Her head cants at the response, lips jutting out in a display of confusion. No thank you? What an odd answer for a question that deserved such a different response. But it’s when he passes her that she sees the rifle strapped on his back. Knuckles grip at the stone underneath as she braces herself, as she prepares to use her silver-tongue to escape from silver bullets.
Isa waits a few seconds and allows the awkwardness to engulf them both–he, the man with a gun nestled against his back and she, the one with nothing more than an almost damning curiosity. He, the husband to the emissary of reignited interest. At last, she murmurs languidly, “Across the Castelvecchio–with a rifle.” The last three words fall flat in their tone as she deadpans, calling him out for his gun-filled haste and rather dull answer. Isabella scoots from the edge of the bridge and her feet softly thud against the cobblestone bridge, brown eyes never quite leaving his own, for even Mikael Falco makes her weary when he is armed and she is not.
“Tell me–are you indulging in La Purga tonight, signore?”
Nothing about her body language indicates that she is afraid, which is a relief, mostly, until he realizes that communicating an nonthreatening disposition isn’t going to do him any favours while he navigates a city so ready to engage in violence. The sudden insecurity gnaws at his insides. Mikael dismisses it, instead turning on his heel before the girl’s remark stops him from taking another step. Something about her tone makes him feel judged. Her words drip with a languid derision Mikael feels is unwarranted, and considering everything he’s about to go through, he’s offended. His eyes narrow, meeting the woman’s gaze with a piercing glare.
“Listen, kid,” he snaps. “I don’t need you judging me. I don’t like gratuitous violence. But off the top of my head, I could name about seven people who wouldn’t say no to murdering me on sight, not to mention those fucking teenage boys crawling out of their mothers’ basements for the first time to play out their stupid Call of Duty fantasies. I’ve got a ninety-six percent chance of dying tonight, and asking assholes to not kill you is a bitch of a task when you look like Pakistani Bambi on eighty shots of caffeine, so excuse me for needing a little help in letting people know that they should fuck right off.” He crosses his arms, though his hands quiver with the need to move with his chaotic indignation. “You? You have your Brooke Shields eyebrows. Me? I have my fucking rifle. Have a nice day.”
If there’s one thing Isabella Gagliano knows, it is that the Castelvecchio is the dividing line between the warring mobs. So, this is where she goes, for it is the best place to scope out the whereabouts of Veronans who have piqued her interest, who have found themselves on the radar of the reporter. Isa hoists herself onto the ledge and sits, legs crossing at the ankles as she waits under the light of the moon–for someone, for something, for anything.
Verona has been an amicable teacher; she has learned to be nothing but patient.
The sound of an approaching person is both a blessing and a curse; Isa knows that she is one of the most vulnerable, considering she dons neither the gold of the Montagues or the silver of the Capulets. And yet, this is what she’s been waiting for: an unsuspecting soul to cross her path so she can gather information.
“Going somewhere?” the reporter inquires casually.
The brisk strides he takes along the cobblestone steps barely slow when he hears a voice call to his direction. Europe’s not really Europe without people like this — the men and women peddling trinkets along crowded streets hoping to snag a profit off guileless tourists meandering the city — and with more and more of them populating Verona through the years Mikael has learned to tune them out. Still, Matthias’s threats have put him on edge today, and it’s decidedly strange to hear who he assumes is a street vendor still trying to do business despite the lawless chaos the witches have plunged the city into.
“No thank you, I —” he starts, and doesn’t finish, because he meant to end the sentence with don’t want buy any Romeo and Juliet magnets, but is nonplussed to find that the source of the voice isn’t selling any. His surprise drives him to stop on his place, eyes widening slightly, the abrupt halt of his movement causing his rifle to swing along the strap over his shoulder. Mikael blinks, taken aback. “—was just,” he continues, brows narrowing as he searches for words, growing more and more aware of the building awkwardness of the atmosphere, “...going that way.”
The lunch they agreed to becomes twice as unbearable as he predicted, Matthias’ impossible narrow-mindedness inducing a wave of self-loathing that makes Mikael question why he ever thought it was possible to reason with a madman in the first place. They can’t technically kill each other here, but that doesn’t stop Matthias from making a show out of playing with steak knives while shooting down every argument for Mikael’s innocence with some retorts about an eight-year search for evidence and a line about demons getting what they deserved. Mikael’s annoyance builds with every second they spend together, but before he can rise from his seat to bill out and leave as he has been long tempted to do, a quiet thought slips in without preamble, one that makes every unvoiced scream of frustration fall silent.
