ℝ𝔼ℂ𝕂𝕆ℕ𝔼ℝ

Faith, you're driving me away. You do it every day. You don't mean it but it hurts like hell. My brain says I'm receiving pain, a lack of oxygen from my life support; my iron lung.

[twobrokenwyngs]

You have your mother’s good sense but your father’s devilment.

[malmurd]

Grace:

He turned to her, speaking to her, and Grace had frankly not even given it a second thought before she reached out and slapped him across the face. Of course, she hadn’t thought much further than that, and for a split second, found herself just standing there, looking at the man. What did one even say, after slapping a stranger? Perhaps she ought to walk away. But instead, she simply stepped back, carefully adjusting a lock of her hair that had slipped out of place.

“I think you ought to see yourself out, Monsieur Murdock.” She said, giving him a smile that was perhaps too sweet for the situation. “You won’t find what you’re looking for.”

Ever the pessimist, the receival of a slap was something he’d ruled as a possibility during his outing. Hence, after her sharp palm had viciously swiped over his cheek, he slowly nods with hazy blinks. 

“On behalf of Carmen, I presume.” He doesn’t ask, but states as fact. He is irritated yet not surprised that his meagre attempt at a few drinks out have been thwarted so soon, and cross with himself to have been foolish enough to squander his need for the outing in the only place that his presence is a violation. Despite her claws, her smile is delightful. Malachi obnoxiously repays it, letting it rapture his face in a moment of mimicked politeness. Like so many expressions that pass over his features, the smile does not cross his cold eyes. He promptly turns from her to return his attention to his drink.

“I know she isn’t here, Madame. In fact, I made sure that she wouldn’t be. I respect her desire for space from my festering spirit, and I keep my distance.” He sips, and the whiskey mixes with the irritability on his tongue to create a pungent, fowl taste. “This is the only place I have found that has Kilvannon behind the bar. I’ve relinquished my favourite woman, but I’m not about to sacrifice my favourite drink as well.”

[malmurd]

Flori:

Last pickings. Funny how many evenings she had spent asking herself the same question. Even funnier that she no longer had to ask herself, because she knew the answer well enough. Still she smiles, leaning into the touch of his fingers in her hair. Her eyes scan his face – he is much more handsome than the men she is used to entertaining at this hour, solemn as he may seem.

“Darling, if nobody wanted you, then there must be very little hope for the remainder of the men in Paris.” Her hand grazes the side of his head before coming to rest on the back of his neck. This is what she is good at. “You are the most handsome man I have laid eyes on in quite some time, last pickings you  most certainly are not. I simply hadn’t seen you hiding out here all alone.”

With a flick of her neck she sends her hair over her shoulder and leans closer to him, “were you waiting for anyone in particular?” 

Ah, she has failed to detect his putrid soul that shimmers just behind the thin glass veil of his icy eyes. Mal cannot blame her; she is meant to flatter, paid to heighten the ego’s of barrel scrapings formed as spineless men - of which he is just one of many. He cannot tell if she is fabricating her opinion of him or not, but presumes that she is, convincing as her flattery is. 

“Quite some time?” he questions, his spare hand relinquishing it’s grip of his crystal glass and drifting to press fingertips into the curve of her waist. “Have you been kept in a tower, guarded by a dragon? I would not put it past a woman harbouring beauty such as yours, but your perception of me only solidifies the theory.”

Now, flirting doesn’t come naturally to him. He cannot charm a woman to his bed, has never mastered the knack of alluring a girl with words alone. His style is rougher, near mute, and he makes his interest known with a series of intense gazes, and affirms it with an inexorably shiver inducing touch. This aside, playing with words as he is with her now feels exciting, and perhaps it’s in her deliverance, how her tongue curls around the syllables, or maybe it’s just the way her unusually large eyes glint symbiotically with her speech, but he’s desperate for whatever she wishes to give him. 

“I only knew her identity would be confirmed when I saw her,” he speaks low, watches her movements, his fingers now released from the tresses of silken curls mirror the grip of her waist on it’s vacant side. “So I suppose it’s been you I’ve been waiting for.”

[malmurd]

Gabriel:

The man’s cryptic ways gnawed at Gabriel’s fortitude until he eventually gave in to his curiosity. 

“I could use the company,” he offered, glancing back at the closed door of L’Enfer. There would be no reaching the Queen of the Night until morning, Gabriel would just have to hope that the thralls of Anthony Holst would keep her safe.

