Untitled 14 solo

If Archer could have rotted away at Hogwarts for the entirety of his summer, he would have. Being trapped alone in the desolate castle meant a peaceful stretch of month long solitude. The summer wildflowers would have bloomed in the fields, finally warm under his feet, no longer dewy as they were in springtime, and archer could have sat without the shield of his satchel under him. Perhaps once more, he would dip in the Great Lake, reminiscent of old times when the extent of his worries were about his damned, foolish friends; perhaps once more he would look up at the constellations, and allow the temperate water to wash away any lingering sorrow. And he would be anywhere, anywhere but his dormitory, just to feel the odd cool breeze gracing his skin and and stand under the blazing sun, without a streak of cream as his pale complexion would inevitably tan. There was not a thing more he cared for more than his well-deserved peace and tranquility. Matthew, Maxi, Atticus, every one them wanted him to heal, even his trusty Zeno; the world yearned for his recovery and perhaps he could allowed himself to, if the cruelties of life ceased for one second. He would let the ocean wash over him if only he was home, he would make angels in the waist-tall grass if only he was alone, he would look to the sky if only the stars, for once, shined for him.

But no different from the unforgiving nature of life Hogwarts offered no such privileges as an empty castle for one single, turning student, and while they meagrely compensated this loss with the opportunity of summer camp (which, Archer, readily took considering how his last summer had been, and signed up without a second thought for), it left the other half of his too long holiday despicably empty. What a shame this forced him to spend rest of his time with a father he no longer wished to honour with such a title. Indeed, the slender man was stood in anticipation as the Express pulled into station with a loud hoot of its steam horn. The compartment in which Archer sat — alone, as one would expect, bar from Zeno and his beloved literary characters, and although the former cat napped through the entirety of the ride Archer himself failed to sleep for even a wink — faced away from the incoming station, much to his gratefulness. Spared momentarily from the confrontation, he collected his things in an awkward bundle, the enchanted satchel finally been put to its use, and exited with the outpour of students as Zeno treaded cautiously behind him, pensive like the philosopher he was named after. It had been far too long since they were both home.

Archer did not find it in his interest to search for Atticus Duncan, but soon enough the man would have found him with brisk strides, stifling him in a suffocating hug to which Zeno only meowed and slunk away from. Even the feline must have been abashed. Finally breaking free Archer glanced about the bustling scene, and when he noticed none of his friends, let out a low sign accompanied with a scowl. He hoisted his unwieldy trunk, snapping his hands away in decline as Atticus offered to carry it for him. Disgruntled, he pushed the stack of books deep into his bag and allowed Zeno to climb into his arms, the orange tabby’s furry presence offering the slightest of comfort as the horn blasted again, far too loudly and in far too urgent demand. Archer only pulled his hat down (to no avail) in response until his ears were covered, and when that, as expected, did nothing against the noise he found a small scowl creeping up his lips as his eyes grew shadowed in the darkness.

Vaguely, Archer sensed the man taking him by the shoulder, a movement so instinctively right that he din’t even bother to squirm out of before he properly checked himself. He was supposed to love this man. In the hazes of summer’s bright lights he found himself brought out of King’s Cross Station and onto the meandering roads that led somewhere to home. The abraxans of the chariot still stood in neat, disciplined duo-columns, and for a moment Archer could have believed nothing had changed. That no different from last year the would soon board the car, nod hello to the driver, and sit across from his papa with his maman at his right. Except the blazing heat must have Ade him forget that the last statement now reigned completely and utterly untrue, for as hands instinctively felt for that reassuring presence by his side he with nothingness, only air, hot and gushing against his perpetually cold fingertips.

He must have been stood erect for far longer than he had acknowledged, for muffled words had been spoken and before long, he found himself sat on soft brown leather, the Pegasi breaking into a gallop in acceleration. A concerned face could have been seen from across the stuffy compartment, one hand perched on his chin as the man leaned uncomfortably close to where Archer sat, body pulling into himself, words outing into a tongue he was certain he should have understood, but did not. Then Zeno began to feel heavy in his arms, his head far to light in comparison as soft, uncallused hands, over his forehead. Slipping out of the check for fever (that was far from the issue, and if Marguerite was there she would have known just by looking at him), he placed on hand into his satchel and desperately searched around for the circular fruit, the only souvenir he had brought back from Hogwarts. Triumphant as he found the apple and bit down against the hellish curse of his body’s need for food. He had not eaten a thing since supper last evening, but at least now he could choose to ignore his father.

