How Green Becomes Wood

"He instructed Tristan he must visit the family on Easter, which is this Sunday." Dark said, unlocking his car and sitting inside.

Alec's eyes widened. "There's no way he'd do that, would he? Maybe we should kidnap him and take him home. Our home."

"All I can do is suggest he not go, he is an adult and ultimately it is his decision to make," Dark said gravely as he sat in the car, "but I would like to know if he decides against attending."

Alec heaved a sigh and slumped against the door. "You know, outside of a couple of Easter egg hunts when we were kids and some on-sale candy, we've never done Easter, but now I suddenly wish we just so he'd have an excuse to not go and couldn't talk himself into it. I'll try texting him Sunday."

"It would be good if you did," Dark replied, driving them home. That evening, once he and Daizi were alone, he confessed his worries about it to her. Despite sharing in them, Daizi nonetheless attempted to assuage them, at least for the moment. There was nothing they could do that evening, all they could do was be available if Tristan needed anything.

For the first time in a few months, Dark was restless when he tried to sleep that weekend, although he seemed like himself during the day. Monday afternoon, the first day of Spring Break, he went grocery shopping like usual, while the twins stayed home with Ivy, but his concern led him to drive a slightly longer way home, so he could go nearer to Tristan's shop. It was normally closed on Mondays, but the anxiety in his mind still felt better to do so.

Alec was also a little worried, but being a hyper, fun-loving fellow, it was easy for him to forget the potential issues. He went to work on Saturday as usual, and Tristan seemed to be fine. Just fine. So, Alec basically forgot all about it. Until Sunday. He saw something that reminded him what day it was, and he sent Tristan some cheery texts about a completely unrelated and random thing throughout the morning and a bit in the evening. Tristan was used to Alec texting about the most random of things, so he did not think much of it.

Xander had no idea what was going on, lost in his own vaguely fuzzy world. He was in that frustrating zone where he was lucid enough to know exactly what was going on around him, but just drugged enough that he kept zoning out and had trouble reaching the end of any thought longer than a couple of sentences. Thus, he was oblivious to the drama and spent the weekend sleeping, watching Ivy play, petting Enkidu, and trying to get Kiki to stop sitting on his face. He was so very happy it was the weekend leading into a free week.

Over Sunday, Tristan had a lot to think about. Everything in him warned him not to go back. His family had done nothing to help him after his accident. In fact, the first person to offer him true kindness had been the man who'd helped him through his physical therapy. Tristan had been terrible to him, especially at the first, but absolutely nothing he'd thrown at the man had shaken him. It went beyond professionalism, and as Tristan finally started relenting, the man had offered him a safe place and, when Tristan was ready, advice that consisted of more than toxic masculinity. It was thanks to his physiotherapist that he had been able to see the way to being independent despite his circumstances. His family hadn't cared one bit and seemed almost happy to see the back of him. He hadn't been back, felt welcome to be back, or been invited back ever since. There seemed to be nothing there for him.

Then... A couple of family members had actually reached out to him. It hadn't been pleasant, if he was honest, and they had been more likely to laugh at him than with him, but it was a connection. Family was important, and people could change, right? He had siblings. Maybe it would be worth putting up with his father and some of the lesser stuff. Maybe... he could help some of the others escape the near cultish aspect of the family. Maybe... Then, on the day of, when he was waffling over whether or not to go and had his outfit half picked out, Alec texted. It was so simple and had nothing to do with anything, but it reminded him afresh of that event in his shop with his father and needing to protect Alec. How he'd felt like the life was being sucked out of him, the iron bars closing in around him. He couldn't remember if it was himself or Dark who'd made the comparison, but he remembered his family being compared to a tar pit. Getting close to them only meant one thing: getting the tar on him and possibly getting dragged in. There was very little chance of him going to his event and escaping. The only thing he could do was to keep his door open to those who wanted to come to him. Besides, he had other family depending on him. Other family both blood and not. He did not need to risk himself for those who would not appreciate it or care. He didn't know why his father and mother wanted to draw him back in - the mere act of possession, perhaps? - but he did not need to do this. He put his chosen outfit away and spent Sunday allowing himself to waste the day away watching television.