“But if you cannot enter this establishment, there are other places that can offer similar pleasures.” 

There was something about the lack of light that affected the people in the city that evening, just as the mad patrons of L’Enfer thrashed about and reveled like animals in the dark, the Critic sought the company of a complete stranger, one that both allured and repulsed him. He was curious, and the man’s identity and strange tales were dangled in front of him like a treat, he need only to reach for it.

The proposal is unexpected; Malachi swivels to the man with one brow poised with question. A companion in relieving an urge - well, he’d never even gone to a bar with an acquaintance, thus the entire notion is bizarre. He smokes some more and inclines his jaw.

“Perhaps upstairs will have us,” he says, referring to the opposing venue to L’Enfer. Power cut aside, being in such close proximity to Carmen would set his senses reeling, would trigger suspicion in his company, and he’s keen to avoid an antagonistic situation tonight. He never intends on becoming said antagonist - he must admit that to him, being the villain is in his mechanics, and no tinkering would fix his loathsome ways.  “I’ve always wondered if it does as well, for who would chose heaven when you can dabble with hell?” a smirk resides in the corner of his smoking mouth now, and he holds his hand out for the other to shake. “Malachi, by the way.”

[malmurd]

Phillip:

The sound of the man’s panting echoed in the area around him, dissipating as it traveled further down the street. He was shaking, and Phillip was tempted to prod with more questions in regards to if he needed any help. He could go inside and call someone, if necessary - the café had a phone in the owner’s office, he was sure he could convince him to let him use it briefly to help someone.

He had just opened his mouth to speak again, when the stranger lifted his head from his knees. Immediately, his voice caught in his throat, and his brow furrowed slightly. The man looked strangely familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. There was just something about him… but Phillip was left staring, confused, until the man spoke for the first time, and lifted his eyes to meet his.

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.

The cigarette, forgotten, slipped out of the brunet’s fingers as he stared at his father with wide eyes. It was as if his entire childhood was flashing before his eyes, as memories came flooding back. As the war went on, he imagined the reunion with his father. He would come and give him a big hug, and kiss Phillip’s mother’s cheek, and they would move on with their lives. But, even as the war ended, that day never came. When it became apparent Malachi wasn’t coming back, Phillip started picturing what he would say to him… but in this moment, he was completely frozen.

“It’s you.”

The recognition sealing over the young lad’s face strikes Malachi with a gradually worsening pain, as though he’s being dangled over a vat of boiling liquid, lowered slowly so to prolong his deserved torture. Having never paused to contemplate this possible scenario, only grieving and tormenting himself over the past, he finds himself without the foggiest idea of what might happen next. He would fully expect his son to lash out at him with fists, but wouldn’t write off the likelihood of tears - how is he to know what kind of a man Phillip has grown into? The boy looks gentle, well groomed, and not at all what Mal had expected. Simply because no expectations had been placed. Phillip existed in Malachi’s imagination as a static shadow, a distorted boy-shaped figure that haunted his dreams and personifying regret. Any face to his sons name at all would be a surprise. Here he is, a reflection of his father’s clenched jaw, wide eyes far warmer than Malachi’s ever could be. The painful beauty of a development he’d turned his back on.

From Phillips fingers a cigarette tumbles to the ground. Despite this family tension, larger matters at hand, Malachi can’t help but think of what a waste it is. He stoops to collect it from the cobbles, brushes it off, and places it between his own lips. He lights it, and takes a stride closer to his son, audaciously dragging upon what isn’t his before offering it back. The boy would need it. 

“I can’t be a welcome sight to you,” he says meagerly, his hands caught in his coat pockets. He’s acutely aware of the ticking of his pocket watch, and how it’s striking seconds seem to vibrate more sluggish than normal. Mind, every day seemed to drag, every afternoon greyer than the last. This reunion is but another section of the procession that is the funeral march of Malachi’s life. 

As if solidified like the cold and redundant fossil that he is, Mal stands rigid, unsure of what to do. “Ask what you need to ask,” he says bluntly, void of anything at all. “say what you need to say.”

[malmurd]

Flori:

@malmurd

“Oh, darling,” she has zeroed in on a target for the evening, and just in the nick of time it appears. Half of the courtesans have already made their way upstairs for the night, and the half that are still downstairs seem to be having a difficult time securing customers. Flori can only imagine the arguments that will break out over who stole who’s customer, who got the short straw, who went to bed alone and penniless – arguments she wants nothing to do with. Only weeks ago she had been above most of these girls, one of the first to be booked for an evening, but with the return of two shining stars she had been dropped back down to a position of scraping the bottom of the barrel to keep up with the lifestyle she had been accustomed to. 

