Disclaimer: See other chapters. I have nothing witty to say this time.
Chapter 5: Eye For an Eye� by: DragonMouse
I watched Crys and Peter through the dining room window playing fetch with Rio in the front yard. The former was wearing some new clothes she�d bought with the $150 gift certificate Anita�s vampire sent her for Christmas. Donna had taken her shopping to spend it. The stories that came back were� interesting. She thinks my Crys is too boyish, like I�d thought she would, complaining that she wanted to buy boys� shorts, jeans, tee shirts, and shoes. Peter and I get along better now, and he thinks Crys is the cat�s meow. He treats her too much like a little sister, the so-called fairer sex, for her taste, but that will probably go away over time.
I turned from the window to finish cleaning and oiling my guns and knives. The kids had done some of them already. I�d told them they had to learn to care for a weapon before leaning to use it, and they did, quickly and with enthusiasm. So much enthusiasm that I�d ended up teaching them, in a generic manner, how to clean most of the guns I own. Tomorrow, I�ll take them out to my range to shoot the 9mm. Crys has never fired a real gun, but has paintballed since she was 10, two years ago now, and she and her brother, Jamie, used to take top honors in youth competitions. She�s taught Peter and he�s addicted, much to his mother�s dismay, not that I care.
Every weekend I take them paintballing, or that will be the schedule that will occur when Winter Break is over. Donna won�t speak to me for an hour when we come back, the kids splattered with paint and a bit sore. What a Godsend that is. The first day we went, Peter was �killed� five times. When we got home, he learned that, by my rules of combat, every hit equals ten push-ups and hasn�t gotten hit that often again. If we�re actually alone, Peter calls me Edward, but Becca remembers little of the names spoken at Riker�s, so the kids try to keep the name between us but sometimes. . . My thoughts were interrupted by the front door banging open, then closed and the young teens shouting at one another.
Crys stalked into the room first, her hands clenched into fists at her side. She stopped directly in front of me, her feet set shoulder width apart and one fist was firmly planted on her hip. Pointing behind herself, she cried out indignantly, �He kicked my dog!� Tears of rage were welling behind her skewed glasses. AT that point, Rio trotted in, looking none the worse for wear. Peter followed, hand to his jaw.
�She punched me,� he slurred, equally indignant.
She whirled on him, her anger making her seem taller then her five feet four inches. Whipping off her glasses, she pointed to her cheek and shouted, �You did, too!�
�Stop,� I said, not raising my voice and not needing to. Some parents would kill to know how I did it. Fear and respect on the kids� parts, in equal measure. It worked and they froze, Peter�s mouth open to say something. �Both of you sit down now, opposite sides of the table. Don�t say a thing, just take a few deep breaths.� I watched as they did so. They walked stiffly in their anger, but I noticed peter favoring one leg. The German shepherd curled himself under Crys�s chair without a second thought.
When everyone was settled, I let the silence stretch for a bit before continuing. �Okay, Crys, what happened?�
�We were playing fetch and Peter had the ball. Rio wanted it and went for it, but he caught Peter�s fingers. So he kicked him in the ribs and I kicked him in the shin. He shoved me, so I punched him in the jaw an� he hit me in the cheek an� Rio bit him. But not too hard. That�s when I came running in here.� She�d told the story without looking up from the table once. Now touched her cheek, right below her eye, and cringed.
�Is it true?� I asked Peter. He nodded, barely looking up. He wiggled his jaw form side to side, stuck his finger in his mouth and poked around a bit. When he discovered blood, he swore lightly. The offence would normally get push-ups, but they were suffering enough.
The silence returned as I stood. Working quickly, I fixed them both an ice pack for their wounds, which were accepted graciously. There were already bruises forming. Peter�s wouldn�t have been so bad, if Crys weren�t wearing a ring. The girl would have a great black eye, that could be told from the color already coming out. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, they were embarrassed and pained. �Do you know how much trouble you�ll be in when your mom comes to pick you up? How much I�ll be in, for that matter? I�m going to leave any lectures to her. The bottom line is don�t kick Rio and don�t fight, at least not each other. Always back up one another and if you argue don�t do it in public. Those are the rules. Now, why don�t you leave Rio alone and play by yourselves? And while you�re at it, decide on your story for Donna. I don�t care if it�s the truth, as long as you agree on it. Now scat.�
As Crys stood, she looked sheepishly at Peter. �Want a soda?�
�Yeah,� he replied, his easy teenage confidence coming back. �Maybe we can go to your room and look through the newest issue of that paintball magazine.� She nodded and grinned as they walked out the door.
Above the sound of the refrigerator door opening and the clinking of cans, I heard Peter say, �You�ve got a good right.�
�For a girl, huh?� Crys shot back sarcastically.
He scoffed. �Hell, for anyone your age.�
�Thanks. Yours isn�t that bad either.�
�Thanks. Now let�s go see that magazine. I want to sprawl out. My leg hurts almost as bad as my jaw.�
I shook my head. The �girly� treatment would probably end now. With one blow for blow fight, the bonds that had tied them together, violence and youth, weren�t broken, but reattached elsewhere, changing a tentative, odd relationship into a partnership and a mutual respect. I looked under the table at Rio. The dog is an odd one, probably willing to kill for his master�s safety, but only seems to step in when she�s in trouble. Like a stunt double for that action star, Jackie Chan. The purebred stared back at me, his expression serious, like his breed always seems to be, his normally erect ears flopped over slightly, a sign of mellowness. His chocolate brown eyes seemed to hold the same unstated intelligence that Crys�s do, and many times I find myself wondering what is going on within that fuzzy head of his. Now, it�s almost as if he is expressing his approval for how I handled things. /Ed, man, you�re going bat shit,/ I thought and turned back to my guns.
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