Sunshowers, a parodies and spoofs fanfic

Well now, it's been forever since I've posted, hasn't it? I accept your hate, and your abandondment. I am guilty. :( And now to top it all off... what's this? AN OCC??!?!?! INSANT REJECTION right?

Spare me the theatrics. This is just to tell you all that I'm still alive and kicking.

Sunshowers

I hate my job.

Blood is a tricky substance – it splatters, it flies, it rains, it clings to me. It sticks to my favorite cashmere sweater and my shoulder smells like iron and salt for the rest of the day. It's disgusting, and tough to wash out. No matter how much I rinse and bleach, it never wants to leave. It haunts me.

Even when it's raining, like it is now, with the water flooding the streets and the sky a blue-black, I know that those stupid stains from that stupid PI (who just wouldn't die) will never go away. I'll wear them forever until I throw away this shirt, which I will do soon because otherwise Leo will see. Under no circumstances can he see, know, or even suspect, so I will crumble up this new shirt and throw it into the trash tonight when I sneak back into the house. And for the morning, I can think up of some good excuse for coming home so late. I always have an excuse, of course, but I must be getting old because they're beginning to be awfully difficult to come up with.

Today's work was more problematic than usual because they're starting to send in smarter investigators. Every week, it seems like, some new police force is knocking on the doors and asking questions and pocking their noses into business which does not concern them. And they're not the Italian police, either – those guys know better than to try to mess with us. No, these are Americans. And they're stupid, ignorant and brave. Or stupidly, ignorantly brave.

I actually love Americans most of the time because they're so easygoing and cheerful, but work is work. If there's trouble and someone knows too much, they call me. And me… I do what needs to be done.

That usually involves a few bullets in the back of the head.

But this PI…. He wasn't just stupid, ignorant and brave. He was stubborn, too. Nearly stabbed me with a pair of scissors. Scissors for Christ's sake! We were outside! Who carries scissors in their jacket pocket?!

Americans.

And now here we are – I'm going home with a stinking, bloody shirt and a bruise on my knee and a scrape on my throat. All I want to do is flop down on our obnoxiously old and comfy couch and have some milk and sleep. Sleep is wonderful – it makes me forget work. I hate thinking about it too long, because then I get depressed. I actually don't like this at all, this whole assassin thing. Some days, I think I don't have the heart for it. But then, I don't have time for regrets; I need to earn money somehow. Beggars can't be choosers, as they say. I've been doing this for half a decade. I was able to buy us a house because of this job and Leo just loves it because it's right on the edge of the prairie and he says it inspires him.

If Leo is happy, then so am I. I love, love, love Leo. He's even better than sleep. Or food. Or oxygen. Or anything else, for that matter. He's got the most beautiful smile, and his hair is so sort and all gold-like and he's so cute and so much fun, even when he's angry at me and he's…

He's awake.

I pause at the turn of our driveway, confused. It's down-pouring, and I can hardly see a thing, but the scene before me is unmistakable although it makes zero sense. It's past one in the morning and the lights are on in the living room. They windows are glowing, the only color in the gloom.

Why would they be on? Leo should be sleeping. Why is he up?

Worried now, I speed up my pace, nearly slipping on the stones of the walkway. It's so wet but I hardly think anything of it. I pull my jacket tighter around myself, hiding my bloody shirt under it. My hair throws raindrops into my eyes as it sways and I brush it aside quickly before reaching for the door. They keyhole is slippery and it's dark, so it takes me a few tries to get it in, but I manage it eventually.

It's abruptly warm and dry. I shiver a little, pleased, and pull myself out of my shoes. They squelch on the linoleum of the hallway as they fall free of my toes. I keep my coat on as I trudge deeper into the house, past the kitchen and the thin hallway of pictures. I can hear that the TV is working, but I can't tell what channel it is. I don't really care – it's pretty weird in general that it's on. Leo dislikes TV; he's always saying it rots my brain, so I don't know why he'd be watching it in the middle of the night.

I finally come into the living room, right next to the magic box. It's bright in here, but only from the tube. No other lights are on. My love stands in the very middle between four walls, only in his sweatpants. The bluish light illuminates him, drawing lines in his hair which is half-curly, falling all around his perfect face, almost brushing his shoulders.

"Baby," I croon, taking a step towards him. "What are you doing? You scared me, love."

His intent gaze shifts from the screen on to me and finally, I realize that something is wrong. His eyes, which I am often quick to compare to jewels, are now bleak glass. It's like he's been broken on the inside, and I've seen enough broken people in my day to know it. This sight is like a blow to my chest. My heart picks up pace.

"Leo?" I say, approaching him quickly. I reach out for him, wanting to draw him into my arms. I want to promise to protect him, to make everything alright. I want to hide him from the world, keep him forever safe.

I want to, but he flinches away from my touch.

I freeze.

Gunshots from the TV interrupt us both. As one, we look at the screen, at the video that is running. I can hardly distinguish it at first – it is a poor quality. It looks like a home-made film from someone's birthday party. The lens is pointed out at a window. Outside, it is murky and raining, like it is now. The street is like every other around here; lined with adjoined houses and dim lamp-posts. Nothing sets it apart. Nothing except for the two figures struggling on the porch, that is. They're both dark and hard to make any sense of, but they are fighting. It looks eerily familiar.

Then, Figure #1 draws something shiny – a knife? – and swings it at Figure #2. Figure #2 retaliates by shoving a gun into Finger #1's eye and blasting out his brains. Figure #1 falls. Victorious, Figure #2 spins away, stumbling down the porch steps and then through the street. His face is briefly lit by the dim lamp-posts, exposing a long nose, matted hair and a sideways scowl.

It's me.

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. My ears are ringing. My blood runs cold. I'm lost, paralyzed, shocked to my core.

Gods no…

Slowly, I turn to Leo. My Leo, my love, my soul…

Gods, no… Please not this…

His broken eyes ask me the question I cannot bring myself to answer – Is that you?!

Please, anything but this…

The TV's voices speak to us, but the sound hardly reaches me. There is white noise in my ears.

"The death of private Investigator Stevens will be further looked into by the Italian forces. For now, however, no further information is being released. There a good chance that the suspicions are true and that this is the work of the Mafia and the Brothel. The hired assassins in association to these organizations have been long suspected for up to a dozen murders within the last few months and…"

I can't listen anymore. I think I'm going to be sick.

Why is this happening?

"I can explain…" I whisper. My voice is hoarse, like that of dying men. I know it, I've heard them. I'm killed them. I'm a murderer.

Leo doesn't answer. He looks down, at my chest.

I realize that my trench coat has fallen open. I'm not holding it anymore. The red stains that will never come off are in his eyes now.

No, no, no, please no…

"Wait," I gasp when he begins to back away slowly. Every step is like a nail in my heart. Just watching him is painful enough to kill me. My sweet Leo, my baby, my love… He hates me, he doesn't' trust me, he doesn't want me to touch him…

He's afraid of me.

"No, no," I beg him, reaching further. "Please, I swear…" I didn't mean to kill all those people! I won't hurt you! I'd never hurt you! Please don't go, please don't look at me like that, please, I love you! I can't live without you!

"Leo," I whisper again.

He stumbles, nearly falls. I want to catch him, to support him, to tell him it's all a lie. I want to promise to fix this.

But I can't fix this.

I've been dishonest with him for three years now. I've been going around murdering people and he had no idea he was living under the same roof with someone like that. I've ruined everything. It's all my fault.

I love you, I want to say. I've always loved you. Please believe me. Please….

He looks into my eyes again and their glassy surface cracks.

"Get out," he croaks.

My heart rips in two. I can feel it bleeding inside of me. I'll die any second now, I'm sure of it. No one can possibly live though this agony. I can't move, I can't speak or breathe…

"GET OUT!!" he screams.

I moan and push a hand over my mouth. Oh God. I'm going to throw up. I'll throw up my torn heart all over the floor, and everything else inside of me because that's all hurting, too, and it needs to leave so that I'll be nothing but an empty shell and then I can fall and shatter and die and then this pain will stop, and it'll stop and…

I run.

It's pathetic and weak, just like I am. It's a limping struggle to drag my carcass to the door. I have to do as he says; I have to make him happy. He hates me, but I love him and I'll always love him and that'll never change but oh God it hurts so bad…

When the water hits me, I fall to my knees. I turn myself somehow, slipping in the mud, clutching at my coat, clawing at my skin, trying to kill myself. All wrong.

It's all my fault. I ruined everything. He hates me and he's afraid of me. I've broken him, I've hurt him, I've made him cry… me, me, all me…

"Leo," I beg.

