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Beneath the cut of his lashes, Ewron's eyes are held upon Katie. His fixation—obsession, dependence, whatever you may call it—is a rite, something he holds to his chest reverently.
Sun brackets through the clouds in splinters, a jagged cut of light marring his view of Katie from where it's cast against the Dutch cafe's window. She doesn't realise he's out here, watching her with an intent alike to a clergyman in mass.
Warm atmospheric lighting falls against her face, latching onto stray hairs and the drop of her nose, softening all her sharp edges. It'd be a nice sight if their current situation were different. She's leaning over the bartop, elbows crossed and hands gesturing wildly.
Brows furrowed, her head hung low: she's in such a sorry state that it almost feels intrusive for Ewron to watch. Considering how miserable she looks, she'll be ranting about Ewron. Of course she would be.
(You can't grip a blade without yourself shedding blood—when, Ewron muses, will Katie understand that his love comes with its consequences?)
Duncan's hands are braced against the counter, eyes set on Katie with sympathy and listening to her tantrum as if he has any right to be involved in her fallout with Ewron. It's their business and their business only.
Ewron and Katie's collision is that of ontological polars, of appetite, of teeth; he'd crack open her ribs and crawl into her chest, dig a grave for himself within her skin, make a God of her. Their relationship is viscerality taken form. There is no framework to contain their twin-destruction; their neuroticism is entwined, is scorched earth. Katie loves Ewron the way kicked dogs love the boot of the man who feeds them; of a wound to a blade; of cracked skin to teeth.
It isn't romantic, it isn't healthy, but what they have is theirs.
Duncan has no claim over Katie. He does not have a role in her life. He cannot understand the intricacies of their relationship. A false prophet writing holy scripture; to act like he'd be able to offer any perspective to their relationship is practically blasphemous.
They're the nooses around one another's necks: let someone disrupt their balance, and they'll both tighten.
(Ewron watches them and feels his lungs asphyxiate, noose cutting off his airway.)
He has to intervene. Jaw pulsing, fingers tensing into a fist against the waystone: Ewron directs his energy into the teleport.
He's able to find Ash easily enough. Her new handler, Ewron's replacement: there's a beat of silence once they're stood across from one another, just outside of the financial district. Ash's head is bowed, but canting just enough for their eyes to meet. Iced, wholly returned in favour by Ewron's own.
It isn't a pleasant confrontation, but it's necessary. Katie has to be put in her place.
"Your princess," the words winter Ewron's mouth, laying stress upon each syllable, "is threatening the Dutch Cafe."
"Can I have a beer?"
Ewron's peripheral vision holds Katie's profile, lit warmly by the heat of the bar. She's drumming her nails against the counter without any discernible rhythm. Specular reflection of the overhead lighting catches on her ring, giving off a violent gleam. It could burn Ewron's iris, but he doesn't turn away. Doesn't risk losing sight of her. "I'd, uh, like a beer," Katie retorts.
He doesn't take the bait. Licking across his teeth, his tone held evenly: "Can I have a tea?"
"I would like a tea. And beer. Please."
His beer bleeds down the side when it's placed in front of him, overfilled. Ewron doesn't reach for it, isn't really sure he wants it. "Can I have a juice?"
"I'd like, uh, juice. In my beer tea. Please."
He's had enough.
Pivoting in his seat, Ewron kicks his feet around the barstool to face Katie. Meets her eyes. "Not a wise idea. That'll go straight to your hips, you know." Ewron's tongue is pressed against his teeth as he speaks, lips set to a grin.
His expression is tempered, voice carrying no hostility, only a calculated drawl.
"Is that a way to talk to a lady? What would your boyfriend think 'bout this?"
"It isn't polite to assume that kind of thing. What would your leader think about that?" Gesturing with his hand towards Katie, still holding her gaze, even if his words are directed to Duncan. "This is who is representing the Regime. Truly, how downhill they've stooped. You know, they only keep her around as a pawn to dispose of when necessary. She doesn't stand for anything, she doesn't hold any of the Regime's values—but she'll align herself with anyone as long as she gets her fill of attention. Shameful, is what it is."
Her fingers curl into a fist against the counter. "I stand for plenty. You're—you're a liar, Ewron. Mythomaniac, through and through. You play with people," whilst her expression is muted, Katie's tone betrays the white-hot searing of her lungs; caustic, fevered, and it has Ewron's pulse quickening at the reminder of how he affects her. "And you want to talk about values?"
"As I have already said to you, I'm happy to face you in the court of law. Do you have any evidence to back up your accusations? Or is this slander?"
"Oh my God, Ewron, get a grip. You'll do whatever you fucking please just for the power rush of it, don't act all dense." Oxidised, angry flush on her features—her words are breathy, weighted. "You fucked up my grand opening, 'n apparently that wasn't enough for you, 'cause you went ahead and turned my KFC into a fucking McDonald's, but even that wasn't enough for—"
"Do you have any evidence," he restates, venom laced in each syllable, "to back up your accusations, Katie?"
Katie stands up abruptly, pushing the barstool out. It screeches against the floor. "Fuck off. I know what kind of guy you are." A beat. They don't break eye contact. Katie towers over him, backlit by the lights so that a halo is formed on her hair. "I'm going to the little girl's room."
She walks off. The bathroom door slams against the wall when she opens it, loud enough that she doesn't hear Ewron's footsteps behind her. Ewron puts his foot in the door before it's able to close, following her through—there's a half-hearted protest from Duncan that Ewron doesn't spare any energy listening to.
