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Séverine watched as the island grew smaller behind her, scarcely able to believe she wouldn’t see it again. She wouldn’t want to, not when every building was already etched into her memory and forever linked with her memories of Raoul.
She’d never see him again.
This was what she wanted, she reminded herself. Séverine couldn’t believe she even needed that reassurance. How long ago was it that she first decided she couldn’t live like this, with him? How long had it been since dread first replaced her gratitude, since she began regarding her future with him in horror? It was impossible to say, but she knew it was a long time.
Now that she was leaving, she was relieved to found she wasn’t having second thoughts.
The grief will come, she reminded herself. Things like this were always complicated, and at least this time she’d be able to expect how much it would hurt. It wouldn’t be so bad if only she could expect it.
*
They stayed only a night in Macau, Patrice too exhausted from piloting the boat away from the island to really think about what to do next. Partway through their journey Séverine had spotted helicopters making their way to the island. It was Bond’s back up, most likely, and while both Séverine and Patrice imagined they would have their hands full with Raoul and everything else he kept on the island, they didn’t want to be on open waters when his people began to wonder where they ran off too. They would want Patrice, even if they didn’t care much for Séverine.
The hotel they found was an expensive one, not to Raoul’s tastes nor particularly to Séverine’s, but in its own way that was a relief. Séverine didn’t want familiarity now, nor did she want comfort.
Patrice sat on the toilet, turning his face up so Séverine could see. The wounds she cleaned only the night before looked no better, but also worse than she remembered. Some of the rudimentary stitches Patrice allowed her to make looked like they ought to be redone if she didn’t want them to scar so visibly. In his line of work, one of his greatest assets was his ability to go completely unnoticed.
“He hurt you,” Séverine said.
“You knew that.”
Séverine wasn’t going to ask for specifics, but looking at the bruises on his face and the cigarette burns on his hands told her enough. She was more worried about the other injuries she knew were there, but that he wasn’t telling her about.
He was fine before me, she told herself. Patrice could look after himself without her.
“He was a cruel man,” she said. “Although, I didn’t really expect much less from him.”
“No,” Patrice said. “It’s only a certain kind of man that does what he does.”
A type like Raoul, Séverine thought. She wasn’t stupid enough to pretend that Patrice wasn’t capable of that sort of cruelty as well, although he had never been cruel where she could see it. He had never been cruel to her.
(Raoul hadn’t been either, at first. She always knew he was dangerous; he never hid that from her. It was her own fault that she let herself feel safe, or told herself he was different than others like him. If Patrice turned out to be the same, she’d have only herself to blame for that this time.)
She turned back to cleaning the injuries on his face. “He’s likely dead now.”
“Most likely,” Patrice agreed, not needing to ask for clarification on who she meant.
Neither of them were sure how to follow that up.
*
In the middle of the night Séverine woke to her heart hammering in her chest. Looking around the room and finding it was somewhere she didn’t recognise only made breathing come quicker, and upon recognising the room as a hotel room Séverine whimpered.
“Séverine.”
She sat up, her back straight and her hand curled into a fist around the blankets. The lamp next to the bed was turned on, letting out a low glow that was soft on her eyes. Patrice sat up next to her. “Are you okay?”
She quickly nodded, all at once unsure what came over her. This wasn’t like her; it hadn’t been for a while.
“Did I wake you?” she asked.
“No.”
“You haven’t slept?”
“There’s a lot to think about.”
Séverine waited for him to elaborate, but Patrice didn’t. Really, she should be used to this by now; she might not have had the chance to spend as much time with him as she would like, but it didn’t take that long to learn he was a man of few words.
She was just used to Raoul, she supposed, whose every pause was intentional and filled with its own hidden meaning. Any theatrics that came from Patrice were unintentional; he just didn’t deem it worthy to explain any of what he was thinking.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“What we’ll do next,” Patrice said. He looked at her. “I won’t have my work with Raoul anymore.”
“No,” Séverine said. “You never worked only for him, though.”
“I didn’t. I’m glad for that now.”
Séverine smiled briefly. Once, she thought it would just be easier if Patrice gave his loyalty to Raoul and Raoul only, but he’d always said it was impossible. Raoul didn’t need his particular services nearly enough to make it worth it, not with his other customers. At the time Séverine didn’t understand what the problem would be – Raoul would still let him do work on the side, if he didn’t need Patrice’s particular area of expertise at the time – but Patrice still refused.
It made more sense once she understood that that was already the arrangement Patrice had with Raoul, how Patrice belonged to him as completely as she did, under Raoul’s proposed conditions. He didn’t need Patrice’s consent to make him his. When Raoul decided he wanted something, he took it. People weren’t an exception to that rule.
Patrice’s refusal to give in was worth something, though, although Séverine never understood exactly what that was, having never been so bold herself.
“So what do you think we’ll do now?” she asked.
“Anywhere,” he said. “I don’t have a home, but if you want one I’ll find it for you.”