He appears in the door for just a moment. His eyes find me, and I look back, pleading for forgiveness mutely although I know I deserve nothing but death.

"Goodbye Andrei," he chokes out very quietly, and closes the door.

Alone, I flee from the pain as best as I can.

A day passes.

Then another.

The pain doesn't dull, it doesn't back off. It continues to kill the part of me which is already dead.

I should be dead.

Leo, Leo, Leo…

I sit alone, wet and cold, like a corpse, somewhere in the middle of the woods. I shake.

Hunger never comes. I don't suspect it ever will again.

I burn for five hours, and then the fever recedes.

Leo, Leo…

I wake up with tears streaking down my face.

Leo…

I've lost him. I've lost the only thing in the whole wide world that made me happy. I found him, against all odds, and now I've lost him.

I dream.

I dream of what was before. I dream of him, pretty and vibrant and creative. I dream of his sunny smiles, of his soft touches, of the way he curled into me when I hugged him.

I dream of how we met.

It was raining, just like it is now, but it was so bright out. And he was the brightest thing of all, just standing there by that café, looking up at the blue stretch, his face glowing with wonder.

As if some invisible force tied strings to my legs, I gravitated over to him, shuffling subtly to his side if only to share in his beautiful aura for a few seconds.

The sky has gone insane, I said.

He looked at me, dark eyes opened wide in awe. It's called a sun shower, he told me. When raindrops come down from a sunny sky, sparking like diamonds.

That explains it, I said softly.

Explains what? he asked.

Where you came from. I smiled.

He blushed, and at that moment, I knew that no force, natural or otherwise, could pull me away from his side.

I dream of the time we used to doze in the afternoon, tangled together on the low bed that I had at my little house, with the windows all open to let in the summer breeze. The white curtains would fly and flutter and he would nest among the bed-sheets, looking for all the world like an angel that's decided to come down from heaven.

I touched his cheek, and his eyes opened, and I kissed him, and then I took his hand and slid the band of gold onto his finger.

He looked down at it and his cheeks colored. What is this? he asked.

I want to be yours forever, I explained. Is that okay?

He pushed his fingers into my hair and kissed me deeply. Yes, he breathed.

I bought us a house, I said.

He hugged me so tightly I thought I might die, but even if I would have, at that moment, I would not regret anything in my life one bit.

I dream of the way he sat cross-legged on the window in summer, his cloth on his lap, his sowing needle in his mouth to free his hands. He plucked it out eventually and then it began to bring the material together smoothly, into a pattern, a shape, a style…

He caught me staring and smiled knowingly.

Don't you have something better to do? he asked.

This is better than anything, I answered him.

I tried to memorize every part of him, every motion and expression and word. He was my world.

I destroyed him.

I made him unhappy. I don't deserve to live. If anyone else would have done something like this, I would hunt them down and make them suffer.

It was good, then, that I am suffering.

I deserve it.

It makes sense.

I am slightly reassured.

Another day passes.

Another thought occurs to me.

What if someone else hurts him?

Like a knife passing through flesh, this awakes me. I uncurl from my forming grave at the base of a tree and rise on unsteady legs, swaying slightly. The forest all around me buzzes in alarm. I lean against the trunk behind me.

What is Leo needs help? What if I'm not there to help him?

My limbs numb, I somehow begin to shuffle around. My torn heart, or whatever is left of it, thrashes in my ribcage. I see Leo hurt, Leo scared, Leo alone…

If I am not there to protect him, who will?

Heavy with the persisting pain, I break into a run. My bones crack with every step. It hurts to move, but I endure it. I trip on roots, get slashed with branches and even fall into a river once.

The journey back is long, and I make it on pure instinct instead of any remaining sense of direction. I just sprint until I burst out of the trees into a familiar clearing, and then thank whatever higher powers have taken pity on me.

Slower now, I creep around the house which I am forbidden to enter. I crawl into the tea-rose bushes under the bedroom window. Carefully, I peek in, feeling horrible about it.

I find him – thanks be the Gods – safe, on the bed. He sits upright amid the nest of blankets and pillows, black fabric spread around him, dripping off of the edges of the mattress and onto the floor. He fingers it and it runs like oil from his hands. His eyes are staring off into the distance, still broken. They're a bit red. He's been crying.

My fault, all my fault.

I sink back into the bushes and press my cheek to the ground. It is cold, harsh and unforgiving, just as I deserve, but it is close to Leo. I have to protect him, so here I will stay.

I will stay until he finds me and commands me to a further distance, and even then I'll try to keep him safe.

In the prickly cover of the tea roses, comforted by my love's presence, I sleep peacefully once more.

In this manner, a month passes.

I sleep under the window. I scavenge for food at night, sometimes going through the trashcan. From this I find out that he hasn't been eating well – I find many untouched meals, just stashed there, and no chocolate wrappers. This disturbs me highly. I worry and eat little, but I do eat. I survive. I keep watch.

At night, he cries sometimes, and my torn up heart throbs with grief along with him. I ache to climb in through the window and comfort him, but I know it would not be welcome. This reality makes me feel even worse.

Once, when a man approaches the walkway early in the morning, I stand up to my full height and look at him until he leaves. Then I lay back down.

I don't sleep for the next two night, but he doesn't return.

Slowly, through my trashcan analysis, I find that Leo has begun to eat a little more. I follow example, but make sure to be quiet about it. I know he must consider me his biggest threat.

Two weeks after, he begins to venture out of the house again. He goes downtown to buy cloth. He purchases crackers. He waters the tea-roses.

I follow him like a shadow, always keeping an eye out for danger. At night, I sometimes climb to the roof and perch there to watch the moonrise.

I am skillful at what I do, even if it has damned me. Leo does not show signs of suspicion about my shadowing. He looks over his shoulder once or twice, but no longer. He has started to relax. He does not cry every evening. He puts out birdfeed on the window.

I learn to tolerate the pain. I even bathe in the stream and shave with a razor I steal from one of the trips downtown. Mostly, though, I just watch him. It eases my fears and calms me. I know I will never hold him close again, but seeing him is enough for me. I don't think I even deserve that much after what I did to his life.

But I cannot afford to die just yet, for he is vulnerable and broken and sad and I need to know he is not going to get hurt any more than he already has.

Which is, of course, exactly what happens.

My stalking is usually faultless, but I haven't really been myself lately. When I trail behind Leo, I sometimes lose track of the present. Once, I wait in the shadows far too long and he disappears around the corner. Then I run to catch up, too nervous, and am nearly seen.

You don't have to be invisible to achieve zero attention. It's all about body posture, and the tiny messages you send out subtly through motions, facial expressions, stances. If you want to not be noticed, you have to wipe yourself off of the map mentally. You have to think quietly. You have to not exist to the smallest atom of your being.

My problem, therefore, is easy to identify – ever since I messed up and ruined everything, I'm no longer balanced. I don't think, I just rush into the fray. I want two different things at the same time. I can't concentrate enough to do my job well.

Leo walks into the tailor's shop to talk to Michelle, the daughter who now practically runs the place. They're all but the best of friends. I watch her watch him with a worried expression on her face. Does she notice that his eyes are still a little red? That he's paler than usual? What will she ask him, I wonder?

He leaves too soon for me to answer these questions and heads towards the bakery. It's across the street, so I don't follow him right away, instead clinging to the stone wall behind the tailor's, trying to appear as green as the climbing ivy that decorates the cold stone.

A few minutes later, he exits again with the old man who owns the place and they both go towards the back, where the crates are all piled up. I try to edge into a place where I can still see him, but it's nigh on impossible.

I fidget, I wring my hands, I bite my lip. I claw my way up the incline of the wall, grasping the bricks that form the nearby house like a monkey, and heave myself up onto the old roof. The slates groan under my weight, nearly snapping, and I immediately lay down to distribute my mass among them. Then, slowly, I crawl across it to the other side, where I will hopefully have a better view.

At the opposite end, instead of working with my feet, I simply brace my heels and roll over the side, flipping back upright in the air and landing into a smooth crouch into the damp earth. Then I straighten, plaster myself to the wall again and peer out.

From where I am now, the crates are more visible, but neither the old baker nor Leo is there. Somehow, during my move from one lookout post to the other, they've managed to evade me.

My heart start stuttering as if it's going to explode but I force myself to move slowly, fluidly, across the street. Two children on bicycles pass me, hardly even noticing that I'm there. Encouraged, I dive into the alleyway toward the crates. There, I jump over a few of them and settle on another one to look at the ground carefully. I study the footsteps in the mushy mud and follow the heavy working boots and the smaller, size seven sneakers. They trample around a bit and then go separate ways. The sneakers trail off around the bend and past the wired fencing that overgrows with climbing plants, up the hill that leads to the street above this one. It's a ways away, though, and my worry returns anew, stronger than ever.

