notes: i dont know why, but i really like writing Killian's character. maybe i'm too into the sexy-dad thing. oh, killian and demos belong to maui, though my killian has been fleshed out by me and maui should not be held responsible if my writing sucks. and i put glasses on him cuz... sexy! man, it's seven am, why am i awake? this might need some tweaking in the future.

update: i took down the david maru peice, because it's just silly and honestly i think it's kind of objectifying in kind of a racist way, and that's the last thing i want to do. im really trying to steer myself away from that, but damn, anime fandom has done terrible and wonderful things to me. i think anime fandom and asian american studies are having a fist fight in my brain.

margaret cho: "i'm taking ann coulter to knuckletown!"

further update: maui-darling invited me to join his RP board and play killian! bitches, im sitting at the cool kids table now.

KILLER part 9 demos and killian flashback

Five years ago

3:27 AM, Killian hears the key in the front door's lock. Turning, metal on metal. He lifts his chin slightly, but doesn't look up at the door, doesn't raise his eyes from the clean lines of figures on his ledger. He continued to tally, to record in his small square script, eyes downcast behind his wire reading glasses as the door creaked open and Demos walked into the house.

"It's three-thirty in the morning," Killian said quietly.

Demos breezed past him, into the kitchen, carrying with him the heavy scent of cigarettes and sweat. "I know," he said flatly.

Killian raised his eyes to his sixteen-year-old son. Demos opened a cabinet and stretched to reach a glass from the top shelf, his already too short baby blue tee shirt pulling up to reveal a concave belly, a set of ribs like animal teeth. Demos' jeans clung low and tight on his hips, V-lines trailing down and on his hipbone there was a smeared mark of lipstick kiss, dark red or maybe black wavy residue of someone's lips on his son's flesh. Demos took down the glass and moved to the sink.

Killian rose, taking off the glasses and casting them down onto the stacks of paper. He walked towards Demos slowly, and spoke gently and unassumingly as always.

"Where have you been all night?"

Demos filled the glass with water, his eyes on the stream. "None of your business."

"Where were you, Demos?" Killian repeated, his voice a bit lower.

Demos turned, brushing the lank hair off his face in a furious gesture, revealing an brown eye luminous with spite, rimmed in black eyeliner. He squared his narrow shoulders, the wide neckline of his shirt stretched tight over his protruding collarbone smeared in glitter. He glared defiantly at Killian and slammed the glass down on the counter, not caring about the water that slipped over the rim.

"It's none of your fucking business."

Killian's hand shot out and grabbed Demos' wrist just above the yellow plastic band that had admitted him into some bar or club. The bones were smooth and perfect beneath the skin, and he gripped them hard, full suddenly of adrenaline and fury at Demos' insolence and forcing the boy to look in his face. Demos eyes were hard, flat brown, dulled from drugs or alcohol or both, but still angry. He curled his lip back in a sneer.

"Let go of me!" he shouted, pulling futily against the grasp of Killian's long, wiry fingers.

Killian tugged down hard on Demos' arm. He was surprised at the anger in himself, at the easy rise of violence against this person who didn't even resemble his son anymore. when he spoke his voice was gravel low with a hard threat of authority. "Not until you tell me where you've been tonight, what the fuck you're on, and what the hell you're wearing-"

Killian watched it coming towards him, in that slow split second, Demos' white fist speeding towards him hard and clean as bone, flashing and bright and behind it his ringed eyes narrowing and his lips set in a hard line. Killian let the punch come and it hit him in the face, far, far from the best punch he'd ever taken, but not the worst either. Demos' thin arms couldn't put much muscle behind it, and his aim was haphazard- not quite on the jaw, not quite high enough to get him properly on the lower lip- but his knuckles were bony as hell and all those little pointed bones dug themselves through his skin and down against his teeth and surely there would be bruises in the morning, bruises from his son's angry fist.

Demos was staring at him, breathing heavily, his shoulders tensed. He let a long, whistling breath of air escape from between his teeth, drew his arms back into himself, thin and hard and defensive, and hissed warily as a snake, "Don't fucking touch me."

"Demos..." Killian said softly, his fingertips brushing his bruised jaw.

"Leave me alone!" Demos snatched the glass of water from the counter, made a wide berth around Killian and left the kitchen. Killian didn't watch him go. He waited until he heard Demos' bedroom door slam, the bolt slide shut, and then let his face fall. He put his hand on the counter, slid his fingers through the puddle of water there, broke and smeared the ring of water left by the glass.