He asked the obviously redundant question of how Archer was feeling, and to which he only turned his head to the side n response, eyes flitting in flutters to the window view. Now the station was a fading patch of beige in the distance as the city of London sprawled out below, lazy in the summertime air. As a child the curtains had always been drawn closed in response to his harboured acrophobia, yet today without his mama to inform the driver of the traction seemed to have been skipped. IN fact, upon closer inspection, no curtain even hung above those planes of glass, and his stomach riled to think how forgetful Atticus had grown in response to grief, or perhaps just how little he cared for his son anymore. HE squinted, shaking the thoughts away as the last of the greens of grass and browns of earth faded into the clouds, leaving drops of water on his window. Soon, he thought, hugging Zeno close to his chest, they would be at the Isle of Skye. Soon, Archer thought, they would be home.

“Why are you so silent, Archie?”

The diminutive caught him in a snare and all the rabbit could do was raise his eyes under lowered brows and snap, “Don’t call me that.” The last time someone had called him Archie that same person had sharped his trust into a spear and lodged it back into his very heart.

“Why are you so silent, Theodore?”

Those hardened eyes widened at the middle name, so foreign in his mouth Archer did not even think he truly heard it. There was no rage in him as he stared blankly at the man, only shock found between slightly agape lips. For all the times he had intruded himself as “Archer Theodore Duncan” he had never heard it out of another’s lips before, and he realised that was no hyperbole when he said never. He had to resist the urge to repeat the name in incredulous wonder. For a moment he was utterly unable to speak, barely comprehending whatever the hell his father was attempting to convey with that name. Once he had adored the very same man’s subtleties and nuances, how he suck figurative expressions and informative expositions into passages he never even knew could house them. Now he missed nothing more than his maman’s straightforward calculations. Who did he jest to? Now he missed nothing more than his maman. Then it struck him with fearful clarity why his father had evaded his first name. Theodore was safe, an option chosen entirely by him and solely him, without even a shred of his late wife’s involvement. A name Marguerite deemed too common and conventional, and a name Atticus could call without grief. He too, Archer knew, was a victim of death’s cold hands.

“When will we arrive at the isle?” Archer asked, voice barely making decibels. The sudden blow of that name had effectively ended his sulking.

He had thought he would hate his father, abhor him, and he had, with every bone in his thin body and all the chambers of his fragile heart. He thought he had since that night of the fire, how the thirty-some-year-old had been rooted to a frozen place while Archer sprinted until his lungs too turned into ash, desperate for anything, desperate to save her. It was supposed to be planted into him by the very same mother, that driven fearlessness, and he had acted on pure panic. Perhaps now he understood his father, understood the numbness that spread to his mind and the helplessness in his body, lost in an impossible spiral. Maybe, between sleepless nights and strengthless mornings, he finally understood his father, but that didn’t mean he needed to like him either.

Suffocating silence seeped from the scene.

And finally, an answer, but not of the hours he expected, “Theodore” — fuck him — “We aren’t going back to the Isle of Skye.” The reply hung in the air like a charged storm cloud. Archer cocked his head in a manner that questioned if he had heard correctly, that odd trait that still maintained after all this time. His eyes was glistening with that classic sparkle, though uncannily not quite there and definitely not with the glint of curiosity or excitement it normally held. No, there was something almost bordering on a pince-sans-rire amusement, as if he knew well enough his counterpart said something meant in crude imitation of humour, found it nowhere near worthy of his laughter, but was entertaining the notion nevertheless in some pretentious manner. It was so surreal, so impossibly surreal it was almost funny. Archer, for one, certainly did not believe the answer to be one made in earnest.

Archer bit back his laughter, frowned slightly, and only said one word in inquiry, “What?”

