Author's note:

A quick note on what this story is and isn't. It's non-con in that the character did not, and would not, choose this for himself (and there is a violent backstory). It's not violent sex. Overall there is very little violence on screen but a lot implied. If you've read any of my other stories, those were fluffy, this is not.

I wrote a scene between Caldwell and Cillian about ten years ago, it was meant to be a oneshot, but then people said 'can't wait to see what happens' and it got away from me, as it does. So now, finally, here's what happens. The oneshot is set about two years before this story takes place and if you'd like to read it you can find it here:
https://original.adult-fanfiction.org/story.php?no=600107124
It gives some insight and backstory. It's not required reading in order to understand this story here though ;)

This story means a lot to me and it took a long time to bring it to life. I hope you enjoy. Happy End, I promise.

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Patricide

It was a bland, lifeless warehouse that old Reynolds was going to die in; not old, not new, just steel beams and concrete walls. Stacks of crates and bales that obviously nobody had looked at in a while, dust dancing in the light filtering in from above. It was quiet, barely a sound except two sets of footsteps and a train rattling by in the distance.

Nicolas felt almost a little excited. By tonight, his victory would be complete; over the boy and his father both.

A door opened and fell shut again, somewhere at the other end of this cluttered space. Slow footsteps behind a row of shelves, twelve feet high. The young man in front of Nicolas stiff, with his back very straight and his head held high; and Nicolas withdrew into the shadows, leaned against a shelf a little ways away. They were as ready as they’d ever be.

Silence when Reynolds finally stepped out into the light. And boy, had he gotten old; his face lined and sagging, the light from above doing him no favors. Nicolas had stopped doing business with the man once he’d had what he wanted; Reynolds really didn’t do or have much that he was interested in; and hadn’t seen him much in years. And neither had his son.

"Cillian,” the old man said, and his voice was scratchy.

"That’s not my name anymore.” The boy’s own voice was younger than his father’s, a little higher, but it was flat and firm, entirely unmoved. Nicolas felt proud. He’d done that, he felt; yes, the boy had learned well, but it had been Nicolas teaching him, thoroughly and relentlessly.

Reynolds shrugged. He looked helpless. He’d never been much of an opponent, and in Nicolas’ eyes wouldn’t have been worth dealing with if not for his son, but he looked even worse now. Older. Weaker. Broken. "It is to me,” he said. "It’s the name we gave you.”

His son huffed. "That’s precisely why I don’t want it anymore.”

The old man rubbed his face. "Listen,” he said. "Let’s not- let’s start over, okay. This isn’t a good start.”

"Start to what,” Cillian hissed. "You think we’re going to reconnect and be a happy family? After what you did? This is no start to anything.”

"What I did? That I sent you to be Nicolas’ apprentice?” Reynolds waved a hand at his son, at the smart suit and tight haircut, and his blank, handsome face. "Look at you! Look what he’s made of you!”

Nicolas could only see part of the boy’s face, his boy now, his to break and mold for the last eight years; but there was a little sneer on it, a bitter little curl of his mouth.

"Is that what you tell yourself?”

"I-”

"Is that what you told Mom? That that was your decision, and not your complete idiocy? He told me what happened, Mr. Reynolds, and that’s not it.”

Nicolas bit down on a little grin. Mr. Reynolds; it wasn’t the first time Cillian had called his father that. Amused Nicolas every time.

"Did you tell her I was his apprentice,” the boy cut in before Reynolds could answer; "-and yourself that she doesn’t know better? Is that how you sleep at night?”

"Well, d-”

"Do you pretend not to know what he did to me?”

Nicolas pursed his lips, unseen by either of them. Of course that was the base of all the boy’s anger towards his father; what the man had allowed Nicolas to do. So it was to be expected that that would come up. But he couldn’t allow it to shift to where Cillian was angry at him instead; not that it was too likely, because his grip on the boy was pretty good these days; but still he had to be alert and intervene if necessary. Direct Cillian’s anger back to where he wanted it.

"Oh, I learned a lot,” the boy sneered. "Yes. Sure. The first thing I learned was to suck his cock.”

At that point Nicolas almost spoke up. But the look on old Reynolds’ face, of horror and disgust and maybe guilt, was just too good, and so he didn’t; settled deeper into his corner and crossed his arms.

Cillian suddenly had a gun in his hand, slender like himself, dark like his suit. "Don’t tell me,” he snapped, "-that you didn’t know that. Don’t tell me you thought he needed a twenty four hour accountant.” The gun trembled, maybe. Just slightly.

A lot of emotion pent up, Nicolas thought. Emotion about to take over, and he’d spent a lot of time teaching the boy not to let that happen; to keep his voice steady and his face blank no matter what was happening to him or around him. But of course this here was his father, that was different. A deep sense of betrayal, fully justified. And it was exactly what Nicolas had brought him here for.

"You know what else he taught me?” the boy said, his voice shaking with contempt. "How to use a gun.”

And he did. 

After a moment, as the dust started to settle again on the silent form of former Mr. Reynolds, Nicolas decided to step out and join the scene. Not too quietly, because he didn’t want to startle the boy; he wanted to create an air that they were comfortable with each other and didn’t have a need to be quiet. So he put a hand on Cillian’s shoulder, beyond satisfied with how this had gone.

"Do you need a moment to yourself?” he said and kept his voice low, hopefully a little warm, something that Cillian would put trust in.  Smiled when the other looked up. Subtly nudged him away from the body of his father, led him towards the door, out into the golden sunshine of the afternoon.

"Yeah, maybe,” Cillian muttered.

Nicolas nodded. He was generous with the boy’s freedoms nowadays, felt confident that he could, because Cillian had become so attached to him. Because for so long, there hadn’t been anyone else, and Nicolas had made sure it stayed that way. "Take your time,” he said and squeezed that slim shoulder a little. "I’ll see you later tonight.”

Cillian nodded. Straightened his jacket, the gun completely invisible again. "Thanks.”

"No problem,” Nicolas said and meant it, because this boy had proved himself to be his, utterly and completely; was his apprentice, yes, and by now his right hand man. And always, also, his little whore.