“What would I do with a home?”
“Whatever you want,” Patrice said. “But you wouldn’t have to do anything. I’d support you.”
She glanced across the room to the mirror and tried to picture herself as the type of woman with a home, even if it was paid for with money from murder. She couldn’t imagine it.
Séverine turned to look at him. “Would you have me do for you what I did before?”
“I don’t need it,” he said. “I make my own connections. I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.”
“He wasn’t, either,” Séverine said, perhaps a bit too quickly.
Patrice paused, thinking on what she said for a moment before nodding. “No, you’re right. He wasn’t.”
“We made a good team,” she said. “Those times we worked together.”
“We did,” he agreed. “I’m glad to know I can count on your help. But I don’t need you do to do anything. I don’t want us to be like that.”
“Like what?” Séverine asked.
“Business,” he said. “Only being together when we work. We’ve spent long enough that way.”
*
Séverine watched through the window of the aeroplane as they left Macau. “I never thought I’d actually leave.”
Patrice glanced past her, out the window. Slowly, he nodded. “We won’t come back.”
“What if someone hires you for a job here?”
“I wouldn’t take it,” Patrice said. “I don’t need the money that badly.”
“You probably never have to work another day in your life,” Séverine said. “Not if you’re careful with the money you have.” She glanced up to him, trying to read his expression. It was as impassive as ever, giving away nothing. It terrified her not to know what he was thinking, but excited her as well.
(This should be her first sign, really. Excitement really was the first sign of danger.)
“You wouldn’t want to stop, though. You can’t leave. I don’t think you’d even want to.”
“I didn’t say that,” he said.
“Men like you are a type.”
“Would you want me to walk away?” he asked. “Buy a house, settle down. Is that what you want?”
Some long dead part of Séverine told her that she should want that, after everything. She wouldn’t be able to make up for the parts of her life that she lost, but hadn’t she had enough adventure for one life? Wouldn’t she want to settle down, to make something safe for herself?
She didn’t, though, and not just because she didn’t feel she could reasonably ask Patrice to walk away and still be the man she loved.
*
The first job Patrice took was only a week after leaving Macau. Together they flew out to Russia and alone Patrice set off to finish his job. Séverine sat in their hotel, waiting for word that the job was finished, that he was safe.
The day was spent periodically pacing around the room, in between the occasional efforts she made to read. She soon found herself unable to concentrate. Every time she thought she might be able to really commit to doing something, her mind supplied her with questions to entertain about where Patrice was and what it was he was doing. He was one of the deadliest assassins in the world – Raoul didn’t work with just anyone when he could work with the best – but regardless of his skillset, his job was a dangerous one. His encounter with Bond proved that as good as he was, there was always room for someone better.
Séverine sighed. She knew she mustn’t think that way. It didn’t do her any good to worry back in the days when she prayed for Raoul’s safety rather than hoping for his demise, and thinking about it didn’t help her then, either. Worrying never did any good, but that didn’t mean she could pretend that she was doing anything but waiting.
It was another two days before Patrice made it back, half a day later than he told Séverine he would.
She jumped up from the bed, having tried to sleep for several hours and failed.
Patrice looked exhausted, still injured with the wounds Bond left him with, but when he looked at Séverine it was clear he was glad to see her. He wrapped an arm around her waist and she kissed his neck, and together they made their way back to the bed, wordlessly knowing what it was they were both after. Séverine got as far as pulling Patrice’s jacket off and straddling his waist and he got as far as unbuttoning her shirt and slipping it down around her shoulders, then pulling her down and kissing along her jawline all the way up to her lips.
Séverine stilled, holding them there for a brief moment as his hands explored his back and her own made fists in his jacket. When she pulled away he gazed up after her.
“Is something wrong?”
“If something happens to you, what will I do?” Séverine asked. “Where would I go?”
Patrice frowned. “Nothing will happen to me.”
“But how can I know that? How can I be certain?” she asked. “If something does happen, and I don’t have you, then I’ll have nothing.”
Patrice didn’t move for some time, instead only watching her. She held tighter to Patrice’s shoulders like it could protect him, but nonetheless she felt safer for the touch.
Séverine tensed as Patrice wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer to him.
“We’re safe now,” he said. “I’ll make plans. I’ll protect you.”
“I don’t want to live in some home away from you,” she said. “I don’t want to settle down. Not while you’re out where you can get hurt.”
“Why?” Patrice asked. “Do you think you could protect me?”
“No.” Séverine looked down at Patrice’s chest, frowning. “It would make me feel better, though, if I could be with you.”
“Fine,” Patrice said. Séverine looked up at him. “If that’s what you want, stay with me. I’d never make you do anything you didn’t want to do.”
*
Patrice travelled a lot for his work, and so Séverine, too, travelled.