For how much he showed in his prose, Atticus’ face as completely emotionless. His eyes perfectly open, not too wide, not to thin, lips pressed together, not too hard, not too soft, he looked ore blank slate than human. Archer blinked back expectantly at the figure he used to call papa, then stopped, matching the features to be the exact sae as his, unflinching as he spoke, voice harsher than fingernails against granite, “We no longer live on the Isle of Skye. Since May, I have moved to the Duncan Manor where I grew up — in Edinburgh. You do not need to bother with returning to our house there. I have already moved anything I deem important and in front—” But Archer could not have cared for a thing more he might have offered in explanation and only continued his stare, not quite at Atticus, not quite at the wall behind him, not quite at anything. His eyes twitched unpleasantly, movements sharply uncontrollable as that shard of glass digging into his heart. Nothing made sense, nothing, and despite how he had never been airsick before, all he acknowledged was how much he wanted to vomit the little food he had all day.

“What do you mean?” He said, voice slow, knowing perfectly well what his father had meant and unable to move his mouth in a way that even attempted to voice it again. As his body tensed, almost as if needing to stand up and jump from the very carriage, the dam against his torrents relented, words spilling out in a shout, “What the hell do you mean?” Every single word his father had said he had registered, understood their phonetics and their definitions, yet when put together into that one, terrible sentence, his comprehension seemed to have failed him, for his mind would rather shut out a thought so depressing than entertain it as a notion. Isle of Skye had been his only home. Since forever, and will be forever. His favourite bed was found amongst the flowers, his favourite blanket was the warmth of sun on skin, his best friends the imagined faeries that danced through the sunlight in the trees. There was no gentler caress than seawater, no warmer hug than wind, no sweeter scent than nectar. The mountains meant as much to him as his room. In fact his veins ran through those grand rises of rock. And now… everything was gone. At the command of a man who didn’t even understand.

“I mean what I said,” Atticus spoke with obnoxious bluntness, spreading his arms. Archer swore he saw him smile. Sadist.

Archer scowled, but knowing he would never be able to win that argument, “What about Scout?” The coonhound had been his sixth birthday gift and was his entire world until he found out Hogwarts banned the dog. When both his parents worked Scout was his only companion bar the characters in his head, a tangible creature he could stroke and love, could run his hands through that fur and in return receive the most lovable barks. He watched everyday as the canine’s tail would stand on end, wagging as he neared with a treat, ears straight as Archer threw a stick into the distance and engaged in the most simple games of fetch. If all else were gone, Scout, at least, was Archer’s only tether to his childhood. Yet as he stared into the dull eyes of his father, he already expected an answer.

“I gifted him to my editor. His daughter loves him—”

“You did what?” Archer cut in, sharp, yet jagged without even anything resembling smoothness. He knew it was coming, yet the revelation still hit him like a blade to the heart. “He’s a dog. He never did anything bad, he—”

“You weren’t responsible enough to care for him, nor did Hogwarts allow for dogs. Moreover your mother gifted him to you.” At that Archer was taken aback, utterly more stunned than he was even rageful, and instead of lunging forward or smashing down his things he only stared at his father, as if he was speaking in a tongue he could not understand. Face pale with shock, not at the parting with his pet but his father’s reasoning, the words barely made sense in his head. He would have thought, that with his maman gone, his father would have wanted nothing more than to preserve her memory, yet now it was evident to Archer that he only wanted to erase her, on the deluded belief that that would numb him from the pain like a little child. Then, the man gestured with all the casualness in the world that made Archer’s face heat with pure indignation as Zeno too meowed loudly, as if he knew he was being addressed, “You seem to like that cat of yours more anyways.”

“My mother….” He said, voice so low it sounded like a snarl, more animal than human as he urged himself to pronounce the word without his voice breaking. His mother. His mother whom he loved, whom he watched die, and whom he now realised his father cared nothing of in his beguiled reasoning of coping. That fucking child. As Archer pronounced the words cautiously, almost as if he was facing more machine than human. He supposed that was an accurate deduction — one he failed to understand but correct nevertheless. For how Atticus Duncan depicted emotion so powerfully in his books he truly seemed numb to it all. And so the syllables were gritted out, one by one, not allowing any negativity for an answer yet knowing that no matter how hard he pressed, it would be all he was ever going to receive. “What about my mother’s things?”

“Your mother’s?” He repeated, with all the carelessness in the world, as if he either had no idea who he was referring to or didn’t bother to check. Instead, Atticus only shifted on his seat, not out of sorrow or uncomfortableness but ease, no different then when they sat together to play a board game in the dining room as storm clouds rolled over a home Archer could no longer return to. He would have choked him if only for how little he seemed to care, squeezed the air out of him like how he deserved. Anger clouded his head, and all thought ceased. Everything just stopped. Like how the cork was placed on a bottle. Couldn’t move. Could’t think. Couldn’t even breathe. Just stared.

