Ridgefield Planetarium (clutch only) Ffs

He was glad that Tempest hadn't been part of the clutch when they'd ashed her. Beauregard could remember, very clearly, that sudden pang of wrongness that he'd felt when Osvald passed. Had he caused such a sensation to occur, he was fairly sure he would not have stayed composed for it.

Monty was resting on a cot in one of the private rooms of the planetarium. Beauregard had fled to his office afterwards, door just ajar enough to invite Raziyya in when she arrived.

His elbows settled on his desk, chin on interlocked fingers. Later, he would need to inform Edvin of this. Perhaps it wasn't a need so much as an effort of respect. But right now, he needed to stew in his feelings, rapidly changing as they currently were.

It did not take her long to follow the pulse of his signature once she descended the stairs.

A polite knock, but with the assumption that she would be allowed in.

He heard her approach, sensed her specific presence. Beauregard did not want to welcome her in, but she here she was, too polite.

"Come in," he invited quietly, feeling his own voice against his hands. He would waste little time in his first offer of thanks as she stepped in, still spoken through his egregiously contemplative position.

"You are my spine, you know."

Perhaps she'd simply say "I know" and he could roll his eyes at her.

Oh, that was unfairly poetic, blooming affection in her. She approached him with serene approval, moved to wrap her arms around him from behind in embrace. These moments, these moments.

"I am happy to support you. These decisions are never easy."

Her speech had improved significantly, if still somewhat slowly paced. Determination fed on itself.

Swaddled by a praetor. Raziyya played the role with greater finesse than he ever could have imagined, when he'd first chosen her. At the time, it was her martial prowess that compelled him. Now, it was very much a complex blend of everything she was.

He took in a long breath at her embrace. Dared, in his similarly complex blend of affection for her, to turn his head and plant a kiss on her arm.

"I don't know why she would challenge me that way. In my own territory. Do you think I am widely seen as... weak?"

Beauregard had no desire to rule his clutch by force. He imagined having struck or snarled at Safiya for her foolishness with her sister. It was unfathomable.

Kisses were another reason for her to feel warmth she could not biologically feel. Raziyya took care not to weigh on him in her hug. Listened to his fears.

"I think she took her name too seriously. I think also that she was raised without a basic sense of respect."

For authority, for strength.

"But I think those who underestimate you should be weeded out."

Such a long time to live without respect. It was hard to imagine surviving so long with such a temper. Beauregard pictured that encounter with the wolf. Speaking with the dog king about it, describing Tempest as the reasonable sort.

A nightmare.

"I do not enjoy weeding," he complained pettily. Closed his eyes."I wish it were easier to determine who falls into what category. I certainly wouldn't have called such... defiance, from her, in advance."

And yet it was the duty of a dominus to do exactly that. Even Raziyya had nearly defied him once in a fit of misplaced affections, but the difference had been that she had corrected herself.

None of these were things she needed to say or remind him of.

"Time tests egos. It is not possible to always know in advance, even within them. She revealed herself to be a snake. There will be others, in time."

A slight squeeze of her hug, and a kiss to his temple.

"Except me."

This she was certain of. Raziyya was uncommonly happy to shadow him until the end of time.

There will be others. What a paranoid thought. It was the sort of thing that kept him up in the daylight areas, listening to birds and fearing serpents. He hardly wanted to go about worrying that any one of them would turn and threaten him at a moment's notice. Was it wiser to burn Monty than to show mercy?

Then she made her claim, and he laughed, deciding now was the time to break free of her embrace.

"I had best hope so," he said. "If you decide to kill me, I will be quite dead before I realize it."

Beauregard was long over impassioned speeches before a grand act of violence. He could have scolded Tempest with quite a monologue, but all it would provide her was an escape route, just as hers provided him time to find a grasp on his ability. Raziyya could cut his damn head off while he lounged beside her, lazy and content before a millisecond of allowed horror.

She let him free, smiling.

"That is true. But, I like you best talking and whining to me after moments like these, so you are lucky."