A long time ago there was a time when she thought she knew what freedom meant, during the days when she did her travelling for Raoul. The world was her oyster, she thought, so long as she lived within the restraints of Raoul’s instructions and never fell off his radar. She thought it felt like protection, like having a guardian to watch over her no matter where she went - but that was a long time ago. With her bodyguards at her side (Raoul’s men, there to ensure the return of Raoul’s messenger), Séverine was free to do as she pleased.
In Patrice she found a different joy from travelling for Raoul, a different sort of freedom. With him, there was something Raoul couldn’t touch, even if he might think he could control everything.
And now –
Now, everything was different. With Patrice beside her on the planes and across the table from her in restaurants, awake with her at night when neither of them can sleep and asleep beside her when she fitfully woke herself in a panic. She brought him to shows – some that Patrice liked (and he’d kiss her tenderly in the dark as they both drowned themselves in the musical sensations around them); some that he scoffed at (“You call that music?”); some that reminded Séverine too much of Raoul – and she walked with him through museums. They translated the languages to each other that the other didn’t know, and between the two of them they almost always knew enough to translate.
“This is everything I wanted,” Séverine said one night as they left another show.
Her fingers held tight to Patrice’s, unwilling to let go even as they awkwardly manoeuvred through the door. He didn’t seem eager to let go of her, either. They stepped outside, then moved to the side away from the door so Patrice could look at her properly.
“I never would have come to one of these shows before,” he said, softly.
“I never thought that myself, either,” she said. “I didn’t think I was the kind of girl who came to see these.”
“What changed?”
The answer, she felt, was obvious. Séverine never thought he’d ask, and hadn’t realised how much faith she put in their unspoken vows to each other, to never ask such things.
Maybe he didn’t know, though. Maybe he was asking because he really wanted to know. A stab of doubt shot through her – it was because of her that Patrice was going to see these shows, and he loved her dearly. What would he think if she told him it was a different man who first brought her here? One that she loved dearly, once. Of course he knew that Raoul meant something special to her, but it would be so easy to give him the wrong idea. Could she really live with herself if she was the one to plant the seeds of doubt that poisoned things between them?
Yes, she decided. She could live with it. She’d have to, if that was the case. There was no way that Séverine spend the rest of her life with a man like Raoul, and if Patrice was like that she’d learn eventually. She may as well learn now.
“Séverine?” Patrice asked. “Are you okay?”
“It was Raoul,” she said. “He brought me here, and everywhere – shows, restaurants, museums. Places I never thought I could go, or that I was worthy of going.”
Patrice gave a slow nod. “Yes,” he said. “Of course it was Raoul.”
“He made me feel like it was okay,” Séverine said. “Like I could be the sort of girl that did things like that, if I wanted to.”
“Yes,” Patrice said, and he said it so sincerely that she was all at once taken aback, almost ashamed of herself to have thought that he’d even care that she still thought about Raoul.
Of course Patrice wouldn’t care. Raoul had been part of her life, but he’d been part of Patrice’s, too.
*
They flew into France. Séverine watched out the window as the clouds parted and Paris became clearer. She needed to clear her head, to dislodge the lump forming in her throat.
Patrice leaned over the window, looking out and then looking back at her. She pretended she didn’t notice, pushing her hair away from her face, trying to force her hand to be steady but failing horribly. Séverine balled her hands into a fist and held them on her lap.
“Isn’t this a gorgeous view?” she asked, not daring to look over to a Patrice.
“This was your home?” he asked.
She nodded. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been here.”
She could imagine what he was thinking, what he was asking, but just like she wasn’t asking what went through his mind when they passed through his home country, he wasn’t asking the questions she was sure were on his mind. Everything that happened here was a lifetime ago, and the girl Séverine was when she lived here left on holiday with her parents when she was twelve and never returned.
“Have you been here since you left?” Patrice asked.
“Yes,” she said, and then with some hesitation said aloud what she hadn’t trusted herself to say for some time now. “I came here with Raoul.”
Patrice touched her shoulder. Despite herself she jumped, turning to look at him with wide eyes as she quickly scanned his face for any side of disappointment, or anger. There was nothing; his face was as neutral as ever, but his touch was so gentle as he pushed her hair over her shoulder and drew her closer.
“It never gets easier,” he said, and she had a lot of questions about how he could stand it when she was choking back tears before she yet set foot in the country. Instead she stayed silent, wanting to hold the tenderness in his expression for as long as it would last.
*
In the morning Séverine woke to find Patrice watching the news. She wiped her eyes, pushing herself up in bed and trying to make sense of what she was seeing on the screen that led to Patrice’s stony silence.
There was a mass shooting in London, resulting in the death of many prolific figures including the head of MI6. The suspect was still at large, and as of now there was nothing official to confirm his identity. Speculation was abundant, but more pressing was the fact that the shooter was still alive. He was still out there.
A cold dread began to seep into Séverine’s blood. She looked to Patrice, hoping to find something in his expression that would assuage her fears. When he looked back to her, all she found was confirmation of what they both knew but weren't saying.
This was Raoul’s work. He was still out there, still alive.