Ignoring the law of stealth, I launch myself into a run after the tracks, weaving around the maze and through the skinny paths. I pass into the bridge that runs across a stream that grows into a river during spring and dive underneath the chains that close off the back passages to the small church. I hug the brick wall, still praying that he is alright. Gods, why is he moving so fast? Why can't I find him?

I pass a small opening in the stonework that leads into the courtyard and garden without thinking twice, ignoring the three young men smoking in there, but then freeze at the sound of a fourth voice.

"Leave me alone."

Practically paralyzed, I manage to retrace my steps and then resist peeking in. That voice. It's in the same place as those stupid smoking boys. And it sounds scared.

It's hell to avoid looking, but in this situation, I cannot allow myself to be seen. I have to resist my instincts and instead find a ledge in the wall in order to climb up it and look over the top instead. The vines grapple with my arms as I do so, but I shove them aside, ignoring the many cuts I receive, and then slowly peer over into the garden.

It's him, oh gods, it's him and he's surrounded, clutching his messenger bag to his chest and glaring at the other three who are slowly circling him like a pack of hungry wolves.

"What's wrong, little fairy?" the tallest brat chuckles, waiving his cigarette in the air. "Are you scared?"

"He looks like a fuckin' waif," the one on his left chortles, shifting from one foot to another.

"Elf is more like it," a third mentions.

"Shut it, dambass," the tallest member snaps at him, and the third one quiets immediately. Satisfied, the angry leader returns his gaze to my Leo. I want to rip his head off and crush it with a cinderblock. If they so much as lay a hand on him…

"So, why are you out here?" he continues conversationally. "Little boys shouldn't be out alone."

Leo stiffens, clearly pissed at their assumption of his age. He's already 23, but he still looks like he's 16. Skinny and delicate and elegant and angelic and basically helpless. He insists he's not, but I know better. He can't hold those three off.

Not that I'd let him. I'll take care of all of them gladly, the horny, selfish bastards that they are. The world will be a better place without them. My hand drops to my pistol at my hip and settles around the smooth, metallic features with a simple familiarity.

Then I freeze as an image of Leo's eyes pops into my head, unbidden. Those distrustful, hurt, fear-filled eyes. They are all but screaming – murderer!

Oh God, I am…

"Answer me," the leader snaps, irritated by Leo's silence. He steps forward and Leo backs away, glaring at him.

"Fuck you," he snarls. The three guys actually look taken aback for a second to hear those words coming from his pretty mouth, but then they all grin.

"What a great idea," the tallest one laughs, coming closer yet. He reaches out, aiming to grab his arm.

Suddenly, all of my old inhibitions snap like rubber bands and fly off into the void. Screw being a murderer. Leo is in danger. Only he matters. Only his safety.

My gun is up so fast I nearly don't see my arm move. I don't take a second to aim, instead letting the omnipotent force of my fury move me. The trigger snaps back and the bullet explodes, whizzing through the air and into the open palm of the guy who's closest to Leo.

He screams and stumbles, back, clutching his wrist as he stares at the blood pouring from his hand out of a rather neat hole. Finally, he realizes what had happened and begins to look around wildly.

By this time, I have already descended onto the ground and no longer care about being seen. I storm towards them, mentally making plans for their demise, knowing how fucking scary I look when I'm like this. The three boys blanch and start to scramble back, totally confused. Their eyes and dull with nicotine. They're all high, probably not in their right minds, but that doesn't excuse them in my opinion.

When I am between them and Leo, I stop and allow myself to reason through this before I go any further. Technically, they hadn't done anything. I'm sure they were going to, and I'm sure that if they had before I'd gotten here, they would have been nothing but rotting corpses by now. Still, Leo is behind me, protected, and probably scared shitless.

The memory makes me a little lightheaded. That's right, I think. He's scared. But probably of me, not them.

I can't bring myself to turn around and look. I know that if I see that expression in his eyes again, I won't be able to do anything anymore. I'm nothing but a murderer to him now.

I lift my arm again, which feels heavy as lead, and point my firearm at them again. They flinch and back away some more. "If you ever," I begin, deathly quiet, "and I mean ever come anywhere near him ever again…" I take a deep breath and force myself to calm down and continue. "I will make sure you regret being born. Got it?"

They're quiet. Still looking at my gun.

I scowl and tighten my grip. "Got it?" I repeat, louder this time.

They finally shift their focus to me. They still don't speak.

"Unless someone feels like losing the use of their leg next, I suggest you go with the correct answer of 'Yes Sir'," I inform them.

"Yes sir," the second-in-command chokes out. I have a feeling the leader wants to hit him, but he's a little too busy sniveling at the fact that there's a hole in his hand.

"Get lost," I hiss.

They turn around and dash away, leaving the courtyard in less than two seconds, tripping over each other to get away and looking over their shoulders to check that I'm still as angry as I was. I am.

Then, when they're gone, I am suddenly not. Suddenly, I am almost as nervous as they are, because what I will be having to face terrifies me to the bone.

I drop my weapon, feeling the metal burn my fingers, and it clutters against the stone walkway. Then I slowly step around to look at Leo, who is now sitting down, still clutching his bags very tightly. I can't see his expression – his gold hair obscures his eyes and throws shadows onto his features.

Oh Gods, he looks so broken, so scared… I want to comfort him so bad it hurts. I want to hug him, stroke his back, feel him curl into me and carry him back home, protect him forever…

"Leo," I whisper, and he tenses visibly.

I swallow the lump in my throat.

"Leo," I repeat, still very quietly. "Are you… are you alright?" I make a little motion towards him, unable to resist the temptation to at least be closer.

He flinches and shivers. "Don't touch me," he whispers.

It's like a physical strike, these words. I've scared him after all. He doesn't want to be saved by a murderer. He just wants me to leave him alone, of course. I'm just some idiot, some stupid creep who's been stalking him – what was I thinking?! Why did I do this? I can't even follow his orders right, he's told me to get away and I failed that. I failed him again and again and again, and of course I don't deserve this, I don't deserve to touch him. I don't even deserve to see him!

I back away quickly, my body cold and unresponsive. I put up my empty hands in a dull gesture of peace. "I'm sorry…" I choke out, and back away some more. "I'm…" so sorry you've ever had to know me. I'm sorry I've put you through this. I'm sorry I ruined your life. I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry for this. I'm sorry for me. I'm sorry for existing…

That's the problem, isn't it?

I exist.

I turn and run just like those bastards – and I'm no better than they are – and flee like I did before. The sky is red right now, and I once would have thought it was beautiful but now I know better – I know it's red like blood. Like the blood that's been spilled because of me, so many times now. All of those policemen and investigators and people who were innocent, who were just doing their job. They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I thought it was justified to kill them. I destroyed them, just like I destroyed Leo.

I don't deserve this life. I've been given it, and I've been given Leo, but I've failed him. I've destroyed my precious angel, my gift, and now I must pay the price.

I run and run and run until I can run no more. Then I collapse somewhere under a bridge and lay there, dejected and wrong and undeserving. I'm nothing but a big stupid mistake, just a blotch of failure on the canvas of my Leo's life. I've been nothing but disappointment to him.

I don't deserve to live, I don't deserve to live, I don't deserve to live…

Slowly, as the sun brushes the last degree in the sky, I am lulled into a comfortable daze.

I know what I have to do.

A sort of peace creeps over me, and out of the corner of my eye, past the weeds, I can see the sky grow darker and darker. When the last ray of light slips away, I, too, should be no more.

I sit up, drawing my second gun, the revolver. It's older than the pistol I own and it's a bit crooked. It doesn't matter, though, it will do. For what I have in mind, it's perfect.

Grazie Dio…

I glance around me, at the rolling hills of the Italian countryside. A stream murmurs its way over rocks nearby. The crickets chirp quietly; euphony of sounds to fill up the night. The stars are just beginning to peek out of the velvet blanket of the sky.

The world, it seems has never been more beautiful.

I am destroyed to be leaving it, but I do not deserve it any more than I deserve Leo.

I close my eyes and bow my head, pressing my palms together in silent prayer.

Thank you. Thank you for allowing me to have seen him. It was more than I could have ever asked for. Having loved him was the single best thing to have ever happened to my life.

I like to think that will not change, even after my heart stops beating.