Somehow, Archer managed out the words, each one spoken with fury, fury, and only fury. The outrage was a quiet thing, without even need for him to have raised his voice as the words came out in sharp, unforgiving questions, “Her clothes? Her notes? Her collections? Are they all gone?”

Suffocating silence seeped from the scene. For a second time. And there was nothing worse, Archer decided. Someone could have screamed, could have leapt up from their chairs, could have banged down on the carriage. They could have bursted into spellwork, into fistfights, into arguments, yet everything remained fearfully still, tranquil almost, with their tension humming away into a whimsical tune. And hadn’t he spent the entire year trying to be anything but weak? He hated it, the way he couldn’t stand, only grip to the sides of his seat with fingers white-knuckled from the effort. Why, why did his muscles slack, unresponsive to his psyche’s battlecries? Why was he immobile, helpless, and why did Atticus stare at him with that pity as if he was some wounded lamb he found on the side of the street?

Then, it was as if nothing was frozen anymore. And like a bomb that finished ticking, rage exploded in the claustrophobic space. Archer lunged across the small car, careless for the safety instructions that prohibited him from the act. Although Archer barely registered his steadfast feline, Zeno yelped, and then, with all the fierceness in the world, pounced onto Atticus as Archer found himself at the man’s throat, slender arm pressed against it. His breaths was so heavy he could have heard every one as it resounded back to him on the carriage’s metal walls, joining into the heaves of his father under his grip. Archer poured all the strength he had in him into the lock and still it felt inadequate. He knew the answers without need for response, without even need for question, and he knew what he was going to do. The words came far quicker than he could have acknowledged, far louder than what was good for his throat, and far more forceful than he thought he would ever shout. “Bastard! Bastard! You fucking bastard!”

That name was one he had thought he would never use against the man, but it had never felt more appropriate. Feeling like shit wasn’t an excuse to treat people like shit. Feeling like shit wasn’t an excuse to treat his mother’s memory like shit. And in fact Atticus Duncan was just a fucking piece of shit.

“Theodore.” There, that name rang out again like a burn to his ears. The name someone who ran called him. He was nothing more than a coward — years ago he had thought him powerful, his writing moving and his presence immeasurable. Today… only pathetic, only pathetic and yet still looking at him with such pity as if he was the person who deserved it. Once, the highest place Archer could have ever been was that man’s shoulders. Now, there was no lower place than his existence. The words were ones Archer could have barely heard, and perhaps, the Theodore of his father’s creation would have let go, but he was his mother’s fire through and through. “You’re hurting me.”

What? Perhaps Archer would have laughed, that bitter laugh that sounded nothing like his own. What? Archer was hurting Atticus, the young boy, thirteen years old, who had ever only been fate’s punching bag was hurting the person that was supposed to have held him through every tear and every sob? What? Right, because that skinny arm against his throat was far more fatal than the lethal blade his father had slid into his ribs when he had shown such disregard to the memory of a woman they both loved. Right, it was all his fault wasn’t it — he had no right to be angry that his father, his damn father out of everyone, destroyed what little remnants his mother had left. For once, he sympathised with Matthew Campbell, except Colin McCoire or whoever it was hadn’t even known his mother, nor that he had destroyed the journal. Atticus Duncan on the other hand, was well aware and did it with all the intent in the world, while being a figure that was supposed to have loved her. How blind was this man? “Don’t you realise it?” Then, his voice cracked, in a way so unnatural that it did sound like laughter, almost a sadistic glee he couldn’t have recognised from his mouth. Perhaps laughter was what it was, and perhaps he should have embraced that. “You’re the one hurting me!”

Yet Atticus made little response. Instead, he only said two words, voice as clear as the one of a polished man one would have heard in a literature conference: “Let go.” Archer didn’t, and the more he spoke with that carelessness, the more he wanted to press harder into skin, no matter how futile it was. His breathes came ragged, and even the man with his windpipe hurt breathed easily than he did, respiration smooth and controlled. How was he still so calm? It was as if the world had taken away all his emotion, and left him as the husk of a man. He didn’t even want to hurt him, he just wanted his real father back, the one that loved, not only her but him, and the man who would’ve allowed him to have leant on him through anything. Not this… not this undead creature that was as good as being an orphan.

