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Taym would return to find his lock busted open, door slightly ajar, and a certain little a*****e reading paperwork that meant d**k all to him. (Aside from the illustrations, which he enjoyed.) Most drawers had been rifled through, a few things moved around here and there, mostly because of curiosity.

There was, perhaps, a pack of cigarettes missing, if they hadn't been hidden too cleverly.

There was, perhaps, a lit one in his hand, and he hadn't been bothering to use an ash tray.

Leslie shrugged, flipping through a lovingly notated few pages, bored.

"Aw, come on," he said, grinning like the little s**t he was and taking another drag of a very, very stolen cigarette. "I was just bored, don't be such a b***h about it."

He made no move to run for his life. Taym had scared him once, but that was before he had a badass weapon all his own, that could protect him from getting stabbed and heal him when he was hurt.

"You sound kinda stressed out, Thompson." Leslie shook the box of smokes at him, and exhaled right onto a diagram of a desert shrubbery.

The envelope had been investigated, examined, and its contents safely returned. No money meant no value, and there was nothing Leslie needed with a picture of a little girl.

He put the papers down and looked up at Taym, rolling his eyes. "Oh my godddd," Leslie said, each word drawled, "don't be such a stingy jew about it, jesus. You've got ******** plenty, lighten up."

It wasn't as though he wasn't aware of the fact that Thompson was on edge, but the line connecting the dots between 'actions' and 'future consequences' didn't exist in Leslie's mind. What was the worst that he was going to do, hit him?

He had a shield, now. Taym couldn't bully him into doing anything.

"It's going pretty okay, it's kind of a b***h, but it's got some stabby parts so we've got that going for us." He snickered, clearly thinking himself clever.

"Sure," Leslie replied, shrugging, "whatever, I've been working on it. I didn't even mess with that f*****t very much, he freaked out on the phone thing and it was just kind of, y'know, depressing and s**t."

He paused to dig for said phone in his hoodie front pocket, distracted, "I haven't looked at it in ********, wonder what the hell is going on."

Leslie squawked like a bird, kicking and fighting instantly as soon as the hands were on him.

"What the ********, man!" he screeched, attempting to yank his head away, and only succeeding in making his scalp burn from the pressure. "Not ******** coo-" and there was no time for anything else, not even a syllable as his face went crack against the desk, temple and cheekbone blooming with pain.

Squirming out of danger was Leslie's natural habitat, either by twisting away because he was small and nimble, or running for the god damned hills, but Taym had him good. "Hands off me, f*****t!"

The longer that Taym held on, the more Leslie became a whirlwind of bony limbs and snarling, any sense of personality slipping away into fury. No matter the damage he'd do to his own body at the cost of his struggle, Leslie fought to get out of his grip. He didn't enjoy being powerless, especially now when things were supposed to be different. Especially because he was a creature of habit, and slipping into his empty rage was like putting on a familiar coat-- safe, home, a barrier between him and the world. Like a berserker of lore, Leslie became a wordless, mindless desire to ruin whatever it was that had deigned to hurt him, no matter their reasons and no matter the costs.

He was used to losing. He had never done anything but lose, but that didn't mean he couldn't do his fair share of damage in return.

Even as his head violently collided with the desk for a second time, the only response taym got was an open mouthed snarl, a glare with blown pupils, and a coiled body, unmoving.

Patiencepatiencepatience, just a second, I just need one second, let me go and it's all I need, just do it, do itdoitdoitdoit--

Taym let him go, and Leslie jumped on him with a feral growl, fist slamming into his face.

Violence begets violence, begets violence, begets violence. He used his fists less like tools of calculated destruction and more like reckless means to an end, as long as that end couldn't hurt him any more.

A reasonable person would have stopped, but Leslie wasn't used to working in that realm, and Thompson asked him if he was done and there weren't words in his mouth or in his head, but if there had been, he would have screamed that he'd never be, as melodramatic as he was serious.

Leslie gripped the front of Taym's face with his hand and did his best to slam it into the ground, nails digging in to whatever they reached because violence begets violence, begets violence, begets violence.

He was a creature of habit.

No one gets to do this any more, I don't want to be that any more, I don't want it, I don't, I won't--

Aleria's croons were a cold balm to the anger, entertained more than put off by the sweet anger that fuelled him.

< You are hurting him, > it said, < do you want to be? >

Curious, lilting, hungry. (Always hungry. Leslie could glut himself however he wanted but it'd never be enough for it.)

Even still, as he blindly tried to hurt that which hurt him first, Taym had it in him to command. authority, Authority. Leslie would have none of it, none of it at all, but then fingers twisted into fabric and choked him. But Leslie was a pitbull, jaws locked onto his target, unrelenting for as long as he had oxygen.

With the way he flailed, that wasn't for very long. His hands loosened from around Taym's face-neck-body, and finally went to tug at the fabric that was going to be the death of him. Leslie snarled but it was choked off and silent. Taym had the upper hand.