The Season Six Job, Chapter 35
Title: The Season Six Job
Characters: Nate Ford, Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison, Parker, Sophie Deveraux, Patrick Bonnano, OC
Fandom: Leverage
Spoilers: None - takes place before Season 4 finale, they're still in Boston
Warnings: None for now. No network presidents were harmed during the writing of this fic.
Disclaimer: I do not own blah blah blah
banner for chapter 35
Chapter 35
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Eliot recognized the Type 81 Light machine gun. One hundred twenty bullets in a minute, sustained fire.
The shooter was on the roof or in a building across the street, maybe the same place where Moreau’s man from shot the year before. That one failed. This one would likely succeed. He had a silencer, the gun sounded no louder than a small drill. The loud music from the car below them covered the shattering of blinds and glass. No one would see anything. Nor hear anything. No police, no help. He could shoot for hours.
Over one hundred bullets per minute. The shooter didn’t need hours to kill them.
He felt the bullets thrusting into the sofa - his back was against it - and he heard the screeching of the split wood in it. He kept Florence low on the floor on his left side, shielding her from the glass and splinters of the destroyed wooden walls. His heart was louder than the blasts around them.
He searched everything around him, trying to - “Parker, stay down!” he caught her attempt to move - she was in the worst position, on the kitchen floor, in the kitchen that was completely open to the windows, the counter upright was the only barrier between her and certain death. Yet only she had a small chance to escape. He waited, and waited, counting seconds, counting bullets - breathe slower - until sudden silence fell over them.
“Don’t move, Parker!” he warned her. Florence raised her head - her eyes were glazed with panic.
One second of silence. Two seconds. Three seco - the bullets started again, whistling all around them.
Good. Seventy five bullets in a round magazine. One second to remove the empty one, one second to put the full one in the gun, and the third to take aim. Parker would make it. She was quick, even now - he had to trust it. He needed to trust it.
“Parker, you have one second to jump over the counter towards main door. One second to reach and open it, and maybe one second to dive into the corridor and run. Can you do that?”
“I’m not leav-” she cried, but he couldn’t listen.
He erased all the force from his voice. “You have to. Get ready, darlin’.” Two heartbeats per second, the magazine was getting empty. Feathers from the torn pillows flew directly into his face, almost blinding him. Thinking clearly in the pounding all around them was almost impossible, yet he clung to the numbers, to the seconds that flew by faster and faster. If he missed just one, he would kill her, not the shooter. Again. “You have to go,” his voice quavered for a moment. “He’ll stop shooting again. In fifteen seconds, tops. Get ready to jump. Go for help.”
Florence looked bewildered; she looked at the kitchen, then again at him, and her flickering fear shot through him. She realized he was sending Parker directly into the path of the bullets.
He closed his eyes to not see it. Counting.
In the last ten seconds he opened his eyes and stopped breathing, watching Parker who crouched, tensed like a spring. Their eyes met - hers burning with anger, terrified. He smiled. You can do it, darlin’.
“Now!” he yelled when he heard - no, when he sensed - the first millisecond of pause. She sprang up.
One second; her arms grabbed the counter, and her body flew in a perfect flip over it.
Two seconds; she landed, her weaker leg gave out, she stumbled - his heart exploded - but she leaped forward using the motion of her jump.
The third second - a burst followed her, going from left to right, at chest height - but she dived down when her hand reached the knob, and slid under the bullets.
She rolled into the corridor, disappearing from his sight.
He managed to breathe again.
The angry wasps wailed toward them again - Florence curled up on the floor, covering her ears, but the shooter lowered his aim, too. Bullets ricocheted too close now.
Priorities, Spencer, priorities. Lowering the number of victims, the only chance for that had already been used. The two of them were too far away from the door, pinned in the middle of the room. Second, to find any means to contact help. His earbud, when he dug it out of his pocket, was dead. His laptop with the comm feeds, thrown on the chair, sparked and smoked, hit by numerous bullets. His phone was on his bed, way out of reach.
“Florence, your phone?”
No reply, she shook her head. She straightened herself up a little, glancing wildly around her, at the chaos that was crashing around them. Fuck, she was seconds from freaking out, and if she jumped up and tried to run for a phone or-
A small, scared meow came from somewhere behind them and she twitched, whirling around. He flashed his hand, caught her at the last moment before her head rose over the sofa. It wasn’t the time to think about appropriate moves - he pulled her down and close, wrapped her tight with his arms, immobilizing her as much as protecting her. His back was against the sofa, he was one more barrier between her and the windows.
“Stop fighting and just breathe!” There wasn’t any way to say it calmly; his voice came out as raspy, restrained whisper. “I need you to think!”
“To think?!” she cried. “We have to get out! It’s-”
He tightened his arms around her. “Calm down! Count the bullets, Flo.”
“What?!”
“Count the bullets.”
Or the feathers that covered them, or the shards of the screens that shattered all around, anything, just to keep her mind out of a panic whirlpool. He counted the seconds - one more pause while the shooter exchanged magazines passed. He needed at least two of them before any move.
He knew what to do - the only problem was that it was impossible.
“Remember what I told ya about refusing to lose? The only way to win?” he went on, this time louder, when she didn’t respond. Maybe she was really counting. “We’re gonna practice that now, okay? Just that.”
“I can’t-I won’t - stop that, that won’t get us out of here, we have to do som-” One shot tore the end of the armrest, showering more shards on them and she screamed; one shard cut her sleeve, leaving a long gash. He spit a curse and held her closer. She stopped fighting, curled herself into a small, sobbing ball in his arms.
It was a good thing she didn’t notice the bullet coming through the sofa mere inches from his elbow; it was just a matter of time before others followed, finding weak spots in the wood. He felt every hit - the bullets gnawed the wood behind his back. If shooter stopped spraying them from all around, trying to kill them with ricochets, and just directed all of them into the sofa, they were done.
And he had to fucking wait. This was a fight or flight situation, and he couldn’t do either, and his heart was hammering, and fear and rage raced up and down his spine, and - he shook his head to get rid of the feathers on his face and hair. But mostly to put his mind in some sort of order. There weren’t gunshot sounds, and no gunpowder smell, and for now no flashbacks hit him, but he couldn’t know how long it would last. The last thing they needed now was a panic attack, disorientation, or even a blackout. He tried to breathe slower. Useless.
Stress levels, right. If he blinked harder, his head would explode.