“Do you not understand?” He shouted, wailed into the sky, so loud and devastated the horses bucked midair and the driver shot back a glare. He saw nothing of it, hazel eyes intently focused on the unblinking ones of the man meant to be his father, unresponsive, still, like rocks unmoved by the currents. Atticus had once had a sort of magic in him — he needn’t have felt pain to be able to portray it perfectly and hauntingly in his prose, yet now, now he couldn’t have cared at all for the ache Archer felt resounding throughout his body. How. Why. This was not the father he knew, and he felt so, so desperately alone in that small space.

He continued, arm shaking against the man’s still throat yet without a speck of tear dotting his cheek, “You’re hurting me with everything you say. You’re hurting me with everything you don’t say. You loved her, papa—” The words slipped out of his mouth before he could control himself, a reflection of pure instinct above anything else. Papa. The man who Atticus Duncan was supposed to be. And he hated himself for it, for saying it, for giving that undeserving man such a high title. He had voiced the thought out of desperation, blindly pleading to the unanswering universe that perhaps he could have manifested the figure that should have been there, blindly pleading to the man to be the father whom he had always loved. He had hoped that would have awakened something in him, and as always, he had hoped for too much.

“You loved her, and you still love her, and you can’t pretend you don’t!” He was a man who had shown such unconditional devotion, and Archer knew none of that had ever been in faux. Atticus was fleeing from his own emotions and Archer recognised it because he had seen it in his own self. Those days when he refused to stir from bed, when he rotted away in his dormitory uncaring for lessons or training, when he would rather block everything out with sleep or alcohol than sort through and face his emotions. At least his father hadn’t gotten into the latter. Except Atticus wasn’t any better, for instead of distractions, he was doing it through straight denial, and it was a dangerous, destructive denial that had sent everything he had left of Marguerite to waste. “You can’t lie to yourself like this!

“Because,” he said, drawing in sharp breath as he repeated the truth, “You loved her, you love her, you love her, you still love her, don’t you fucking realise that?” His voice was shaking, his arm was shaking, and he had spit out the words as if it was poison. He had lowered it from his throat and found perch on his collar, fingernails digging into the fabric as he gripped so hard his hands hurt against the cloth. Every breath he took between those statements he shook him as if trying to resurrect the dead, as if now his only family member left alive was as good as— A thought he would not even entertain. He couldn’t. And as he stared at him, again, with piercing eyes he was not just angry. Part of him was begging.

“So is this how you cope? By erasing her memory? By convincing yourself she never mattered to you?” He challenged, the questions hanging in the air, an explosive no one dared to touch. Archer swore he heard his own heartbeat, hard with every pound against his shirt, as if it was about to rip the fabric right off from him, emotions rageful beyond a degree he could control. It almost scared himself, but he did not back down. Instead, before he could have thought through any consequence, he resorted to his fists, and clenching his hand, struck across his father’s cheek. “Coward!” Was the word accompanying it. And then another hit, all that anger concentrated into the strikes, “Fucking… son of a bitch…” That wasn’t enough. “You damned bastard!”

His chest heaved as he stepped back. He would have done more, but as he stared down at his own hands, he didn’t recognise himself as much as he didn’t recognise the man his father had become. Archer looked down at his own hands, then back at his father, defiant, and unlike he would have expected, not even a sliver of apology in his eyes. They had lost their usual golden flair, and instead the hazel took on a much darker edge, as if twin knives of Sisyphean blackness and twisted into his pupils and sucked all of the goodness out of them. But he didn’t care, for those daggers were held in his very own hands and he wielded all their power, and that all that mattered. Somehow… he was proud. Proud himself for finally not being a shivering little coward. Proud that he was finally flighting back, unlike his father, who just ran like the damned craven he was.