He must have really loved you.
Mikael blinks. His mouth opens slightly to form a protest he’s not sure where to direct, then closes. A frown forms, because self-pity’s never gotten him anywhere and he sure as shit doesn’t need anybody else’s, but not an ounce of self-hatred can stop his face from falling into something softer as his gut twists with the urge shift the subject into something far more puerile.
Almost childishly, he blurts, “What was he like?”
Matthias’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”
“Your father,” Mikael says, words drawn out more hesitantly as he realizes how ridiculous they sound out of his mouth. He pauses, biting his lip, gaze shifting to the floor for a fleeting second before he lifts his head up and lets his eyes linger on Matthias. “What was he like?”
“What kind of fucking question is that?”
Truthfully, Mikael’s not so sure why he asked. There’s little to gain from learning of a dead man’s possible humanity. He wants to say he doesn’t know where he’s going with this, but the vexing truth is that he does, his mind barely able to ignore the intruding flurry of questions that might drag his train of thought into unwanted territory: Was he kind? What did he teach you? How much of you is him? Did you make him proud? Did he make you happy? Were you enough for him? Were you enough?
His eyebrows furrow. “I don’t — I don’t know. I just — I hate —” Words feel useless. Each one is a strain on his throat. “I hate myself.”
“And what am I supposed to do with that?” Matthias snaps.
Every nerve in Mikael’s body burns with self-directed anger. “I don’t know.”
“What? Did you think that just because you feel sorry for yourself, I’m supposed to feel the same?” Matthias’s voice drips with a venomous disdain that Mikael feels he deserves. “You disgust me.”
He thinks of Odessa. Of Lucrezia. Of how he doesn’t seem to know how to take steps toward his own happiness without hurting somebody else. Of the house where he grew up and how it still seems to live in him, and how it’s made it impossible for him to take space without feeling selfish. Mikael laughs. “Sounds like we have that in common.”
The chair slides back as Mikael rises from his seat to make his way to Matthias’s side. He takes a few bills from his wallet and slips them by Matthias’ plate, silently hoping that his shame-induced anger would simmer down when he meets the other man’s gaze.
“This is enough to cover your meal,” Mikael says. “Thank you for the lunch. But I’m leaving.”
“You know you can’t just buy your way ou—“
A fist slams into Matthias’s face.
Mikael isn’t so sure if any thought came with the decision. Heads turn; waiters freeze on their spots. A few bystanders step forward in some attempt to intervene, but Mikael dismisses them with a wave of his free hand. He and Matthias both are lucky Mikael had only put a fraction of his strength into the punch – the singular flash of anger far too fleeting to allow any real damage – but still, a hit’s a hit, and the aftermath leaves Mikael staring into a pair of hateful eyes as his throat chokes on an apology he knows neither of them want to hear.Matthias grabs Mikael by the wrist and yanks him down to his height. “If you were here to prove your innocence, then you’ve just made it worse for yourself.” His voice is low, simmering with quiet fury. “When I get the chance, I’m not just going to kill you. I’m going to make it hurt so bad you’ll regret ever being born.”
Mikael pulls his wrist away, fingers curled still. There’s a hollowness in his chest where fear should be. It feels a lot like grief.
He feels the restaurant patrons’ eyes follow him as he makes his way to the door, leaving Matthias without so much as a retort or a goodbye. It’s not like him to leave without getting the last word in, but he doesn’t feel like himself. Or, perhaps, he feels too much like himself. Charged with anger, he slides into the driver’s seat of a beat up Bentley, slamming the car door before draping himself over the steering wheel, hands resting atop the black dashboard surface. As he runs a thumb over the grooves of his knuckles, he furrows his eyebrows, flinches, face contorting in shame as he thinks about the question he offered and how it’s not one he would ever want to be asked, either.
What was he like, your father?
Mikael stares at his closed fist. Mine was like that.
[ @regicidios ] 0018. 31/10/2018. 23:03PM. CAP. TERRITORY / e. THE PURGE.