It was a fucking huge room, and they were in the middle of it. Ten meters to the main door. Hopeless. At least seven meters in the opposite direction, behind their backs, to the only relatively safe spot, under the windows from where the bullets came. If they reached that wall, the bullets would go over their heads.
Impossible, in only two and a half seconds. And he had to do it. It was the only way to live through this.
Well, he had told her before that hopeless and impossible were the same shit, that both didn’t exist. It was all in the head, in the circumstances and conditions.
One more pause. The bullets after this silence went all into the same spot, into the solid wall, many of them returning to them. He felt one go through his hair, a white heat that whipped too close.
He tried to reach the laptop on the chair that still stood up, though torn and sliced with bullets; it was smoking, but if there was any chance - nope. Three bullets followed his move, finding his arm when he reached out of sofa’s cover. The laptop flew away, hit again. He pulled the hand back, cursing, eyes full of plastic and wooden pieces that burst into his face.
Florence wasn’t Parker, able to react in a second, faster than a shot arrow. The shaking woman in shock couldn’t react in a millisecond as the thief did- she would stand up, and the third second would end with her first step.
Seven meters. Seven fucking meters between life and death. If he was alone, he could make it. If he dragged her with him, they would need more than five seconds - both dead. If he carried her, even worse - much slower. There was only one way.
He took one deep, deep breath, and prepared himself.
“Florence.” He opened his arms, pushing her away to arm's length, forcing her to uncurl and straighten up a little; her face was frozen, but thank god, her eyes were bright, not blurred with panic and shock. “We’ll do something. Do you trust me?”
She wiped the tears off her face, took one shaky breath, and nodded. And smiled - a small, scared-to-death-but-acting-brave smile. The smile that showed a dimple on her cheek but brought even more tears to her eyes.
It took his breath away.
No. There weren’t impossible things.
“W-what must I do?” she whispered, he barely heard her over the whistling and thundering of the bullets. He counted bullets and seconds, knowing very well that his count was just approximate.
He pushed himself up from the sofa, in a crouch, “Just don’t fight. Nothing else.”
“G-good. I was afraid you’d ask for another hurrica-”
Her word was cut off with a scream when he sprang up on his feet when silence fell - in the first damn millisecond - kicking the sofa away. He grabbed her around her waist and pulled her up, turning around.
One second.
“Don’t fight!” He gathered all the strength he had, in one violent move - he had to use both arms for this, the right one even more than the left - and he threw her over the room, flying the first few meters, then sliding and rolling on the wooden floor.
Two seconds.
The tearing agony in his chest and shoulder almost knocked him down. For a moment he was sure he'd been hit with a whole burst, and sliced through the middle, but he managed to stumble in the right direction. No, no new bullets, just fucking stitches gaped open.
He had to jump after her, but he just staggered those steps, struggling to stop a fall - third second, you idiot, you’re standing right in his line of fire, facing the window - and bullets whizzed again. But the shooter lowered his aim, following Florence’s sliding on the floor, trying to catch her before she reached the wall. That saved him. Instead of his chest, the bullets plowed the floor for two seconds. Enough time to force himself in the right direction, enough time to reach the wall between the shattered windows, into the rain of angry shards. The shooter was now smashing the lower parts of the glass. He dropped himself - fell - down the wall, and it felt like sinking.
He blindly reached for Florence, still bewildered and disorientated, but probably unharmed. Probably.
“Are you hit?” he whispered; he couldn’t breathe in, a well-known fire was melting his chest, and spots of darkness blurred his vision. She was blurry, too, and he couldn’t hear her answer.
The shooter aimed for the window frames now, catching dangerously correct angles. No time to talk. He had no idea how long he would stay conscious, and ricochets could kill her even now. Only half able to see what he was doing, he cradled her closer. His arms weren’t enough to stop bullets, but they protected her from the sharp splinters and glass that was falling on them.
The shooter would stop. His chances of killing them were very low now - he still could get lucky with ricochets, but minutes had went by and he simply couldn’t, physically, have so many magazines. He had spent nine by now. Round magazines demanded a very, very large bag.
They only had to wait a little longer. There was nothing left to do but wait.
And when he closed his eyes, everything went to hell.
He couldn’t breathe. He knew he could - it was just painful, every movement slashed through him - and he knew his lungs weren’t full of blood. But the pain brought back the memory of a dark corridor and endless falling, voices that screamed at him to stay awake, explosions and guns and mortars and dust and blood and- fuck, stop it! He forced himself to take a deep breath, biting off a scream when it pulled every raw nerve in his chest.
He was in the apartment. No corridors, no darkness. He forced himself to open his eyes, not thinking about the glass, letting the light return him to the present. The light, and the golden mess of curls on his chest.
He could feel she was crying.
Sophie was crying, too. Another blurred image attacked him. His first waking up, delirious, dying, and Sophie crying while she tried to smile at him - for a few seconds he was sucked up into the fever that burned through him - the black-haired and blond women melted into one for a moment, both with the same fear in their eyes, and that was much worse than any corridor. Different kind of pain… but both were dragging him down.
He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on her hair. Cold and silky. Avocado oil and shea butter. Sophie’s hair smelled like apples that night, and that scent had helped him to stay in the present, to not sink into delirium and dark again. This scent did the same.
He breathed, carefully, cleansing his mind of the past. Clutching at reality, at the light around them and the woman in his arms.
It would be so easy to let himself slip into unconsciousness; the dark offered rest and peace. He had no strength to open his eyes, fighting the pain and weariness that rushed in waves over him.
He just breathed, wavered on the edge of falling.
Refusing to lose.
And waited.
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***
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Florence wasn’t quite aware when exactly bullets stopped whipping everything around them; her thoughts were slurred like drunken snails.
For some time, the only sound in the strange silence was the chattering of her teeth. She was so stunned that even the thought that her sniper scenes would never be the same, just went through her mind, leaving no mark.
She was still sitting in the pool of glass. Eliot walked around. She clearly remembered how he had to loosen her fingers that were clutching his shirt like a claw. She didn’t know what he had told her, but his voice was soft and soothing, it went through the dull fear.
More time passed - probably just seconds, but to her, it seemed that hours went by. So, this is shock, she thought, feeling only slight amusement.
He was standing in front of her now, but she raised her head only when he put Orion in her arms. “Stay here. I’ll go find Parker.”
She nodded.
Orion had a cut on his paw, and he was licking it frantically. She pulled one of the bags closer and put him onto it. She should get up and start cleaning up all this glass, before he hurt himself even more.
No, you fool, you should call the police and Nate - not exactly in that order.