Yet, in a manner that caused all the heat to rise in Archer’s chest faster than even fire whiskey, even as his cheek reddened and started to bruise where Archer’s hit had landed, Atticus looked to be entirely unfazed as he glanced up at the one who had initiated the attack. “Thank you, seems like you’re finally done. Don’t throw a tantrum, Theodore, you aren’t a child any more.” His voice was so collected, as if lecturing Archer without any force or violence, the same way he had done all those years ago when he was a little boy, accidentally breaking vases as he ran through the corridors of home, a place he can no longer return to. So Atticus hadn’t stayed silent out of revelation or reflection. No. He had stayed silent because he was unimpressed, because to him all this was just meaningless words and senseless punches and he was above it all. What a piteous—

His words did the job for him. “Ouais? Et alors? Ça veut dire que je ne suis pas ton enfant non plus. Je ne m’appelle même pas Theodore!” The French came in a flow that seemed far more natural than English, yet his reasoning seemed straight in any language. If he wasn’t the man’s son then he had no place at all to be schooling him, and by the love of Merlin, Archer certainly did not want to be the son of a psychopathic monster. He yearned for his papa, if only he were here. “What the hell is wrong with you? I just want my father back!”

He backed away slightly, but he couldn’t have said if it was away from Atticus or his own self.

“Keep the commotion down please! You’re scaring the abraxans!” The words came from the front, words of a driver Archer hardly heard through the ringing in his head. Indeed, the carriage seemed to be far less stable than it should have, the horses neighing in the sky and joining into Archer’s silently lamenting wail of devastation.

“You’ll need to move on,” was all his father said, decisive, final, accompanied with a sigh that suggested he was done with Archer shouts. It was as if a stop button had been pressed with Atticus having full control over the panel and Archer, reminiscent of younger, better times, complied even as the words fumed at his ears. Perhaps he could move on from their madness at each other and establish some semblance of peace, even if it would be an icy one, but he would never move on from the death that drew a long, ugly scar across his adolescence and all his life. His father couldn’t ask him to either. Compared to a man who had already lived through the death of his father Archer was not well accustomed with grief, but he knew well enough to understand that moving on was not the same as acceptance, that he could acknowledge death as what it was without and certainly not by burning the memory the same way their villa in Lyon had gone up in flames.

And indeed, Archer did lower his voice to that of the familiar, collected researcher, as if he was stating a scientific proof rather than an emotive statement. His final two words, however, carried far too much emphasise for it be spoken without bias. “Forgive me if I can’t — I have heart, unlike you.” He felt utterly disgusted, and without a need to elaborate much either as his throat burnt. Archer wouldn’t stake himself on lower standards if his father was going to fake some guise of professionalism. The final insult had been said in sheer quiet rage and brooding defeat.

“Well then you can suffer! Don’t you understand I’m trying to make this easier for you?” That felt like such a sick joke. As if eliminating him of all the love he had found such solace in Archer only shook his head, the anger lost in him as exhaustion took over his body.

“Bah. Easier. Droit. Ne me parle pas, putain. Pas ajourd’hui, not ever.” He spat those words at Atticus’ feet, switching between the two languages carelessly. Slowly, as if backing away from a wild animal, Archer retreated to his seat and sat down, beckoning the sneering Zeno back with a flick of his hand. The cat followed obediently, before giving Atticus one last growl, to which the man only kept a stoney-faced expression. Catching the feline as it jumped into his arms, Archer scowled at his begetter, as if wishing he had never been born by him in the first place, before pulling his precious commonplace book out of the satchel with violent force and sticking to the earlier pages, the familiar concise handwriting of his mother in a shorthand in had trouble deciphering. It was a mess of smudges, the ink now losing its colour and clarity but he forced himself onwards. The bitten apple had already oxidised into an yellow mess.

If Atticus had attempted to talked to him after that, he certainly hadn’t acknowledged it.

For the entirety of the rest of the ride Archer had immersed himself in the feverish examination, noting down every nuance in his mother’s handwriting to every subtlety in her flourishes, not even bothering to tilt his head up as the carriage came to a rocky landing, much less daring to. Despite his dire hopes against the world inevitably rematerialised around him, and he was forced to step back into it. So as they left Archer slipped extra coins into the man’s hands, if not in gratitude for his accommodation of their mutually destructive anger than to delay himself from seeing the new place he would be forced to call a home.

He tried not to remind himself that the man he wouldn’t even look at was once he loved with half his heart.


Translations: Ouais? Et alors? Ça veut dire que je ne suis pas ton enfant non plus. Je ne m’appelle même pas Theodore!
Yeah? And so? That means I'm not your child either. And my name isn't even Theodore!

Bah. Easier. Droit. Ne me parle pas, putain. Pas ajourd’hui, not ever.
Bah. Easier. Right. Don't fucking talk to me. Not today, not ever.