The clock hits eleven and the curtains are drawn on the blood-wet, smoke-hazy stage. Silence falls over Verona but it would be foolish to mistake it as peace. Grace sips on a stolen drink as she wanders aimlessly home through damaged streets, glass crunching underfoot in some places and bullet shells in others. It looks a little like something out of a movie. It looks a little like a masterpiece. The occasional stray dog or night-prowling cat skirts in front of her path, the motion enough to warrant a brief glance as she scrolls through a variety of unread messages on her near-dead phone, forcing herself to not get too caught up on the lack of texts from one person in particular. It was fine. Cool. Whatever.
She stumbles into Mikael almost literally, stopping dead in her tracks. “Well fuck,” she drawls, long and slow and lacking in any real surprise – or malice, for that matter, despite the last time she’d seen him he had been pointing a gun at her head. Even Grace has had her fill of fighting. “You look like absolute shit, Falco. If you were lying down in the gutter I’d take a photo thinking you were dead.” With a heavy sigh, she drains her drink and throws the can gracelessly at his skull, dropping to sit at the curbside next to him. “Who jumped you? A Capulet? Tiberius? Lucrezia? A Montague? Faron? I’m struggling to think of people my side of the river who aren’t pussies– Me? Did I do it and forget? I mean, it’s been a fucking busy twenty-four hours but I like to think I’d remember making you bleed.”
The liquor can strikes a sore side of his skull and sends a wave of pain pulsing through his body, dragging a too-long hiss from the pit of his gut as he flinches through the sudden ache behind grit teeth. The eye that isn’t swollen shot shoots a glare at the direction of his new companion, narrowing as far as his bruised facial muscles could muster. An indignant protest forms on his tongue, but the problem is, he’s far too beaten for it to be any effective. Thankfully, he’s also, far too tired to be properly angry. It seemed the only way to survive Grace was to be Regina, which meant denying the older Daly the satisfaction of knowing she could rile you up — a task that sometimes proved difficult had one not been blessed with an innate lack of emotions.
But strangely, even in darkness, Grace doesn’t look like something one needed to survive. There’s an evident lack of venom in her words that would have sent his brow raising, had he still had the capacity to move them. He wonders why. Perhaps she pities him. Perhaps she’s as exhaused as he is. Perhaps this night has changed them both. Perhaps having a madman slam a pistol into his skull fucked with his perception permanently. Whatever it is, he’s halfheartedly inclined to find out, too weary to get up from his spot but also too beat down to give any more shits about self-preservation. Wryly, he smiles. “I robbed a Sephora.” Head tilting, he puts his hands to his battered mess of a face, resting his chin on the heels of his palms. “Young people like to call this contour.”
He wants to go home. Truth be told, Mikael hates the Craven parties, sick of the pretentious old money snobs who ask him too many personal questions they pretend to care about the answers to. Katarina turned down this year’s invite, keen on using her newfound independence to reject every activity her parents once forced on her, leaving him wondering, now -- as he faces this excruciating social frivolity alone -- why he failed to do the same.
He’s about to approach Everett to excuse himself, searching himself for a believeable explanation for an early departure, but he finds that the older Craven is preoccupied, caught in an argument with a girl he regrets never learning the name of.
His first thought is: she looks good in that black dress.
His second thought is: he shouldn’t have thought that.
He knows he shouldn’t stare, but he does. There’s something captivating about the way she moves, candid and inelegant. She’s short but doesn’t carry herself like she is, unlike Mikael, who’s still struggling to unlearn every instinct that pushes him to shrink himself, to justify the space he takes. He watches her throw her whole body into the argument, a middle finger flying almost comically at Everett’s face, earning a small, silent laugh out of Mikael’s lips. The line between envy and admiration is so blurred he can no longer tell the difference. It’s enamoring, how she can exist like this — gracelessly and without apology.
It’s Everett that catches his eye first, face lighting up as their gazes meet, perhaps out of relief that he’s found a way to slip out of the argument he’s trapped in. The man gestures for Mikael to come closer, and, reluctant as he is to approach the girl in black, he does.
Everett says, “Are you having a good time?”
“I — well.” Mikael drums his fingers against the curve of his wine glass. “The foie gras was good.”