She didn’t want to stay here all alone, she realized, but she said nothing, knowing that he had to go. She followed him with her eyes; he had a phone and a new shirt in his hand. Good, maybe he would call Nate. But he entered the bathroom and closed the door behind him.
More tears filled her eyes, without any fucking reason, and she wiped them away angrily. She was becoming a sobbing idiot, for god’s sake. Her hands shook. She moaned in frustration, pulled up her legs and rested her forehead on her knees. Glass and feathers still fell off her hair.
She wasn’t Parker - she couldn’t stay cool in something like this. She still heard bullets thundering around her, she still cried - while the thief was probably chasing the killers up and down Boston.
The thief.
After three seconds she lifted her head from her knees and looked at the bathroom door.
If she thought that Parker might do something reckless, Eliot surely knew precisely what she was capable of. He said he would go after her - and after that he went into the bathroom? With Parker on the street, and the killer retreating from the building he shot from? That didn’t make any sense. He had a shirt in his hands, why he would go to change before… oh fuck. He must’ve been shot.
She scrambled to her feet and hurried to the closed door.
“What are you doing?!”
“I’m in the bathroom.”
“Yeah, I can see that, but what are you doi-” she bit her lip and stopped. “Open the door, now. Parker taught me how to pick simple locks. Open the door or-”
“The key is in the lock, you can’t pick-”
“- or I’ll break in by force.”
“Force? What fucking force? You’re a miniature human, you can’t slam a cupboard door. The door opens towards you, no chance to break-”
She didn’t wait for him to finish, remembering she didn’t hear the door locking, so she just turned the knob and entered. He was standing by the cupboards, thank god.
And when he turned to her, with pissed off eyes, she almost took a step back. “The fuck is wrong with you!?” This wasn’t the usual growl; this was real anger that radiated from him.
“Are you shot?” The sound came out smaller than Orion’s meow, and that pissed her off in a second.
“Nope. Get out.” He was getting unnervingly dry, and she balanced upon turning away. She did invade his privacy, after all… but she felt something was wrong, more by reading his reaction than his posture, tense, strained energy whirling inside him.
He wore a new, dark olive shirt - and there was no chance he would lose time while Parker was on the streets, unless he had to.
This time, scaring her away didn’t work.
She looked at his face, drained to a gray hue she had seen only once, after the slaughterhouse, on Lucille’s floor, and she realized he barely kept himself on his feet.
His black shirt was on the sink and she reached for it - and even before her fingers touched the blood on it, she knew what happened. He’d reached with his left hand to stop her. The right hand hung motionless.
Her breath seemed to freeze in her suddenly paralyzed throat. When he threw the gun in the parking garage, he couldn’t move from the pain that sliced him. Now he'd thrown her. Betsy’s entire speech about the dangers of tearing the stitches apart went through her mind, and she twirled around towards the door. “I’m calling Betsy,” her voice fell to a whisper.
He kicked the door with his foot and it slammed in front of her, barely missing her shoulder in passing. She slowly turned around.
Something very dark flickered in the depths of his eyes, dark and raw and feral - for a moment she was a threat, she could clearly see that. A threat to what?
“No. No Betsy. I’ll deal with this.” His face was thunderously dark, yet she realized there wasn’t even a trace of fear in her. She studied him, feeling angry tears pouring out again, without control. This day fell hard on her - every shit that happened accumulated in her heart, aching.
She wanted to scream, but controlled it. Barely. “Is it possible for you to direct Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hide to work together for a while, instead of at cross-purposes?” Surprisingly, her voice was level, until she went to wipe her tears, and stopped, looking at the blood on her hand. Her stomach ached. “Or at least,” she whispered, “hold back the one who is trying to get you killed. Because you’ll end up dead, not because of me, or mobsters, but because you’re a fucking idiot who doesn’t know when it’s time to stop.”
His eyes calmed. He regarded her thoughtfully, with a kind of attentive intensity, and it felt more alarming than his rage before. More predatory.
“Time to stop? Do you know why I told you that you shouldn’t know anything about strength?” His voice was low, and raspy, and tired. “Because the real strength is needed only when you, and your life, is coming apart. When there’s nothing left to do but be strong or die.” He paused, choosing his words. “You see,” he went on politely, “those who died… they stopped, Florence. Only thing you can’t do, when everything’s going to hell, is stop.”
He reached to the sink with his left hand, again, but not to take the shirt, but to lean on it. It seemed that merely standing was too much.
She stared at him. “So that’s it, you’ll just continue? When you don’t have to? When there’s enough time to call Betsy to see what you have done and decide what to do, when there’s enough time for hospital treatment if needed? Why?!” Her voice became a half cry, half yell, all her built up anger pouring out. “What stupid idea of honor, or strength or courage or whatever macho shit is driving you?!”
“What time do ya think we have?” he hissed. “We might not live through the next attack, and it will come. Knudsen doesn’t play on our schedule - his time is different than ours. I can’t lose any of it. He is speeding up - so must I, or we’ll die.”
“And how would calling Betsy to take care of that wound probably slow you down? You make no sense! I wish I could speak idiot so I could tell how stupid you are, in your own language!”
“We’re not talking about things that could slow me down,” he growled now. “It’s important that nothing slows Nate down. Calling Betsy would do that.”
She was stopped cold by his expression, the leaden greyness of pain and growing anger, and it took a few seconds before she got it. “You mean not telling him- you’ll let him continue with his plans, not knowing that you’re - you can’t mean-” she took a breath and choked on it. Calm down. “That’s the most absurd and stupid and reckless and- no, no way, I’ll tell him. He-”
“Florence-”
“No, you can’t go on like nothing happened, Betsy told you everything, told you how dangerous-” she stopped when he moved - for a moment she thought he would collapse, he swayed, but he put both of his hands on her shoulders and shook her. “Wha-?!” she gasped, staring at his face wearily. The lines in it were cut deeper; it must’ve been fucking painful.
His eyes locked on hers, burning with pain, fierce. “There’s no time for recovering and resting, we have to continue at this speed.” She opened her mouth to speak, but he shook his head. “No, listen. The shit has started, Nate is finally in the right mode, and I won’t risk being the reason for slowing down. Not now, it’s too dangerous. His plans have to continue as they are - I can do it. I have to do it, to finish this. When you’re a target, delaying means death.”
“You'll go down in two minutes! What can you do?! Betsy-”
“Betsy would do the same as I will do - stitch that shit up again! That’s all! Stop panicking, it only hurts, it’s only skin and some muscles, nothing more than a cut - there are layers of stitches, and the deeper ones are not torn.”
