He's never considered himself a bad person.
When he was young and growing up with a mother drunk half of the time and cursing at him when not, and a father who came in and out of the picture, he told himself that snapping at his mother one morning because she wouldn't buy him that toy was an okay reaction on the part of an eight-year-old kid. When he kicked sand at his father, on one of the rare holidays he decided to take his family out, just like that – for no "apparent" reason his parents could come up with – he brushed off any leftover guilt, blaming it on his ten-year-old logic that just whoa, dude, it's wrong to be mad at your parents, when he knew it was all right.
Once he turned twelve, he decided he resented both his parents, and their parents, and their brothers and sisters and cousins they didn't really have, and eventually, he found that the only person he could love was his little sister. Sweet, sweet little Kristine.
He managed to keep the guilt at hating his parents abated by his love for Kristine, 'cause, in all reality, in those moments of despair, whenever their mother narrowed her eyes at them for even shifting an inch at the table, stirring a soft rustle-swish she couldn't stand, Kristine was the only one – the only thing – that mattered. Keeping her safe was his mission.
He told himself hating his parents was okay as long as he loved and protected her.
That's reasonable, right?
When he joined the army – when he killed his first victim, on a quick, uncalculated whim because the injured, limping man was approaching him with a scarily dead look on his face, he figured it was for the best of his country. Well, tried to tell himself that.
He flinched at every sound and every movement around him for better over a week, until he saw a soldier kill one of his friends, and he pointed the gun at him, fingers steady and clear on the trigger, and any guilt he had left drained out of him like water from a sponge, leaving his insides dry and empty, cobwebbed with the distant remnants of fear and frustration.
It was the moment he stopped caring about who and how he killed – it mattered why he killed, for the better of his country, of the world. For Kristine, who he hadn't seen in God knew how much time. He sort of lost count of the days, passing by him in a mess of scorched tires and dead bodies and blood and dust.
He fell in love with Caroline Reynolds quickly when he got the job as a Secret Service agent. Not immediately, not like they showed in those ridiculous dramas with the "love at first sight" thing Kristine used to sighed happily at, but after some time – a few cool, measured smiles in his direction, the strong force of authority lacing her every word in between – and he found himself feeling flustered and awkward and aroused around her.
She was the only second person he ever loved.
And then he found out she was screwing her brother, and the situation got even more fucked up. He didn't care. He loved her all the same.
Things all became for the love of the country and the world and loving Kristine, and messed-up, cold Caroline. For a while.
She let him fuck her, sometimes, whenever she felt like it and he felt like it, and God, it was bliss – those moments of watching her calm decomposing under his fingertips like dust, of having her moan in the wet space in his mouth, watching her come undone from a crazily inappropriate motion of his tongue against her – it was all sorts of heaven. He'd gotten drunk on a number of occasions, but having her beat any sort of high to a pulp.
He loved making her come.
So he told himself the people he killed for her were not only for her, but also for his country and the world and lovable Kristine. And okay, maybe that poor fifteen-year-old didn't deserve to die, but he saw something that he didn't need to, and, well, Paul was just there to take out of the garbage.
And anyway, the kid wouldn't have been hurting only the government and Secret Services and the Company and whoever else ran this shebang – he would have been hurting the country and the world and sweet Kristine and Caroline, and Paul Kellerman couldn't have that. Never ever.
In the next fifteen years, he told himself that. Killing that kid was the only murder that hung amongst the rest of millions, an unwanted memory clinging on, vividly sharp and bright against the background of unclear, repressed murders, all dim. That, and Danny Hale.
God, Danny. The goddamned coward. Fuck. Paul hadn't wanted to kill him. He really, reallyhadn't, but these things happen.
And while he was pulling the strings and killing people and arranging everything so it all went smoothly for the soon-to-be-president Vice President Reynolds, he felt the nagging urge to go see a psychiatrist.
A fucking psychiatrist. Wouldn't Caroline be laughing her ass off at that?
"Tell me, Owen," Dr. Frank – a man in his mid-thirties with a kindly face and eyes that knew too much – said, crossing one leg over another, hands clasped together in front of him. "How are you feeling?"
Paul registered his calmness, his composure, and was reminded of Caroline. Only this man? Yeah, he was innocent and his aloofness didn't strike out to be as cold as Caroline's. This man, somewhere deep down his professional exterior, cared for his patients, and loved the people in his life. Paul caught the glint of a ring on his finger, during one of their sessions, and wondered if the man had kids. Maybe. A girl? A boy? Both? Who knew.
Paul cleared his throat and spoke. He always scheduled these meetings late at night, if only so he wouldn't be seen.
He talked about his parents – about how part of his leaving was only for the sake of Kristine, so she wouldn't wake up one night and see him with their parents' blood splattered in between his fingers – about how he hated both of them. He talked about his childhood friends, or lack thereof. He told the man about Danny Hale and Caroline Reynolds, sneaking them in under different names and situations, and his beef jerky business, and the man smiled and listened, a certain air of ignorance to him that comforted Paul and made it so easy to open up.
Of course, that was hardly part of it. But telling a psychiatrist about your latest killings was out of the question, no doubt about that.
He never spoke about Kristine, because she was the only part of his life that was good and he wasn't about to share that with a man who, despite the fact that he had listened to him talk about more personal things—
like his infatuation with brother-loving, mind-blowing Caroline "Felicia" Reynolds
—was still a complete stranger to him.
Kristine.
Keep her safe. That had been his mission all his life, even when he left and didn't see her for fifteen fucking years. Protecting her was hard and meant making sacrifices, like not calling on Christmas or Hanukah or Easter or Thanksgiving, or even sending her a card on her birthday.
But it was okay, because she would never see the man he had become, who killed and tortured and got the job done with no remorse or second thoughts.
He's never considered himself a bad person—
because it's all for the good of the country and the world and sentimental Kristine and someone has to do it
—just a bit stingy, sometimes, that's all.
But in those moments, feeling the brush of Sara Tancredi's hair against his wet arm, watching her struggle, he thinks again about who he was and who he is now and what would Kristine say about him now? and gives the defenseless, quivering woman beside him a choice.
He hates her when she decides to be stubborn. Hates her because he has to kill her
it's all for the good of the country and the world and Kristine and Caroline and Danny—
but hey, that's life.
When she escapes and burns him with an iron, he stops to inspect the injury for a second and lets himself a smile.
And finally, the lie he's been living in is washed out of his mind, and he realizes it wasn't ever really for the good of his country or the world or even Caroline or Danny.
Just sweet, sweet Kristine.