Almost too eagerly, Everett says, “Have you met Grace?”
“Um.” His free hand pulls at his collar as he meets Grace’s gaze, raising his glass slightly as if to salute. “Ciao.”
Everett claps his hands together, just once. His grin is wider than Mikael has ever seen it. “I see you’re getting along. Grace, would you mind keeping Mikael company?”
Before she can answer, Everett leaves.
Grace crosses her arms. She shoots Mikael a look, lips curling into a mocking sneer. “The foie gras was good.”
He bites his lip, searching his mind for an adequate response. “It really was, though.”
She rolls her eyes. “Grow a spine, Bambi. Nobody’s going to shoot you for having an opinion.”
Mikael blinks. His gaze lingers on the curve of her mouth. He feels guilty. He can’t help it — there’s something about her that tells him she’s the kind of girl that tear him apart in the way that he likes. He shouldn’t say it. He feels guilty. He says it anyway. “Do you — do you want to get out of here?”
Her sneer falls, almost as if she’s taken aback. For a moment, she is silent. He watches her face soften as she runs the question over in her head, her expression shifting into something Mikael cannot decipher.
“Hm.” There’s a glint of mischief flickering in her eyes as she runs her fingers down the line of buttons trailing down his polo, turning her head to spare Everett a lingering glance. A knife of a grin cuts across her face. “Nah.”
Grace slams him to the wall so hard it knocks his glasses askew.
The wine glass he’s holding shatters to the floor. Soon her mouth is on his, and she’s running her hands on his body, and he’s running his hands on hers. A few buttons pop when she yanks his polo to drag him down to her height, yet somehow, he doesn’t mind. He’s too ashamed to admit it — but he likes it this way. Her lips curl into a smile against his mouth when a small noise rises from his throat, which makes her shove him against the wall again, dragging kisses along his jawline until he feels a hot breath close to his ear, then a whisper: Louder for me, baby boy.
Minutes later, his suit is crumpled and his hair is messed and his whole body feels it when her hands trail periliously close to a place where they shouldn’t be. His eye flutters open, half-lidded, and from a distance he catches a glimpse of Everett Craven’s mouth falling open in shock. Grace holds his jaw to pull his gaze back to her, shooting him a hungry leer as she sinks her teeth into his bottom lip.
Dess: [The sound of his phone hitting something solid and unmistakeably ground-like prompts a quietly amused smile, as do the silence and his following words. It remains on her lips for far longer than the others.]
Dess: [She stays silent, allows him to gather his thoughts and carve them into whatever he's trying to say, releasing an exhale that almost sounds like a laugh if not for the undertone of heartache lying beneath.]
Dess: Yes. You're my baby. Angelo mio. T'adoro.
Dess: [She wipes a stray tear from the corner of her eye, uncertain of which emotion to attach it to when her head and heart were full of so many.]
Dess: If--
Dess: If anything happens, I just want to say thank you.
Mikael: [ He grips the edge of the desk, eyes closing, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. Silence takes over as he holds in a breath, pulse heavy against his chest. The distance between them is dizzying. ]
Katarina: [ It rings once, his name flashing across her screen, and despite the interruption of her applying a thick layer of black liner, she answers eagerly. ] Hello?
Katarina: [ A laugh follows, a bit hollow because she knows beneath that brevity is something darker he likes to pretend isn't there. Pain, she supposes. Maybe regret just like her. ] Did you finally kick her out?
Katarina: [ She sighs, not liking the sound of this as she balances the phone between her shoulder and ear. ]
Katarina (distractedly): What is it, Mickey? Make it quick! I have plans to steal a car and a tiger tonight, and I don't want to be late.
Mikael: [ He grits his teeth, a chaotic sort of anger boiling at the base of his gut. ]
Mikael: I need you to teach me how to - wait, you're going to steal a what?
Mikael: [ The angry edge of his tone dies. He blinks, dumbfounded. He goes over her words again, half-thinking he misheard. ]
Mikael: [ His head shakes. ] Fuck it, I don't know if you're serious. When you are you free? Can we meet at Bianchi's? Steal a panda for me on the way.