Yeah, right, only a cut - her shoulders were a solid spot that helped him keep balance, she felt the waves of trembles that went through him. He was controlling that pain with all his strength, and yet she could see how weary and drained he became in a matter of minutes. Angry tears blurred her eyes again and she blinked - the need to hit him with all her force was unbearable.
“They can’t know,” he whispered now, as if he felt he had to calm her down. “If Nate starts to adjust his actions by what I can, or can’t do, it would mess up everything. I don’t want him even to think about adjusting anything. Efficiency, Florence - that’s what we need now. Knudsen has to go down as soon as possible, or he’ll kill us.” He stopped, just watching her. “Help me.”
The words blurted out before she could stop. “You want me to help you kill yourself?! To lie to them and cover this up?” her voice rose uncontrollably. “That’s the stupidest- you can’t ask me that, how dare you- you’re so, so, so-”
“Florence, stop.”
“Stop what?! Somebody has to tell you how stupid, how reckless, how-”
“Stop.” He moved his hands and cupped her face, and she froze all the words that boiled inside her. Dear God, he was too close - all that accumulated energy engulfing her, his hands on her face warm and real.
She thrust her hands in her pockets, not trusting them to not reach for him - she wanted to kiss him so much in that moment, and her guilt, and rage and fear exploded.
“Listen to me,” he whispered, eyes locked on hers. “I can function for two days. Maybe three. I’ve set myself to finish this, and I’ll do it. But I won’t have strength for more. Two days, and we’re out of danger, and I can recover as much as all of you want. This is the best for everybody. Including me. Not stupid, not reckless. I know what I’m doing.”
It was hard not to respond to his intensity. What if he really knew what was the best for him? She faltered, and hated herself for it.
“Trust me. Again.”
And she did trust him. Maybe more than anybody else here. He never lied to her, she realized just then, almost surprised.
“I can’t lie to them,” she whispered too. “Everybody knows when I lie. Everybody knows what I think.”
“Just don’t tell them - that’s all I ask. I will lie if there’s a need for that, but…” he trailed off, his gaze softening. She felt his fingers move; he wiped a tear with his thumb. The touch was so gentle that it brought more tears to her eyes.
Her breath caught in a sob. “I’m not really crying,” she pointed out and tried to smile, without any success.
He said nothing.
Just then she realized he didn’t finish his sentence. And he wasn’t breathing. His eyes filled with strange uncertainty, flickered over her face.
Oh. It wasn’t just her.
The realization shook her. He was one second from leaning in and kissing her.
She should step back, she should say something, but she couldn’t move, fixed on his face and eyes and lips and-
“Are you going to kiss?” A voice from the door saved her - she tore her eyes from his, with effort, and took a quick step back. He did the same, she noticed, equally stressed. He was so taken aback it took him several seconds to regain his speech. “Parker,” he uttered at last, a mixture of relief and annoyance. “What. You don’t - we weren’t-”
The thief tilted her head at them. “You should,” she smiled. Oh Jesus. Florence took one more step back. Parker shrugged and went on. “Oh, by the way, I was this close to catching him, he got to his car just seconds before I arrived. I’m still slow, and I tried to sneak up on him. Mistake. But I recognized him - the guy that held a gun on you in the slaughterhouse.”
Eliot rubbed his forehead wearily, and sat on the bathtub. “Goon C,” he whispered.
If it was possible to be paler, he did it exceptionally well.
Florence took two steps back until the cupboards stopped her, not daring to look at him, nor Parker. She felt… she had no idea what she felt; anger, fear, embarrassment? Her stomach churned, and fucking tears kept rolling down her face, though she wasn’t really crying. They just poured out on their own. She hugged herself, feeling cold to the bone.
“Sit. Parker, give her a robe.” Eliot hadn't finished his sentence yet when a robe flew at her face; she wrapped herself up and sat on the toilet, numb-brained. Parker patted her on her back, but she didn’t dare look at her yet.
Eliot grabbed the phone he carried and dialed a number.
“Nate? You’re on your way? Good. Can you stop somewhere and buy an artificial light, full spectrum lamp? What? No, it’s for the cat, Orion desperately needs a small tanning bed - of course it’s for George! Stop smirking.” It was fascinating how his voice changed back into the normal, annoyed growl. Florence blinked; the tense, pained whisper from her mind was erased as if it never happened. “Oh, by the way, tell Hardison to buy new laptops, as many as he can carry - he’ll enjoy that, I’m sure. He also has to call his maintenance service for the building. No, nothing serious, just a little accident.” All three of them looked through the bathroom door at the total devastation. Now, Florence looked at Parker, exchanging a stare. Even the thief looked slightly worried, chewing on her lip. “You want me to define an accident? Well…” he paused, sighing. Florence could almost hear Nate’s patient silence. “It wasn’t just one accident. It was more, like, a thousand little flying accidents, hitting things and, well, ricocheting- okay, stop, we're all okay - just… the fridge is okay, too. Nothing happened to the fridge. Surprisingly, all the accidents missed it, have no idea how. Lucky fridge. Is that Hardison growling? Tell him to buy new screens, we’ll need them immediately. In short, we need everything, including wood paneling for the walls. Except the fridge.” He listened for several seconds, and when he spoke again, his voice changed again, to calm and serious. “Nate. Knudsen raised the stakes. The next attack won’t miss. We have to hurry.” His eyes met hers while he listened. “Yes, I can,” he said both to her and Nate. “Tonight.”
She slowly stood up and turned around, passing by Parker.
The glass crunched under her feet when she entered the living room. Suppressed shock-y shudders were still going through her and her steps were reluctant.
What the hell had she done? She observed her bloody fingers almost absently. When did someone’s blood become something that you just wipe away and continue? Her life, her world - it was tearing apart. And she had no strength for that. He was right.
She was caught up with them in this strange bubble of time and space, separated from everything, everybody; outer life felt blurred.
After the PVA ceremony, everything would be finished - they’d either be dead, or they’d succeed. The bubble would burst.
But it wasn’t just her.
She wiped her hands with the chair stuffing that hung like bowels from a dead animal. She couldn’t wipe out his face and his eyes, his hands on her face. Nor the warmth she felt inside. It wasn’t just her. She dreaded the stupid smile she felt emerging.
The first thing after the ceremony would be booking a flight to New Zealand, to Jethro.
Running away was the only option, before she ruined everything she had, before she admitted to herself how deep she cared already.
Something, somewhere deep inside her, cried. Really cried.
