Work Text:
1. Jackie Carrington
He knows the woman has been eyeing him since the moment they ran into each other in the hall when he checked in his room. So, it isn’t a surprise when later, she recognises him at the bar, where he has been following Abel de Silva for his outfit. She slides into the seat on his left, smoothly orders a martini, while on his right, Abel gripes to the bartender about how long a star such as him ends up left forgotten to the famous Jordan Cross. In his ear, Diana heaves a woeful sigh. The window for infiltration has passed, now that Abel has the bartender’s attention and he has Jackie’s. He takes a sip of his wine, focusing on the swallowing motion to hide his frustration. She’s seducing him, not very appealingly for his taste or even tactfully in general. There’s a faint smell of old alcohol on her, underneath the too richly applied perfume, and the way she takes down her drink a little too fast, wincing. It’s only ten o’clock in the morning.
“Rough night?” He ventures. If he could get her to drink those little cocktails faster, perhaps.
“More like a disappointing company.” She plays with the olive in her drink, before taking a big sip. “But you don’t seem like the type to let people down, future ex-husband.” Sunglasses down low on her nose, she makes an observation.
He was going to make a remark about how he’s already spoken for, when Diana rumbles.
“A band member slept in her room last night, 47. Maybe you could steal his outfit?”
Thus, instead, he replies. “I’m not.”
Jackie throws him a shrew look before sliding her room’s keycard toward him. “Make yourself comfortable. And don’t mind Julian. He’s just leaving. Ta.” Then she picks up her remaining drink and disappears into the VIP section.
Five minutes later, he already has a handful of half-drunk movie star sloppily kissing down his neck and everywhere she can reach. He puts his hands under her dress, then makes a bee line for her behind. Julian, the band member, is still mumbling quietly in his dream on the floor behind them.
“Eager, are we?” She giggles, breaths hot and loud on his collarbone. Her hands, too, start on the buttons on his shirt. However, her fingers grasp clumsily at the fabric, unable to perform the simple action. After a few seconds, eyebrow knitted, she gives up, and makes as if to yank out the whole row.
He immediately puts a strong hand on top of hers, stopping her mid action. Jackie looks up at him in surprise, before whining.
“I’ll buy you another one. The hotel selection isn’t too bad.”
“No,” He affirms, unfaltering, “My wife picked this for me.”
That stops her dead in her tracks. “You don’t wear a ring.”
“It interferes with my job.” He explains calmly.
She contemplates him for a moment, then shrugs, “Your wife has good taste.” and moves in for more messy kisses, when suddenly, her whole body goes limp in his arms. The sedative he slipped into her backside finally makes itself known.
Internally, he hears Diana breathe a sigh of relief. “That takes forever. Now, back to our target, shall we?”
He takes some time carefully depositing Jackie in her bed, and draws the blinds down, collecting the clothes he needs, before hanging the Don’t Disturb sign on his way out. She won’t remember anything when tomorrow comes. He chooses this particular brand of sedative for this exact purpose. After all, she isn’t the first, and won’t be the last to learn something true about his “wife”, who is currently humming dreamily in his ear.
“You do look good in that outfit, husband.”
2. Sierra Knox’s personal guard
“So,” The guard hesitates, “Do you get to wear it at home? For parties and things like that, I mean.” He adds. There is a light blush behind his ears. The tropical sun is on its way to its peak.
“No,” The giant pink flamingo deadpans.
“Right,” The guard stammers, “Right, right,” Then, awkwardly, he elaborates,” I, eh, have a friend who’s into that sort of thing,” Sweet nicotine lingers in the air. It is a dry windless day, “Cosplay, assuming imaginary identities. He says it’s very liberating.” He finishes the last sentence hastily, as if embarrassed, “Takes him out of the stress of everyday life and work, you know?”
“My friend says work and play shouldn't mix,” The flamingo responds drily.
“Right,” The guard splutters, “You’re right. Of course. It’s just,” He loosens his tie anxiously, his legs fidget, “Sometimes, work can be a little disappointing, and he finds himself daydreaming about what he could do better in that amount of time,” He takes another long drag of smoke. The cigarette already burns half its length, “I guess he’s just the too sensitive kind.” He flicks away the ash morosely.
