Personal Demons
By Jen.
There was a numbness from Scotch that was different than any other kind of numbness. Different from the cold, from fear, from grief. Different and welcomed. It was getting closer to midnight, which meant that most fires Muir dealt with—that she dealt with—were over and done with.
Rory was somewhere else, probably at the front desk, since he handled the evening shifts these days. It was just better since all Moira wanted in the evenings was to be left alone to mull over her thoughts. The work during the day was enough to keep the pain to a dull roar in the back but when things got quiet the only thing that helped was drinking.
It should have concerned her, it should have. But it didn't.
The back of the couch was starting to make designs in her cheek and she lifted her head to take another sip — straight out of the bottle since the cup she'd been using before had slipped and shattered earlier — and nearly choked when she inhaled wrong.
Cursing, she forced herself to sit up before she died of scotch in the lungs (“Aye, tha' be a fittin' thin' ta be on me tomb stone...”). A few seconds passed before she tried again, a smaller sip.
And nearly choked on that at the sudden noise coming from right outside.
Rory was yelling and cursing at someone...and then Moira nearly dropped the bottle in shock when she recognized the voice yelling back.
Nathan bloody Dayspring.
Before she could do more than sit up further, the door to her office had been flung open.
“It's on your head, you damned idiot!” Rory snarled, shooting Moira an apologetic look. “I told you she wasn't to be disturbed. Have fun, I'll clean up your skinned body in the morning.” Turning sharply, he walked away, the sound of cane echoing sharply off the walls.
Blinking made her head hurt so it took her a few seconds to actually focus on Nathan. “Good lord, ye're bloody 'uge,” she remarked finally, squinting to get him all into focus. “An' ye look like hell.”
“I could say the same of you,” Nathan ground out, jaw clenched to the point of pain. It was obvious he had been hurt—old bandages, and not so old, peeked out from too many places—and there was a haggard, near crazed look to him that hadn't been there the last time.
“What...” she started but she was abruptly cut off.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.
“Who, me?” Moira shrugged, ignoring the fact that she felt embarrassed to be seen like this. By anyone but especially by Nathan. And that bothered her. “Jus'...'avin' a wee night cap is all.”
“You smell like you fell into a river of scotch and have been pickled,” he corrected, staggering a few steps further in.
“Wha'...wha' I am doin', Daysprin' is none o' yer concern.” With considerable effort, she heaved herself up from the couch, not wanting him to be able to loom so...loomingly like he was doing. “Wha' th' hell are ye don' 'ere anyway? Ach, dinnae tell me those dogs tha' wha' sent ye ta me in th' first place are goin' ta be showin' up on me doorstep soon...”
The second Moira said that, she knew, even in her state, that something was wrong. Something snapped in his eyes and it, more than his shifting closer, caused her scramble backwards a step. And she cursed him for it. Moira MacTaggart didn't move away from any man, not in fear, not in worry. And so she stepped closer, returning glare for glare.
“I don't know what's worse,” he sneered as the bottle of scotch was suddenly snatched from her hand. Nathan's hands were balled into fists at his sides, the tension radiating off of him. “That my 'dogs' were human beings, twisted pieces of shit...or that yours is a bottle of scotch. Your demons at least started internally...”
Just as she was reaching for it, a surge of telekineses sent it flying into the wall behind them, the shattering of the bottle echoed so loudly that for a second it seemed like it echoed in their ears. Moira stared at the shards of glass on the floor, the liquid pooling in her rug and couldn't focus past the words that cut partially through the haze.
“Ye bloody bastard,” she snarled, turning on him. “Internal? Internal?!” Had she been slightly more sober, slightly less pissed off, Moira would have never thrown herself at him. She'd learned all too well during his first visit what touching him sometimes did. Now, she may have just not cared. “Ye fuckin' bastard! Aye, watchin' yer son struggle ta keep alive for years because of a bloody mutation, only ta be dragged from th' fire his own powers caused, unable ta do a damned thing...aye! Internal, all internal it is! I watched him die an' th' least ye...ye could do is ta let me alone in me grief...and bloody let go o' me!”
The first instinct had been to blast her away from him as hard as he could. He could feel his skin crawl when she made contact with him. But her words had cut him to the core, ripping open his emotional wounds as easily as a knife cut flesh. Oddly, he found his hands wrapped around her wrists, keeping her from doing anything foolish—like gouging out his eyes—but it took all his effort to get around his instinctual reactions.
“Somehow I think...” Nathan grunted in surprise when her foot slammed into his knee, unerringly finding one of the many injuries that hadn't yet healed yet. His hands loosened for a second but it was enough for her to slip free. “Dammit, woman!” he yelled, his powers freezing her in her place. Now he was pissed and all the frustrations of the last six months...
“Fuck you and fuck your drinking,” he snapped, taking far more glee than he really should in shoving her out the door like that. “You couldn't have picked another night, when I didn't show up? Or, I know, you do this every night? I came here for a reason, MacTaggart!”
Shelter. A friend, a sly voice whispered in the back of his head. A safe spot. Someone who would understand. Medical attention. Friendly eyes and a sharp as steel tone that he'd never really been able to shake.
Moira snarled and struggled, unable to break the invisible hold around her. “I am goin' ta bloody skin ye alive, Dayspring!”
“Oh just shut up!” he snapped, striding out one of the side entrances of the converted keep. The shock of cold did nothing to cool his temper. Nathan had talked himself out of coming here numerous times, throwing himself into tracking down the bastards that killed his family. One by one they'd fallen. And finally, finally he talked himself into going to Muir. The one time he needed her and she was a drunken sop.
There had been nothing he could have done back then—he didn't know who he was thinking of; his wife and son or Moira's previously unknown son—but he'd be damned if he didn't do something now. The last time he had been on Muir, he'd had no idea that she drank...no, he knew she drank. But not to the point that it was debilitating.
He needed her and she wasn't there. She'd promised when he'd left Muir. She'd promised. Behind the backs of his superiors and he wasn't about to let her break it.
Despite her throat being cracked and sore from screaming obscenities at him, Moira didn't let up. This had gone beyond embarrassing and anger. There would be death when he let her go and more death when she was sober. Her joints were starting to seize up from being held still and...where was he going...
“Dayspring,” she growled, eyes widening when she saw, exactly, where he was taking her.
Nathan gave her a dark grin. “It's a good thing I know you can swim,” he said simply, not letting his emotions play in his words.
And with a single thought, he sent the doctor flying into the lake. The nearly frozen lake, in Scotland, in January. He was a mean bastard and he wished he could enjoy it more.
When she came up, spluttering and gasping, he immediately fished her out, setting her on the rocky ground at his feet. Nathan wanted to teach her a lesson, not kill her. And more importantly, he needed her sober as soon as possible.
When she glared up, shaking and trying not to throw up, the only thing he thought to say was “They killed Aliya and Tyler” and there was nothing he could have done to the shudder that ran through him.
Moira simply stared up at him, soaked to the bone, exhausted, freezing and with the start of one hell of a hangover. “...inside,” she said simply, struggling to get to her feet. She didn't say anything when he helped her. “Let's get inside before I freeze ta deat'. An' we'll 'ave a bit more civilized conversation, aye.”