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Characters: Nate Ford, Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison, Parker, Sophie Deveraux, Patrick Bonnano, OC
Fandom: Leverage
Spoilers: None - takes place before Season 4 finale, they're still in Boston
Warnings: None for now. No network presidents were harmed during the writing of this fic.
Disclaimer: I do not own blah blah blah
banner for chapter 35
Chapter 35
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***
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Eliot recognized the Type 81 Light machine gun. One hundred twenty bullets in a minute, sustained fire.
The shooter was on the roof or in a building across the street, maybe the same place where Moreau’s man from shot the year before. That one failed. This one would likely succeed. He had a silencer, the gun sounded no louder than a small drill. The loud music from the car below them covered the shattering of blinds and glass. No one would see anything. Nor hear anything. No police, no help. He could shoot for hours.
Over one hundred bullets per minute. The shooter didn’t need hours to kill them.
He felt the bullets thrusting into the sofa - his back was against it - and he heard the screeching of the split wood in it. He kept Florence low on the floor on his left side, shielding her from the glass and splinters of the destroyed wooden walls. His heart was louder than the blasts around them.
He searched everything around him, trying to - “Parker, stay down!” he caught her attempt to move - she was in the worst position, on the kitchen floor, in the kitchen that was completely open to the windows, the counter upright was the only barrier between her and certain death. Yet only she had a small chance to escape. He waited, and waited, counting seconds, counting bullets - breathe slower - until sudden silence fell over them.
“Don’t move, Parker!” he warned her. Florence raised her head - her eyes were glazed with panic.
One second of silence. Two seconds. Three seco - the bullets started again, whistling all around them.
Good. Seventy five bullets in a round magazine. One second to remove the empty one, one second to put the full one in the gun, and the third to take aim. Parker would make it. She was quick, even now - he had to trust it. He needed to trust it.
“Parker, you have one second to jump over the counter towards main door. One second to reach and open it, and maybe one second to dive into the corridor and run. Can you do that?”
“I’m not leav-” she cried, but he couldn’t listen.
He erased all the force from his voice. “You have to. Get ready, darlin’.” Two heartbeats per second, the magazine was getting empty. Feathers from the torn pillows flew directly into his face, almost blinding him. Thinking clearly in the pounding all around them was almost impossible, yet he clung to the numbers, to the seconds that flew by faster and faster. If he missed just one, he would kill her, not the shooter. Again. “You have to go,” his voice quavered for a moment. “He’ll stop shooting again. In fifteen seconds, tops. Get ready to jump. Go for help.”
Florence looked bewildered; she looked at the kitchen, then again at him, and her flickering fear shot through him. She realized he was sending Parker directly into the path of the bullets.
He closed his eyes to not see it. Counting.
In the last ten seconds he opened his eyes and stopped breathing, watching Parker who crouched, tensed like a spring. Their eyes met - hers burning with anger, terrified. He smiled. You can do it, darlin’.
“Now!” he yelled when he heard - no, when he sensed - the first millisecond of pause. She sprang up.
One second; her arms grabbed the counter, and her body flew in a perfect flip over it.
Two seconds; she landed, her weaker leg gave out, she stumbled - his heart exploded - but she leaped forward using the motion of her jump.
The third second - a burst followed her, going from left to right, at chest height - but she dived down when her hand reached the knob, and slid under the bullets.
She rolled into the corridor, disappearing from his sight.
He managed to breathe again.
The angry wasps wailed toward them again - Florence curled up on the floor, covering her ears, but the shooter lowered his aim, too. Bullets ricocheted too close now.
Priorities, Spencer, priorities. Lowering the number of victims, the only chance for that had already been used. The two of them were too far away from the door, pinned in the middle of the room. Second, to find any means to contact help. His earbud, when he dug it out of his pocket, was dead. His laptop with the comm feeds, thrown on the chair, sparked and smoked, hit by numerous bullets. His phone was on his bed, way out of reach.
“Florence, your phone?”
No reply, she shook her head. She straightened herself up a little, glancing wildly around her, at the chaos that was crashing around them. Fuck, she was seconds from freaking out, and if she jumped up and tried to run for a phone or-
A small, scared meow came from somewhere behind them and she twitched, whirling around. He flashed his hand, caught her at the last moment before her head rose over the sofa. It wasn’t the time to think about appropriate moves - he pulled her down and close, wrapped her tight with his arms, immobilizing her as much as protecting her. His back was against the sofa, he was one more barrier between her and the windows.
“Stop fighting and just breathe!” There wasn’t any way to say it calmly; his voice came out as raspy, restrained whisper. “I need you to think!”
“To think?!” she cried. “We have to get out! It’s-”
He tightened his arms around her. “Calm down! Count the bullets, Flo.”
“What?!”
“Count the bullets.”
Or the feathers that covered them, or the shards of the screens that shattered all around, anything, just to keep her mind out of a panic whirlpool. He counted the seconds - one more pause while the shooter exchanged magazines passed. He needed at least two of them before any move.
He knew what to do - the only problem was that it was impossible.
“Remember what I told ya about refusing to lose? The only way to win?” he went on, this time louder, when she didn’t respond. Maybe she was really counting. “We’re gonna practice that now, okay? Just that.”
“I can’t-I won’t - stop that, that won’t get us out of here, we have to do som-” One shot tore the end of the armrest, showering more shards on them and she screamed; one shard cut her sleeve, leaving a long gash. He spit a curse and held her closer. She stopped fighting, curled herself into a small, sobbing ball in his arms.
It was a good thing she didn’t notice the bullet coming through the sofa mere inches from his elbow; it was just a matter of time before others followed, finding weak spots in the wood. He felt every hit - the bullets gnawed the wood behind his back. If shooter stopped spraying them from all around, trying to kill them with ricochets, and just directed all of them into the sofa, they were done.
And he had to fucking wait. This was a fight or flight situation, and he couldn’t do either, and his heart was hammering, and fear and rage raced up and down his spine, and - he shook his head to get rid of the feathers on his face and hair. But mostly to put his mind in some sort of order. There weren’t gunshot sounds, and no gunpowder smell, and for now no flashbacks hit him, but he couldn’t know how long it would last. The last thing they needed now was a panic attack, disorientation, or even a blackout. He tried to breathe slower. Useless.
Stress levels, right. If he blinked harder, his head would explode.
It was a fucking huge room, and they were in the middle of it. Ten meters to the main door. Hopeless. At least seven meters in the opposite direction, behind their backs, to the only relatively safe spot, under the windows from where the bullets came. If they reached that wall, the bullets would go over their heads.