The sun retreats a minute degree more. I lift my firearm, my bridge out of this world, and press it to my temple.

My last thoughts are for him.

Thank you.

My finger twitches, uncertain, but I have no time for delays. I order it to pull.

It does.

An unbelievable amount of noise crushes my skull and cracks my head wide open with pain and then it all just

Nothing.

I am drifting in nothingness.

I don't remember a thing.

How did I get here?

I want to remember…. Something important. It was something important which I did not want to forget….

Something…

Someone is crying.

Don't cry…

So much sorrow…

Don't cry, little sad someone…

Please don't cry…

Andrei!

It's so difficult to focus…

Andrei…!

Don't… …ve me…

I don't understand…

Please… Andrei….

Who are you?

Who is Andrei?

Don't leave…

So difficult to focus…

Leave?

… can't li… ithout…………. Idiot….

Am I an idiot?

Perhaps…

Please…

I'm so tired…

… I lo… …drei…

Don't cry…

I lov… ..ou….

Who are you, sad little someone?

I'm so tired…

I'm in nothingness…

Where am I?

Who am I?

I love you, Andrei!!

!!!

Air hurts.

Breathing hurts. Air is like fire. Fire in my lungs, in my limbs… Eating me alive, hurting me, chasing the numbness from my shell, chaining me into place again, dissolving the nothing, replacing it with real pain.

Pain, pain, pain.

I draw another breath. The air hurts for the second time.

And another.

The pain doesn't stop.

I want to yell, to groan, to beg for mercy, but I cannot find the correct levers to move my lips and tongue. There's only the pain, and that has wiped everything else away.

Somewhere beside me, someone is still crying.

"Andrei," he sobs.

I suck in more air and let it out, burning everything inside of me to cinders.

Leo……

My head hurts so fucking bad.

What the hell happened?

Don't cry, Leo, don't cry. I love you.

I love you.

"…if it didn… …major…. …ope for the bes… …artery…. … am sorr…"

"Save him!"

"…doing the… …calm dow… …without a hospit… …almo… …o chanses."

"He can't die!!"

I'm so fucking tired…

Don't cry, my little someone…

Don't cry…

Pain.

Air. Pain. Head. Hurts. Hell.

Dead dead deaddeaddead

Why am I not?

Head hurts like hell.

Ow. Fucking ow.

Say ow, tongue.

Where are you, tongue?

"Aaaaurgh…."

There you are.

"Andrei?!"

And there you are, love.

Hands. Not burning. Soft, small hands, holding mine so tightly. So tightly, but I can't find the correct muscles to squeeze back.

What happened?

"Andrei!"

"Aaah…" is my only answer.

"Andrei, Andrei, Andrei, you'll be okay, everything will be okay…" he chants. Such a lovely voice. My favorite voice in the world. But so scared, so fearful.

I sigh.

The hands squeeze mine tighter. "Yurii, get in here! I think he's in pain!"

"Hold on, I'm coming…" Footsteps across the wooden floor, and an odd accent, like rocks over water. "Let me see…"

Other hands, bigger, not soft. Not the right ones. Feeling my pulse.

I want the other hands back.

I groan.

The soft, small hands return, grasping my fingers so hard it almost hurts. "Shhh, it's okay," the best voice in the world soothes.

"I cannot give him any more morphine," the other voice says. "It is beyond me how he can still be awake after last shot. Is he man or horse?"

My favorite voice, accompanied by my favorite hands, comes closer. The hands press to my cheek. I want to smile, because it feels to heavenly, but I'm afraid I can't.

"He's been asleep for three days now…" the best voice whispers.

"That is already very good, considering," the second one responds. "There was a very good chance that he would not have woken up at all. You need to give him time to heal."

"But…" the best voice protests.

The second voice sighs impatiently. "Lёva," it says in a reproachful manner. "Tyi doljhen byit terpelyivim."

"How the fuck do you expect me to be patient?!" my favorite voice explodes, shaking with fear and stress. "He practically blew his brains out!"

"Yes," the accented voice says tersely. "And he is lucky that he did not manage to do it correctly."

Blew my brains out? Do it correctly?

What?!

I groan again, since that seems to be the best I can do at the moment, and struggle to provide at least some minimal comfort to that lovely, scared voice. Somehow, I manage to curl my fingers, although they feel like stone.

He gasps, astonished, and comes closer, which I'm very happy about. I wish I could move.

"Andrei," he murmurs. "Can you hear me?"

I sigh.

He rests his forehead on my chest. I hear a strangled sob, but it sounds relieved.

Somewhere still nearby, the disapproving voice tsks. "I have done all I can do," it announces. "Now you must let him sleep. Understand, Lёva?"

The forehead moves and there is a soft sniffle.

"Alright, then." The accented voice pauses, now kind. "Vsego horoshevo."

Another sniffle. "Thank you."

The footsteps move out of the room. I hear shuffling somewhere far away, probably behind a wall.

The forehead returns to my chest.

I want to say something, anything else, but I'm too tired already. It's still dark as ever, and it seems like I'm being rocked gently to sleep, as if on a ship at sea.

I love ships. When I was little, my father used to take me out to fish. We would sway together on his little boat, and I would stare at the sky and the waves until they would both merge as one into a single beautiful shade of blue.

My father drowned in the sea when I was ten. He died an honorable seaman's death.

I hope I don't die.

I really don't want to die…

I sleep.

When I wake up again, there is less pain – almost none, actually.

I try to move my lips, and they part when I bid them to.

I move my fingers, and they clench. I try my feet and they, too, shift, although it takes some work on my part. My head still hurts a lot.

There is something very warm and soft pressed up against me. It smells like fresh bread and cinnamon. Very warm and nice. The best smell in the world.

I smile, and revel in the fact that I am able to do so. I lift my arm a little and wrap it around the very warm, nice-smelling something. Or someone.

It shifts a little, apparently waking up, and suddenly breathes out in a startled way: "Andrei?"

Leo, I think with a burst of warmth.

"Mmmhmm…" I hum, now almost totally calm. Of course it's me. Who else?

I'm perfectly fine, it seems like. How odd, and how vivid that was.

"Tha's me…" I mumble, slurring a little. I sigh again, content where I am. With Leo in my arms, the world is at its best.

He's quiet, and it seems almost as if he is holding his breath. Curious as to why, I crack open my eyes a little.

The first of my thoughts is this – the light is too bright. It almost hurts to look at it. The second is – everything is askew. I feel like the world has shifted in some unimaginable way. I cannot put my finger on it, but something is definitely different. Oh well.

One thing is the same, though – that familiar gold color that my nose is buried in. Soft, fluffy hair that smells amazing and big dark eyes that are peeking up at me from underneath his bangs. My beautiful little Leo, right where he's supposed to be.

"Good morning…" I mumble and kiss his nose. "You won't believe the dream I had…" I begin. "It was freaky as hell." But I won't tell him the half of it. He doesn't need to know the details. The last thing I want is to be re-living that nightmare.

He swallows loudly, and I suddenly notice that his expression is a little off. Troubled, or maybe even scared.

"Wa'swrong?" I ask, my eyebrows creasing. Ow, that hurts. I try to shift my head and that hurts even worse. Before I know it, I am swearing like a sailor, lost in the flashing black dots that are dancing in my sight. I move again, trying to escape the pain, but this little motion makes my neck pinch some obscene nerve ending and suddenly my brain is on fire, and it's been hit by lightning and oh shit, I can't think, I can't see…

It's almost like I've blown my brains out for real.

I freeze.

Through the haze of this ungodly headache, I can dimly see Leo. He looks scared shitless, his eyes wide in panic, in worry, in fear. They're not the eyes I thought I was seeing, the innocent sleepy ones. They are haunted and there are traces of ghosts in them which I recognize to be my own doing.

Oh God.

It wasn't a dream.

The moment this realization hits me, all of my breath leaves my lungs and my blood runs cold. My brain, which was on fire a few seconds ago, feels suddenly like ice.

Oh shit. Oh shitshitshit…. What am I doing here? What am I doing…?

I shouldn't be here, I shouldn't be touching him, he doesn't want me to touch him, he doesn't want me in the house, he told me to get out but I stalked him and then I saw those three bastards and I shot one in the arm and he was scared and he said he didn't want me to touch him and oh my God I shouldn't exist, I shouldn't be alive, I wanted to die, so why am I alive, why am I here, what's going on?!

Scared to hurt him any more than I already have, I ignore my own pain and backpedal away. My limbs are slow to turn and my eyes are still flashing in a kaleidoscope-like way, but the only thing that matters is doing what he wants me to, which is to move far, far away, leave this house, get far away from him, try to be good and…

"Stop it, you idiot!" he cries shrilly, interrupting my escape plan, and sits up suddenly, reaching for me.

