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The first reunion after the long absence was something the Scot wanted to avoid. He left all of them years ago, only to be made to sit through a rather awkward situation. What he had hoped for when he would return to London was to continue living in secret from his family. He left his mother behind, but apparently she was still alive, shaken and abandoned, but alive no less. The man she had fallen for left her, and now her only son, who bore a strong semblance of him, would too leave without a single trace. But unlike the first, Iain would return. Not of his will, but with the constant badgering of a sister to see the mother he had left behind. "Please try to smooth things out between the two of you... she misses you, a lot, Iain." That was what she said before leaving him at the doorway of the same flat he grew up in.

So here they were, Sitting down and facing each other. He was a man and she had definitely aged--perhaps more so from the stresses of life. A table divided them and was covered with useless decorative trinkets such as a bowl of plastic fruit. The invisible distance between them was far wider than what a slab of furniture could ever represent. The both of them sat there in silence and both Stiùbhards didn't speak first. One was unsure of what to say and the other could care less.

"Why... didn't you tell anyone that you were leaving?"

Was that how she was going to start this? What was there for him to say? He could never confess of his intentions of living a life of crime and of his support of the Separatist Movement through means of what was essentially terrorism. The life he had lived away from home, be it during his school years or even know, were left in the dark to the woman to brought him into this world. His resolve was strong, but his patience was short. He would handle this the best way he knew of.

This time he wouldn't avoid her.

Iain leaned back into his chair and propped an arm upon the dining table. He balanced a box of cigarettes on its edge on the table, finger swaying it back in forth. Before he could speak, his body language did most of the conveying of the vast amounts of disrespect he had. Throughout the years living under that insufferable household, he kept on losing more and more regard for her. He wouldn't answer her question.

"Why did you decide to move to London?" Critical eyes observed her every movement. Mother-- no, Isobel shifted in anxiety and looked as if she didn't expect such a question from her son. Like him, there were some things that she was hesitant to tell, but he was much better at keeping himself composed.

(She didn't recognize the boy she raised in the man that was sitting across from her today. She also didn't see the traits of his father in him anymore.)

"I know that the transition didn't go well for you... but--"

"You're avoiding the question; the small hen that never laid away." Hardly anyone would have the audacity to speak in such a manner and tone to their mother. He however, didn't even give her the chance to correct her words. "You moved because you were chasing a ghost," He didn't soften his words, and had no plans on doing so. He kept so many things a secret from her that she needed to know his honest thoughts. "He left you for other women." She twiddled her fingers and looked unsure on what to say in response to such accusation. He knew she couldn't deny it.

Her expression was crestfallen, as if lamenting on the things she did wrong and could have done right. But for the Lawless, he was convinced that no amends could fix anything. Silence fell between them once more and the beginnings of rain had begun to fall. She avoided her son's gaze, preferring to look at her lap instead while he waited there.

Pathetic.

She was nothing but a meek shadow. Had it been twenty-five years ago she would have smacked him across the face for such rude behavior. Now, she did nothing except to wallow in it. Iain knew that he had a hand in causing her like this, but this was what misplaced love had led her to. Her happiness was dependent on those around her.

He didn't like the quietness around them, so he broke it. He could answer the original question posed to him or start to wrap up this pointless conversation. He already told her what he wanted to say and implied that it was futile to try to reach for a man who didn't want to see her anymore.

(How ironic to that he himself didn't want to stay in this household any longer too.)

"I didn't tell anyone because I had no reason to." Her son was just another item that made her remember the stranger in his family. Iain wanted no associations with any of them.

Standing up from his seat, he glanced towards the window of the sitting room. The rain had gotten heavier and he cursed under his breath about how he was probably going to be drenched to the bone. He didn't bother censoring himself in front of the homeowner as he picked up his trench coat that hang on the back of his seat.

"You..." She started and he looked over his shoulders, brow quirked as he listened-waiting to see what she would do about the harsh words he spoke.

"Hm?"

"You could use the umbrella... if you want."

He restrained himself from scoffing at such an idea before walking towards the door. Was that all she could do? Just offer him an umbrella before he would head out? Had she absolutely nothing to say to him? About his actions? About his well being? It was time to take his leave, a gloved hand resting upon the knob of the door. He didn't open it yet, still contemplating about what last words he should give her.

