes scanned for discoloration, abrasions, or deformities that might have been overlooked in the initial rush of assessment. Nothing alarming presented itself. No immediate threats beyond what he had already addressed.

Then the distant wail of sirens cut through the air, the base medics were finally arriving, their white and red-marked vehicle bouncing over the uneven terrain as it sped across the training field. The hum of conversation around them faded into the background as the medics rushed onto the scene. Two figures, carrying a stretcher between them, pushed through the gathered onlookers. One of them, a grizzled older medic with a patch reading “Holt,” crouched down next to Owl and took in the scene.

“What’ve we got?” Holt asked, his tone brisk.

Owl didn’t hesitate, rattling off his assessment in clipped, efficient detail. “Compound fracture of the right tibia and fibula, distal pulse intact but weak, likely arterial bleed and nerve damage, applied a tourniquet to control bleeding. Shoulder dislocation on the left side; relocated it manually. No signs of spinal injury, no neurological deficits, stable vitals so far. Some bruising along the ribs but no immediate indication of internal trauma. Responsive and oriented.”

Holt blinked, clearly not expecting such a thorough rundown. He nodded appreciatively, his eyes flicking to the soldier’s leg, already wrapped and splinted with an efficiency that rivaled his own team’s work. “Damn fine job,” he muttered, signaling his team to prepare for transport. “We’ll take it from here.”

Owl gave a short nod and stepped back . He watched the medics as they carefully lifted the injured soldier onto the stretcher. Ghost, Gaz, and Soap had been watching the entire scene unfold in stunned silence. Their usual banter had been replaced by something far rarer: genuine awe. They knew Owl had been a surgeon before he became part of Task Force 141. Up until now, they had only seen glimpses of his intelligence: his quick wit, his sharp comebacks, his encyclopedic knowledge of random trivia. He was smart, no doubt, but they had never seen this side of him before.

Soap, usually the first to crack a joke, stood with his mouth slightly open, as if trying to reconcile the Owl he thought he knew with the one he'd just witnessed. Gaz's eyebrows were furrowed, his gaze lingering on the now-empty space where the stretcher had been. Ghost, ever the enigma, said nothing, but the way his head tilted slightly was telling enough.

Owl, wiping his hands on his cargo pants, turned back to the group with a bemused expression. "What?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at their stunned silence.

Soap blinked. "Mate, you just... handled that like it was a bloody Tuesday afternoon tea break."

Owl gave a nonchalant shrugs. "I mean... yeah?" he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "It's not like I forgot how to do my old job."

Gaz let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "We just -" he gestured vaguely at the scene that had just unfolded "- you don't exactly scream 'guy who used to save lives' most of the time, mate. More like... I dunno, 'guy who gets lost in his own thoughts and forgets what day it is.'"

Owl snorted. "I do that too," he admitted, smirking slightly. "Did you really think I am just some kind of completely useless and incompetent dumbass?"

There was a pause. Soap and Gaz exchanged guilty glances, while Ghost, to his credit, didn’t react at all.

"...Not useless," Soap said finally, a grin tugging at his lips. "But admit it, you're not exactly the most... focused and ambitious bloke around here."

"Yeah, well, you're not wrong." Owl shrugged and let out a breath, glancing down at his hands, now streaked with drying blood and dirt. It wasn’t the job he missed - God, no - but there was something about the familiarity of it all, the certainty, the way his hands had known exactly what to do without hesitation. For the first time in a long while, he hadn’t felt like a clueless, bumbling idiot trying to catch up to everyone else. In that moment, he had been in his element, and it was... comforting.

Owl flexed his fingers, shaking off the lingering stiffness, before wiping his hands down his pants one last time. The silence that had settled over the group was heavier now, weighted with unspoken questions and lingering awe. He could feel their eyes on him, studying him like they were seeing him for the first time. Soap’s mouth opened and closed a few times, clearly itching to say something, but Owl beat him to it.

"Let's not make a big deal out of it," Owl muttered, his voice carrying an edge of finality as he turned back toward the path. "Come on, I could use a shower and maybe a drink."

Soap and Gaz exchanged a glance, their usual energy tempered by something quieter, more thoughtful. Ghost, ever the silent observer, simply nodded and fell into step beside Owl without a word. The rhythmic crunch of boots against gravel filled the space where conversation might have been, and for once, none of them seemed in a hurry to break the silence.

As they walked, the familiar sights of the base passed by, the obstacle course shrinking behind them, the low hum of conversation and distant orders from drill instructors echoing across the open fields. Owl kept his gaze forward, resisting the urge to glance down at his hands again. The lingering blood, despite his best efforts to wipe it away, felt like an old ghost clinging to him, a reminder of who he used to be, a life he couldn't go back to, even if he wanted to.