“My friend says work can be interesting, if you know where to look,” The flamingo replies stoically.
“Yeah.” The guard barks out a laugh, “That’s true enough,” Though his voice carries no trace of humor, “But sometimes, he just wants a spark. You know?”, Another long drag of smoke, and he breathes out slowly, holding the chemical longer in his lungs, “And cosplaying, eh, he can pretend that his life is full of sparks, and he’s the main character, not the background.”
“My friend says maybe he could be suffering from work burnout,” The flamingo remarks stonily.
“Yeah,” The guard agrees, but his laugh sounds forced, “Maybe. I mean. I, eh, he’s been doing this for so long. At first, it’s just a gig to pay the bill. Then it’s gone longer and longer. The money is nice, and there’s a lot of good benefits. I, eh, he’s definitely not complaining. But…” He trails off mumbling, evidently unsure of his friend’s emotion.
“My friend says maybe he needs some time for himself.” The flamingo advises tonelessly.
“Everyone says THAT!” The guard suddenly raises his voice, as if he was angry, “But when would it end? This period of discovering myself? I have a family to support!” His cigarette glows briefly on its last few centimeters, “And what if I don’t even know what I like after!” He finishes bitterly.
“My friend says that he should still take that vacation. Set a goal for it, and a plan, but not as strict as work. Then he’ll learn something even if he still doesn’t know what he likes.” The flamingo maintains evenly.
“Right.” The guard concedes timidly,”Sorry for blowing up on you. I, eh, my friend is passionate,” He puts the cigarette out on the broken tiles, turning away, “You know how us American can be.”
“No problem.” The flamingo replies coolly.
“Your friend gives good advice,” The guard acknowledges bashfully, “Tell your friend my friend says thank you.”
“My friend says your friend is welcome.” The flamingo accepts placidly.
The end of the race’s announcement rumbles in the air and after a few minutes, they both can hear the heir of Kronstadt Industry’s explosive personality from across the lot. The flamingo notes that it has a wakening effect, the drowsy tropical heat seems all suddenly hotter, while the collective of guards immediately stands up straighter, a few checks their uniforms or hastily puts out their smokes and finishes their drinks.
“Okay, good talk.” The guard beside him dusts his hands fretfully, signaling the end of their conversation before hurriedly returning to his post.
Ten minutes later, as the body of said heir cools on the dirty concrete, the flamingo stares contemplatively at those big, almost-flowing-out trash bins lining back to back behind the hotel. He knows the trash collector is still fifteen minutes away, and if he exited now, the guards would surely go searching for their boss. He could bury her in the trash and risk waiting for the collector, but again, her guards would still come around now that everything seems to be a bit too quiet. Deep inside his insulated pink head, his “friend” quips cheerfully.
“Or you can just dump her down the sewer shaft and let them find her, 47. I sincerely hope it will be the spark that guard was looking for.”
3. The girl on the bridge
“Have you seen a girl around? Short hair, with a bright green bag?” The woman has been here for a long time, it seems. Her hair plasters on her forehead, and the way her hands shakes when she lights her cigarette whispers of oncoming mild hypothermia.
Below them, the city spreads out, east and west, north and south. Every building shimmers underneath the hazy curtain of endless glistening rain. Beneath his thin convenient store bought umbrella, the unnamed man looks up to the murky sky, calling to his memory of the only time he visited this place to direct himself to the facility he needs.
“Sorry.” He answers, absent-minded. The city here grows fast, and distractedly bedazzling. The last time he’s been, he’d had a guide to lead his steps, and a partner to watch out for his back.
“Shit.” She mumbles under her smoke-warm breath, “She said she’d meet me here…” Her voice weakens out under the pitter-patter of raindrops, saddened by the half-realized conclusion, burdened by the weight of a not yet finished, finely weaved tapestry of history.
The man glances at her quickly through the corner of his eye. There’s a disheartening desolation in the way she says it that reminds him of an unassuming grave in the middle of a static-filled forest, forever buried in the evening tired light. Gingerly, he offers.
“She’s probably running late.”
“Yeah.” She agrees, pausing to drag in the tiny warmth from her cigarette to fill her inside.