Luckily for her, she seems to have found the only attractive man left in the ballroom of the Moulin, and she wastes no time slinking into his lap and strategically playing with his lapels. “Oh, darling,” she repeats, leaning in to whisper the words into his ear.

“What are you doing here all by yourself?” 

He's sinking into the familiarity of red satin and purple velvet when at last he’s paid a visit. It’s strange to be here once again, Malachi finds, and he’d greeted the venue in the way he might greet a second cousin; it’s known to him, but so awkwardly distant that rekindling seems a far cry. Still, with such a cataclysmic sink hole raging in his rib cage, the Moulin nudges itself into his mind with the promise of a short term heal, and he hurries to it with a hunger he cannot forbid.

Now in his lap is an unparalleled beauty, and he is mortified at the prospect of having overlooked her. He couldn’t have, he thinks, as she purrs into his ear and he automatically winds a cold finger in the warmth of her ringlets. If this is not the first time their eyes have met, it certainly feels as though it is.

“Waiting for a woman to come. I’d started to think nobody wanted me.” Malachi answers honestly, with a tinge in his tone hinting humour that does not convey in his expression. He asks her something then, in the model of a tease, but it’s something he has already deemed affirmative: “Am I last pickings?”

[ghafahs]

thomas michael shelby (✿╹◡╹)ノ

[twobrokenwyngs]

Arthur. Tokyo - it’s fuel for races, eh? But you’ve seen a doped horse after a race. Grand openings and race days only, brother. All right?

[malmurd]

Bhari:

“You’re right in that,” Bhari said, then blocked any other such negativity from spilling out of his mouth with the lip of his glass. 

It was clear the other wasn’t going to go away anytime soon, thankfully he’d had enough time to get one down the hatch before his arrival, and was working on his second. Though he’d been drinking more and more these days, he tried to think nothing of it. Those who took close enough notice–of which he imagined there were few, if any–could simply throw him into the large pile of other Parisians who had their methods of escaping reality before passing judgment. 

You’d be his chosen subject, I’m sure, he wants to say, but he’d do no such thing. Instead he humors Malachi with a raise of his brows. It’s not quite a smile, but it would do. Perhaps it was his own nervous nature, but he can’t help but shake the feeling that the other sought out his company. Whatever the case, he was there now, and he wasn’t about to let Malachi speak up once more with his choice in topic.

“I prefer Chivas,” he said, eyes falling to the other’s glass. Not exactly mentally stimulating conversation material, but it would do. 

Again, an expression from the writer finds Malachi taken aback. He isn’t a fool as much as he isn’t an optimist, so does not for a moment think he might be breaking through and laying tracks with Bhari - but at the very least, the other man is attempting to tolerate Malachi’s company. Whilst not actively seeking perturbation, Mal almost always expects it.

And so, settling into the notion that Bhari is not about to declare war against him, he becomes a little more comfortable upon his stool. 

“You do? I can’t say I have tried it.” He lifts his glass, swilling around the amber liquid with eyes that match in their intoxicated, molten haze.  “I’m both a creature of habit and a loyal old dog. I stick to what I know I like, and that is Kilvannon. Though I shan’t repel a recommendation. Perhaps the next round.”

[malmurd]

Phillip:

It was a night not unlike the others that Phillip performed. The crowd expected him to behave a certain way, and so he did - pushing boundaries only enough to keep them interested. He was tired, however, and as he finished performing, he felt relieved to finally take his bow, give a final nod of thanks to the audience, and head off stage. He had just stepped off, however, when he noticed someone near the back practically flung himself towards the door. Perhaps it was someone with a sort of curfew - he had no idea, nor did he mind.

The performer found his way over to the bar, planning on ordering a drink, but he paused when he saw the cane left by itself. “I’ll be back, I’m going out for a cigarette.” He told the bartender, picking up the cane and heading outside to look around. If whoever that ran out needed it, maybe they couldn’t have gotten far. 