Reaching… for me?

His hands catch my wrists and hold them firmly, not allowing me to move any farther. I hesitate, still feeling like there's a knife lodged in my skull, and pant with the effort that it took just to get to the edge of the bed.

"Don't move," Leo orders me, sounding shaken and panicked. "Stay."

I don't understand a thing.

He wants me gone. He told me so.

But God, just having him nearly holding my hands makes me happy as an idiot. It's almost enough to distract me from the pain.

"Ow…" I whisper, because that's all that I can manage to say without dissolving into pathetic whimpers.

"That's right," he agrees, looking relieved that I'm still capable of speech. "That's your fault."

I bite my lip, because I know that although I want to apologize, if I open my mouth right now I'll get nothing but pain-filled groans. There is fire inside of my head. I shut my eyes as the world starts to spin. I think I'm about to pass out.

He sighs, still nearby, and tugs me a little, and then puts one hand on my shoulder, pushing me down to lie flat on my back. I let him do so, gasping when my cranium rolls in the soft pillows. It feels like I'm getting hit with a bag of bricks.

"Shhh," he murmurs, placing cool fingers on my cheek. Although I know it's stupid to be doing so, I turn a little towards his touch, seeking more of it. It feels amazing, being so close to him again. I thought this day would never come.

About a minute passes in strained silence. I don't pass out and gradually, the intolerable part of the pain seeps away. A dull ache takes its place, pulsing with each beat of my heart. Feeling up to this now, I open my eyes again and try to focus on his face, which is within touching distance. I want to reach out to him, but I know I'm not allowed to.

"I'm…" I begin, taking a deep breath between each word, "…sorry…"

He purses his lips. "You are an idiot the likes of which I've never seen before."

This scolding is next to nothing. He's called me an idiot a thousand times. I wonder why he doesn't use harsher words. I know I deserve them.

"Sorry…" I whisper again, and close my eyes, feeling the guilt eat me up. I am still confused. How the heck did I end up here, in our bed, and still alive, to boot? I put a bullet through my head. Who the hell survives that?

Finally, when he doesn't say anything, I decide to ask him. "Why?" I breathe, looking up at him, searching his expression for an answer. Why am I here?

"Why?" he echoes. He doesn't look happy, but he doesn't look destroyed anymore, either. Very, very pissed is more like it. "Because the fact that you have a thick skull is apparently literal. You tried to kill yourself, you son of a bitch," he snaps.

I remember that.

"You're lucky as hell that the… the gun…" he winces a little when he says the word, "was off. Yurii says you missed by a centimeter. You would have been dead by now otherwise." He falls silent and bows his head, shivering. I realize that he's still in shock because of it. Have I hurt him even more? Shit, that wasn't my intention! I was trying to make things better!

"I'm sor-" I begin, but he cuts me off.

"I found you, and you were covered in blood and you weren't moving…" he says very quickly, the words an outpour. "And you didn't seem to be breathing much, either, and God, I thought… I thought…" He shakes harder now, obviously trying to restrain himself.

Fighting against the physical pain, I lift my hand to his face. I expect him to push it away at first, but then he grabs it and presses it to his cheek. I can feel his tears; I can hear his struggling breaths, his sorrow flowing free. It seems that all I am ever capable of doing is making him cry. I'm an outright bastard.

He seems to be thinking along the same lines because he clutches my fingers very tightly, holding them close, and wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand and then glowers at me.

"I fucking hate you!" he yells at me suddenly. "I hate your stupid guts!! What would I have done if you'd died?! Where were you thinking?"

I have no idea.

"When you get better, I'm going to kill you myself!" he finishes off, seething and crying at the same time. He's a wreck, but through the pain and fear, I can also hear a note of immense relief in his voice. I can't understand where it's coming from.

"Okay," I say in a small voice. He can kill me however many times he likes. I would be happy to at least serve that purpose.

"You idiot!!" he growls. "You don't even have any brains! That's probably why you're still alive! There was nothing to blow out at all! You're nothing but an empty-headed, selfish, suicidal, crazy, stupid IDIOT!!!" he rants, and then smacks my chest. I wince a little, and then suddenly the rage slips off of his face, immediately replaced by worry. "Shit, I'm sorry!" he cries and hugs my hand and begins to sob again, though more quietly this time.

"Leo," I murmur, completely lost amid his conflicting emotions. "Please don't cry," I manage to choke out. "Please don't… shit, I'm… I'm sorry… Shit…" I cup his cheek and he covers it with his own tiny palm and continues to sniffle, looking completely torn.

We remain like this for what seems like forever to me, but at the same time it's too short, because I know that any moment he might remember himself and then push me away. Any moment now…

Instead, he sniffles once again and then opens his watery, opal irises and gazes at me with a broken expression. "Is it my fault?" he whispers.

I have no idea what he's talking about. "Huh?" I ask dumbly.

"Is this… because I said… to get out?" he clarifies. A single teardrop rolls down his cheek.

"Leo, you… !" I gasp, finally grasping his thoughts. "No!!" I exclaim, so loudly that it hurts. I have to waste another few seconds flinching, but then I'm back on track. "What… are you talk-… talking about?" I pant. "That's just… no! Of course not!" I don't even know how he got to that sort of conclusion. That's crazy! "I'm… the idiot…" I tell him. "You're right… you're completely right… I'm selfish… and stupid…" I list off. What else was there? "And a son of a… a bitch…"

He rubs his cheek. "I didn't mean to yell…" he whispers. "Those three guys… They scared me. I didn't think they'd dare but… I was just sort of in shock. I didn't mean to yell at you again."

I stare at him blankly. I know he doesn't understand what he's saying. That's why it makes so little sense. "Why did you go… th-through the back alleys…" I ask him, "…by yourself?" I swallow harshly because my throat is already dry from so much talking. "It was… It's dangerous."

He bites his lip and looks away, seeming suddenly a little bit guilty. "I knew I wasn't by myself," he says quietly.

I blink at him. "What?"

"I knew you were following me," he confesses.

I stare, speechless.

He blushes a little and looks down at my hand, setting it on his lap and beginning to fold and unfold my fingers. "I realized it a while ago. I thought it was my imagination at first, but it made sense. I knew you wouldn't leave me alone even if I told you to. You never listen." He shrugs shyly. "And that day, I was somehow very certain. I didn't feel scared at all. But then I got trapped, and… and they were all closing in and I had no idea what to do…" he takes a deep breath. "And then you came, like I expected you to. But it was a bit too much."

My mind is still blank. Maybe I don't have any brains after all. I certainly seem to be lacking them at this particular moment.

He looks at me again. "I thought I could handle seeing you again but I guess… I guess I couldn't. I had no idea what to do and I just freaked."

For a long time, we are both quiet. Then, finally some remainder of my cognitive organs prods me into speech: "I'll leave," I assure him in a whisper. "I promise I won't… I won't bother you agai–"

"Don't be stupid!" he snaps, irritated once more. It's like the flick of a light switch. His tears are still there, streaked on his face, but his eyes are blazing with fury again. "You're not going anywhere. Do you really think I'm going to let you wander off and put a second hole through your head?!" he hisses.

I shrink away, sheepish. "I won't..." I try to say, but he won't hear any of it.

"I don't care if you say you won't do it again," he snarls. "I can't trust you, Andrei. Not anymore. Not with anything, even your own life."

I swallow a hard lump in my trachea. I have no idea what to say to that. Of course he can't trust me. But what about not being close to him? He doesn't love me. I can't possibly burden him with my existence…

"But…" I try, and then stop, not knowing what to say.

"I. Don't. Care." he grinds out through his teeth. "You're staying here. You're not moving. You're doing everything I tell you to and you're getting better. Understood?"

I should protest, but instead what comes out is a small and submissive "Okay."

His shoulders lose their tension and he sits back a little, no longer quite as angry. "Good," he sighs.

"But," I begin, forgetting everything again, "but what about… the other thing?" I ask very quietly. I don't know why I'm diving into the mouth of the volcano, but somehow I need to have this resolved. "What about… my job?" I whisper. "I lied… to you… I'm so sorry…. I'm sorry…"

His eyes harden and he looks away. "Yes, you did," he agrees coldly.

He's so much more than I deserve. I've put him through hell and then some. I've nearly killed myself and made him take care of me. He's just so nice and kind that he couldn't just leave me there to bleed myself dry, he had to fix me up. And now he's stuck taking care of me, the guy with a hole in his skull, the assassin, the traitor and liar.

