It was so hard to keep track of the days when one bled into the other. He took slight notice of the changes by hearing the others move through the house as they kept their lives some how in order. Today was different, he'd been expecting it. Whether it was anxiety at seeing a familiar face for something he had no knowledge of but had to fake it or the excitement of what the success of this meeting could mean. He had no idea.

Darius had spent all day preparing for the visitor that would come later that day, and he had no idea what lawyers expected in these sorts of things. Or if it was any different if he was Jewish? He had tried to prepare because he thought if he pleased Zechariah, he wouldn't look at him like a fool.

After sending out a few servants to ask around he'd gotten a very nice bottle of wine that should be kosher and he had a small array of things on the table that should have been fine as well. He'd also bathed hours before the meeting and dressed well. Perhaps those in the family who were not in the know would think he had a date, and he was certain his mother had given him a look. He ignored them and made sure the study wouldn't be disturbed and he had all the paper work neatly stacked nearby as well as the notes he needed. When his guest was to arrive any moment, he made sure the servants would know where to send him. Darius chose the seat to be facing the entry to the room and practiced his pose for a few moments, hoping to look prepared and confident even though it felt like every nerve in his body was vibrating with anxiety.

[[CW: It’s Zech.]]

[[Previously.]]

It was a night like any other night: Zechariah was looking utterly impeccable. The aftershave was poignant, as he had slotted Darius’ follow-up in just after his usual barber appointment. Perhaps, he had considered, the smell of grooming might seep into the monster’s subconscious and leave him a mere man instead.

Was Darius as bad as he thought he was? Probably not. It hardly made him like him any more to acknowledge that, but it took some of the edge off uncomfortable associations.

Then the servant led him in to see Darius, and before him was his second least favorite Carrington once more. He … looked good. Impressively good. Fantastically good. In fact, Darius Carrington looked offensively good. God, he wanted to stomp him into a lawn again.

But he had better ways to screw him. Zechariah caressed the folder he came bearing like a lover he was intent on showing off. It seemed Darius was dressing for the part of heir apparent, which meant Zechariah, too, needed to keep on top of his game.

“Mr. Carrington,” Zechariah said with a pleasant smile. “You look great.”

He was going to grease this rich fuck up so thoroughly he could trip and land straight up his own ass.

Darius had perked up slightly when he heard the door open. He managed to look relaxed by the time Zech had arrived. Seeing his old nemesis dressed so well made him feel like he'd made the right choice. Then came the simple compliment.

...Simple for anyone else, compliments came to Darius as often as Christmas and he couldn't hide his delight. He nodded with slightly too much enthusiasm and gestured for him to sit. "You look wonderful as well. Now.. I have the paper work, I think.. that you could look at." He slapped a hand down lightly on the small stack beside him before gesturing all too casually towards the food and wine.

"I hadn't had dinner yet and didn't know how long it would take. So I had the servants just make up something so you wouldn't have to go hungry on account of me." He said as if it had been totally effortless and a last moment decision.

"Please make yourself comfortable and tell me where you'd like to begin." He looked towards him, still having gained almost no insight into how this should go or what a bad idea he had to chose this lawyer. The now oldest Carrington had the same desire to trust in someone with the most awful ability in knowing who to trust , and he was blissfully unaware that he'd learned nothing and it was this same terrible combination that caused him misery only so many years ago.

Darius lit up like Penina’s children on Chanukah, and Zechariah’s smile widened.

This was going to be too easy.

Zechariah set his folder down before him with the same gravity a rabbi might set the Torah scrolls out. Except there was no minyan here: no ten men to say a prayer for the cruel, cruel world Darius was signing himself into.

“I, too, have paperwork to be reviewed,” he answered in kind, content in the world. “And signed. I have marked clearly where your signature and the date is required, and I ask that you print underneath it as well.”

It was not effortless, nor did he perform any pretense that it was. He had spent more time than he spent heckling men (both witting and unwitting) via post, putting together each carefully researched enforceable line (and casually tucking in a few that were not necessarily enforceable but sounded mighty menacing nonetheless) in quiet conjunction with all the perceived slights he had stacked against Darius.

He glanced at the food presented, arching a brow. Was it less kosher than his own household? Almost certainly. Almost. Was it also substantially more enticing than what his faithful but nonetheless overworked, out-of-his-waters manservant dished out that night? Oh God, yes.