A tease. She ran a hand through his hair gently, fixing it back into proper place.

"Shall we both spend the night here?"

She was aglow, wasn't she? Some post-coital glory, except he'd just burned a vampire to ash. His own vampire, if separated by minutes.

Absolute madwoman. Vampire to her core, ancient values. He wondered if he might ever be there himself. It was hard to imagine so.

"Very lucky," he said, face scrunching as she tidied his hair.

Beauregard could offer to send her home, but he knew she wouldn't take him up on it.

"I think so," he said. "I'm going to go suffer some cold blood if you'd like to join me. My nerves are questionable for hunting."

He wasn't so much hungry as in need of a means to overcome frayed edges.

"Suffering together? I'll brave a bag for you," she offered, and was happy to let him lead the way to wherever those were stashed.

Agreeable. Happy. If nothing else, it lifted his spirits, kept him out of some dramatic spiral.

The night and day would pass slowly. At some point, he pulled out the chess set she'd purchased him so that he could repeatedly lose to her before deciding he could tolerate it no longer.

And eventually, as the sun set again, he lurked in the lowest floor, waiting for Monty to rise and undoubtedly emerge with questions.

He came too in a blind panic. Mind disoriented the last few memories overlapping each other creating only confusion. And then there was the pressure. So deep and chilling that he struggled to draw in air. Forgetting that he didn't need to breath. Forgetting that he was dead. Only a horrible feeling that if he did not breath he would die. A phantom remain of his own human death.

"mère?!"

The words burst out and he was gasping in breaths he didn't need. Mind whirling trying to come to terms with what had happened, where he was. Still the pressure and an unknown emptiness weighed heavy. He didn't know what was happened. A nightmare, an illusion, it was wrong. He just wanted to see Tempest. Knew in a way that she would set everything right.

He bolted up right half shredding the bedding, eyes roving half mad over the room. And finally some sense of familiarity fell in.

He was at the planetarium.

And nothing felt right.

The time passed was fun.

The call for his mother was less so.

She looked to Beauregard, waiting for him to lead. Back in the praetor's role.

And there it was. Startling, but right on time.

Beauregard rose, approached the room, seeking to just take the edge off of Monty's panic. No blanketing force, but light balm.

For now, however, the door was closed, and he knew better than to fling it open. Instead, he stood outside, speaking soft.

"Easy, easy. You're safe, Monty. Puis-je entrer?"

It was all wrong. This wasn't home, wasn't a 'hub'. Was nothing. Foreign. Empty. He didn't belong. Just as the panic was building to burst out in claws and gaping jaws it lessened. Soothed. A trickle of warmth from an unknown source. Enough to stop the destruction of the cot. Without the intense emotion his legs all but lost the energy sustaining them and he fell back against the wall.

A familiar voice came from the door, connecting some of the dots as the memories began to unwind.

He had been at home. Beauregard had come over. And then there was nothing.

Even now he didn't feel the presence of one of the clutch. He could feel Beauregard and another vampire but it felt different. As if he was on the outside looking in.

"Beauregard? Que se passe-t-il? Que s'est-il passé? Pourquoi te sens-tu différent ? Pourquoi suis-je ici?"

The french came out like a flood, one he couldn't stop or even begin to form into english. He was lost, confused, even hurt by the pain in his hand.

Questions on questions.

Raziyya did not push to interrupt — this was Beauregard's court. She simply was a referee to the side, seeking to be ready should things take a violent turn.

A whole flurry of questions, and who could blame Monty. Beauregard opened the door slow, wanting to neither startle nor strike the younger vampire.

For all that there had been fury at Tempest, there was gentleness here.

"Mon français est obsolète pour les termes vampires. Pardonne-moi," he began, pushing the door open wide enough that he could clearly be seen, but not yet stepping in.

"Je ne sais pas pourquoi tu n'es pas dans le, ah." What was close enough to clutch? "Notre groupe. Ah-"

It was harder to do this in French. Clutch terms were not easy.

