His Little Heir

If Things Get Ugly

     "Leon?"

     He shoved the shot glass behind his back at the sound of her voice. Daya stood over him, picking at her nails as she spoke. Her jaw set into a line, and he couldn't help but wonder if it did so in pain.

     Pain that he had caused.

     "Daya!" Leon flushed and scratched the back of his neck, "How... how are you?"

     He brought his hands over his lips after he spoke, praying to whomever would listen that Daya wouldn't smell the alcohol that had banded together upon them.

     She moved her hand to push a hair out of her face, using her right aided by habit's watchful gaze.

     "I'm... ah f-fine." Daya's face struggled to find a mask as she forced a smile, never spreading joy's warmth to her eyes. Leon's heart stopped as a kitten like whimper broke free from her iron grip.

     His muscles tensed; they screamed at him to take her into his arms and carry her upstairs. They brought Leon to his knees, begging him to dote over her and mutter apologies until his lips cracked under the strain. Every bone in his body became lead. But Daya needed time, so he refused.

     "Are you sure you're okay?" He pushed his back against the shot glass to stop it from rolling.

     "Yeah, I just wanted to tell you that I was going out."

     Leon rubbed his eyes, now aware of what she was wearing. A marigold romper accentuated her curves, the neck line dipping just low enough to tease him.

     The whole ensemble sent a flush creeping up his cheeks. Everything from Daya's aqua necklace to her entangled gladiator sandles sent his already fuzzy head spinning, spiraling Leon's focus out of his control.

     "You look... wow, um.." He bit his tounge in order to cut off the new potency of the whisky's effects, "Do.. you want me to come with you?"

     "No, I'm okay; you're too drunk to go anyway." A smile spread across Daya's lips for a brief moment, this one reaching her eyes.

     "How did you-"

     "Bottle's still on the table."

      She dangled it in front of him with a wide expression, but Leon's stare didn't meet hers; it lingered to Daya's arm and trecked down to her wrist on her opposite hand. The murky purple he expected to see had been cloaked and concealed with some sort of paint. He took a closer look; no, it had to be makeup.

     Daya set the bottle down. Her lips tightened, then slumped into a pout. She opened her mouth to say something, but whatever words had danced to her tounge never left, so instead, she shifted her face to the ground.

     "What is it?" Leon pushed a free hand onto the kitchen table's top to accommodate for his half rigid, half dishelved stance.

     Daya took a step back, hesitant to look at him, "I-It's nothing, really. I should go."

     She pivoted towards the door and took off. Guards met up with her hurried strides, a small team tailing her like ants to a single crumb. The wing's front entrance opened and closed with a gavel like bang, sentencing him to an evening of heavy loneliness.

     Leon leaned back into the chair and sighed. His heart sank as the shot glass's signature divet against his back rolled away, shattering upon the kitchen tile.

     He aired his lips; could his day get any worse? Leon rummaged through the cabinets until his fingers met an oven mitt thick enough to sustain the glass's sharpened sting, peering at the tile as he gathered its casualty.