Monday came, and his bosses at the loan office had chosen to close the doors. There was hardly any activity the day after a holiday, and little paperwork that could not wait, so they'd decided to give everyone an extended weekend. That meant extra time he could use cleaning up the flower shop and making certain his accounts were in order. He always made certain to keep on top of things, but it was nice to have time to do things at a leisurely pace and enjoy himself while working. He intended to order lunch in and make a day of it. Or, rather, half of the morning and some of the afternoon.

He was sitting on a furniture dolly rolling himself along as he sang along to a ridiculous Irish drinking song and cleaned the baseboards. It looked ridiculous, but it was very effective. Baseboards were one of those things that never got done. The music was loud enough that he didn't hear the unlocked back door open. He had no idea anyone was there until a shadow fell over him. Before he could react, a hand grabbed his shirt and hauled him upright, holding him there by the shirt alone.

"You disappoint me, boy," Mr. Walsh said, his eyes furious but his voice cold. "I think you've been away too long to think you can disobey not just me but your mother like that. Not even a lame excuse."

Tristan said nothing, the shirt digging into his armpits, his hands grasping his father's arms tightly, his face ashen, his heart practically stopped.

Dark nearly decided to just go home when he came up on the flower shop, telling himself he was acting crazy. But when he passed the street, he thought he saw the lights on. It wasn't usual for Tristan to be there on a Monday, and he knew there were people who liked to smash the vases. Broad daylight seemed an odd time for a break-in, but nonetheless he found himself stopping.

In all probability, he should call the police, he thought, as he parked his car a few doors down. If it was a break-in, they could be armed. Daizi would be furious if he wound up shot because he could not leave such things to their proper channels. And worst of all, she would cry. Xander already had a broken leg, he told himself, as he slipped around the back, trying the handle and finding it open, much to his surprise.

A man of his size should not be capable of going undetected, but he crept in, less like a cat and more like a wraith or the unseen malice which makes the primordial parts of our brains fear the dark.

Seeing the older man holding Tristan in such a way, he grabbed onto the stranger's wrist and his shoulder, his grip firm, "If I recall," he said, his eyes flaming but his voice unnaturally quiet, "You are not welcome here."

"I don't," Tristan started to rasp out. He had no idea what he was going to say, just going with whatever came out of his mouth.

Mr. Walsh gave him a hard shake. "No, you don't nothing! I thought maybe you might have come to your senses in time, but, no, you and your brother, you're both worthless wastes of space, degenerate rebels, aren't you?"

Tristan had enough time to wonder what his father was talking about and which brother, but then a new player entered the arena. A pair of hands grabbed his father's arm, taking them both completely by surprise. Tristan's eyes darted to Dark. What was he doing here? He needed to leave before he got hurt!

"Who the hell are you?" Mr. Walsh snarled, making no move to pull away or release his son.

"We have met before, do you not recall?" Dark asked, tightening his grip on the man's wrist, the r's his accent usually rolled sounding now nearer to a growl, "Release him."

Mr. Walsh bared his teeth at Dark. "Yeah, I remember you. The [redacted] who thought he could tell me what to do in my own country." He smirked at Dark and let go of Tristan by simply opening his hands.

Tristan could not catch himself and plummeted straight down. He let himself go limp and curled in a little to protect his head and elbows to save himself from any significant damage. He crumpled on the floor in front of Dark and Mr. Walsh.

"Satisfied?" Mr. Walsh snarled. He swung around, moving much faster than one would expect of a man of his age and size. A fist swung at Dark's head.

"How predictable," Dark replied when the stranger hurled a racist insult at him, but when Tristan was dropped to the floor, he tried to catch him. Before he could help his relative, though, he caught sight of the stranger's fist being hurled at his head, so all he could do was take a step back to dodge it, standing back upright. Keeping his body positioned between the stranger and Tristan, Dark's eyes burned with a cold fire as he said, "You really do not want to push me. I was generous enough to warn you once."

Mr. Walsh snorted as he stepped back and squared up to Dark. "You really think you can come here to our country and push us around, Immigrant?" He spat the word like an insult.

"We're from Ireland," Tristan pointed out from the floor, a little dazed. His chair was over in the corner, out of the way and out of reach currently. He dragged himself back until his back was against the wall, trying to give Dark space. "Proudly so. You even have a tartan."

"We came over legally, and we fought like hell for this land!" Mr. Walsh spat at his son, taking his eyes off Dark for only a hair, but he was ready in case Dark tried to take advantage of that. "We bled for this ungrateful nation! Your grandfather, and his father, and his father before him! And even if that weren't the case," his eyes were back on Dark, "I don't let no one tell me what to do with what's mine."

