Chapter Text
Lucas was unwillingly dragged from sleep by a noise in the cabin. His head was pounding; his mouth dry and acrid from too many cigarettes and not enough water. He cracked an eye open, and was surprised to see his brother standing over Diana Burnwood, who was slumped forward on the table, asleep on her folded arms.
He watched as 47 scooped up the sleeping woman and held her against his chest. He paused for a moment, looking down at her. There was an odd look on his face - twisted and… /sad/.
Suddenly, some things that had been nagging at Lucas over the last few weeks clicked into place. /Of course/, he thought. He finally understood.
47’s eyes drifted to his and widened with horror as he realised he was being watched. He turned and hurried from the room, inhumanly stable despite the weight in his arms and the rocking of the ship beneath them.
Lucas lit a cigarette. He’d smoked it half way before 47 re-emerged, apparently having deposited Burnwood in her cabin, and slumped into the chair opposite.
“You shouldn’t be keeping her up like this. It’s not… healthy”, 47 said, avoiding eye contact.
Lucas chuckled and stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. He folded his arms and leaned back in the metal chair. “So, Ort-Meyer’s serum didn’t work /that/ well, then. Or is this a very recent development?”
47 stiffened, “What do you mean?”
“Oh come now, brother. I’m not an idiot - /although I certainly should have realised before now/ - how long has it been going on?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Frankly”, Lucas continued, “I don’t know what you see in her.”
“Lucas”, 47 warned.
“She’s not /that/ different from those Providence snakes like Edwards.”
47 stood, knocking his chair to the floor with a clatter, “You don’t know her.”
Lucas was grinning.
Olivia, with a face like thunder, appeared in the doorway. “Do you know what time it is?!” she hissed.
“Sorry”, 47 mumbled as he turned to pick up the chair.
Olivia scowled and shut the cabin door with a bang.
“Please”, 47 said, sitting back down, “don’t.”
Lucas raised his eyebrow, “She doesn’t know?”
“I… no. And I certainly can’t tell her now”, 47 swallowed and finally looked at him, “not now I know what we did”.
/Shit/, thought Lucas. “Ah. So you remember that.”
47 nodded. He looked desolate.
Lucas abandoned his teasing and adopted a gentler tone, “We were prisoners, brother. We knew nothing else.”
“We took everything from her”, 47 said quietly, “she was just a child.”
“So were we,” he reached across the table to rest a reassuring hand on 47’s arm.
“Do you remember them?” 47 went on, silent tears rolling down his face, “Her parents?”
Lucas thought about the last time he’d seen his brother cry; he’d been tiny then, a boy of 8 or 9, agonising over a dead rabbit. Ort-Meyer had punished him brutally. He’d never been the same.
Lucas shook his head, “Sort of… not really.”
“It was autumn, I think, just getting cold. They were visiting the grave of their son.”
“47, stop.”
“She was there, she /saw it/.”
“Stop”, Lucas pleaded again.
“I had the detonator. I pushed the button. It was me.”
“There’s no point in reliving this.”
“Isn’t this the /whole/ point? You brought me the antidote so I could remember who I was, who /we/ were. Or did you think I’d just be able to hand you Janus and everything else would get left in the fog?”
“I’m sorry.”
“She deserves to know. But, I can’t…”, he trailed off.
Lucas squeezed 47’s arm, “I know.”
47 stood and wandered over to the front of the cabin, staring out through the grubby window with his hands in his pockets. They were both quiet for what felt like a long time.
“I’ve spent 20 years worrying about hurting her”, 47 said finally, “turns out I already have.”