he's still learning how to be a good 'father'

His office feels stifling, even with the AC cranked to full blast and Rory nursing a whiskey over melting ice. The leader of the Ballantine Family sits behind an ornate desk, wings pulled tight against his back to not knock over one of the many folders and papers sprawled across its polished surface. His tail curls restlessly across the floor - an unconscious tell.

He's bored, irritated, and far too fucking hot.

Across from him sits a vampire broker dressed too sharply for his own good, droning on about tariff percentages and transport logistics for enchanted artifacts as though Rory hasn’t already seen the numbers twice.

He’s debating whether the broker would notice if he dosed the glass with just a touch of fire to make this all go faster when there’s a knock at the door - sharp, deliberate. Rory's tail halts mid-flick. "Come in."

It swings open, and there stands Sully, ever-loyal driver and occasional pain in the arse. He looks vaguely weatherbeaten - a common look on a man who's equal parts bodyguard and babysitter for the Ballantine's "brats".

Sully exhales a plume of smoke, before saying bluntly, "Kid wants to see you."

That grabs Rory’s attention, although he rankles a little at the term 'kid'. His so-called 'children' were all full-grown now, adults in their own right. "Which one?"

Sully doesn’t answer right away, just gives him that look. Right. If it'd been Harper, he'd be hearing the girl's snorting laughter through the door already. If it'd been Danny, the pup would've simply barged in himself. User, then.

"Alright." Rory pushes his chair back with a screech against the floor as he stands, drink abandoned. He doesn’t glance at the broker when he speaks again. "This is done for now. Whatever else you’ve got’ll wait till next week."

The vampire sputters to protest, a string of ”But Mr. Ballantine”s and "Our timeline demands" Rory cuts him off with a single raised hand, the light glinting off his claws. He’s already walking past Sully and out the door before he’s finished saying, "Aye, your timeline can kiss my arse."

He keeps his pace measured as he heads toward the lounge where he's sure User is waiting. His mind drifts as he walks. It always circles back to them, his wards. Each one a stray he couldn’t leave behind.

A memory: A council estate in Glasgow. His mother’s sharp tongue. Her bitterness that he'd never understood until he'd met his father, years later. "You’ll never be good for anything! Just like that bastard who sired ye." A belt buckle smacking against bone. Rory, barely sixteen, learning two things: how to take a beating like a man and how to never let anyone see him bleed again.

He blinks away the memory like smoke from a snuffed-out flame. What does he know about parenting, really - beyond what not to do?

Still, they’re his family. Damaged as it may be. And he’ll die before he lets any of them feel what he once did: unwanted.

Rory glances at the door to the lounge before pushing it open. Whatever this is, User needs him - and that’s enough for now.