However, as he looked around, he didn’t notice anyone at first, and started to light a cigarette. He had just inhaled some of the smoke, when he noticed someone hunched against a wall. Hesitantly, but curiously, Phillip wandered down towards him, noticing the ragged breathing as he got closer. It was still rather loud in the street, due to the musicians still playing in Étoile, so he stopped a few feet away, so as not to startle the other. “Are you alright, Monsieur?” He asked cautiously, taking another breath from the cigarette. “Is this yours?” He held out the cane, not sure if it was him who he saw rushing out at the end of the show. If it wasn’t him, he supposed he would simply leave the cane outside… or see if Étoile had a lost and found box.

Despite his intentions to flee, it seems God has other plans. 

Trembling hands remain gripping his knees, his head stays bowed, eyes screwed shut and the panting is his only answer. There is nothing Malachi can possibly say in this moment, and his silence is sealed with the knowledge that the voice, so gently checking on him, belongs to his son. How cruel his maker can be, he thinks, but would he be a Catholic man without believing that this agonising reunion is exactly what he deserves?

His breathing settles, shocked to a slower pace, but he gulps a few deep lung fulls before rising his head. Somewhere between then and now, a crimson drip crept from his right nostril, and if Phillip wouldn’t have already pitied the sight of his pathetic, cowardice, deserter of a father - he certainly would now.

“Yes, that’s mine.” He says, and the strangest and most haunting thought crosses his mind then. His face is that of stone, lacking any resemblance of pain, and he’s eerily quiet as his mind whirls on. The thought, like an obsidian paperweight securing a stack of frantic papers made panicked by a hurtling wind, is this: That is mine, as are you. My flesh, my blood, and my mistake.

Malachi meets his son eye and waits for the coin to drop.

[malmurd]

Gabriel:

The man’s dismissal did not go unnoticed and the critic pursed his lips in an attempt to cease himself from making another inquiry. His curiosity often gets the better of him and it does not always end well. 

“I didn’t know that such places could afford to be selective,” Gabriel remarked innocently, “especially for something so minor.” He watched the stranger’s expression as he spoke but Gabriel did not allow a response as he hummed in agreement with the other’s sentiment.

“Quite a sight indeed.”

Malachi lulls his head, a mechanical motion of acceptance. He admits, to himself, this must seem quite obscure out of context, and feels the need to apologise to the man for offering such a perplexing tale. Except it doesn’t matter, Malachi doesn’t matter, and neither does the story that both began and ended with this very building. 

He simply shrugs. “It seems they can, if it means enough to those involved.”  Keep it vague, he tells himself.

With an exterior falling silent, poised against the wall and turned sideways to his company, memories of their discussed image resonates in his craving, deprived brain. The silence elongates until the night becomes a thin sheet of glass balancing a breaking point. And then, he says, with a croak that does not relate to the soft shape of his lips: “Lord knows I crave it.”

[malmurd]

Grace:

Grace had never actually spoken to Malachi Murdock, though from the stories Carmen had told her, she felt rather strongly that she didn’t really need to. Or she didn’t want to, at the very least. She had her own misgivings about men, of course, but she had them more about men like him. If they upset Carmen, all bets were out the window. Perhaps she was an angel to many, but not then.

She’d never spoken to him, however, she couldn’t say she hadn’t seen him before. She had spent enough time in L’Enfer, although, now that she saw him standing at the bar, she realized it had been awhile. Perhaps it was because of Carmen. But her friend had just left, and now Grace was alone, trying to decide wether she ought to leave, or flirt another drink out of some sad man sitting at the bar as well. That had been when she noticed him, looking around as if he thought the owned the place.

The last time Carmen had mentioned him, all Grace had really wanted to do was give him a piece of her mind. Or, perhaps just a slap to the face. And now seemed like a perfect opportunity. She tapped him on the shoulder, doing her best to be polite. “Excuse me, monsieur?”

Nothing happens as quickly as Malachi might have liked, and he wonders whether he’s emitting some dark and untouchable aura, like some sort of fowl stench, repelling the many women in the room away from him. He considers that he is recognised; Carmen’s ex-patron, with whom things ended on such a sour note, and therefore is fending the ladies away with his spoiled reputation. Either way, as time ticks on, and drinks pour back, he sits alone with a sulk that slumps his shoulders. 

But then a pretty thing comes by, a gentle tap upon his shoulder signalling her arrival. He spins, slowly, and lazily grants her his attention.

“...yes.” he speaks quietly, hazed by his drinks now, and is aware that the way he has addressed her is incoherent and a little nonsensical, void of formality or direction, or question. His absent eyes scan her; she is pretty, dainty, like one of Titania’s followers that has strayed from her whimsical path. He is not collected enough to observe her properly or gauge her warmth or lack there of. He can only regard her as his sluggish tongue would allow.