#call of duty #call of duty oc #my ocs #oc rp #original character #task force 141 #tf 141

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callsign-owl · 3 months ago

Text

Caught in the Riptide

This story follows the events of Homecoming

London, United Kingdom - July 2008

The kitchen was bathed in the soft morning light filtering through the windows. Owl sat on the kitchen counter, nursing a tall glass of orange juice, that he had generously spiked with some Amaretto. Originally, he had planned on coffee, but the sight of the bottle had altered his trajectory and by now he was already halfway through his second glass.

The faint sound of footsteps snapped Owl out of his thoughts and a few moments later Percy appeared in the doorway. His gaze landed on Owl immediately, narrowing as they took in the scene. But it wasn’t Owl’s choice of breakfast beverage that caught Percy’s attention. It was the dark, unmistakable bruises encircling his neck, two distinct hand-shaped marks standing out starkly against his pale skin.

For a moment, Percy said nothing. His expression remained unreadable, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of disbelief. He crossed the room in measured steps. Stopping in front of Owl, he tilted his head slightly, studying the bruises as though trying to gauge their severity.

Owl, who had been avoiding Percy’s gaze, finally looked up. “Morning to you too,” he muttered, his voice raspy, no doubt due to the fresh trauma to his throat. He took another sip of his spiked orange juice, his lips twitching into something that was supposed to resemble a smirk but fell flat.

Percy didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached for Owl’s glass, plucking it from his hands and setting it firmly on the counter beside him. “I see you’re already making stellar life choices today,” Percy said, his voice low and clipped.

“Don’t start,” Owl replied, his voice rough, each word scraping against his throat. He reached for the glass Percy had so pointedly set aside and he brought it back to his lips. Without breaking eye contact, Owl drained the remaining liquid in one long, defiant gulp.

Percy’s jaw tightened, his calm exterior cracking just enough to reveal the frustration simmering beneath. He leaned against the counter across from Owl, his arms crossed and his posture exuding disapproval. “Real mature, *redacted*,” he said coolly. “Nothing screams ‘I’ve got my life together’ quite like spiking your juice at—” he glanced at the clock on the wall, “—eight in the morning.”

Owl set the empty glass down with a sharp clink, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What can I say? I like to start my day with a little... zest.”

“You think this is funny?” Percy’s voice dropped an octave, the sharp edge cutting through the lightness Owl tried to inject into the moment. “Look at yourself.”

Owl gave an indifferent shrug, as he reached for the bottle of Amaretto again. He poured a generous amount into the glass, before he topped it off with orange juice. He raised the glass to Percy in a mock toast, his lips curving into a lazy, defiant grin. “Cheers.”

Percy sighed in exasperation. “That’s it? That’s your response? You’re sitting here like nothing happened, like it’s just another day, drinking yourself into oblivion at eight in the bloody morning!”

“Oblivion sounds pretty good right about now.” Owl took a deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving Percy’s. "Also it IS just another day."

Percy’s hand shot out, grabbing the glass from Owl’s hand again, slamming it down onto the counter hard enough to spill some of its contents. The sharp sound echoed through the kitchen, silencing Owl’s retort before it even left his lips. For a moment, the brothers simply stared at each other, the air between them thick with tension.

Owl exhaled sharply and rubbed his face with both hands. “Can you stop doing that?” His voice was a mix of frustration and exhaustion,

“Stop doing what?" Percy shot back, his voice colder now, but undercut with an edge of worry he couldn’t quite mask. "Stopping you from whatever self-destructive nonsense this is?” he gestured pointedly at the glass.

Owl slid off the counter and crossed the kitchen, retrieving a clean glass from the cabinet. “It's called breakfast but forgive me, Brother Dearest, for not living up to your saintly standards.” His tone was deliberately biting, each word dripping with sarcasm as he placed the glass on the counter.

Percy’s eyes followed him, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, the tension radiating off him like a heatwave. “This isn’t about my standards, *redacted*,” Percy said evenly, though his voice was strained. “It’s about your complete disregard for your own well-being.”

Owl ignored him, opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of tomato juice. He moved as though he were performing for an audience. “Well, if I’m going to disregard my well-being, I might as well do it in style.” He plucked a bottle of vodka from the counter, where it had sat amidst the growing collection of ingredients, and slammed it down next to the glass.

“Have you just lost the plot entirely?” Percy asked exasperated.

Owl tilted his head, his lips curling into a smirk. “Lost the plot? Oh, Percy, dear brother, I don’t think I ever had it to begin with.”