“She used to be really reliable though.” She adds, an afterthought, an plea, and a defense roll into one. Rainbow lights of the neon city sparkle gently in the puddle under their feet. The man swallows, and thinks of a number who always answers his calls despite the hour, a back who always turns to his despite the scars he carries, and a hand who always reaches for his despite the circumstance.
“When we were in school, she was my rock.” The woman elaborates, nostalgia curling on the tip of her forgotten cigarette, dissipating unheedingly into water mist. The rain drizzles on, and the unnamed man feels the alien shape of a missing voice in his head, the warm void of lingering fingers in his hand, and the involuntary imitation of familiar words in his speech.
“She always let me copy her notes, she would have never kept me waiting like this…” She reminisces, inclines her body on the guardrail to look out onto the streets below wishfully.
“Sometimes,” She falters, arrested in the moment by boundless melancholy, “It feels like she’s changed.”
The man hidden under the umbrella takes in a shallow breath, and holds it in for several seconds, before he breathes out methodically, composed of himself. An unbidden image springs in his mind. A girl, red hair, tears had yet dried on her cheeks, screaming for her parents, desperately burning her hands trying to put out the fire he had set. Then, a woman, red hair, eyes blurry in worry, inconsolably hovering around the edge of the couch he was lying on, silently determine to follow the direction he had chosen.
“My partner told me,” He consoles softly, “People change.”
“It’s stupid but,” The woman shakes her head, “I’m kind of scared she’s outgrowing me. Like maybe, she’s changing but I’m just staying the same. I’m just..” A pause, to look for the right word, “I don’t know…” A stall, because the truth is cruel, “Deadweight.” She confesses finally, sober in her sadness, immovable in her dejection. Her future expands vast and bleak in loneliness and regret.
The nameless man looks down at his hands, big and dry and veined and callous, evidence of a life already half lived. And he thinks about the hard times when he was hurt, when he was difficult, when he couldn’t be trusted, and the kind hand who never failed to support him, the smooth voice who never resented him, and the devotion who never wavered. Then, he affirms thoughtfully.
“She agreed to meet you in the middle of the night. In the rain. No one does that if they don’t care.”
“I guess that’s true...” The woman hesitates, half mollified, half hopeful. She throws down her smoke, and tightens her jacket around herself like a hug, “Thank you, stranger. You are very kind.”
The unnamed man looks in her brown eyes, surprised to find the compliment to be true, so feels his heart settles like the cloudless sky after the rain has stopped.
“My partner says that sometimes,” A stiff movement of his lips, as new as a freshly hatched duck, yet, gone as quick as the invisible wind on a summer day.
“Your partner is wise then,” The woman offers her smile nonetheless, “And has very good eyes.”
“Although, I feel like kind of an asshole, asking her out now,” After a while, she ventures, “She’s probably ruining her shoes in this weather, just so we can get drinks…”
“Maybe you can pick up the tab,” The strange man proposes.
“That’s a good idea,” She laughs, light-hearted.
The rain patters on, and the strangers part ways. Underneath their feet, in the darkest of night, the rainbow reflection of the city light bursts, then whole again, and yet, its light never stops shining.
+1. The Heartbreaker
The vineyard doesn’t change much. If his memory holds correct, and he is rarely wrong, it doesn’t change at all, apart from the missing owners. The dance floor is still as merrily packed, the lavender is still as lovely fragrant, and the wine is still as tastefully produced. They drive up through the tall gate, and a valet appears, jovially sings their welcome and takes their key. There are sparsely any guards, Don Yates’ last year caution had done everything but saving his life and protecting his secret. So, in his place, now stands an empty mansion, a wiped clean slate. He takes notes of the crowd around the main building, and offers her his arm, strolling slowly into the throng of happy people enjoying their vacations. Today Diana wears a statuesque arrangement of scuba fabric, the slanting glossy pleats flow handsomely across her waist like a waterfall to compliment her long legs. It’s not as sexy as her last black dress. But then again, she isn’t dressed to kill today. They both agree that he is better at it. Her arms are bare, smoothly down to her hands, which are hanging daintily on his arm, subtly showing off the newest diamond proof of his love. The golden light is long now, but the party’s just started, and the night guests have yet to arrive in full. There’s a sense of deja-vu hanging in the air, as strong as the famous Malbec of this vineyard. Just a year ago, they were in this exact place, with her playing the exact role of a pretty distraction, and him playing the role of a man with deadly motive. Though, their goal wasn’t one at first, this time, they are of the same mind. Their target, Philo Newcombe, or as Diana nicknames him in the briefing, the Heartbreaker, is a wedding planner. Therefore, what's a better way to approach him than to get married themself.