"I came to your home because I sensed a rogue there. When it was you, I was startled, acted rashly, dead sleep. Je suis désolé. J'étais tellement confus par ça."

He was not startled or upset when the door did open, although the light had him blinking a couple times before his partially silver eyes could focus on Beauregard. Rather he looked just as he had the night before, perhaps even a bit more lost. The french, although seemingly hard on the dominus, was the easiest for Monty to understand at the moment. Though it gave him few answers, and even less comfort.

Luckily for the dominus Monty all but passed over the fact that he had been deadsleeped by the man in favor of focusing on the fact that he was no longer part of the clutch. But Beauregard had no answers in that regard. And with that came fear. Fear of the unknown, fear that it would could happen again. That he would find himself in the same situation over and over. Instincts told him to run, this place was no longer safe if he wasn't in the clutch.

"Je ne, je ne comprends pas. comment puis-je ...'ow can I not be part o' 'e clutch?"

The switch back to english wasn't easy, the words were heavy. Faltering even as he lost syllables.

"où is mon ... where iz Tempest? Is she, is she also?"

He fell back and forth between the two languages in a struggle before smoothing back into a heavily accent english.

Beauregard only shook his head, giving every appearance of uncertainty, to that first worried French and English smattering. It was easy to believe his own narrative when such a show unfolded in front of him. Easy to lean into the worried dominus, admitting his mistakes.

"I don't... sense her. She's not in the Heights," he said. "Je l'ai appelée après avoir réalisé ce que je t'avais fait, mais je n'ai eu aucune réponse."

A frown, an apologetic wrinkle of his expression.

"J'ai commencé à m'inquiéter que vous prévoyiez de partir ensemble. Je ne pouvais pas comprendre pourquoi."

She wasn't here, at least not in the heights. He had no reason to believe Beauregard would lie to him so he took the words at face value. His confusion became muffled by growing concern for his Sire. He wanted to call her, hear her voice, know that everything was okay. She had always been the one constant in his life. The only support structure he had. He took the frown, the unsettled body language of Beauregard and projected his own emotions onto it. Feeling that they were one and the same in that moment. Both worried and confused.

"No, no. There were no plans to leave. Tempest likes it here even more then me."

She had been the one that wanted to join the clutch in the first place. And she had so many friends. He didn't know of any reason that she would want to leave. Even more so that she wouldn't have talked to him about it.

"I should call her .. perhaps she knows what happened?"

---

Still very heavy accent her. Think : 'ere were no plans .... likes it 'ere even more 'en me

Monty put a plan together. Beauregard nodded, reached for his phone, then made some face of obvious realization.

"Ah- do you have your phone on you? I was going to offer you mine, but. She wouldn't know it's coming from you."

Naturally, Tempest wouldn't be answering anything, but it was so easy to get swept up into it. To feel what Monty felt, and to turn his anxiety into worry. Perhaps it made him a monster, or delusional.

Or perhaps, of course, an empath. Just as his ability was named.

His hand had gone to his jacket pocket only to realize that he wasn't wearing a jacket. Of course he hadn't been dressed to leave the house and he usually left his phone to the side when he worked on distilling. So he could only shake his head in answer.

"No it's at home.. If you have the find phone app though I can figure out where she is."

He didn't want to leave the dominus completely empty handed. Though he was sure that when he got back home and called Tempest would be able to explain everything.

Find my phone app. Beauregard genuinely had never heard of such a thing, but certainly it was good he hadn't kept her damn phone in his pocket. (A recent habit of watching dreadful crime dramas between his soaps has awoken a certain paranoia.)

"Let's get you home. Apps are... a smidge beyond me. I can give you a ride. And- perhaps get you back into the clutch?"

There was no tell, but here was some metaphysical welcome. Monty needed only to accept it, and he would be within Eventide's embrace again.

What a shame Tempest had led to his expulsion in the first place.