I don't deserve him, but what can I do?

"Leo," I mutter.

He turns away from me completely and climbs off of the bed on his side, walking to the dresser. "You have to sleep. You need it. I'll give you another shot of morphine; that should help." He begins setting up a syringe, his careful fingers collecting the medicine with precision.

"No," I try to say, "I don't deserve…"

"Shut it," he barks out. He returns to my side, the vessel already full. "You're not going to make this difficult for me. You're going to do as I say, when I say it." His glare is much more potent than it should be, and I am much more lenient.

"Okay," I say.

"Arm," he orders, and I give him mine without any hesitation.

I watch his face as he inserts the needle and deposits the pain-killer into my system. In a few moments, I feel the cool relief of numbness spread through my body. But until it has reached my consciousness, I am free to smile at him as much as I want, even if it probably looks like an idiot's grin.

He catches my eye and blushes. There's an expression of indecision on his perfect features.

"I… love you…" I mumble, already feeling groggy from the meds. I only have the time to see his eyes widen in surprise before the darkness pulls me under.

I love you, Andrei!

Who had screamed that back when I was about to die?

Or did I just imagine it?

I don't know anymore.

I dream again, but this time of peaceful things. I dream of the sea and the sky and the moon, and of Leo, who shines as the sun. I want to reach him, but he is too high. I take some wooden boards and begin to build myself a ladder. I yell up to him in the heavens – We are going to be together forever, because that's how it's meant to be!

As I am almost finished, a man approaches me, broad-shouldered and gruff.

What are you doing? He asks me unhappily.

I am going to sit up in the heavens with the sun, I explain to him.

You haven't reported in for a new directive for weeks now, Andrei, the man scolds. Any longer and you will lose your job.

I can't do my job, Mr. Rissie, I admit. I blew my brains out. Don't have them anymore.

In answer, my boss throws his head back and laughs very loudly.

Stupid boy, he tells me. You don't need brains to be an assassin. You just need to know how to point a gun.

I can't do it, Mr. Rissie, I insist. My heart is not in it.

Stupid boy, he laughs again. You never had a heart. If you ever did, I wouldn't have hired you.

I look up at the sky, where my Leo sits, and he looks back down at me. Then he reaches down, trying to touch me, and I reach up to him. We extend our arms as far as they will go, but it is not enough.

He tips in his point in the heavens, loses his balance and suddenly falls. He falls and falls and continues falling, all the way down to the ground. I tear myself from my spot and run to him, trying to catch him in time, but I know I cannot. I'm not fast enough, and I'm going to let him fall down and d

"No!!"

I wake up sitting, my arms out in front of me, my chest heaving. My heart stutters in my ribcage so loudly that I can hear its echo in my ears.

For a second, I can't remember where I am. Or what has happened. Then I see the room – our old room, and I see the medical things on the dresser, and the bloodied bandages in the corner, and I feel my head begin to throb again, and I know.

I panic at first, just like the other time, but soon realize all that has happened.

Leo. He told me to stay. He ordered me to get better.

I sink back down very carefully, lying down on my back and reaching up to my face with my hands. I must have slept for a very long time again because I feel a lot better now. My head still hurts, but it is not enough to make me faint. When I test my cranium, I discover that it is wrapped tightly in bandages all over. I touch the place where I pointed the barrel of my revolver to, but I cannot feel anything through the cloth. Maybe that's a good thing.

I wonder where Leo is. I don't want to bother him, though, so instead I look around idly, searching for any apparent changes in the room. There seem to be none. The picture of us in Rome is still on the nightstand. The little carving of his name in Cyrillic hangs on the wall by the door. Lёva. I could never pronounce it correctly. Not that he cares – he actually likes the Leo version better.

And there should be a little birdfeed ledge on the window which is nearby. I wonder if that's full.

I also wonder why I am not able to see it. I've been in this exact same spot a million times before, and it was always easy to glance the window without moving my head any.

I frown.

What does this mean?

Still unsettled, I bring my hands up to my eyes. I try to figure out what's different. There's a definite misbalance here, and it has something to do with my vision. Slowly, very slowly, I push both of my hands over my eyes. The world disappears.

I lift my left hand.

"Andrei?"

I lift my right hand as well and turn my head slightly to look at him – standing in the doorway, holding a tray of what I take to be food.

"What's wrong?" he asks, his brows creasing with concern. I must look pretty spooked. I sure feel like it.

"I…" I begin, not knowing how to break this to him. "I can't see."

He gapes at me. "What?" Setting down the tray of food on the bedside table, he sinks down onto the edge of the mattress by me and peers at me in shock. "What are you talking about?"

I point out the problem. "My left eye," I explain. "I can't see out of my left eye."

He puts his hand on my forehead and I shiver, for a moment forgetting all of my problems. Who cares about one eye? Leo is touching me! Woohoo!

"You can't see?" he clarifies. "At all?"

"Zero," I confirm. "The right one seems fine, though."

He leans away and I feel very disappointed. "Yurii said you might lose your vision," he muses. "We weren't totally sure what the damage was…"

"Oh well," I say, folding my hands on my stomach in order to resist the urge to take his hand. It's a very strong urge. "I can live with one eye. Not that big of a difference anyway."

"Idiot," Leo mutters, picking up the tray of food again. I observe him with my remaining eye, scrutinizing every detail of his face. His hair is pinned back, which means he's been working. He's not as skinny as he was when I was stalking him, but his eyes are still wary, still haunted. He seems conflicted about something.

"Are you hungry?" he asks, bringing a platter of food towards my chest.

I inhale and the warm scent of garlic bread enters my nose. Oh yes, I think. My stomach answers for me, grumbling very loudly.

Leo smiles. He smiles. It's the most wonderful thing in the whole wide world, even if it's tired and hesitant. I want to look at it forever. "I figured," he says. "You've been in bed for nearly a week now. I got you to drink and gave you vitamins, but not much else." He observes me carefully. "Can you sit up?"

"I think so," I say, and slowly struggle up on my elbows. My muscles are weak. God, I must be a wreck. I'm probably even skinnier than he is, and with my head all bandaged up and having not shaved for a week… I feel terrible to be before him like this, but he doesn't seem to mind at all.

"Thank you," I mumble, feeling as guilty as ever. "I'll… I'll pay you back. For the foo–" Abruptly, his hand descends on my arm in a rather violent manner and I forget all about my apologies and instead go for the good old yelp of surprise. He hits hard, not that I care, but I didn't expect that.

"Don't insult me," he barks. "You're not paying for anything. The only thing I need from you is less idiocy, which is not going so well right now. So just focus on doing that instead of your dumb ideas."

"But I don't want to be a burden," I begin, and he narrows his eyes at me. Fearing that he might hit my head next time, I quickly pick up the garlic bread and say hurriedly; "Yes sir."

"Hmph," he mutters, but as soon as I bite into the deliciousness of his cooking, his anger leaves and becomes replaced with mild smugness. "Is it good?" he asks. I wolf down the first piece and immediately start on the second, nodding meanwhile. "Slow down," he advices. "Your stomach has probably shriveled up. You'll throw up at this rate."

Trying to please him, I do, although it's hard now that I've started eating. I hadn't realized how starved I was. I feel like I could eat a herd of cows. Unfortunately, all I get is three pieces of bread. Not that I'm complaining, though.

"I'll get you some oatmeal," he says and stands up. I feel like cheering, as if I'm at a football game. Or worshipping him, but I already do that anyway. I thank God profusely while he's gone, and then as soon as he reappears, I try to appear perfectly obedient.

He sits down on the side of the bed again, by my legs, and his eyes soften when he looks at me. "You look like a puppy, you big idiot," he says, but it's not an insult. It's more like a phrase of endearment. I stop short and try not to let my stray thoughts get ahead of me. This is what I used to feel like when we first started dating – my heart would practically leap out of my chest every time he so much as glanced at me. It feels fantastic.

"Because I'm so shaggy?" I ask.

"That, too," he agrees, and sets a bowl on my lap. "Eat."

I do.

When I'm all done, he tells me to lean forward and inspects my bandages. While his fingers prod at them, sometimes threading into my hair, I am in heaven. I want to snuggle up to him and enjoy some more of this bliss, but I'm afraid of upsetting him. His words – I can't trust you – echo in my head. They're perfectly justified.

"I think I can take some of these off," he mumbles. "You're not bleeding anymore, and I need to check them anyway. Hold still." He begins to loosen some knot at the back and then unravel the long white binding, pulling it aside after he's done. There is still another layer underneath it, but not as much, and it's restricted to the angle at which my wound lies, so my hair falls free. Probably out of habit, he runs his fingers through it, combing out some of the tangles gently.