“Madame?” 

[malmurd]

Anais:

A smile flickered across her lips when the man finally lifted his gaze to hers, and Anais nodded her satisfaction as she studied the details of his face. Full lips, sharp cheek bones, a well crafted jawline, and eyes like ice. She didn’t need to ask if he’d gone to the war, there was something in those eyes of ice that answered every question she could have asked. She’d seen too many beautiful men marred by violence while she sung pretty songs on a pretty stage. It was her turn to look away. 

His words brought about a breath of laughter, and Anais glanced at him, a smile playing at her lips as a degree of darkness flashed across her blue eyes. The words were on her tongue, a confession as to why such a notion is impossible, but they remain there, unspoken. And so the silence swallowed them whole and spit them out at the cathedral where they would sit in quietude under the eyes of God. But he reached out to touch her, and Anais was reminded that they were not in the cathedral, or so directly under the eyes of God. His hands moved along her arm, gliding over her skin a such a way that left the songstress with a desire to be tainted. He pulled away and she breathed again. 

“You can’t sin with only your eyes. To be a glutton you’d have to take a bite.”

Bringing the cigarette to her lips, Anais filled her lungs with smoke and watched as he did the same. She scrutinized his answer to the question, and though she was tempted to not believe him, something told Anais he would not lie. Not to her. 

“Would you like to stand on the stage?”

With silence and a cunning curve of his lips he dares her to do just that; take a bite. Mal hates this obstinate bone within him, hates where it sits in his rib cage so dangerously close to the organ responsible for his judgement, for his actions. It defies him in a way that would impact upon his restraint, and dare to turn his back on his God. The God that he is deluded enough to believe would have him fester alone through deserving, instead of loving and caring and accepting the same for himself. This lonely rib that throbs and passes a similar ache to his heart, is the only part of him that cries this sorrowful yearning for affection. Think of it as solid gold in a body of rotten, age old oak. 

He does not see it this way; it is a burden. But in this moment, his heart is a compass, and that stubborn bone is a needle that points to her throughout every direction in which is head is turned away from her. 

Moment passes into moment. He breathes with sluggish attempt, and he stares with private adoration. A woman of two roles; Anais, the golden voiced angel, and Poly, who exists only for him. A humbling thought, he knows, but does not let it taint his ego, and does not melt to the temptation of keeping her this way. Instead, a warning: “Do not be a glutton for my sake.”

He can think of things he’d far prefer to do with her than stand upon a stage that would repel at the notion of showcasing his kind, but, he cannot refuse. Despite a curbed discomfort, he finds he’d do it gladly, so long as she stood with him. 

“It’ll be quite underwhelming for it, after your performance.” He says, the last tremors of tobacco tendrils gliding from his mouth. “If it wouldn’t mind.”

[ninaaninelsblog]

Style Thomas Shelby

[malmurd]

Carmen:

She hears supportive words at all at once she is disappointed but not surprised. Part of her had wondered whether he would have fought for her to stay but in a reply she had gotten her answer. She wondered what her response would have been, but she didn’t need to ponder on the what ifs anymore.

“Well…sometimes a fresh start means leaving everything behind. I did it once, I can do it again.” She let out a small chuckle with a half smile. The last she saw him he was sleeping soundly in bed - for once looking peaceful and unburdened and she wished the same for him when he was awake in the world too.

Carmen’s eyes flitted up to meet his and she felt more exposed to him than she had ever before. Of all the things she had not expected of the man, she hadn’t expected him to finally lean in. Her lashes fluttered close as she felt her heart pounding against her chest when their lips met. She had kissed so many men in the past but somehow this meant something, even if it were too late.

It’s been 11 cruel years since his lips met a woman’s, but those 11 years had felt like nothing compared to the time that he had deprived himself of this affectionate contact with the woman whom had robbed his heart. There’s so much to be said through a gentle kiss, and Malachi intends to say it all to her - all the words he couldn’t speak. Though even as she reciprocates, he harshly doubts his movements, scorns his boldness and labels himself idiotic for forcing such a thing upon her. But he needed to. It was unable to be fought.

So he kisses her, light and rhythmic, his right palm cupping her crown, his left fingers curling into the dress that drapes across her waist. With the doubt and the scorn comes a disbelief so ferocious that to convince himself he takes a breath and falls back, eyes taking in her beauty for a moment, and once he’s satisfied that she’s real, he kisses her again. 