His laughter followed, sharp and jagged, a sound that sent a chill down Percy’s spine. It wasn’t the laughter of someone who found the situation amusing; it was the kind of laughter that teetered on the edge of hysteria. Owl moved with exaggerated flair, pouring the vodka into his glass, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim and stirred his concotion with a knife he had just grabbed off the counter.

Percy’s eyes darted to the blade. “*redacted*, put that down,” he said sharply, his voice firm but not raised. He kept his tone measured, careful not to escalate the situation further.

Owl froze mid-stir, the knife poised precariously above the glass. He looked at Percy with wide, glassy eyes, a grin stretched across his face. “What’s the matter, Percy? Afraid I might do something stupid?” His tone was mocking, but there was an undercurrent of something far darker, something that made Percy’s stomach twist.

“Yes,” Percy said plainly, his gaze unwavering. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

Owl let out another sharp laugh, but this one was quieter, almost to himself. He twirled the knife in his fingers, his movements fluid and deliberate, before stabbing it into the cutting board with a force that rattled the counter. “There. Happy?” He gestured at the knife as though it were a trophy, his grin still firmly in place.

“Not even remotely,” Percy replied, his voice steady despite the chaos radiating off his brother. He took a tentative step forward, his arms still crossed, but his stance subtly shifting into one of readiness. “*redacted*, this isn’t funny. Whatever this is, it needs to stop.”

Owl let out a sharp, breathless laugh, his head tilting back as he leaned against the counter. His eyes glimmered with a manic light, unfocused and wild. “Stop?” he echoed, his voice tinged with mockery. “Stop what, Percy? Stop breathing? Stop thinking? Stop… existing?” With a theatrical flourish, Owl reached for the knife, yanking it free from the cutting board with a sharp metallic scrape. He spun it lazily between his fingers, his movements oddly fluid despite the erratic energy pouring off him.

“*redacted*,” Percy said, his voice lower now, steadier but filled with unmistakable urgency. He held his hands up, palms open, a gesture of non-aggression. “Put the knife down. Please.”

Owl’s grin widened, the expression teetering between amusement and despair. “Why?” he asked, his voice lilting with mock curiosity. “Afraid I might hurt myself?” He twirled the knife again, faster this time, the sharp edge catching the light in brief, blinding flashes. “Or maybe you?”

Percy’s heart pounded against his ribs, his calm demeanor threatening to crack under the weight of the moment. “*redacted*, listen to me,” Percy began, his voice steady but tinged with urgency. “Whatever’s going through your head right now, this isn’t the way to handle it.”

Owl laughed again. “Oh, enlighten me, wise one,” he sneered. “What is the right way to handle... this?” He gestured wildly with the knife, his erratic movements causing Percy to flinch involuntarily. “What’s your solution, Percy? Another lecture? Another dose of Father’s ‘tough love’?” His tone cracked, the mockery giving way to raw, unfiltered pain. “Tell me, what’s the right way to deal with being the family’s resident screw-up?”

Percy’s throat tightened as he watched Owl unravel before his eyes. His younger brother’s manic grin, the erratic movements, the knife dancing dangerously in his hands—it all painted a picture of someone teetering on the brink. Percy took a cautious step forward, his eyes fixed on Owl’s, his mind racing for the right words to pull him back.

“*redacted*,” Percy began, his voice steady but trembling slightly at the edges. “You’re not the screw-up. You’re—”

“Don’t!” Owl’s voice cracked like a whip, his free hand slamming on the counter as his face twisted into a mask of anguish. The sound reverberated through the kitchen, sharp and final, silencing Percy mid-sentence. Owl’s breaths came in uneven gasps, his chest heaving as if the weight of the entire world was pressing down on him. His eyes darted around the room, unfocused, wild, like a trapped animal searching for an escape.

The storm inside Owl's mind grew more intense with every passing second, a dizzying blur of thoughts, emotions, and impulses crashing into him, too fast, too violent for his mind to catch up. There was no single feeling, no coherent thread to hold onto. It was all just a violent swirl of confusion and agony that threatened to tear him apart. Anger, guilt, fear, frustration—each one took turns clawing at his insides, screaming for attention. He couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t get a moment’s reprieve. Everything was closing in. The walls felt like they were coming closer, the air thick and suffocating. His skin tingled, every nerve in his body firing at once, too much, too fast. A tight knot of anxiety twisted in his gut, the kind that felt like it might choke him if he didn’t do something—anything—to make it stop.