Impossible, in only two and a half seconds. And he had to do it. It was the only way to live through this.
Well, he had told her before that hopeless and impossible were the same shit, that both didn’t exist. It was all in the head, in the circumstances and conditions.
One more pause. The bullets after this silence went all into the same spot, into the solid wall, many of them returning to them. He felt one go through his hair, a white heat that whipped too close.
He tried to reach the laptop on the chair that still stood up, though torn and sliced with bullets; it was smoking, but if there was any chance - nope. Three bullets followed his move, finding his arm when he reached out of sofa’s cover. The laptop flew away, hit again. He pulled the hand back, cursing, eyes full of plastic and wooden pieces that burst into his face.
Florence wasn’t Parker, able to react in a second, faster than a shot arrow. The shaking woman in shock couldn’t react in a millisecond as the thief did- she would stand up, and the third second would end with her first step.
Seven meters. Seven fucking meters between life and death. If he was alone, he could make it. If he dragged her with him, they would need more than five seconds - both dead. If he carried her, even worse - much slower. There was only one way.
He took one deep, deep breath, and prepared himself.
“Florence.” He opened his arms, pushing her away to arm's length, forcing her to uncurl and straighten up a little; her face was frozen, but thank god, her eyes were bright, not blurred with panic and shock. “We’ll do something. Do you trust me?”
She wiped the tears off her face, took one shaky breath, and nodded. And smiled - a small, scared-to-death-but-acting-brave smile. The smile that showed a dimple on her cheek but brought even more tears to her eyes.
It took his breath away.
No. There weren’t impossible things.
“W-what must I do?” she whispered, he barely heard her over the whistling and thundering of the bullets. He counted bullets and seconds, knowing very well that his count was just approximate.
He pushed himself up from the sofa, in a crouch, “Just don’t fight. Nothing else.”
“G-good. I was afraid you’d ask for another hurrica-”
Her word was cut off with a scream when he sprang up on his feet when silence fell - in the first damn millisecond - kicking the sofa away. He grabbed her around her waist and pulled her up, turning around.
One second.
“Don’t fight!” He gathered all the strength he had, in one violent move - he had to use both arms for this, the right one even more than the left - and he threw her over the room, flying the first few meters, then sliding and rolling on the wooden floor.
Two seconds.
The tearing agony in his chest and shoulder almost knocked him down. For a moment he was sure he'd been hit with a whole burst, and sliced through the middle, but he managed to stumble in the right direction. No, no new bullets, just fucking stitches gaped open.
He had to jump after her, but he just staggered those steps, struggling to stop a fall - third second, you idiot, you’re standing right in his line of fire, facing the window - and bullets whizzed again. But the shooter lowered his aim, following Florence’s sliding on the floor, trying to catch her before she reached the wall. That saved him. Instead of his chest, the bullets plowed the floor for two seconds. Enough time to force himself in the right direction, enough time to reach the wall between the shattered windows, into the rain of angry shards. The shooter was now smashing the lower parts of the glass. He dropped himself - fell - down the wall, and it felt like sinking.
He blindly reached for Florence, still bewildered and disorientated, but probably unharmed. Probably.
“Are you hit?” he whispered; he couldn’t breathe in, a well-known fire was melting his chest, and spots of darkness blurred his vision. She was blurry, too, and he couldn’t hear her answer.
The shooter aimed for the window frames now, catching dangerously correct angles. No time to talk. He had no idea how long he would stay conscious, and ricochets could kill her even now. Only half able to see what he was doing, he cradled her closer. His arms weren’t enough to stop bullets, but they protected her from the sharp splinters and glass that was falling on them.
The shooter would stop. His chances of killing them were very low now - he still could get lucky with ricochets, but minutes had went by and he simply couldn’t, physically, have so many magazines. He had spent nine by now. Round magazines demanded a very, very large bag.
They only had to wait a little longer. There was nothing left to do but wait.
And when he closed his eyes, everything went to hell.
He couldn’t breathe. He knew he could - it was just painful, every movement slashed through him - and he knew his lungs weren’t full of blood. But the pain brought back the memory of a dark corridor and endless falling, voices that screamed at him to stay awake, explosions and guns and mortars and dust and blood and- fuck, stop it! He forced himself to take a deep breath, biting off a scream when it pulled every raw nerve in his chest.
He was in the apartment. No corridors, no darkness. He forced himself to open his eyes, not thinking about the glass, letting the light return him to the present. The light, and the golden mess of curls on his chest.
He could feel she was crying.
Sophie was crying, too. Another blurred image attacked him. His first waking up, delirious, dying, and Sophie crying while she tried to smile at him - for a few seconds he was sucked up into the fever that burned through him - the black-haired and blond women melted into one for a moment, both with the same fear in their eyes, and that was much worse than any corridor. Different kind of pain… but both were dragging him down.
He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on her hair. Cold and silky. Avocado oil and shea butter. Sophie’s hair smelled like apples that night, and that scent had helped him to stay in the present, to not sink into delirium and dark again. This scent did the same.
He breathed, carefully, cleansing his mind of the past. Clutching at reality, at the light around them and the woman in his arms.
It would be so easy to let himself slip into unconsciousness; the dark offered rest and peace. He had no strength to open his eyes, fighting the pain and weariness that rushed in waves over him.
He just breathed, wavered on the edge of falling.
Refusing to lose.
And waited.
.
.
.
***
.
Florence wasn’t quite aware when exactly bullets stopped whipping everything around them; her thoughts were slurred like drunken snails.
For some time, the only sound in the strange silence was the chattering of her teeth. She was so stunned that even the thought that her sniper scenes would never be the same, just went through her mind, leaving no mark.
She was still sitting in the pool of glass. Eliot walked around. She clearly remembered how he had to loosen her fingers that were clutching his shirt like a claw. She didn’t know what he had told her, but his voice was soft and soothing, it went through the dull fear.
More time passed - probably just seconds, but to her, it seemed that hours went by. So, this is shock, she thought, feeling only slight amusement.
He was standing in front of her now, but she raised her head only when he put Orion in her arms. “Stay here. I’ll go find Parker.”
She nodded.
Orion had a cut on his paw, and he was licking it frantically. She pulled one of the bags closer and put him onto it. She should get up and start cleaning up all this glass, before he hurt himself even more.
No, you fool, you should call the police and Nate - not exactly in that order.