He leaves her lips with a feather light seal, his breathing is steady but his heart is sprinting. His eyes do not open as he speaks, and he holds her very close still, unable to let her go but gradually coaxing himself to that painful point. “I won’t hold you back anymore,” he whispers shakily, and it feels akin to an uttered prayer. “But I will always love you, Carmen.”

[malmurd]

Gabriel:

“Or to his heart,” Gabriel quipped, refusing to be aligned with the simple-minded men who are ensnared by a honey-coated trap. But only after he’d said it, did the critic realize that it sounded worse; he was now a man who had foolishly fallen for a woman who sells illusions. How pitiful.

The stranger was unsettling, one that would make you think of things that lived underground, of those that slithered and crawled. His reaction and even the man’s attempt at reassurance was delivered in a curious manner, and talked as though he held some secret knowledge– and perhaps he did, given the man’s enigmatic aura, but Gabriel did not like how it made him feel. His revelation though, sparked an intense curiosity, and he couldn’t help but want to know more.

“Now why would a man such as yourself be banned from this establishment?” the critic couldn’t help but ask before adding, “you seem decent enough,” as though it made any difference what kind of man you are when you entered L’Enfer. Gabriel’s mind wandered to the different possibilities, was he so depraved that no courtesan would want to be with him, or did he have a temper? One that would come out in bouts and flashes, like a beast. 

“…Or are you one of those fantasists that you mentioned?“

“Aye,” Malachi retorts, knowing all to well which aching section of his own body had been domineered by a woman inside. “Or to his heart.”

How tragic the hypothetical man of which they spoke seemed. If only the stranger were to know that Mal is the very embodiment of such a sad and deluded man as the one to break their heart over a whore. Being so strangely self aware, he doesn’t doubt that the other man will surely house such suspicions of him - after all, was he not loitering outside the place a mere few moments before?

“I did nothing of great consequence.” He answers, evading any mysterious skirting around a direct reason. “I was a cowardly fool who’s business simply isn’t needed in such a successful establishment.” He could be embarrassed, but both he and Carmen know that his bar from L’Enfer was both warranted and simpler than him simply having to execute an abnormal amount of restraint. It would only be so long before temptation beckoned him back inside, to be denied such an option was the most effective method to keep the monster at bay.

“Ah, my no.” He chuckles, and lifts his cigarette to his lips which draws a defining question mark upon the dark night. “I like to watch the woman riding me. What man would lust over being prevented such a sight?”

[malmurd]

Carmen:

She gave him a warm smile, wishing his face would soften as she often knew it to when she was around but he appeared stiff even after helping her home that evening. It was never going to be the exact same again but she was not seeking for it to be.

“You look well.” Carmen smiled, tilting her head to look at him, reaching out to place a hand on his forearm. “I don’t really know why I’m here but…I’m going to be leaving Paris.” She cut to the chase, not wanting to dance around their words anymore. They had done too much dancing in their time together.

“Just in case it was something you’d like to know.”

There’s only warmth emanating from her, whereas from him there’s a stiffened awkwardness, something securing him to a rigid posture like a tent pole tied to his spine. They had left together after the wedding, come to this very apartment, and made love - or some essence of it. Where Malachi would have felt obligated to pay for her time, he did not get the opportunity; she left while he slept. In this action, she had laid a new foundation for their relationship, a hopeful one, where payment was not required. 

And just like that, in a singular sentence, she condemned those foundations to burning rubble. 

He sniffs, a stilted reaction to something that shattered him within. Some sort of nodding, beckoning gesture followed, and dumbfounded he stood upon the spot and shuffled weight from one foot to another. She’s leaving, and he doesn’t know whether to be devastated or delighted.  He opts for the latter.

“That’s terrific news, Carmen.” He says with attempted warmth, but the sentiment fails to reach his eyes. “Nobody deserves a fresh start more than you do. I’m pleased for you,” but I’m just sorry that I couldn’t help you with that fresh start, he doesn’t say.

But it isn’t too late to show her what he would have done had he not choked, had he not been such a cowardly fool. Malachi sternly tells himself that, this being his final chance at delivering her the affection she is made for, he can show her, tell her everything he failed to say, in one painfully repressed action.

He moves to her, breathes, dips his neck and kisses her, pouring all he can into a heartfelt motion from his lips to hers.