He’s a terrible person.He knows because he has woman to come home to a five hour plane ride away. He knows because the girl beside him keeps his ring above her breastbone so he does not have to feel the weight of his guilt on his skin. He knows, because he’s zipping up the back of a new dress in front of a dressing room mirror, blissful and terrified and ashamed all the same.
He knows, because he’s a coward.
He knows, because for what might be the first time, he would rather be happy than good.With a click, the clasp fastens behind her nape. “What’s the probability of anyone we know coming to Stockholm, anyway?”
“Not very high,” she says as she studies her reflection, “but are you really going to pass up the opportunity to buy new clothes?”
A shrug rolls off his shoulders. “Fair enough. We should have fake names.”
“Why?”
“What’s the point of having disguises if we don’t have fake identities to match?” he justifies. “You should be Naomi.”
Her brow raises. “And why’s that?”
“Nobody’s every told you remind them of Naomi Campbell?”
She smiles and it’s worse than a gut punch. Is he going mad? Is he losing himself? Is this going too fast? There’s a monster in him that she knows exists but has yet to see, and for all he knows, there could be a dark thing stirring in her, too.
“Well,” she says, “You remind me of the guy from Star Wars. The pilot.”
“Yeah.” He crosses his arms. His nose scrunches up as a lopsided grin spreads across his face, trying to fight back the snort that escapes him. “Han Solo.”
She looks at him like it’s the dumbest thing she’s ever heard, and laughs. Something like grief flickers in his eyes, his chest swelling with the heaviest sort of happiness. Her wrists drape over his shoulders, sliding as she wraps his arms around him, closing the distance between them with a kiss. He lets his mouth fall open, eyes closing, a flood of quiet bliss overtaking him, every demon and monster and guilt-ridden ghost falling silent at the touch of her lips.
He’s a terrible person. He knows because he wants this. He knows because he’s sorry. He knows, because sorries don’t do shit.
Mikael doesn’t mind getting bruised up but he sure as shit hates losing. Exhaustion hangs heavy on every aching bone, yet he raises his fists still, throwing a punch that’s half a second too slow when hard knuckles crash to his face and send him pummeling to the dirt.
Mikael’s only nineteen and has been beating men twice his size for the past three years, yet somehow he keeps losing to a fucking teenager. Tiberius Capulet is sixteen and throws punches like it comes as easy as breathing, and it pisses Mikael off, because how fair is it that someone with money and a name and a good life handed to him on a sliver platter gets to fight better than someone with nothing to lose and everything to prove?
Mikael rises to his feet, wipes the blood running down his nose with the back of his hand. Maybe he has a shot this time around. He hasn’t gotten this far before. Tiberius knocked the lights out of him their first match, taking him out in one hard punch. He held his own the fights that followed, getting back up two or three times before getting knocked down again, the need to prove himself far stronger than any sense of self-preservation. This time, he’s stayed up far longer than he has in any other fight, and despite his aching body, he throws his fists up, shining a lopsided grin at the boy in front of him.
Tiberius says, “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”
No. He doesn’t. Not even when the pain drags him down, not when he can’t win against the natural limits of his body, and not even when Tiberius strikes him somewhere in his face, again and again and again and —
Mikael doesn’t remember how he gets home. When he wakes up, he sees his mother sitting on the couch across him, one elbow leaning lazily on the armrest as she reads the fashion magazine sprawled across her lap. She hurls an ice pack at his direction before he can stand up.
“Your father thinks you should stop fighting,” she says, not looking at him. “All this losing isn’t good for the family’s reputation.”
The ice pack lands on the cushion beside him. Mikael presses it to his face. “I only lose when it’s Tiberius.”
Soraya licks her thumb, flipping away to the next page of her spread. “And it’s only worth bragging about if you don’t lose at all.” Briefly, she shifts her gaze, meeting her son’s, her eyes as cold as the ice pressed to his cheek. “We’re not going to stop you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Just keep in mind that your father and I don’t slave ourselves away earning you a life like this just for you to become an embarrassment.”
Mikael blinks. Lips press into a thin line after he sucks a narrowed breath in to keep his heart from falling. He opens his mouth, then closes it. “I think it would be nice,” he says, voice low, “for you. That you could tell people your son beat Tiberius Capulet.”
Soraya doesn’t look up from her magazine. “I’d rather my son be Tiberius Capulet.”
Mikael knocks Tiberius down the next week.