Ewron's expression twists into a lour when they're face-to-face, brows low and sardonic. "I don't appreciate you trying to make a fool of me in front of an audience." He crowds her against the bathroom wall. He's shorter than her, but makes up for it in hostility. "You're a dog. Know your place. You bark when I say speak, you roll over when I say play dead. Be a good doggy, you'll get a treat. Act out of line, you'll get put down. And right now, you're not being loyal."
(If Katie were a dog, he would've had her locked away in a kennel by now. Ewron can't discern if that's an intrusive thought or the truth rearing its ugly head, though the lines have been blurring in recent months. His psyche has been darkening like a deoxygenated bruise.)
"You're being gross. A fucking dog? Are you hearing yourself?" An erratic laugh is buried in her words, hanging on breathless.
He hums. "Worse still, you're a stray. Nobody will put a collar on you, 'cause you're a liability to have around." Ewron holds her chin between his thumb and forefinger, trusting her not to bite. Katie doesn't shake him off. "I tried to be nice, I played my role as your handler, but you just kept pulling on your leash. If only you learned your place, Katie. If only you sat obediently by my feet like a nice little lapdog, I could have given you everything you'd ever want. But no, I wasn't enough for you."
Katie's upper lip hikes in a caustic sneer. Catching over a canine. "Get the hell out, Ewron. It's the ladies' room."
"You know, Ash spoke to me before he left the cafe. Apologised on your behalf, said that he's trying oh so hard to put you in line, but this dog just won't listen to its trainers." It's a lie, Ash hadn't spoken to him after intervening with Katie, but she won't know that. Some primal urge to break unfurls in his chest at the way her expression falters. An animal with its own will and want. "Maybe they'll have to euthanise it. A shame, really—it had so much potential. But I suppose a mutt will always be a mutt."
Dehumanising, belittling—his words hurt, and he can read it plain as day on Katie's face.
It's exactly what he wants: to make her feel small. Curb that ego of hers until she recognises how nice it is of Ewron to humour her.
Katie shoves Ewron away, hard enough to knock the wind out of him. It's easy to forget her fighter's build—he's dyspneic for only a moment before his expression blackens into a mean sneer, backing her against the wall and taking fistful of her hair. He doesn't pull—just holds it as you would a leash. "Oh, wow, szczeniak has teeth." Voice rolling with the words. It's heaved with so much malice that the words come out slow, yet hooked on a grin all the same. Vulture to a cadaver. "We'll have to dull down your canines before you go 'round biting people. Maybe put one of those electric shock collars on you, because your hindbrain apparently can't learn without operant conditioning. Without consequence. You never recognise danger 'til the TNT's already blown half your face off."
Ewron's palm is curled around the nape of her neck.
(He imagines holding her above water, hand on her neck, the same as it is now. He'd have the choice whether to drown her or hold her steady; if his hand on her neck would be soothing or violent.)
"Jesus, man. Is this about me joining the Regime? That has nothing to do with you, Ewron. Don't be so fucking weird," Katie says, winded. Ewron pulls her hair back, not too roughly that it'd ache but enough to catch her off guard, bearing her throat to the world. She kisses her teeth in a wince.
Ewron leans in. It'd probably be romantic if they were both different people: their relationship is anything but. They're close enough that her lashes blur out, and he can only make out the white of her eyes. "It has everything to do with me. This Regime deal is getting to your head. They don't know how to keep you under control. First, you threaten my business,"
"I never—" Katie begins to interject, but Ewron tightens his grip.
"First, you threatened both my business and my life. Then, when I act in self-defence, you respond with verbal assault and a smear campaign. You attempted to defame my name to the Dutch and call me a liar—that's libel. How fucking dare you speak out of line like that? I thought you were my friend, Katie, but you're not." A sharp, viperous look in his eyes—he holds the moment still. Using Katie's own words back at her, he presses weight against each one: "You're a manipulator, Katie. You're a liar. You play with people."
Maybe he's going too far. He isn't sure where the line is drawn, anymore.
Katie's lip moves as though attempting to etch out words, struggling to articulate anything past the cloud of frustration. Ewron speaks before she's able to find them. "We could’ve been something great, Katie. Shame you don't care about me."
Bracing a palm against his shoulder, Katie shoves him back, flipping their positions and pinning him to the wall with a forearm against Ewron's sternum. Not cutting off airway, but threatening to.
Bicep curled with muscle, she's stronger than he'd given her credit for. "Get a grip, Ewron. You're making this into something it's not—I never betrayed you. I never did anything to you; stop victimising yourself. It's fucking pathetic. You're pathetic."
She's tall enough that he has to crane his neck to meet her eyes.
It takes a moment for Ewron to find his words: "I'm done. Stay away from me, Katie. I do not feel safe around you. Not until your new owners put a muzzle on you." Katie pulls back, compliant. Warmth stirs in his chest at her show of obedience, but he holds his ground. "Lay a finger against me again, and I'll take you to court."
He leaves. Doesn't allow her any room to speak, though he imagines she wouldn't have any words regardless.
Iced spine, his shoulders set to a flatline and lips pressed tightly together: Ewron portrays himself as wholly apathetic as he leaves the cafe, not revealing the hurricane rattling his bones on the inside. He doesn't spare a glance at Duncan, nor does he turn to find a reaction from Katie.
Like a wound refusing to close, he holds onto his pain like a lifeline, letting it dull out his emotions.
Affection makes him weak. Katie made him weak.