He understood, he wasn't the most tech savvy either. But Tempest had made sure he knew certain things like how to find a phone. When he got home he could search, he would find her. It had just been a fluke? An accident that they would laugh about in the coming weeks. He nodded along to Beauregard's words. Yes he just wanted to go home.

"Thank you.. I would appreciate that."

And then just as the first time he had met Beauregard a sensation of warmth pooled though his body from his head down to his feet. In a mere moment the detachment that had caused him so much fear was gone. Replaced by a steady hum of power. Of belonging. Yes this was right. This was how things were suppose to be. He felt almost dizzy with relief.

There it was, again. A connection restored after, perhaps, too rashly severed. But that fault lie with Tempest.

Gone to ash now, anyway. He felt a greater fondness for Monty. Now regrettably motherless. But weren't nearly all of them, save for the youngest turned. It would be good for him to grow, to stretch his wings beyond a woman who did not understand basic respect.

"How bad is your hand?" he asked in the wake of that metaphysical return. "I can heal it, or perhaps Razi could treat it, if you prefer. I'm not sure where the wound came from."

That, of anything, was utterly true.

It felt much more comfortable to sit in a cot in the planetarium when he was a part of the clutch. Even Beauregard's presence felt almost comforting in its power rather then oppressive. Muscles he didn't even notice he'd tensed slowly released, the emotional storm clearing. And his eyes would warm from cloudy silver to their regular honeyed hazel. Relief brought a feeling of tiredness, as tired as a vampire could feel at least. There was still some worry and concern for his missing mother but for now it would be put aside. He didn't think for a moment that she would be in any physical danger. Only on the bad end of magic mishap.

The question brought his attention to the damaged hand, and with a uncaring air he'd lift it up to see just what sort of wounds were there. The multiple small cuts and glasses pieces still embeded in skin gave him a recollection of smashing something.

"Oh. I must have broken a perfume bottle."

The area did smell strongly of honeysuckle and vampire blood. Not the most pleasing smells.

Oh, dear. Glass in the boy's palm. Beauregard had certainly lived that affliction recently.

"I fear accidentally healing glass into your skin," he said. His own palms still held fading wounds from Raziyya's plucking shards from his hands. It was not a pain he cared to consider again.

"We can get you home, locate Tempest, and then see about getting that glass out of your hand?"

He didn't particuarly care about the wounds beyond the occasional throb of pain. It would be a pain to get all the glass out though. And he wasn't looking forward to it. Actually he wondered if vampire's could get sick now, he wasn't sure what had been on that particular bottle. He washed them and stuff but still centuries old stuff was bound to carry something.

"Alright, that sounds good."

Tremendous, the degree to which Monty was unfazed by the wound. Glass in one's skin was a miserable experience. But likely, it was some testament to how dazed the boyish vampire was.

It would be good for Monty to have this separation, however permanent and unexpected. To grow in the slightest, he couldn't have a foolish woman coddling him. Beauregard nodded, then led the way out of the room, looking to Raziyya with briefly raised brows.

"I can drop you off and give you a bit of time to reach out to Tempest. Whenever you'd like that hand cleared up, I could bring Raziyya along. She recently practiced a bit of glass removal on my hands after a bit of, ah. Clumsiness."

This with the beginnings of a sheepish smile, leading them out of the space to begin the process of bringing Monty home.

She saw them exit, heard her name and offered a small smile.

"You are fortunate that you don't have to stay awake for that."

In retrospect, she should have handled it when he was asleep this past day, but she hadn't even registered the injury.

Everything back in its space, but there was still a surreal dreaminess of the last several memories. The pain would register better later, when he had time to adjust. For now he would follow Beauregard out trying to keep up with the conversation. His usual animation lessened. Stripped of the dramatic persona he usually employed. Just a man that had clawed his way into fortune and an early death, without the leisure of self reflection. Everything was a tool for survival that he had used for so long that the line between who he was and what he displayed had become blurred.

He gave a noise of agreement words lost in the moment.