He’s not quite sure what to do about it, at first. A lopsided grin sweeps through his features, wide eyes lighting up in pride and disbelief.
His satisfaction gets cut short when Tiberius tries to get up. A flicker of movement and Mikael throws another punch, slamming him back to the dirt with a hard fist to the younger boy’s face. Mikael drives his weight down and wraps his hands tightly around Tiberius’s neck, thumbs pressing down the ball of his throat as every nerve in his body surges with manic rage. His eyes are all primal, all animalistic anger, a gleam of savage glee. For a while, Tiberius stays down, and the dizzying rush of power overtakes Mikael’s being.
He laughs and it becomes his downfall. As all catastrophic joy weakens his grip on the Capulet’s throat, Tiberius lunges his skull at Mikael’s head and shoves him to his back, throwing a punch or fifty until Mikael’s world goes black.
Matthias had a complicated relationship with the man upstairs. Years ago, you would see him at church on Sunday mornings, standing tall at the hymns between his mother and father, or on his knees behind the pew, hands clasped and head bowed in prayer. He prayed for he longevity of his life and that of his family’s, he prayed for the Montagues, and he prayed his path would echo that of his father’s. If he was still a God-fearing man today, perhaps he would regret the latter of those prayers.
Then, Marius was taken so suddenly and so viciously, and Matthias knew this was not the work of a godly man, but he also believed that a higher power could have intervened, to remind those who called themselves gods in Verona that they were not the keepers of fate. He believed God had abandoned him in the moment in which he needed Him most, asking what the point of praying to God was if He could choose when to ignore you, especially when you needed Him most. Still, at first, he prayed: he prayed for strength he could not find, clarity he could not see, hope he could not feel. In Paris, Matthias had abandoned God. Years later, the strength he found from the fire burning within was his own, the clarity from his research, the hope from his own determination.
Still, as he burst through the doors of the church, he asked one thing of a being he wasn’t sure was listening. Dio, se sei reale, mostrami: aiutami a portare giustizia stasera.
Though, because he has abandoned God years ago, he had no issue firing a gun in His house of worship, and that was exactly what he did in the direction of the altar, in the direction of the Devil he knew was in here. Justice was a holy truth, and if God was truly with him, the angel who wore her stark white blindfold would place her hands upon his shoulder, guiding him to slay the demon who had somehow made it in here without burning upon entry. His strides boomed almost as loud as the sounds of the shots leaving his weapon, and his voice intended to be even louder.
“Give it up, Falco. Tonight, you pay for your sins in blood.”
Ever since his mother begged for a child her husband did not want, he has been condemned to feel unworthy of life. He’s thought about it, before, diving into the water, the weight of every mistake dragging his body down the dusty riverbed until his carcass can drift away from the carrion of his sins. He can’t help it. If life’s unkind, you fall a little in love with the alternative. Had Mikael actually killed Marius Warren, he would have stepped in front of the bullets. Had he been months younger, he would have stepped in front of the bullets. He’s no good, and he knows it, and no part of him still feels any worthy of life, but perhaps he’s fallen out of love with dying, the brag of an angry heart dragging a trembling body to defy every voice that calls him undeserving, a waterlogged Ophelia climbing out of the river, hands clasped around a choice: live. Even if the surface offers no kinder tomorrows, he will live.
“I’m going to shoot you in the penis!” Mikael pulls the trigger at a shifting movement by the back pews. “Nothing between the ears, nothing between the legs, bitch boy! It’s fucking matchy!” Shots ring out, echoing against the high arches of the Church. The bullets are quick, and Matthias is no quicker, but moving targets are hard to hit and Mikael still isn’t so sure whether hes firing to kill. He’s opposed to taking lives when the act lacks a justification, and right now — he’s not so sure. Despite the chaotic rage fueled by the lawlessness of the night, in him lies a gnawing curiosity of what would happen if he proved himself, if he tried not to be the monster Matthias Warren thought of him.
But he is a monster. An adulterer and a murderer and a war mongerer. He takes pride in none of those things, but perhaps the excessive carnage of La Purga has left him with an invaluable lesson: the absence of pride did not need to mean the presence of shame. There are no good people in Verona. Certainly not now. Mikael ducks, back against the altar, a ragged breath leaving his mouth. “Tell me, baby,” he shouts through a jagged, desperate laugh. “Do you really want to be the dickhead that breaks Katarina’s heart twice?”