There were too many things he wanted to say and criticize. A part of him felt as if he was forcing himself to think a certain way a little too much, was being a little too harsh. Was this exactly how he's going to cut ties with her permanently?

Iain shook his head as a rueful smile found its way upon his lips, hidden from the woman's gazze. In his mind, he chastised himself for even considering of repairing things. He pulled open the door and the smell of rain greeted him.

"I don't want have a reason to come back here."

And he was gone, just like that.

---

His mobile buzzed with a notification, catching his attention as he was drying himself up. Emerald eyes peered at the name of the sender-- his sister of course.


He could easily just lie to her about how things went or admitted to what happened. He did neither, ignoring the message in its entity.

You're the small hen that never laid away - a Scots saying that literally translates to 'Don't play the innocent with me.' the salt is real here. iain, fucking chill it's your mom.

Iain was never the sort to be seen at formal parties. After all, there was a reason why he was never a socialite. His element was the rougher, grungier gatherings that always ended up a stranger on the ground with a broken nose and a few broken bottles of liquor.

But how could he refuse an invitation, especially when the host himself was insisting that the Scotsman should attend. "There will be other people who would greatly benefit from your services... and you, in turn, could be in touch with their information network." The man gave a tempting offer, and a hand rested upon his shoulder. The other quickly gestured to the empty air before them, as if telling Iain to look far into the horizon (or rather the portraits hanging on the walls). "Eleven years of making a name for yourself, and you would start playing it safe now? C'mon, Stiùbhard--"

"With seven of those years helping you get to the top no less."

"And all of them were years of a successful partnership! What I'm only saying now is that I'm returning you a favor--one of the many of course--I know how you operate."

The Supplier smothered the cigarette into the ash tray and it's death signaled the closing of the conversation. A laugh rumbled within his throat. Sinister it was, with how the lips curled into a proud smirk, "Don't you think you're speaking to your benefactor a little too informally?"

"And you don't think that you're out of line, threatening the head of the Paterson Family?" The question came with a jab to the shoulder, light and playful, as if this wasn't a discussion between murderers and criminals. A second passed and the two laughed, as if they had both told each other had exchanged hilarious tales of unfortunate accidents. The redhead was the first to stand up then followed by the host.

"It would be appreciative if you would tell me who exactly you plan on pairing up with me like some matchmaker."

"What, after all the hints I gave you in our previous discussion, you still can't figure out who it is?"

"You make a better door than a window. Just saying." A frown replaced the pleasant smile, as he wasn't clearly in the mood to be sorting out riddles from some distant talk a couple of days ago. Why must the other play cryptic fortuneteller when it came to these sort of things? "A woman with a good aim isn't the most descriptive of clues. Never mind 'her eyes are like agate and her steps like a vixen'."

"I thought you'd appreciate my attempt at prose--like your favorite writers, right?"

"Stick to your day job you wallaper." Iain shook his head, dropping the conversation and slipping an arm through the sleeve of his jacket. Hardly was he able to go about with a banter like this, tick for tact, as if the two were brothers of the sort. A silly thought, he mused, that even business partners were on better terms with him than real blood. Granted, they had seven years to know each other, seven years of starting at the bottom of the ladder before ending up where they were now. "I'll be there. Fucking formality means I best be on my behavior, ain't it?"

"Only if you want to make a good impression on the Directrice."

He noticed the French quip, and raised a heavy brow out of curiosity. However, without uttering another word, he left the study. He needed to go over just exactly what needed to be done before the formal event a couple of days later.

Perhaps just reviewing what little French he knew.

"Je suis enchanté de faire votre connaissance."

You make a better door than a window. - apparently an actual Scots phrase in the meaning literally stands as 'I can't see past you.' Iain of course uses this figuratively.

Wallaper - idiot/moron/dick.

Je suis enchanté de faire votre connaissance. - pardon my French (as I never took any French classes) but I do believe this is the correct way for a man to say "I'm delighted to meet you" and very similar variants? Lmao Scottie could have technically left out the "Je suis" part and it would still be formal but gotta make the best impressions for his lady, right?