<span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(255, 255, 255)">Furniture lay strewn like the mere residue of a prior life. They were of an orderly arrangement, entirely innocuous and unimportant to a stranger's eye. Casper himself regarded them, currently, with a mild indifference; furniture does not induce much zeal, after all. But Casper had found that he regarded much, these days, with a sheer nonchalance, albeit speckled with spots of despondency; that nothing invoked interest in him, that the only emotion instilled within him was a tense fear. Because it had only been a mere week and three days since that terrifying hour, well into the ghostly confines of the night, when his son had haunted the halls in his drunken stupor, gagging from the scent of blood. Casper had found that these memories, and the incessant fear that followed, were indeed infixed with a terrible permanency, not subdued in the slightest by the short time that had spanned since then. If his son had recalled anything from that night once sobriety descended, perhaps they could have shared the fear between themselves. Distributed it evenly and comforted one another, taking turns to have fitful sleeps. But alas, Miles knew nothing.<br/>
<br/>
Casper did well to conceal even the slightest tendril of trepidation. He was well-versed in the art of deceit, in hiding his true feelings, in prioritising logic rather than rash misconduct. Something his son obviously lacked; his injuries had been inflicted in a gang fight after all. Numerous articles had covered the fight in question, but Casper had done everything in his power to keep Miles' name out of it. During that first night (drunken stupor, gagging from scent of blood, fear etc.), when Miles had dragged himself home, sobbing through his bruised knuckles, Casper had been overtaken by sheer worry and panic, and nothing else. Certainly not anger at Miles being involved in such barbaric things. He'd treated the wounds himself, avoiding hospitals in an effort to lay low from police, but the next morning, news of the fight was being televised. And there he was: Shane Richardson's mutilated corpse. Suspect? Brent Davis, who'd been unconscious in the back alley, Shane's corpse at his feet and the murder weapon lying a foot away. What did the police think? A brawl had been initiated in the alley between multiple people, Davis had stabbed Richardson, fallen unconscious and the rest had fled. So there it was. They'd caught the murderer, and now Casper could take Miles to a doctor.<br/>
<br/>
Broken ribs, broken kneecap, several fractured bones - and those were just the estimates from the doctor's quick once-over. Casper hadn't felt anger back then, but it didn't take long for it to soon surface. When Miles had gotten somewhat better, recuperating in the hospital bed, he'd been terrified of the furious silence that met him whenever he tried to engage his father in a conversation. Casper didn't bother chastising him about what he'd done; he'd never done so when Miles was growing up either. It was pointless, he deemed, and he always opted to demonstrate why Miles' wrongdoings were bad, often striking a mental or moral chord with his son to drive his point into that stupid brain. He always explained, with brutal logic and intellect, why Miles' decision was a bad one, and Miles always listened. Because Casper knew the world, and his word was always final. Miles hadn't always co-operated though. Casper's tact in parenting varies, and he used to let Miles face the consequences of his actions with a cold indifference so that his son would learn. For example, when Miles had been a child of about 7, he'd thrown a disgustingly giant tantrum, solely to acquire the rights to eat an entire jar of candy. At 24, Casper wasn't proficient in parenting just yet, and was incredibly riled up. Eventually, he handed Miles the entire jar with a sneer, telling him with mock sweetness to knock himself out. He then left the room, and Miles proceeded to demolish every piece of candy. Within the hour, he was sobbing at the pain in his stomach, at the lead-like sugar in the crevices of his mouth, at the stickiness and the sickly smell. Casper finally emerged from his study, wordlessly shoved Miles into the car and drove to the hospital. Even now Miles has a vendetta against anything sweet.<br/>
<br/>
So no, Casper didn't chastise his son for fighting. He opted to convey his fury through silence, and when Miles tried to talk again, Casper swiftly stood up and walked out of the hospital room, knowing he'd want to land a right hook on Miles' jaw if he stayed any longer. Violence never sat well with him though, since he found it the most boring means of settling disputes, so he drove home instead and didn't come back to see his son until the hospital called, saying Miles was ready to come home, and was prescribed bed rest. After that, Casper did take care of him at home, seeing to his injuries, replacing bandages regularly, applying ointment, bringing up food and drink. He did all this, albeit with an icy and sardonic demeanor. The boy had no idea what he'd done. <i>No idea.</i><br/>
<br/>
Now though, Casper just had to wait. The storm hadn't yet passed, and he constantly anticipated that knock on the door, a scruffy investigator flashing his badge and inquiring after a Miles Hawkins. Because it wouldn't be hard for the police to find out the specifics of that night, and who was involved, and he was sure they had Miles on their radar. He was prepared though, and so was his son. Casper had made sure of it. Miles remembered nothing of the fight or the night that followed, so Casper took the liberty of concocting a story that he made sure fit with all the facts: Miles had been out drinking, when a fight had broken out in the alley behind the bar. Miles had been dragged into it, hence the injuries. He'd ran off before anything else had happened.<br/>
<br/>
Draining the rest of his wine glass, Casper leaned back against the kitchen counter. Furniture lay strewn like the mere residue of a prior life, back when there wasn't a palpable air of tension. Although it wasn't perceptible, the heat was beginning to bother him, and he was about to go upstairs to check on his Stupid Fucking Son when he heard loud, resounding knocks, emitting from the front door. He froze. He couldn't deduce who it was from the knock alone (did the quantity of knocks determine the profession of the knocker? Did the strength or mildness of the knock determine what rank of authority they were? Surely, Casper was being insane) but his heart rate had already picked up. It was a detective, an inspector, an investigator, a journalist. Their job titles vary, but the danger they presented was one and the same. He forced his body to adopt a calmer state, and failed. Casper could <i>always</i> control his emotions. But never had the stakes been so high, the danger so near. He placed the wine glass in the sink and strode over to the front door, squaring his shoulders, his palm hovering over the handle. His heart was in his mouth, and he thought he could feel his pulse reverberate through the skin of his fingers. Finally, he pushed the handle down and wrenched the door open, his gaze landing on eyes a few inches above his.<br/>
<br/>
A young male. Handsome. Tall. Casper found that his gaze lingered for a bit too long - partly because he was very suspicious, but also because the young man before him had good features. Very nice to look at. But Casper couldn't pick up much else; not an exact age, not a profession. Certainly not his reason for being here. But he was sure that this was an enforcer of law, a private investigator perhaps. If Casper was not being paranoid, he'd realise that investigators weren't likely to be carrying backpacks, as this boy did, and that they were seldom so young. But he <i>was</i> paranoid.<br/>
He looked coldly at the male, adopting a slight mocking smile, convinced that this was the very danger he'd been fearing for nigh on a week.<br/>
"Didn't realise they recruited mere youngsters," he drawled, pulse quickening. "Your life's in shambles is it, you're resorting to the meagre ventures of law enforcement?" Casper couldn't stop what he was saying, because nerves were dousing his control for the first time, and he was fearing for his son. He gave a derisive snort. "Surprised you're not donning a trench coat and pipe," <i>Mr Investigator, </i>he wanted to add, but he realised too late that he might indeed be wrong. <i>Might</i>; there was still a good chance, in Casper's paranoid mind, that this kid was with the police. So he waited for the boy's answer, waited for affirmation that he was indeed there to inquire about the fight.</span>