Dess: Good. [The small smile returns. Stays for a little longer this time.] I'd rather be the person to give you one.
Dess: [She wishes she could find relief in his promise, but the all-too sharp truth remains -- it doesn't matter how good you are at fighting when a single bullet is all it takes to put a man in the ground. But she forces herself to respond through the ache in her chest.]
Dess: Thank you.
Dess: [A soft noise of confirmation rises from her mouth.] Of course. Always.
Mikael: [ The startled noise that rises involuntarily from the base of his throat cannot be heard as his phone falls out of his hands. ]
Mikael: [ He picks it up. ]
Mikael: Sorry.
Mikael: Holy fuck, though.
Mikael: What I wanted to say was —
Mikael: [ There’s guilt building at the back of his throat. No matter how many times she reassures him she wants him, it’s still difficult assuage the lingering doubts overcrowding the spaces of his mind: that the price of having this delicate thing between them is far too high, that he’s terrible for having her fight a battle they cannot win, that he’s selfish for wanting. ]
Mikael: Am I —
Mikael: [ He bites his lip. Takes a breath. Worth it, he wants to say. Am I worth it? ]
Mikael: [ He closes his eyes. He reaches for kinder thoughts, for tender memories, the wine-drunk bliss swelling in his chest as he rests his head on her shoulder, their bodies sprawled on the sofa in a Stockholm apartment. A smile spreads, soft and pained. ] Am I your baby?
Dust motes float in the air, illuminated by the dim dusk light cutting across the high church windows. He stands behind the altar, both hands gripped around a semi-automatic, and watches the shadows shift as the sun outside sinks down the horizon, heedful of any new movement that may betray an enemy’s presence. In this light, it’s not hard to picture a similar scene, Capulet soldiers populating the pews, a lilting melody playing from the organ at the corner, the woman he once promised to love for eternity striding slowly down the aisle, and him thinking: this is the closest I can get to a miracle.
But there is no heaven for men like him. The woman he loved is not the woman he thought she was and the woman he wants to love is not someone he is allowed to have. The city he loathes but calls home has turned into a hellscape overnight and the fight to save his own life has left him with far fewer bullets than he would prefer. He’s tired. Rest is not an option, never has been, and now a man who thinks himself holy enough to deliver justice has chased him into a sacred building to execute him for a crime he did not commit, and there’s nowhere to run anymore. Maybe there’s no point in running, anyway. Where’s the dignity in that?
Mikael Falco does not believe in God, but he wants to, not so because he is aching for divine intervention, but because he needs somebody to blame.
The hinges creak. Mikael lowers himself behind the altar, curling a finger around the trigger while leveling the barrel of the firearm at the shifting movement by the entrance door. In his mind, he crosses himself, just as they were taught in Catholic school, because if God is watching there’s no better vengeance than proving Him wrong. Nel nome del Padre, e del Figlio, e dello Spirito Santo.
Matthias Warren steps inside the parish, and as Mikael’s exhausted body charges with fiery indignation, his eyes and his aim stay fixed on him, the corner of his lip curling into a wry smile.
Dess: [His lack of an answer slices through her. She rests her head against the window, tries to find solace in the cold glass. There is none.]
Dess: I think he'd rather take the chance to kill you, but I guess you can ask. [Her voice breaks around the last word and it's impossible to force a laugh, impossible to cope with this as he does. Quiet fury at the world's refusal to allow them a moment to breathe together replaces hollow humour.]
Dess: You might not be scared but I am.
Dess: Promise me that you'll fight back, Mikael.
Dess: Please. [Her voice softens, swimming in pained adoration.] I can't lose you.
Mikael: Nah. There’s no appeal to getting a blowjob from someone with no lips.
Mikael: [ A sharp breath is drawn, his fingers tracing grooves around the edge of his desk, every nerve in his body aching with the need to relieve the tension. He lowers his head, eyes closing, the sound of Odessa’s voice cracking dragging his heart up his throat in grief. ]
Mikael: I’ll — I’m going to — Yeah. [ For her, he reminds himself. For her. ] I promise.
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