The target is waiting for them by the ticket counter, whatever else could be said about his intention, Newcombe is still serious about his job.
“Ah, Mr. Tobias Rieper, I presume,” He spots them from afar and briskly crosses the square, “And Ms. Moira Gilroy, we’ve met through Zoom.” A quick flamboyant smile lights up his face. He grabs Diana’s hand and squeezes as if they were best friends who hadn’t seen each other for months, then shakes 47’s hand like a child who got told to do chores.
“Mr. Newcombe.” He always knows Diana can be vicious when she wants to be, was the recipient of her anger, but he also knows manners and decorum have been bred into her like blood and flesh. Over the years, it was her who taught him how a little manner can be so devastatingly disarming to people, “It’s so nice to finally meet you in person. We’ve heard a lot of good things about you.”
Newcombe preens, he’s practically glowing with praises.
“I assure you, Ms. Moira, can I call you Moira? That I will make your wedding an event everyone who attends will remember for the rest of their life.”
Diana raises an eyebrow at his enthusiasm, but otherwise says nothing.
“Let’s begin the tour, shall we?” He casts his arm in an exaggerated half circle to send their gaze down to the dance floor below, “First, as you can see, the dance floor. It’s already beautifully decorated right now. If you can just imagine it with a ring of white roses and lilies for your special day, the music floats around you like dandelion seeds in the wind, and you, swaying with the one you love in the most beautiful dress.”
“It’s nice.” Diana admits, her fingers entwining loosely with his, half a smile perches on the corner of her mouth, “Yes, I can see it.”
“I booked this band for a ceremony last year. Their repertoire is extensive.” Newcombe adds, “And we can invite some celebrities to provide entertainment. I know a lot of agents who can get you almost everyone. For a price, of course.”
“We have to invite Jackie Carrington then.” Her smile blooms in full like the shining moon, “Tobias loves her.” The mischievous look she directs at him tells an inside joke.
“And if it rains?” 47 raises his weather prediction to change the subject, and wraps his fingers tighter around hers in a proper hands holding, drawing her closer to his side.
“You don’t need to worry. They have a tent canopy they set up over the space if it gets overcast.” It seems like a little bit of rain won’t dampen the Heartbreaker’s excitement. He assures them, unperturbed, and even with a little bit of humour in his voice.
“Rain is considered good luck for weddings, love.” Diana smiles at him affectionately, as if his tendency to challenge is a feature she loves, not a fault.
“Exactly! I love that positive energy, Moira.” They can see the light glowing in Newcombe’s eyes like a spark on a bed of dry hay, “Why don’t you let me show you instead? Do you know how to tango?” Then, he waves a hand in front of Diana as an invitation, “Nevermind, I can show you. Come on!”
She laughs. It sounds very pretty to his ears. The sensation of hearing her outside of his head, he thinks internally, is now a simple normalcy, yet no less precious.
“Thank you, but Tobias is a dancing champion,” She teases, eyes locked with his, alight in mirth, “Aren’t you, dear?”
“Yes,” He concurs, “I can dance very well.”
“Oh.” Robbed of the chance to polish himself, Newcombe looks lost for a second, before he recovers, and hastily moves on to the next topic, “Right. We shouldn’t waste this last bit of daylight. Please, follow me.”
