the moment i knew || lysander

[nixon mason grey]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 440px; height: 600px; background-image: url(http://i47.tinypic.com/2usk17s.jpg); -moz-border-radius: 250px; border-radius:100px 100px 100px 100px; border: 3px solid #ffffff;] i don't know you at all His eyes stared unseeing at the newspaper in front of him, the cold, hard steel emotionless and distant. He felt like this had ruined him. His mother's actions had gone one step too far and he didn't know how he could possibly fix the disaster she had created. The headlines were all about the Grey family outburst at the charity event for the orphanages last night. Nixon hadn't thought that there were cameras around, however he had been so caught up in the anger that the despicable woman had made him feel that he hadn't been paying attention to much. He had been determined to keep himself under control, to keep himself from striking the one woman he would ever truly hit in his life. While he believed that nothing warranted laying a hand on a woman in that fashion, he had been two seconds away from doing just that until he had reorganized himself and had her removed from the event. He knew there would be repercussions. He didn't know that they would be this mad. The press was reporting that Nixon was unfit to control the immense wealth of the Grey family business. Grey Enterprises was going to go under soon. That's what everyone kept saying around him as they all looked at the newspapers. Nixon didn't know what to think, he didn't even know what to say to himself to make him feel better. He felt like he was watching his life outside of it, like he was viewing a movie. Pulling at the brim of his black baseball cap, he sighed softly, his eyes guiding to the picture that was displayed across the front page for all of the world to see. His mother, looking devilish and insane in her black gown, her flying at all angles from the force of the slap she was going to hit him with. And there he was, his figure obviously standing in front of someone. The press had cut Scout out of the picture and he was thankful for it. He didn't want her involved in this scandal. A part of him already felt like she was in over her head and he didn't know how to fix that. Closing his eyes momentarily, he shook his head and then looked around carefully, not wanting to call attention to himself in the small cafe he had pulled himself into. As the blonde server gave him the cup of coffee he had been waiting for, Nixon thanked her and tipped her, pushing himself up from the door with his coffee in hand and his newspaper under his arm. He was going to the harbor. It was a place that he had always escaped to in the past and that wasn't about to change now. Pulling up the collar of his black jacket with his free hand, he placed his aviator sunglasses on and was soon on his way in his disguise. He looked like an every day commuter, walking to his job. Except it was Sunday. He had woken up earlier, before Scout, which was unlike him. Leaving her a note asking her to text him if she wanted to, telling her he had some business to take care of. But this business was not something that he could take care of himself. He took a long sip of his black coffee, pleased as it warmed him inside and out. He needed to think about how he was going to take care of this problem, and quickly, before his reputation suffered even more. Right now they believed him incapable. He was going to lose clients. Furrowing his brow, Nixon tried piecing through the variables of the problem, trying to put them in a recognizable, solvable order. This was not happening. Grumbling to himself, the young billionaire made his way to the harbor. Reaching it, he bee lined it straight to his usual place. The railing was perfect for him to lean against and read the paper since it was wider. Nixon bent slightly, placing his cup of coffee on the ground at his feet and pulled the paper back out. So far he had been stuck on the article on the front page, not even bothering to flip through the rest of the paper. But as he flipped the page, his heart stopped. There was Scout, kneeling beside him as he was doubled over, trying desperately to catch his breath as he experienced one of the first panic attacks. "You have got to be bloody kidding me." He said aloud to no one in particular. This scandal was going to break him. there can be only one mikey! of caution 2.0

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[LYSANDER NIKOLAUS GREY]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,padding-left:5px; padding-top:5px; padding-right:5px; padding-bottom:5px; background-color: #575757; border-radius: 100px 0px 100px 0px;] I'D LET YOU BE "if you put down your blazing gun" He didn't need a day off. On the contrary, he preferred working to standing around doing nothing. This explained why he was out in the harbor before most people woke up on a Sunday morning. He was anxious, and he wished the clinic wasn't closed on weekends so he could just work all the time. He wasn't a workaholic exactly, more like he enjoyed avoiding the areas of town where he could possibly run into his half-brother. Although he'd never admit it (because that meant the man affected him at all), Lysander detested meetings with Nixon. They always ended badly, thanks to his half-brother's affinity for the dramatic, and he wasn't in the mood for it. He'd already been on edge the other night when his coworkers had forced him to go to that Upscale bar where he'd known Nixon had held his birthday party only a month earlier. He'd seen it all over the papers (since he obviously wasn't invited), and he remembered the date even if he tried not to: it was almost exactly a month after his own. Yes, Lysander Grey was the eldest