“Thank you. I already ate,” he admitted, but let his glance meander back over to the table, “but it does look tempting.”

He nudged his carefully prepared folder toward Darius. Then, he dragged the offered files over his side of the desk, reminiscent of a trapdoor spider snatching its hapless prey. Did Darius remember making Zechariah eat dirt? Because Zechariah certainly did.

“Sign the retainer agreement,” Zechariah answered lightly, as though that did not entail a year-long contract of hazy obligations which all ended in a plump bank for him, “and we can get started on this important business.”

Darius eyed the long paper work and nodded as he sat down. He poured himself a glass of wine and sipped it as he read it over. He wanted to look intelligent but he hadn't exercised his brain in a long time. "Enjoy yourself. Nothing wrong with nibbling a bit, it'll take me..a..few.. minutes.." He swore he reread the same sentence over and over again.

He certainly never forgot their memorable golfing squabble, but he had been sincere in letting it be water under the bridge and act like they were anew. The Carrington still believed the other man had done far more damage to his life and should have felt great relief to be forgiven.

While he was able to read some of it, a lot of it was far too technical for him. He sipped the wine slowly and then looked up. "Alright.. I think I got it." He smiled and signed it very roughly and very not artistically before putting in the date. "Wait.. aren't we supposed to have a witness? I can get someone.." He knew the only person he could use.

Zechariah felt like he was watching a hamster run its wheel, and it was glorious. By design, not a single word had been left a scant one syllable when he could exhaust the eye’s breath with three.

He started to reach for the wine, but then recognized it immediately. It was kosher. He hated kosher wine. Kosher wine was for services and appearances. Instead, he fixed an already closed pocket as though that had been what he had intended to do the entire time.

“It is a business contract,” Zechariah dismissed, “not a will.” With an air of charity, he amended: “But if you prefer a witness – by all means.”

As Zech turned away the wine, Darius poured himself a glass from his own bottle, a wickedly good expensive one that was his own little celebratory drink for what he thought would be a job well done.

"Oh.. of.. course! Certainly then.." He looked at the papers, wishing he'd been able to make heads or tails out of it. He held the paper about to pass it over and looked at the other man curiously. He decided not to risk their congeniality by questioning if he was on his side. He had been willing to do this, what could go wrong? Darius laughed weakly and pushed the papers over towards him. "Here.. by the way.. I have been talking to Mot-I mean.. Mrs. Carrington. Do you think we can get the fortune faster if.. My father... becomes a danger and he must be placed somewhere for his and our safety?"

There was a brief hike of his brows at Darius’ own mother’s suggestions.

‘Your family is terrible,’ Zechariah wanted to say. ‘Every, single, last one of you is rotten to the core! Your eldest was a murderer, you are a death-obsessed backstabber, your mother is a gold digger, and the whole lot of you make my least favorite brother look like a misunderstood angel!’

But he refrained. God, it was good to be better than someone else! Instead, he reached for the wine that had just been put aside and poured himself a hearty one. He allowed his eyes to lust for Darius’ drink only momentarily.

“Tell me more about this danger,” Zechariah said.

He washed his mouth with kosher wine. It was going to be a long Yom Kippur.

Darius noticed the brow raise and was clearly clueless but continued as he asked. "She is frightened of my father and thinks he isn't at his best after Magnus died. I think he has been violent? I am not certain of the details. It is merely a question, if things were to.. " he frowned as there was a lot that went on in the house he was sure of but not completely aware in the details. "Escalate and it become public, I think mother's health will deteriorate from the shame after what's happened already."

Zechariah frowned when he mentioned her fear. At first, he had figured it was a pretense. (He had not yet outright dismissed that, much as he wanted to.) He sipped slowly, but took another long drag of drink.

“You think he has been violent?” Zechariah clarified. “Document all known incidents thoroughly, as soon as they happen. Times, dates, what was said, what was done, impact the incidents had.”

The glass was already empty, and Zechariah eyed the bottom of it as though it were a personal offense.

“Your father is grieving,” he continued neutrally. “As are you and your mother.”

That was more of a suggestion than a fact. Zechariah poured another round for himself.

“How does your father regard you, Mr. Carrington?”

Why did he suspect ‘not well’?