He leads them into the main building, passes the reception desk and winds around the balcony that looks down into the production area. There are many people here too, strolling around with wine glasses in hands, the conversation floats like a bough of leaves rustling over their head. 47 observes, and methodically takes notes of the guests milling around. They don’t plan to dispatch him in here, too many eyes. Although, he’s always on the prowl for new opportunities. Diana spots the guards first, and gives his arm a squeeze for warning. The mishap last year at the production line has clearly given Valentina Yates a reason to go full security on her ancestral ground. The guards are patrolling in pairs of two or three, circling round and round the tubes and equipment on the first floor, and even up the balcony like sharks. They don’t bring the heavy guns with them, perhaps because of concern for the guests, still, he notices the sharp glances they’re throwing around, up and down the balcony into the gallery. Thus, he pats her hand in discretion, silently agreeing that nothing can happen here. Newcombe brings them down a set of stairs and into the big cinema room. Diana sucks in a breath, and raises her head to cast her eyes around in a show of surprise, just in time for Newcombe to catch her expression. The Heartbreaker stops mid stride, evidently pleased to find an opportunity to gloat some more.
“Just when you thought Vinedo Yates couldn’t be a more unique venue, we come,” He pauses for dramatic effect,” to the cinema.” 47 watches as his eyes drink in Diana, visibly and greedily, from the top of her pretty head down to the tip of her prim toes. Then, a malicious glint flashes behind those clear orbs, one he has seen so many times before in his victims. Just like them, the Heartbreaker is formulating a plan, and he has spotted an opportunity, “Reception slideshows are done to death, so I’m proposing this space for the ceremony itself.”
“I thought we were discussing an outdoor ceremony.” Diana releases his arm to have a wider look around the room, and 47 sees the exact moment the target go from just coming up with a plan to determining to commit first degree murder. How undisciplined. Then again, men have always been willing to fall for a pretty face. And the one hanging on his arm today is made up exactly for that purpose.
“You should keep an open mind at this stage.” His words are encouraging but his tone is mixed with a tiny reproach,”I’ve done a little set dressing to help you envision it. Maybe your vows could be displayed on screen,” He pauses again for them to consider a better proposal, “A romantic silent movie.”
“I kind of like that idea.” Diana comes back from her exploration of the back room. So, 47 subtly puts a hand on her waist to steer her back to his side, and watches the Heartbreaker go green with envy, “And this room is tall, the echo must be great. I love to hear the band test their repertoire in this room as I walk down this aisle.” She’s smiling, all friendly and excited, as if she doesn’t know exactly what he is doing.
“Ohhh!” Newcombe swoons, “I love working with a client who speaks my language, Moira!”
He leads them further down to the stage to show them some of the decorations he prepared.
“How about some smoke flowing down from the top of the stairs for your entrance?” He practically jumps around Diana like a tiny overstimulated chihuahua, “We can bring the guests in by the side door. It might cheapen Moira’s entrance if everyone’s already used the stairs themselves.” He looks at her imploringly, searching her eyes for her approval.
“What do you think, Tobias?” Instead, she turns to her fiance and asks.
“I don’t think smoke in this room would be wise.” 47 speaks slowly, watching the irritation struggles with professional courtesy on Newcombe’s face, “You could trip on your dress on the steps. And we don’t need to be that precious for our wedding day.”
“Precious?” Newcombe repeats dubiously, like 47 just told him the moon was flat and the Earth was just an image of the Sun, “We,” He raises his voice an octave for emphasis, “are talking about your wedding here, Tobias. Ideally, the only one either of you will ever have for the rest of your life. I’d say, a little preciousness is justified.” He finishes his little monologue with a crowing.
“I think Tobias’s right, my dress will have a rather long train.” Diana cuts in, and winds her arm around one of her fiance’s in a show of romantic conciliation, “I don’t want to be a bridezilla,” She smiles at him serenely, purportedly for Newcombe’s green eyes of envy, “And besides, it’s our precious day, not just mine.”
The target changes his tone instantly, “Of course. That’s a really lovely way to think about it, Moira. I think you will be the loveliest bride I’ve ever had the chance to work with.”
“Let’s talk about the color scheme,” He changes the subject to not sink himself any further, “There are changes to make, decoration and such. How do you feel about a palette of orange lilies and yellow orchids for this stage and the arch? To match the setting of this room and the sunset?”
“Orange and yellow?” 47 raises an eyebrow along with his objection. The artist in him is rolling his eyes, hard. Beside him, Diana’s fingernails are pressing half moons into his forearm, trying fiercely to hold in a laugh, “In a copper room? And with Moira’s red hair?”
Newcombe is taken aback for a moment by his vehemence. His mouth keeps gaping like a fish trapped on land. Finally, he stutters, “Excuse me, I think my phone is ringing.” Then flees out the side door with his tail between his legs.