of the Grey boys, although no one knew this. Lydia Grey made sure to keep it well under the radar of the papers that loved to write prolifically about her prized show horse of a son. In her eyes, Nixon was the only acceptable Grey heir, and Lysander was an unhappy consequence of her husband's indiscretions. She would prefer Lysander have died instead of his mother so she didn't have to deal with the shame of having a stepson, not to mention a stepson who was technically the heir to her husband's enormous inheritance. When she'd found out about Teller contacting him months before his death, she'd flown into an alcoholic rage and gone sober for two months in order to weasel Nixon into the driver's seat of the inheritance. Lysander didn't fight her. He wanted none of it anyway. He'd grown up as the black sheep to the family, and he didn't want a part of them. They were all over the newspapers and magazines, and he wanted none of that. He lived his peaceful little life as a veterinarian, and that made him content. He didn't have a life in the spotlight, and he made plenty of money to keep him well-fed and a roof over his head. That was all that mattered whether his spoiled younger brother was aware of that or not. He'd noticed a few stories about his notorious brother popping up recently, but he'd mostly ignored them. There was the extravagant affair of his birthday (much more over-the-top than Lysander's simple get-together with a few friends from work) and the gossip columns loved dishing about how Nixon had left early from his own party. It didn't surprise Lysander. No doubt his brother was screwing yet another woman. He was mildly surprised the man didn't have some sort of incurable illness by now. He was as bad keeping it in his pants as a rockstar. He openly disapproved of Nixon's wayward ways for he'd been raised to believe women deserved more respect than he believed Nixon showed them. Since he hadn't faced the lovelessness of the Grey parents' marriage, Ly had grown up in the loving care of his nannies and caregivers, and he'd accepted them as his true family. Even now, he sent birthday cards and flowers to the nannies and maids who had raised him. They were much more important to him than the cash flow his father had sent every month to pay for the expensive estate where he'd cloistered his son to keep him out of the public eye. His old butler had been more of a father to him than Teller Grey ever had been. He pulled off his leather gloves as he brought his gunmetal-gray Suzuki motorcycle to a stop in the parallel parking horizontal to the harbor. The engine purred eagerly as he shut it off, and he climbed from the bike, removing his helmet and strapping it securely to the bike. Reaching over his back, he pulled the newspaper from the knapsack slung onto his back. Now that he was in the sun, he found he was a bit warm, so he unzipped the riding jacket down his chest and took a deep breath as he unfurled the newspaper. The polarized Oakley sunglasses he wore covered his face as he rolled his eyes dramatically at the large picture of Lydia and Nixon on the front page. Leave it to this small city to post something about them on the cover of the magazine. He wanted some real news, not some bullshit about a family he tried to ignore. Unfortunately, even as he tried to flip past the story, it assaulted him again on the second page, and he recognized Nixon kneeling with a beautiful blond beside him. Blondes had always been Nixon's thing, and not his, but he wondered about this girl. He could almost say she looked familiar somehow, but he didn't know how he could know her outside of the stories about Nixon and his new fling. Apparently, this one had stuck around longer than two hours, and that surprised him. Usually Nixon screwed them and moved on. It wasn't hard to figure him out, really. Lysander didn't understand why women were so snowed by him. As he examined the picture of his half-brother and the blond, his eyes caught a blurp of the article beneath. ...incapable of following in his father's footsteps, and succinctly driving Grey Enterprises into the ground, Nixon Grey seemed on the verge of breakdown yesterday evening when he fled the 'Save the Orphans' gala early with Scout McAllister in tow. While it's not unusual to see these two linked together as of late, we wonder if Ms. Lydia Grey was correct when she labeled the girl as another 'hussy'. It seems Mr. Grey has found concentrating difficult since the mysterious arrival of Miss McAllister in his life. Could she be the reason for his fall from grace? The boy needs to get his head out of the sand and resuscitate the Grey family name... Lysander didn't need to read more. He disliked Nixon, but he sympathized with him. If nothing else, he felt pity for the golden boy. Lysander had always been the black sheep, he was used to it. Nixon had always been his mother's idol, her tool to push into the lights and earn herself fame and fortune. They couldn't be less alike. Nixon was tall with coppery blond hair and devastating good looks. Lysander could be described as nothing more than 'cute' with his shorter stature and brown hair. The only features they shared were the looks they earned from their father, and he tried to ignore those whenever possible. He disliked being linked to the other Grey any more than necessary. Crushing the paper in his hands, he shook his head and looked out over the harbor. Suddenly, a familiar voice - regrettably similar to his own with its British lilt - caught his ear, and he turned hastily to realize Nixon was only yards away from him. Shit, he cursed inwardly. The last thing he wanted was a confrontation in the street with his half-brother. He could tell by the look on Nixon's face that he was heated by the same article Lysander had just been viewing. He hated his precious image being tarnished. Unfortunately, he had wandered far enough that Nixon stood between him and his only escape: his motorcycle. "Bloody hell," he murmured irritably, stuffing the used newspaper into a nearby rubbish bin and trying to blend in with the crowd as Nixon neared him. If he would just move on by, Lysander could escape without ever being noticed. Tags: Nixon | Words: 1294 | Credit: 156zcm of Caution Notes: In their own line