Without thinking, I make a tiny happy noise and let my head fall into his lap. My whole body is buzzing with a natural high.

He freezes, and after a moment, so do I. Shit, Andrei, I think. You're a fucking idiot.

Then he sighs, more irritated than truly angry. "I can't work like this, Andrei," he explains dryly. His voice is so nonchalant, it's almost as if nothing bad has ever happened between us at all and he's just scolding me for being a horny bastard, like in the old days. I shiver a little. That would be just too good to be true.

Before I can do anything else to get me into trouble, I force myself to focus and sit up again, staring at him sheepishly, my cheeks burning with shame. I feel like I've molested him or something. Like I've done something terrible that doesn't deserve to be forgiven.

"Stop making weird faces and sit still," he commands me, still concentrated on the task at hand and nothing else. "Even if you're apparently indestructible doesn't mean you can't feel pain. And I will hit you again, trust me."

I believe him, but for some reason the threat makes me smile.

"I love you," I blurt out, and then feel my entire face heat up. Crap, I was never one for subtlety. This is just like the first time. It just popped out, completely randomly, with no prerequisite. We were just friends at that point, but I was so absolutely sure of it, and I just couldn't hold it in and I said that to him. I would say it again, too. I would say it a million times. But right now, with all of this that's just happened… Shit, why did I say that?!

He stares at me, his face oddly blank at first, but I get the feeling that it's a façade. I am proven correct when his cheeks mirror the color of mine and he ducks his head, just as embarrassed as I am.

"I know," he answers very quietly.

"I just…" I begin, and then start off blabbering, unable to stop, "… I just wanted you to know that. Because I do. I'll always love you, no matter what, and I would never hurt you, never, that's just impossible, I never wanted to hurt you in any way, but now I've gone and ruined everything and made you cry and oh God, I'm so sorry, but please believe me, I love you, I just want you to be happy and I'm really very, very sorry although I know that it doesn't make anything better, it doesn't fix anything, but if you'll let me I'll try – I swear, I'll try my best to fix this and to somehow make it up to you and…" I pause and inhale deeply, ready to continue, but before I can get another word in, he smacks his palm over my mouth, shutting me up.

"Stop that," he commands, his cheeks bright and his eyes a swirl of emotions. "Don't…" He bites his lip shortly. "I know, Andrei. I know… And… And I don't want to talk about it right now. I don't even want to think about it. So just stop talking, and don't start again. Just let me fix your bandages. Okay?"

I nod slowly. Satisfied, he removes his hand and starts untying the second layer, peeling it away from my skin very carefully. I hold myself steady this time, not moving, holding my breath. I only blink when he suddenly lets out a surprised breath of air.

"What?" I ask, and then mentally smack myself for it. I'm supposed to be quiet.

He doesn't notice, though. "I really hope it feels better than it looks," he says.

"It feels fine," I lie. It hurts, but it's a lot better than before. I can't exactly say 'I've had worse' but I have had something similar. I got clipped in the leg once. Bullet went right into the bone and lodged there. I had to pull it out myself… with a set of gardening tools.

Leo just hums contemplatively and moves away to get a wet cloth and a new roll of binds. I wait for him patiently and then we lapse into silence again while he works. I try my best to avoid wincing, but sometimes I slip up and then he pauses, letting me regain myself. I have no idea how to feel about that. Idiotically happy, as I already am? Or just wary? What if, as soon as I get better, he'll kick me out again? Maybe that's why he's being so nice right now.

Lost in my own thoughts, I don't notice anything else until he pats my head lightly and says "Done," in a satisfied way. Curious, I poke at the fresh cloth lightly. It's nice and taut, but it doesn't make me lightheaded.

"Thank you," I say, and glance up at him cautiously.

He meets my eyes for a second, and then looks away, trying to appear busy with rolling up the loose bandages and putting away the washcloth and the food tray. Underneath it all, however, I can sense his unease. I know it's my fault, too.

It kills me that I don't know how to help him.

He stands up and, in a last desperate attempt at communication, I reach out and catch his elbow.

"Leo," I say softly. He turns around and glances down at me, still sad, still just as lost as I am. For some unknown reason, my gaze is drawn down to his left hand, where a glint of gold encircles his ring finger.

My attention snaps back to his face, which is stoic as ever. He knows I've noticed, but he doesn't give any indication of caring. "Go back to sleep," he tells me quietly and pulls away, exiting the room.

Not knowing what to make of this, I sink down into the bedsheets slowly and lay my bandaged head down on the pillows. The scent of him clings to them, and if I close my eyes, I can almost pretend that nothing ever happened. That nothing ever changed. It's almost easy now that I've uncovered this inconceivable little detail.

… Apparently, we're still married.

I sleep and wake up at random intervals for the next week or so. My schedule is slow to re-establish itself, and most of the time, I am stuck somewhere between slumber and consciousness. My mind thinks it has work to do, but my body tells it otherwise. I usually occupy myself with laying quietly and watching Leo go about his daily business from the viewing angle of the open bedroom door.

I catch glimpses of him as he treads from his workroom to the kitchen and then back. I see him as he waters the lonely plant in the corner of the room, by the deck window. I observe while he cleans up the dining room table – his preferred place to read.

In all, I come to the conclusion that although he acts physically fine and eats just as he has before and does the things he once did, something is off-balance with him, too. Perhaps he's not used to the lack of my constant presence. Maybe he needs to adjust to the free time he has now that isn't taken up scolding me for doing something idiotic.

I don't honestly know, but the thing that bothers me most is that he's sleeping in the guest room now. It's not a mystery that sleeping in the same bed with me is out of the question, but I feel terrible about the fact that he has to move and not me.

When I suggest to him that I surrender the bed and move to the couch, he responds with a well-aimed jab into my shoulder. I don't mention it any more after that.

Sometimes, though, I think of getting up and just leaving to give him the house back. I know I can walk now – I do it sometimes during the night, to get myself some water or to go to the bathroom. It's difficult, but not impossible. I reckon that with some practice and lots of rest-stops, I could make it to the tiny shed that we use for storing wood.

One night that I am seriously considering this, I decide to test my theory and see how far I can go. I figure that Leo wouldn't notice – he looks exhausted these days and I think he must sleep soundly enough.

I sit up and swing my legs down over the edge, testing the wooden boards with my toes. They're cold, and the entire house is a bit chilly without the blanket covering me, so I make my first trip to the dresser. I hope that he hasn't burned all of my clothes yet. After I stumble my way to one end of the room and discover that he hasn't, it's a whole another struggle just to get myself into my sweatpants. I use the bed for support, but it still takes me an entire two minutes. Mostly, this is due to the fact that each uncanny motion of my neck, such as looking down, brings back the headache.

Finally I am done, and then I resume my travels, heading towards the door. This is a bit faster now, since it only requires moving my legs, but also more difficult than usual because I only have one eye to see with. I'm still getting used to not being able to see anything to my left. This means that I have to turn my head, which, in turn, hurts.

Nonetheless, all of this mastered, I enter the hallway and lean against the doorframe for a bit of rest. My breathing is the loudest thing around, but when I halt it, other noises begin to filter through. One of them is particularly disturbing.

I push myself back into an upright position and squint into the darkness of the corridor. Is that… sniffling?

Confused and powered by my curiosity and worry, I walk faster now, heading towards the kitchen, my escape plans forgotten. The noises become louder, and as soon as I make it to the counter, I realize why – Leo is in the kitchen.

He's huddled up, pressed into a corner and hugging his legs. His face is buried in his knees, but the unmistakable sounds of crying are coming from there.

"What…?" I whisper, stunned for a moment, and then my instinct kicks in and I immediately close the distance between us and awkwardly drop to my knees right beside him. My hands hover, uncertain, inches away. Can I comfort him? Is that allowed? I don't think I can resist…

He sniffs one more time and lifts his head a little, catching sight of me. His eyes are bloodshot and his cheeks are wet. He looks so damn miserable that I know I can't stop myself, can't let him just stay like this, and so I lean forward and put my arms around him.

He hesitates for a fraction of a second, but then accepts it, hugging me back with an intensity I could never have expected. His nose presses tightly against my neck and I can feel his eyelashes tickle my skin when they flicker. He chokes back another sob.

"Baby," I croon, shifting him onto my lap. My hands rub his back soothingly. "What's wrong? What happened?"