“Did you see his smug face when he lectured you about our precious day?” Diana turns to him with a wide silent smile, her eyes sparkle like the sunset on the water’s surface, “I think we just need to push him a little closer to the edge.”
“You’re having a little too much fun,” He raises a bemused eyebrow with the discovery, “Diana..” There’s half a warning and half a mockery in the way he spells her name.
“He’s not even subtle,” She retorts, “I propose we obliterate this fuckboy, 47,” then demands with absolute glee, “On the ground of bad taste in wedding decoration.”
It’s hard for him to withhold his smile at her grin. Ever since he’d got the serum, he realized that it’s easier and easier for him to sympathize with the emotion the people around him are exhibiting. It’s still new and strange for him, even after a year on his own, especially since he has to do his own screening and sifting of every emotion he’s seen because she wasn’t in his ear to tell him what they mean and the motive behind them anymore. However, with her now being by his side again, although in her new role as his equal, allowing him space to brood and decide whenever he needs, he finds that the person he wants to empathize with the most is none other than her.
“Someone once told me work and play shouldn’t mix.” He can practically hear the bitten down laugh on her lips at his quote, but the laugh lines around her eyes are unmistakable. Though Diana doesn’t get a chance to speak her remark because Newcombe chooses this exact moment to come scurrying back.
“My apology, now, where are we?” He puts his hands on his hip in an instinctive attempt to appear bigger.
“Tobias and I are discussing the guest list,” Diana answers without missing a beat, “There’s this friend we want to invite from the US. He had a hard time last year, so we really hope this trip can cheer him up.” She states blithely.
“Then I better work hard to prepare for this day, don’t I?” He seems to have recovered enough of his zest, “How about we continue our tour, and you tell me the place that catches your eyes? Follow me, please.”
Their next destination, predictably enough, is the field. Just as he remembers from his previous visit, the trellis are still full, heavy with clusters of juicy round grapes, and the workers are still diligently moving to and from like a buzzing hive of bees. Newcombe walks before them, waxing poetry about the long slanting golden light, while painting a beautiful picture of Diana in her white dress between the setting of nature, when suddenly, 47 spots a familiar head from afar. Seems like the only one who can’t bear to move on from this vineyard isn’t Valentina Yates, but her chief winemaker. So, he takes her hand in his, and makes a suggestion.
“I want to see all the field from above first.” Then to provoke the target further, delicately drawing his fiance towards one of the higher viewing platforms, and makes a show of helping her up the steps, leaving the Heartbreaker behind to play catch up.
As they stand side by side above the picturesque backdrop, he whispers in her ear, “The chief winemaker’s down there, by the gate.”
Her answering smile is blissful, but the narrowing of her eyes in that direction indicates her calculation, and the hand she’s putting over his feels like a scene from his favorite play. The Heartbreaker has caught up with them on the stairs and is gearing up for another long monologue, so Diana weaves her fingers tightly into his, and kisses him softly on the corner of his mouth, after giving him a barely perceptible nod of understanding.
“It’s too muddy.” She turns around to face Newcombe, complaining, “I don’t like my dress getting dirty.”
“Oh.” Newcombe looks as if he was unprepared for this scenario, breaths still a little too fast from running after them, “Oh. My fault. I’m sorry Moira. I didn’t think of that before.” He apologizes profusely, “Let’s move on then. I can show you the mansion if you like. The owner moved out last year, and I heard the ground is no less beautiful than all of this down here.” He gestures broadly about the lavender and the grape vines, “They even have a lookout over the lake.”
“We would like that, thank you.” 47 acquiesces, hand in hand with his wife-to-be, watching his target struggling to swallow his annoyance at their intimacy.
They walk back up the hill, with Newcombe in the lead, to the large empty mansion. Compared to the carefully protected vineyard, the place looks abandoned. There’s only one bored guard smoking on the porch, who slowly unlocks the tall gate to let them in, and after giving them the key to the main house for a tour along with some pointers as to where to leave them after they finish, he disappears back out to his previous seat under the wilted pergola, thrumming sadly on his guitar.