She didn’t want to stay here all alone, she realized, but she said nothing, knowing that he had to go. She followed him with her eyes; he had a phone and a new shirt in his hand. Good, maybe he would call Nate. But he entered the bathroom and closed the door behind him.
More tears filled her eyes, without any fucking reason, and she wiped them away angrily. She was becoming a sobbing idiot, for god’s sake. Her hands shook. She moaned in frustration, pulled up her legs and rested her forehead on her knees. Glass and feathers still fell off her hair.
She wasn’t Parker - she couldn’t stay cool in something like this. She still heard bullets thundering around her, she still cried - while the thief was probably chasing the killers up and down Boston.
The thief.
After three seconds she lifted her head from her knees and looked at the bathroom door.
If she thought that Parker might do something reckless, Eliot surely knew precisely what she was capable of. He said he would go after her - and after that he went into the bathroom? With Parker on the street, and the killer retreating from the building he shot from? That didn’t make any sense. He had a shirt in his hands, why he would go to change before… oh fuck. He must’ve been shot.
She scrambled to her feet and hurried to the closed door.
“What are you doing?!”
“I’m in the bathroom.”
“Yeah, I can see that, but what are you doi-” she bit her lip and stopped. “Open the door, now. Parker taught me how to pick simple locks. Open the door or-”
“The key is in the lock, you can’t pick-”
“- or I’ll break in by force.”
“Force? What fucking force? You’re a miniature human, you can’t slam a cupboard door. The door opens towards you, no chance to break-”
She didn’t wait for him to finish, remembering she didn’t hear the door locking, so she just turned the knob and entered. He was standing by the cupboards, thank god.
And when he turned to her, with pissed off eyes, she almost took a step back. “The fuck is wrong with you!?” This wasn’t the usual growl; this was real anger that radiated from him.
“Are you shot?” The sound came out smaller than Orion’s meow, and that pissed her off in a second.
“Nope. Get out.” He was getting unnervingly dry, and she balanced upon turning away. She did invade his privacy, after all… but she felt something was wrong, more by reading his reaction than his posture, tense, strained energy whirling inside him.
He wore a new, dark olive shirt - and there was no chance he would lose time while Parker was on the streets, unless he had to.
This time, scaring her away didn’t work.
She looked at his face, drained to a gray hue she had seen only once, after the slaughterhouse, on Lucille’s floor, and she realized he barely kept himself on his feet.
His black shirt was on the sink and she reached for it - and even before her fingers touched the blood on it, she knew what happened. He’d reached with his left hand to stop her. The right hand hung motionless.
Her breath seemed to freeze in her suddenly paralyzed throat. When he threw the gun in the parking garage, he couldn’t move from the pain that sliced him. Now he'd thrown her. Betsy’s entire speech about the dangers of tearing the stitches apart went through her mind, and she twirled around towards the door. “I’m calling Betsy,” her voice fell to a whisper.
He kicked the door with his foot and it slammed in front of her, barely missing her shoulder in passing. She slowly turned around.
Something very dark flickered in the depths of his eyes, dark and raw and feral - for a moment she was a threat, she could clearly see that. A threat to what?
“No. No Betsy. I’ll deal with this.” His face was thunderously dark, yet she realized there wasn’t even a trace of fear in her. She studied him, feeling angry tears pouring out again, without control. This day fell hard on her - every shit that happened accumulated in her heart, aching.
She wanted to scream, but controlled it. Barely. “Is it possible for you to direct Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hide to work together for a while, instead of at cross-purposes?” Surprisingly, her voice was level, until she went to wipe her tears, and stopped, looking at the blood on her hand. Her stomach ached. “Or at least,” she whispered, “hold back the one who is trying to get you killed. Because you’ll end up dead, not because of me, or mobsters, but because you’re a fucking idiot who doesn’t know when it’s time to stop.”
His eyes calmed. He regarded her thoughtfully, with a kind of attentive intensity, and it felt more alarming than his rage before. More predatory.
“Time to stop? Do you know why I told you that you shouldn’t know anything about strength?” His voice was low, and raspy, and tired. “Because the real strength is needed only when you, and your life, is coming apart. When there’s nothing left to do but be strong or die.” He paused, choosing his words. “You see,” he went on politely, “those who died… they stopped, Florence. Only thing you can’t do, when everything’s going to hell, is stop.”
He reached to the sink with his left hand, again, but not to take the shirt, but to lean on it. It seemed that merely standing was too much.
She stared at him. “So that’s it, you’ll just continue? When you don’t have to? When there’s enough time to call Betsy to see what you have done and decide what to do, when there’s enough time for hospital treatment if needed? Why?!” Her voice became a half cry, half yell, all her built up anger pouring out. “What stupid idea of honor, or strength or courage or whatever macho shit is driving you?!”
“What time do ya think we have?” he hissed. “We might not live through the next attack, and it will come. Knudsen doesn’t play on our schedule - his time is different than ours. I can’t lose any of it. He is speeding up - so must I, or we’ll die.”
“And how would calling Betsy to take care of that wound probably slow you down? You make no sense! I wish I could speak idiot so I could tell how stupid you are, in your own language!”
“We’re not talking about things that could slow me down,” he growled now. “It’s important that nothing slows Nate down. Calling Betsy would do that.”
She was stopped cold by his expression, the leaden greyness of pain and growing anger, and it took a few seconds before she got it. “You mean not telling him- you’ll let him continue with his plans, not knowing that you’re - you can’t mean-” she took a breath and choked on it. Calm down. “That’s the most absurd and stupid and reckless and- no, no way, I’ll tell him. He-”
“Florence-”
“No, you can’t go on like nothing happened, Betsy told you everything, told you how dangerous-” she stopped when he moved - for a moment she thought he would collapse, he swayed, but he put both of his hands on her shoulders and shook her. “Wha-?!” she gasped, staring at his face wearily. The lines in it were cut deeper; it must’ve been fucking painful.
His eyes locked on hers, burning with pain, fierce. “There’s no time for recovering and resting, we have to continue at this speed.” She opened her mouth to speak, but he shook his head. “No, listen. The shit has started, Nate is finally in the right mode, and I won’t risk being the reason for slowing down. Not now, it’s too dangerous. His plans have to continue as they are - I can do it. I have to do it, to finish this. When you’re a target, delaying means death.”
“You'll go down in two minutes! What can you do?! Betsy-”
“Betsy would do the same as I will do - stitch that shit up again! That’s all! Stop panicking, it only hurts, it’s only skin and some muscles, nothing more than a cut - there are layers of stitches, and the deeper ones are not torn.”