In the background, "Finnegan's Wake" played inappropriately in the background.

Despite knowing he had earned his citizenship, and that he had to learn more about this country to do so than this man ever needed to, but those arguments were a waste of his time. Instead, he stood tall and furious. Staring Mr. Walsh down, he said, largely out of a sense of duty and pride, "Telhas teeze," and then, his voice fell and serious, "Be elsewhere."

"You stuck up [much redaction]," Mr. Walsh snarled as he stepped forward and swung again for Dark's head, boldly and widely, but it was a feint, and the real strike was a sharp, solid jab from his other hand at Dark's abdomen. That was quickly followed by an uppercup.

Despite how good he was at hiding his pain after a lifetime learning to as a survival tactic, when the fit hit his abdomen, he still let out a slight grunt. It wasn't the pain, although it did hurt, but just from the air it knocked out of him. When the fist hit his jaw, his eyes ignited, and taking a step back just long enough to remove his wedding and engagement rings, he punched the elder Walsh hard against the cheekbone. Instead of throwing a different punch, he instead threw his arms around the other man to grapple him, and turning him towards the corner to make him look, he said, "Do you see that, ibn al Kalb, there is a security camera. I warned you."

Mr. Walsh jerked back when Dark's fist swung toward him, but he could not escape the blow. He was able to soften it a little, but it still rattled him good. He'd been about to try another punch when Dark grabbed him. He snarled and struggled against Dark's hold, but as fit as he was even at nearly sixty years old, he was no match for Dark in sheer strength. He looked up at the camera and then smirked, wild-eyed, a bit of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. "I'd like to see you try it!" He tried to get his arm free, and when he couldn't, jerked back to elbow Dark in the ribs.

Dark groaned with the elbow to his abdomen. Yanking the elder Walsh back towards his body, he held him so the camera would clearly see the intruder's face before letting go, letting him stumble where he would. Then, Dark punched him hard in the ribs, repaying him for the hits he had taken, and then grabbed him again, pulling him towards the back door. During the entire altercation, he kept his body between him and Tristan, and now he just wanted to get him out of the shop.

Mr. Walsh tried to fight back when Dark let him go, but the punch to the ribs caught him square. Something definitely cracked, and he could offer only token resistance as Dark hussleted him to the door. He finally managed to regain his breath as they reached the door and snarled a bit breathlessly, "You'll pay for this," among some other insults, most of them repeated from earlier.

Tristan pressed against the wall, pale, shaking, but quiet as he watched Dark do what he needed to do.

Dark was silent until he pulled him through the back and was near the door. Then, he growled,"Listen," and heaving Mr. Walsh up to face him, he held the smaller man so his feet were slightly off the ground, echoing how Tristan had earlier been held. "You like to throw your weight around, yes? You like to imagine yourself to be a big man, you imagine yourself to be important. I am bigger than you," He held him more tightly, his voice still quiet and controlled even as his eyes blazed, "and I am stronger than you. To me, you are small. Today I was merciful. I will not be if I see you again."

Then, with his shoulder he nudged open the back door and threw the man onto the pavement like so much trash. Standing above him, and repeating an insult he learned from his wife, he spat, "Yixrib Beitak wa-beit illi xallafuuk." May God destroy your house, and the house of your Ancestors.

Then he let the door shut while he stood silhouetted in it and locked it behind him, playing the door bar across it just in case. He swore under his breath, took a moment to compose himself, and went out into the front to check on Tristan, "I am sorry."

Mr. Walsh sprawled onto the pavement, staring up at Dark, his face almost as pale as his son's despite his deep tan, and he had no words for once. No smirks or sneers. No insults. He was silent and defeated if only for a moment. The door closed, and he was cut off.

Tristan swallowed hard, trying to find his composure. He didn't meet Dark's eyes, looking around vaguely, still trembling faintly. "You could have been hurt. You could have been really hurt. I... I need to turn off the music."

The playlist had "Wild Rover" playing, and it grated. In that single-minded nature that people in shock tended to have, turning it off was suddenly the most important thing to Tristan. He tried to figure out how to move, but his mind was not working. He could not work out how to reach it from his current position, and his arms swayed around vaguely.