Owl felt like he was about to explode. There was no space in his head, no space in his chest to hold it all, no way to stop the torrent. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. It was too much. But there was no exit. No way out. No way to make it stop. The storm inside was a hurricane of rage, sadness, fear, all mixed together in a relentless tidal wave that threatened to drown him whole.

Percy stood frozen, his heart hammering in his chest. Owl was unraveling right in front of him. The frantic, unstable energy that surged through him, so raw and volatile that Percy was unsure of how to respond. He had always known Owl could be unpredictable, but this? This was something different, something deeper and more desperate.

Owl took another gulp from his glass, his hand trembling. His lips curled into that unnerving smile again, the one that made Percy’s stomach tighten with dread. And before Percy could gather his thoughts, Owl hurled the empty glass in Percy's direction. The glass shattered against the wall next to him, glass fragments scattering across the floor.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing but silence. Then Owl’s laugh rang out: unhinged and hysterical. It was a sound that didn’t seem to belong to him, a dark and twisted laugh that bordered on the edge of madness and sent shivers down Percy's spine.

Eventually the laughter twisted into something else, filled with anguish, until it finally broke, morphing into uncontrollable sobs, wracking Owl's body. The knife, once poised in Owl's hand like a weapon, slipped from his grasp, as he crumpled to the floor, his face twisted in agony, as the tears start to fall. Owl clutched at his chest, as though trying to hold together the shattered pieces of himself. One of the glass shards caught Owl's forearm, effortlessly slicing through the skin. But he didn’t seem to notice, lost in the avalanche of pain, frustration, and sorrow that overwhelmed him.

Percy stood there, torn between the overwhelming urge to help and the complete inability to offer comfort. He had never been good with emotions, never known how to soothe or console someone, least of all his own brother. His usual go-to reaction—rationality, a firm hand, a practical solution—was useless now. There was no logic to be applied to this; there was no fix to be made.

But then, just as suddenly as it had come, the sobs stopped.

The room fell into a haunting silence, save for the soft, uneven breaths coming from Owl, still crumpled on the floor. He didn’t move. Owl simply lay there, motionless, his eyes wide but unfocused, fixed on some distant point, his face devoid of expression. It was as if Owl had completely retreated from the world, lost somewhere in his own mind.

The world around Owl felt distant, muffled, like the sound of ocean waves crashing against the shore from far away. His body felt weightless, as though the gravity of his emotions had lifted and left him suspended in some vast void. Every sensation was muted and blurry: his thoughts, his surroundings, his very existence. His mind felt like a fog, thick and suffocating. Each breath came in shallow, ragged bursts, but they didn’t feel real. He wasn’t really there. Not in any meaningful way. He was somewhere else, somewhere far away from the reality of his own skin, his own pain.

Owl’s mind tried to reach for something, anything to hold onto, but it was like grasping at smoke. His body refused to move, his mind unwilling to return to the place where that pain still existed. It was safer here, in this numb, dissociative space. It was quieter. No one expected anything from him. There was nothing to confront.

Time stretched and compressed, bending in strange ways. Owl couldn’t tell how long he had been on the floor. Seconds, minutes, hours—it all felt irrelevant. The weight of his thoughts, of his reality, had evaporated, leaving only a hollow shell.

And then, it was over.

Owl’s body twitched, his arms stiffening briefly, and then relaxed as though something inside of him had clicked back into place. He blinked, slowly at first, then more rapidly as if trying to clear away the haze. The world was back in focus. A strange, eerie calm had settled over him.

Owl pushed himself up off the floor. The shards of glass scattered around him glinted in the soft morning light. He stood, running a hand through his disheveled hair and straightened his shirt, as though he had just woken up from a regular morning nap rather than an emotional explosion.

He glanced at Percy, who had been standing motionless by the counter, eyes wide and his lips slightly parted in shock. Percy hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, but the tension in the air was thick, pressing down on both of them like an invisible weight. Owl could feel his brother’s gaze on him. Percy opened his mouth, then closed it again, his mind racing for words that would make sense of what had just happened.

Owl reached for a paper towel, dabbing at the bleeding cut on his forearm. He didn’t wince as he wiped it away, the action slow and methodical, as though this was just another routine task. Owl then moved to the counter, pulling a mug from the cupboard and setting it down with the same deliberate calmness and started making coffee.

Percy, still rooted in place, could barely tear his eyes away. His voice broke the silence, hoarse and hesitant. “*redacted*… what the hell just happened?”

Owl didn’ even look up from his coffee and gave a nonchalant and indifferent shrug. He calmly stirred the mug, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. There was no sign of the frantic chaos that had preceded the current calm. His expression remained neutral, almost disinterested. As though the entire outburst had never happened.