[nixon mason grey]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 440px; height: 600px; background-image: url(http://i47.tinypic.com/2usk17s.jpg); -moz-border-radius: 250px; border-radius:100px 100px 100px 100px; border: 3px solid #ffffff;] i don't know you at all Nixon's fear now turned to his criminal activity. He knew what these kinds of headlines meant. It meant that the paparazzi were going to be sneaking around his life a lot more often. Sighing quietly to himself as he leaned out over the edge of the water with the railing as his support, he furrowed his brow. He had promised Scout that he would leave the criminal world. Affording his lifestyle was no longer a problem because Grey Enterprises was booming. That's why he didn't understand the words of the newspaper. Where were they getting their information from? What were their sources? His eyes narrowed as he stared down at the words he had been reading over and over again. The young Nixon Grey, no longer the playboy bachelor (sorry ladies) has been put under the spotlight since last night events. It seems the boy is letting the stress of a new relationship get the best of him, or is it because mommy's on the fritz? This golden family seems to be turning mediocre at best. Hopefully they can figure out their little scandal before things really get out of control. What will Lydia Grey do next?" Lydia Grey was going to rehab, that's what she was doing next. Gritting his teeth as he reread the biting headlines and words that soiled his name, he reached into his pocket for his cellphone. Sliding his thumb across the screen, he unlocked it quickly and dialed the familiar number to one of his most trusted men. Hearing the man's gruff voice answer, Nixon spoke quietly, a sign that he was furious but keeping it under control, for now. "Samson." His tone was clipped, but it didn't hold any malice towards his faithful employee. Samson could be one of those special individuals that had Nixon's trust. Trust was really too strong of a word for it too, but he did have faith in the man to get the job done. "I need you to do something for me, and I need it to be done in silence. It seems my mother is unfit to be seen in the public eye. I need her in rehab, out of this state, by the end of the day today. Handle it." Hearing his employee agree to the demands, he hung up the phone but still did not yet feel satisfied. The damage control that was going to have to be done in order to salvage his reputation was going to have to be monumental. But, as he studied the picture of Scout and him, his heart changed tune immediately. The damage control that he was going to have to do in order to save Scout's reputation was going to be monumental. His mouth hardened in a thin line as he stared at the picture, and he wished that there was something he could do to keep her from seeing this. But if it was in the newspaper, it was going to be on television. And he knew Scout watched the news. Sighing, he suddenly balled up the newspaper, not wanting to see anymore of the blasphemous rumors that didn't have any truth behind them. Scout was not a hussy, as the newspaper blatantly stated. She was not a fling, she was not after him for his money. He knew all of this. All that mattered was that he knew the truth. He just wished she would think the same thing. Shaking his head, he turned to find a rubbish bin, but couldn't find one near him. This harbor needed more of them, obviously. Pushing himself up from leaning against the railing, he started off in the direction of the nearest bin, which happened to be in the vicinity of his older brother, Lysander. Not even seeing anyone in front of his line of vision, he walked forward, his stride not nearly as quick and purposeful as it normally was. He looked rather dejected, looked rather defeated. His defeat was not from his reputation being slandered. He was in the spotlight, he was used to that kind of thing. It came with the territory. But he was too preoccupied with how Scout was going to handle this. So preoccupied was he that he smacked into something rather solid. Stumbling sideways in what could be considered a fog like trance, Nixon threw his hand out to catch the arm of the individual he had crashed into, which was definitely not like him. Normally he would carry on over how obtuse and unintelligent the 'offender' was. But he simply wasn't in the mood. "Apologies, mate." Nixon muttered almost inaudibly, not speaking like himself at all. Once he was sure the person he had run into was settled, Nixon finally brought his face upwards, his eyes still shaded by the aviators, his face still hidden in a shadow created by the brim of his baseball cap. Recognizing his brother, he stood frozen for a moment, his eyes slightly wide. It wasn't unnatural to see Lysander around here, but this wasn't what he needed to day. He didn't have the want for a fight, he didn't have the spirit for a fight. He had been absolutely crushed last night because of the events, and even the after events at Scout's apartment could do nothing to erase the memories from his soiled mind. As he remembered his mother's hand coming up to slap him, he was instantly aware of the light bruise it had left there. And his bruises from the police station had just finished healing too. Sighing, he just nodded his head politely. "Ya alright Lysander? Sorry again. Didn't see you." there can be only one mikey! of caution 2.0