Yeah, right, only a cut - her shoulders were a solid spot that helped him keep balance, she felt the waves of trembles that went through him. He was controlling that pain with all his strength, and yet she could see how weary and drained he became in a matter of minutes. Angry tears blurred her eyes again and she blinked - the need to hit him with all her force was unbearable.
“They can’t know,” he whispered now, as if he felt he had to calm her down. “If Nate starts to adjust his actions by what I can, or can’t do, it would mess up everything. I don’t want him even to think about adjusting anything. Efficiency, Florence - that’s what we need now. Knudsen has to go down as soon as possible, or he’ll kill us.” He stopped, just watching her. “Help me.”
The words blurted out before she could stop. “You want me to help you kill yourself?! To lie to them and cover this up?” her voice rose uncontrollably. “That’s the stupidest- you can’t ask me that, how dare you- you’re so, so, so-”
“Florence, stop.”
“Stop what?! Somebody has to tell you how stupid, how reckless, how-”
“Stop.” He moved his hands and cupped her face, and she froze all the words that boiled inside her. Dear God, he was too close - all that accumulated energy engulfing her, his hands on her face warm and real.
She thrust her hands in her pockets, not trusting them to not reach for him - she wanted to kiss him so much in that moment, and her guilt, and rage and fear exploded.
“Listen to me,” he whispered, eyes locked on hers. “I can function for two days. Maybe three. I’ve set myself to finish this, and I’ll do it. But I won’t have strength for more. Two days, and we’re out of danger, and I can recover as much as all of you want. This is the best for everybody. Including me. Not stupid, not reckless. I know what I’m doing.”
It was hard not to respond to his intensity. What if he really knew what was the best for him? She faltered, and hated herself for it.
“Trust me. Again.”
And she did trust him. Maybe more than anybody else here. He never lied to her, she realized just then, almost surprised.
“I can’t lie to them,” she whispered too. “Everybody knows when I lie. Everybody knows what I think.”
“Just don’t tell them - that’s all I ask. I will lie if there’s a need for that, but…” he trailed off, his gaze softening. She felt his fingers move; he wiped a tear with his thumb. The touch was so gentle that it brought more tears to her eyes.
Her breath caught in a sob. “I’m not really crying,” she pointed out and tried to smile, without any success.
He said nothing.
Just then she realized he didn’t finish his sentence. And he wasn’t breathing. His eyes filled with strange uncertainty, flickered over her face.
Oh. It wasn’t just her.
The realization shook her. He was one second from leaning in and kissing her.
She should step back, she should say something, but she couldn’t move, fixed on his face and eyes and lips and-
“Are you going to kiss?” A voice from the door saved her - she tore her eyes from his, with effort, and took a quick step back. He did the same, she noticed, equally stressed. He was so taken aback it took him several seconds to regain his speech. “Parker,” he uttered at last, a mixture of relief and annoyance. “What. You don’t - we weren’t-”
The thief tilted her head at them. “You should,” she smiled. Oh Jesus. Florence took one more step back. Parker shrugged and went on. “Oh, by the way, I was this close to catching him, he got to his car just seconds before I arrived. I’m still slow, and I tried to sneak up on him. Mistake. But I recognized him - the guy that held a gun on you in the slaughterhouse.”
Eliot rubbed his forehead wearily, and sat on the bathtub. “Goon C,” he whispered.
If it was possible to be paler, he did it exceptionally well.
Florence took two steps back until the cupboards stopped her, not daring to look at him, nor Parker. She felt… she had no idea what she felt; anger, fear, embarrassment? Her stomach churned, and fucking tears kept rolling down her face, though she wasn’t really crying. They just poured out on their own. She hugged herself, feeling cold to the bone.
“Sit. Parker, give her a robe.” Eliot hadn't finished his sentence yet when a robe flew at her face; she wrapped herself up and sat on the toilet, numb-brained. Parker patted her on her back, but she didn’t dare look at her yet.
Eliot grabbed the phone he carried and dialed a number.
“Nate? You’re on your way? Good. Can you stop somewhere and buy an artificial light, full spectrum lamp? What? No, it’s for the cat, Orion desperately needs a small tanning bed - of course it’s for George! Stop smirking.” It was fascinating how his voice changed back into the normal, annoyed growl. Florence blinked; the tense, pained whisper from her mind was erased as if it never happened. “Oh, by the way, tell Hardison to buy new laptops, as many as he can carry - he’ll enjoy that, I’m sure. He also has to call his maintenance service for the building. No, nothing serious, just a little accident.” All three of them looked through the bathroom door at the total devastation. Now, Florence looked at Parker, exchanging a stare. Even the thief looked slightly worried, chewing on her lip. “You want me to define an accident? Well…” he paused, sighing. Florence could almost hear Nate’s patient silence. “It wasn’t just one accident. It was more, like, a thousand little flying accidents, hitting things and, well, ricocheting- okay, stop, we're all okay - just… the fridge is okay, too. Nothing happened to the fridge. Surprisingly, all the accidents missed it, have no idea how. Lucky fridge. Is that Hardison growling? Tell him to buy new screens, we’ll need them immediately. In short, we need everything, including wood paneling for the walls. Except the fridge.” He listened for several seconds, and when he spoke again, his voice changed again, to calm and serious. “Nate. Knudsen raised the stakes. The next attack won’t miss. We have to hurry.” His eyes met hers while he listened. “Yes, I can,” he said both to her and Nate. “Tonight.”
She slowly stood up and turned around, passing by Parker.
The glass crunched under her feet when she entered the living room. Suppressed shock-y shudders were still going through her and her steps were reluctant.
What the hell had she done? She observed her bloody fingers almost absently. When did someone’s blood become something that you just wipe away and continue? Her life, her world - it was tearing apart. And she had no strength for that. He was right.
She was caught up with them in this strange bubble of time and space, separated from everything, everybody; outer life felt blurred.
After the PVA ceremony, everything would be finished - they’d either be dead, or they’d succeed. The bubble would burst.
But it wasn’t just her.
She wiped her hands with the chair stuffing that hung like bowels from a dead animal. She couldn’t wipe out his face and his eyes, his hands on her face. Nor the warmth she felt inside. It wasn’t just her. She dreaded the stupid smile she felt emerging.
The first thing after the ceremony would be booking a flight to New Zealand, to Jethro.
Running away was the only option, before she ruined everything she had, before she admitted to herself how deep she cared already.
Something, somewhere deep inside her, cried. Really cried.
.