In his memory of one year ago, this place was carefully maintained. Patches of lavender were professionally pruned to keep up with the appearance of being natural, the climbing vines verdantly smooth, blooming coyly with tiny petals of purple, and the air was breezy with the lovely scent from a warm kitchen busy cooking its hearty dishes, mixed in the ever lingering aroma of lavender. Nowadays, the house is dark, and a little cold. The hearth lies cleanly somber, the pantry closed off, the once green vines withered and shriveled. There’s no cobweb of negligence, and the patches of lavender outside still flower, yet the air feels languid, and heavy with all the wooden family heirlooms standing silently in the shadow. Newcombe hastily turns on the light, wincing.
“This place needs lots and lots of work for sure.” He takes them through the kitchen and the study downstairs, before bringing them up to the second floor, “But it’s clean. There’s help from the village coming to dust it every week, so I think it can still work if we start the ground prepping now.”
He sees her eyeing the place where last year, Don Yates lay dead by both of their hands, his blood spattered invisibly on the helm of her dark dress. Thanks to his dying wisdom, there are no traces on the tiles now, just an unused, musty smelling bedroom from being closed off for too long. Newcombe turns away to open the balcony door to show them the panoramic view of the whole vineyard, and 47 quietly puts his warm hand on the small of her back, his thumb rubbing comforting circles through the fabric to remind her of his presence. In return, Diana smiles, and he can see all the heaven and hell of their twenty-year history lengthen out in front of his eyes, broadly and radiantly like the sunlight on the ocean’s constant waves, stalwartly and sinewy like the renew budding trees each spring, ardently and sweetly like the red blooming roses. And he muses, so this is why people want to get married, to spend a lifetime living for the wonder that is their lover.
Newcombe prattles on and on, oblivious to the gaze they exchange. For one fraction of a moment, 47 feels a drop of pity for the man in front of him. But a job is a job, and he still has a reputation to rebuild. Thus, he cuts in to ask.
“Can we have a look at the back garden? You said it overlooks the lake.”
“Yes, of course.” Newcombe agrees, glancing over to Diana to watch for her reaction, “What do you think, Moira?”
She supports him with a beautiful smile, “I want to see the back garden too before we decide.”
They walk back down the stairs, and out to the back. The ground here seems to be the least impacted from the previous owners’ tragic death and betrayal, it looks just as it used to look a year ago. The lavender rustles gently in the wind like waves of purple over the azure lake, and the sunset golden light gilds the smooth satin over the water. Newcombe goes straight for the lookout over the cliff, his arms outstretched in pompous excitement.
“This is a view worth dying for, don’t you think?” He turns his back to them and shouts over the swishing of the wind coming in from the direction of the far water.
Diana sends him a darkly amused look that asks loudly “What are you waiting for?”
So, he acts, swiftly punches the heedless Newcombe in the kidney to incapacitate him, then breaks his neck on the precariously assembled wooden rail, and finally throws his body down the almost vertical cliff. They watch in comfortable silence as his body slowly disappears under the water.
“Target eliminated.” Eventually, she praises, “Well done, 47.” Pride and triumph evidenced in her voice, “We shall expect the client’s payment, and a tasteful thank you card for the effort.”
He feels the same emotion swelling in him, looking in the depth of her blue eyes, standing over their former enemy’s grave. Countless of them have tried, and none have succeeded. Where they have failed is where the pair of them have triumphed. And deep in his heart, he knows with a certainty like the sun is bright and the sky is blue, that as long as they have each other, no mountain in this world is too high to pass. So, this time, it is him who goes to her, with a smile dancing in his eyes, and repeats her request from a year ago with a hint of mischievous nostalgia.
“The night’s still young, Ms. Burnwood. Will you meet me on the dance floor?”
She laughs, and goes willingly into his embrace, winding her arms around his waist and softly putting her lips on his. The kiss is not deep, or long, but it is sweet, full of familiarity and promises of later passion. When they part, she lets herself sink further into him with a content sigh, in response, he tightens his arms ardently around her body. Their bond was forged by blood, their promise spoken through fire, their path lined with thorns. There are always countless bad seeds in the world, but there are also them, him and her, and this moment, and more of endless glorious hours spent with them side by side. And that, he decides, it’s enough for tomorrow.