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[LYSANDER NIKOLAUS GREY]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,padding-left:5px; padding-top:5px; padding-right:5px; padding-bottom:5px; background-color: #575757; border-radius: 100px 0px 100px 0px;] I'D LET YOU BE "if you put down your blazing gun" As he watched Nixon, hoping beyond hope he would simply pass by, he noticed an inexplicable change come over the other man. He'd never seen Nixon look this way before. He'd only ever seen him look down his nose at his bastard brother. But this version of him looked hurt and conflicted, wounded even. It was disarming, and Lysander wanted to disappear even more than before. He didn't understand this version of his half-brother, and he was certain he didn't want to. Nixon was always nothing but trouble. He'd done his best throughout their lives to make his life a living hell, and Lysander expected no different out of him now. Deciding he wasn't going to stand around any longer in hopes that Nixon would completely miss him, he turned and started back toward his bike. Suddenly, Nixon slammed into his back, throwing him off balance. Stumbling awkwardly (which was not his style), he caught himself just as his brother's arm snaked out and grabbed his elbow. He froze, afraid he may get punched, and tensed instantly out of instinct. Recovering his wits, he pulled his arm from Nixon's grasp and stepped away from him, straightening his jacket and readjusting his sunglasses on his nose. He was far less recognizable than Nixon, but people had already begun to gather to see the altercation. Even in his disguise, the golden boy got attention. Besides the fact that, if Lysander was remembering correctly, Nixon had been photographed in nearly this same place only weeks before with his blond girlfriend. Of course people still lingered to get a chance spotting of the amazing and powerful Nixon Grey. The leeches in this town disgusted him. Nixon's words threw him off completely as he apologized for running into him. Surely he didn't realize who he'd bumped into. This was not like the younger Grey at all, and it threw Ly for a loop. He was accustomed to defending himself around the 'official' Greys, not accepting their apologies for wrongdoings. He didn't have enough time in his day to sit and listen to all of the apologies they owed him actually. Finally, his brother looked up, and Lysander shook his head inwardly. The sunglasses and ball cap combo really weren't working out to shield him at all. It was obvious who he was. Surely he should have figured that out by now. The glasses and hat did serve to hide his facial expression, however, and the slight twitch of his lips did nothing to tell Lysander if he was sneering or surprised. He was thankful for his own reflective sunglasses so Nixon couldn't see his eyes. He was glaring daggers at him from behind the safety of his glasses, and that was rude even if he did despise the man who shared half of his blood. He was suddenly apologizing again, and Lysander took another step away from him. Who was this twisted, nice version of a man he'd known his entire life to be cold and ruthless? If either of them had followed in their father's footsteps, it was Nixon. In Lysander's opinion, he looked more like Teller, and he certainly acted more like him. He was notorious for having no heart, and Lysander could attest firsthand that he was a soulless wretch. But this version of him was something the brunette had never seen. Although his face was partially hidden, his body language communicated the weight on his shoulders. He briefly wondered where the blond was, but after the article in the newspaper perhaps the girl had gotten enough sense in her head to dump Nixon's sorry ass. "I'm sure you didn't," Lysander remarked offhandedly, shrugging his shoulders. His instinctively caring nature urged him to ask what was wrong, but his years of experience with the steel wall of Nixon Grey convinced him otherwise. Besides, did he really want to know what was wrong? Did he want to be pulled into whatever drama his brother had going on now? No. He didn't. He had no desire to get warped into that world. He was content in his little bubble of normalcy. Although he disliked Nixon, for good reason, he wasn't heartless. He couldn't rub salt in the wound although his human nature urged him to mention something about the front page slap from Lydia or the notable absence of his hussy girlfriend. But Lysander was not a petty man. So he kept those debased comments to himself and began to turn to leave. Unfortunately, his conscience wouldn't allow him to do so. Nixon had no friends; he knew this. He'd never been one to make friends, and if he did, he didn't keep them long. He pushed people away, keeping them at arm's length. He'd ostracized his own brother and his mother only wanted him for the money and potential offspring he could give her. Lysander was thankful he'd dodged that bullet. Needless to say, he knew Nixon was alone, and he looked upset. Although he'd been forced to endure literal years of torment from his half-brother's hatred, he couldn't find it in him to just walk away. Sighing audibly, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his dark denim jeans and his shoulders slumped visibly. He was Nixon's older brother after all, even if only by a month. Knowing he was facing the potential wrath of the younger Grey by offering his concern, he watched Nixon's face carefully as he spoke. "You look like someone ran over your cat," he remarked gingerly. Tags: Nixon | Words: 912 | Credit: 156zcm of Caution Notes: lysander = confused puppy