Percy, still standing by the counter, stared at Owl in disbelief. His mind raced, struggling to process the whiplash of emotions and events that had just unfolded. He couldn’t comprehend how Owl could transition so seamlessly from a storm of raw emotion to this unsettling tranquility. It wasn’t just confusing—it was infuriating.

“Are you serious right now?” Percy’s voice cut through the silence, his tone sharper than he intended. “You’re just going to stand there and act like everything’s fine? Like nothing just happened?”

Owl finally glanced up, his eyes meeting Percy’s for a brief moment before returning to the mug. He took a deliberate sip of his coffee, his movements almost exaggeratedly casual. “What do you want me to say, Percy?” he asked, his voice flat.

Percy’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t know, *redacted*. Maybe start with what the hell that was. You scared the life out of me.”

Owl raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable as he cradled the mug in his hands. “Scared you?” He let out a soft huff of a laugh, though it carried no real humor. “You’re overreacting.”

“Overreacting?” Percy’s voice rose with incredulity. “You laughed, cried, smashed a glass, nearly sliced yourself open, and then collapsed on the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. I think I’m well within my rights to be concerned!”

Owl shrugged again, the motion infuriatingly indifferent. “It’s not a big deal. Just happens sometimes.”

“Just happens?” Percy repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing the kitchen in agitation. “What do you mean, it just happens sometimes? You’re saying this is normal for you?”

Owl set the mug down on the counter with a quiet clink, his fingers tracing the rim absentmindedly. “Sometimes things just… build up. Too much noise, too many thoughts, too many feelings, too many people....” He gestured vaguely. “Then it all crashes down, and I reset. End of story.”

Percy stopped pacing, as he tried to make sense of Owl’s words. “That’s not normal, *redacted*. You can’t just brush it off like it’s some... routine hiccup in your day."

Owl shrugged, his movements loose and unbothered, though his eyes flickered with something Percy couldn’t place. “It’s just how it is, Percy. Always has been.”

Percy opened his mouth, then closed it again, his thoughts spinning too fast to pin down. He leaned heavily against the counter, his arms braced on its edge. “Wait,” he said slowly, his voice quiet but insistent. “What do you mean by always? How long has this been going on?”

Owl frowned slightly, as though the question hadn’t occurred to him before. He rubbed the back of his neck, and let out a long breath. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I can’t remember a time when it wasn’t like this."

Percy’s eyes widened slightly, his shock bleeding into concern. “You’re telling me this has been going on your whole life, and you’ve just... what? Dealt with it? Alone?”

Owl gave a hollow laugh, his hands dropping to his sides. “What was supposed to do? Run to Father every time my brain decided to short-circuit? Yeah, I’m sure that would’ve gone over well.”

“I’m not talking about him,” Percy said, his voice low but firm. “I’m talking about me. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Owl met his brother’s gaze, his expression guarded. “What difference would it have made?” he said simply.

“It would have made a difference to me,” Percy said after a moment, his voice quieter now but no less insistent. “I could have... I don’t know. Tried to help.”

Owl snorted softly, shaking his head. “Help how? You didn’t even know what to do just now, Percy,” he said, his tone lacking malice but cutting nonetheless. “You wouldn’t have known what to do then either.”

Owl’s words struck a nerve, not because they were cruel, but because they were true. Percy hated not having a plan, a solution, a clear course of action. It was an affront to everything he prided himself on—control, composure, competence.

Owl could feel Percy’s gaze boring into him, heavy with unspoken questions. The weight of the conversation, the tension in the room, it all pressed down on him like a lead blanket. Owl was drained, emotionally, physically, mentally and the last thing he wanted was to keep talking about what had just happened.

“Well,” Owl said abruptly, clapping his hands together with mock enthusiasm. “This has been fun. Real bonding moment, don’t you think?” His voice dripped with sarcasm, the grin that accompanied it almost convincing—almost.

Percy frowned, his arms still braced on the counter as he straightened. “*redacted*—”

“Anyway,” Owl interrupted, raising a hand to cut him off. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ve hit my quota for heartfelt sibling chats for this century. Time to retreat to my cave and contemplate the mysteries of life. Or, you know, take a nap.”

Before Percy could respond, Owl turned on his heel and strode toward the kitchen door, his movements a little too quick, a little too forced. His shoulder brushed the doorframe as he passed through, the faint stumble betraying just how off-balance he truly was. He ignored it, keeping his head high and his pace steady as he headed for the stairs and back to his room.

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#call of duty #call of duty oc #my ocs #oc rp #original character #task force 141 #tf 141

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