Chapter Text
Caitlyn lights a cigarette, watches the orange glow, watches the ash ripple, watches it burn a little longer than it needs to. She feels the pull in her chest at the familiar feel of the paper between her fingers, doesn’t let herself taste it immediately.
It's only when it begins to droop that she lifts it to her lips and takes a long, slow drag. Her lungs fill right back again with the warmth of death, hold it swirling around the hollow of her chest before she expels the smoke in a fine stream, a thin cut slashing out into the city lights.
They seem brighter somehow.
She’s losing it. Wouldn’t be the first time, unfortunately unlikely to be the last.
She stares at the ash collecting at the end of the cigarette, turns it in her hand, watches it fall and sting her palm only for a moment, before the cool night air takes it. The flecks of blood on her face are starting to dry too, starting to crust in that annoying way blood tends to do. She should do something about that but she almost doesn't care because she can feel eyes on her.
So what if there's someone who saw? So what if there's someone who knows?
Let them come.
Let them come and maybe it will finally be done and she can rest at long last.
She stiffens further at the sound of footsteps, at the rustle of the drag of a plastic bag. Uncouth. Everyone who’s ever killed someone knows you don’t have to clean up until you’re done. Amateur.
Exactly what she deserves.
She takes one last drag of her cigarette then stubs it out on the back of her hand.
Time to get this over and done with.
Ok.
What the fuck.
Vi stares back down at her own hands where they grip the trash bag that the previous shift had oh so kindly left for her. Thanks but no fucking thanks, Mylo.
She's not supposed to have seen that. She's definitely not supposed to have seen any of that. She's also not supposed to be here but she is, standing behind their bakery, trash bag in hand, staring at the side profile of someone who’s definitely just killed someone.
She knows the killer’s head had stiffened at the sound of the bag, at the sound of her footsteps. That person sitting there with blood splattered over her face knows she's here.
Vi swallows.
Shit.
She can't die here. Not here, not now. She has croissants proofing. What is she going to do? She’s a witness. They’re going to kill her, aren’t they? Isn’t that the whole thing? No witnesses?
Fuck.
Mylo really can’t roll croissants for shit. That’s gonna be a whole batch going to waste.
She doesn’t want to die.
She really doesn’t want to die. Butter is expensive.
“I can hear you thinking,” comes a low voice. “You might want to put the bag down. You can get it later. It's a little hard for the dead to move, don't you think?”
Vi swallows again.
“I'm not going to fight back,” the woman continues. “But if you'll indulge me, I would like to look you in the eyes.”
Considering this woman probably just killed a guy pretty much point blank, it doesn't seem like it'd be worth it to disagree. Vi has a black belt in a few martial arts but that only makes her more acutely aware that people who are actively trained to kill are a whole different breed so she does as she's told, puts the bag down onto the asphalt and steps out.
The woman sits cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the brick wall of the brunch place next door, next to a dumpster that Vi is now sure is about to be a crime scene. A suit jacket lies crumpled by her thigh, her slacks riding up to reveal forest green socks.
The blood on her face looks like it is almost dry.
Vi wonders why she hadn’t wiped it off, then stops thinking when a piercing blue gaze meets hers. She’s never seen eyes a color like this, a cloudless summer sky, an unshaded spring pond, the first autumn sunrise, the depths of winter ice.
“The morning rush will start soon,” says the woman. “Garbage collection in about half an hour. You might want to get on with it.”
Her expression twists into one of distaste.
“Surely you’re not expecting me to get into the dumpster myself.”
“Into the dumpster?”
The woman looks at her like she’s stupid, then she sighs, reaching for her pocket. Vi shifts, shifts her weight onto her back foot, isn’t sure what she’s going to do against a gun.
A gun does emerge, a pistol, something surprisingly large. Vi’s played enough video games to know that’s a silencer on the end. Fuck. Oh fuck. Shit. She really is going to get murdered. The croissants—
It’s turned and extended out to her, handle first.
“Here,” says the woman. “Consider this a gift. You’ll get to keep your own and won’t have to worry about the signature. Well, I do suppose you can keep this one as well if you want, seeing as I won’t be needing it after.”
“After?”
“After you kill me,” she says. “Go on. You got me. Congrats.”
Kill? What?
“Uhm,” says Vi. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I was just taking out the trash.”
“Same,” says the woman.
“Not that kind of trash. The kind the closing shift didn’t want to take out.” Vi gestures to the plastic bag that contains some coffee cups, a bunch of wax paper, and some coffee grounds.
Those blue eyes flick down, then up.
Vi knows she looks exactly like the baker she is, knows that this is probably the cleanest she’s looked in a while because she hasn’t gotten started on the kneading yet, takes this opportunity to study the killer, to take in those handsome cheekbones, the bridge of her nose, the shirt unbuttoned at the top then back to the flecks of blood painting that pale skin pink.
“Oh,” she says. “I also have a handkerchief.”
“A handkerchief.”
The tone is one of disbelief but if Vi isn’t wrong, there’s a hint of amusement.
“The kind people use to wipe their faces with,” Vi says deadpan with the tiniest smile. “You have blood on yours.”
The gun is retracted, placed back into the suit pocket. The woman gets to her feet and that’s when Vi realizes that she’s taller.
Those blue eyes look at Vi. She’s waiting for something.
Oh.
Vi holds out her handkerchief.
The woman takes it, unfolds it and then folds it back in a slightly different series of folds before she dabs the drying blood off her face. It’s not wholly successful, her face tinted ruddy. It makes her look more alive in the growing morning light.
Vi waits for the handkerchief to be returned but it is tucked instead into a pant pocket.
She stares at where it’s disappeared. That wasn’t part of the offer. Not part of the deal. She likes that handkerchief. Powder got that for her for her eighteenth birthday, seven years ago.
“Hey.”
“I’ll return it once it has been cleaned,” says the woman who’s already started to leave.
“I have a washing machine. I can handle it.”
“Stay here any longer,” she says, reaching a hand out to pat Vi on the shoulder, “and you’re going to need to have an alibi as well.”
“I want it back,” says Vi.
“And you will have it back,” she says. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“I’m just supposed to trust you?”
The woman pauses, looks down at the bulge in her pants where her pistol sits, then back up at Vi.
“Don’t you already?”
And then she’s gone.