Isaac seethed, wanting to punch Oliver out. He knew the others in this place wouldn’t let him do that, but god, he wanted to. And when his boss arrived, Dillon’s presence also put a damper on the impulse.
He didn’t want to listen to reason. He didn’t want to hear their excuses. Oliver’s fuck up was of monumental proportions. There was no coming back from it, despite their lousy attempts to put an optimistic spin on this clusterfuck.
He wanted to scream with frustration.
When he wasn’t busy snarling at Oliver, he still managed to watch these asshats. He didn’t trust them not to arrest him. Or Dillon. He caught a glimpse of that adorable little Water witch he’d seen the night Phoebe’s magic exploded. She even intervened on Oliver’s behalf.
Despite his anger and disgust, Isaac tensed when that big blonde Handler steered the little witch from the room. He noticed that something about her Handler was bothering her.
The Director’s husband arrived in a rush and immediately went to Oliver, clearly worried about the damn Tame, as if he was made of glass and sugar, as if he wasn’t the one that just ended the case against Kipling with his stupid ineptitude and ham-handed handling of it. The three talked for a few minutes, both of them soothing Oliver, who looked sick. Fucking Tame should be sick at what he’d done.
Isaac shook his head, glaring at Oliver, where Phoebe was quietly talking to him now, along with that towering blonde Paul Bunyan the Director was married to. Dillon continued to harangue Isaac like the pesky father-figure he was.
And then the little witch’s Handler was back and hurrying over to Nico’s group. Isaac scowled. The man was voicing some harsh but quiet words over there. He glanced at the little witch, who shot Isaac a look of panic.
Isaac strode over to them, heard the last few bits of conversation. And he shot that shit down in a hurry. He couldn’t let it go with that, though, so he finished up with, “so you can shove your arrest-happy hands up your collective asses,” he finished.
The Handler went red.
Oliver rolled his sorrowful eyes, the little witch slapped her hands over her mouth, Phoebe grinned, Nico snorted, and Dillon, who’d followed, sighed in exasperation and hissed in his ear, “what are you, twelve?”