He doesn't answer, instead just curling tighter into me and gripping my shoulders. I settle for holding him, letting him calm down by himself. I can vaguely remember the time when this has happened before – his mother died and he couldn't even come back to her funeral. He was devastated, and it was the first time I'd seen him actually cry, actually break down like this. I also realize that this must not even be the second time – that was when he found out. And I wasn't there to comfort him.

We sit like this, with him in my arms the way I thought he'd never be again, for a long time. I think that, if he wasn't so broken, I'd probably be dying of happiness right about now. As it is, I can only feel my own concern for his state.

After a while, though, his sniffles die down. He doesn't move away, or at all, for that matter, so I continue to hold him and stroke his hair. I even go as far as to kiss his forehead lightly, because it feels like the right thing to do.

He sniffles again, but it's dry now.

"Can I know what's wrong?" I ask when he doesn't say anything.

He doesn't answer at first, and then murmurs something very quietly against my collarbone. I shift him slightly in my hold, still cradling him like a child. "What's that?"

"You give me nightmares," he mutters begrudgingly.

I sigh.

He goes on; "I can hardly sleep. Every time I do, I always come back to the same image. The way you were when I found you under the bridge."

We shudder together.

"I won't ever do something like that again," I promise feverishly. "I swear, I'd never… God, Leo, I'm so sorry…"

He doesn't answer. I bite my lip and then slowly, gingerly, begin to sit up. Keeping one arm around his waist, I reach up to the counter's edge, gripping it for support, and struggle up to my feet. He clutches me around the neck, apparently knowing full well that even if he yells at me now, I won't let him go. Despite the pain pulsing through my cranium, I make it into an upright position. Then, holding him bridal-style, I start back towards the bedroom. With his small, warm body pressed up against mine, the journey doesn't seem half as long. When we arrive at the bed, I slowly set him down into the bedsheets and then tuck him in. He hesitantly lets go of me and watches while I sit down next to him, my legs crossed.

I take his hand and he doesn't protest. Holding his thin fingers between my own, I rub his knuckles, thinking all the while how ironic and wrong this is. I was the one who's responsible for the mess, and yet I am comforting him because of it. It's sick on my part, taking advantage of him. I wouldn't be surprised if he hated me even more for it.

He doesn't seem to be getting sleepy, although he looks calmer now, and neither am I, so I figure that while I'm busy being an idiot, I might as well do it thoroughly.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask him softly. "You're killing yourself over me, and I don't even deserve to be looked at." I press my lips together. "I'm telling you, I can leave. I can erase myself from your life forever and–"

"No you can't," he says, cutting past my arguments. He closes his eyes and turns his head into the pillow. "You can't erase yourself. If you leave, that'll still leave me with memories."

Ah. Memories. He's right; I can't take care of that.

"But it's hurting you, having me here like this," I insist. "I've made you cry, and that's already too much. I don't want to do it anymore. I want you to be happy."

His features harden, but he still refuses to look at me. "You should have thought of that before you lied to me, Andrei."

I bow my head, looking at his hand in my palms. "I should have," I whisper. "I should have told you… Or I shouldn't have talked to you at all. I shouldn't have ever polluted your life the way I did."

He is silent.

"I'm sorry," I say again.

He takes a deep breath and his eyelids flash open. Staring off into the distance, he says in a voice devoid of emotion; "What's done is done. No one can undo the past."

"I wish I could…" I murmur.

"I don't." Abruptly, he sits up. His eyes are still stained red, but they're ablaze now. "I wouldn't want to remain ignorant. I would want to know."

My heart seems to suddenly come up in my throat. Of course. How stupid of me. "Sorry," I say.

He takes a deep breath and steels himself. "I want to know everything," he says.

I blink at him. "What?" I ask blankly.

"I want to know," he repeats, "everything about you. How many people you've killed. How long you've been doing this. Whom you work for."

The questions, lashed out one after the other in a cold, calculative manner that is so unlike him, make me blanch. I cannot bring myself to answer, but he is in no hurry. He looks at me without a pause; waiting, expecting. I cannot feel the tips of my fingers and toes; they are numb. Funny how, after facing numerous encounters with death, I am afraid of doing something as simple as talking to my husband.

I can't bear to look him in the eye, so instead I stare at the bedsheets like a coward. I search for the right ways to explain, to tell him everything. I try to think of words that would not hurt too badly.

"I… It started five years ago, when I was working at the shipyard. I met my boss there," my mouth says without my mind's consent. The story seems to pour from my tongue, impossible to stopper now that it has begun. I wonder if it's good or bad. "He picked me out of a whim, said I looked like someone who needed extra cash. I agreed, obviously, but I didn't know what he would ask me to do. He just said to meet him at a designated place on a specified day." I take a deep breath, noting on how the numbness has spread from my fingers to my neck. "When I arrived, there were five of them there – five men just like the one who hired me. My boss met me outside of the pub that they'd gathered at, handed me a revolver and instructed me to shoot the man with the gold cufflinks when he came out. Then he handed me a wad of cash." I run a hand over my face, wiping away the invisible sweat. "And I… I did it. It was ridiculously easy. He was a fat old tycoon, and all I had to do was knock out and drag his chauffer out of the front seat and then wait until he got into the car and… and after it was done, I just put the chauffer back in place and left." I don't look at Leo. I don't want to see him right now, I'm too fucking scared to even peek. "And the week after that, the boss found me again. And then there was someone else who needed to die. So he gave me even more money. And I got rid of them again. And it just… it just started becoming regular. I lost track of the jobs, the bodies, the details… I don't want to think about it – I don't want to count or remember. I never did. I felt sick the first year, nearly all the time." I pause for a breath and cover my face with both of my hands. "When you came into my life it got better, because I had something else to concentrate on," I whisper, a confession worthy of a psychopath.

Leo breathes evenly, like a metronome. When he speaks again, there's not a note of change in his voice, no reaction. "Who is he? The man who hired you."

I swallow harshly. "His name is Rissie. He and four others run the Brothel district that sweeps about three kilometer's radius from here."

"The Brothel?" Leo echoes. "The slave-trade market monopoly?"

I nod, and fire erupts in my skull, but I hardly pay it any mind. "Yes." Then, realizing how that must sound from his end, I jerk myself out of my daze and finally catch his eyes, blabbering in panic: "But that's not… I've never… I don't have anything to do with that!" They sicken me even more than my own job, the monsters that run that place. "I hardly even go to headquarters. They just use me as a hunting dog, nothing else! I wouldn't ever get involved with shit like them!" I bite out.

Leo nods very slowly, his dark eyes sliding away from me and towards the window. His hands fist the blanket on his lap, twisting it this way and that. "Have you ever gotten hurt?"

There is no end or tail to this question, so it leaves me confused, but I answer truthfully: "Yes."

"A lot?" he inquires, looking up at me.

I flush and rub the back of my neck. "I… I'm a bit of a klutz, you know that."

He bites his lip. "So all of those times when you would come home with a bandaged arm or leg or chest…" he murmurs. "That was from… your job?"

I wince internally. Shit, what a way to put a number to it. I tried to hide my injuries, of course, but there are some things you can't cover up. I had a story for each of them, and each story was a lie. Well… mostly. "Yes," I sigh. "That was from that. Except for that one time that I cut up my hand rescuing the dog from the fishnets." It's a whole another tale, that one.

He takes a deep breath and I get the impression that he's trying to get himself under control. Like he's counting to ten or something. "When you get better, I'd going to beat you to a pulp with something heavy," he says after he's done, in a perfectly peaceful voice. "Possibly a shovel."

"Sounds good to me," I say readily. I wonder idly – if he beats me to a pulp, would I be injured enough to have to get medical treatment from him again? Also; am I crazy to actually be considering a scheme of getting hurt over and over again just to have him tend to me? It's selfish and childish and irresponsible, but right now, I'm seriously considering it. "If you want, I could live in the shed and come out whenever you feel angry," I suggest lightly.

He snorts. "You're not going anywhere. Haven't I said this enough? You're staying right here. I'm keeping an eye on you. That means forever."

My brilliant masochistic plans grind to a halt. "But… wait, forever?" I gape.

He gives me a look that's not what I expected at all. His eyes are perfectly clear, their dark color glistening with some sort of wisdom that I know I'll never be able to understand. His shoulders are lax, his posture is confident. He's decided something, and I get the feeling that he's actually happy about it. I just can't fathom what it might be.

"Andrei," he says serenely, "past times have shown that you are utterly incapable of thinking for yourself, or about yourself. Just look at you – you've got a hole in your head and you're covered in scars and you're almost as skinny as me! You look like a ghost that's just arrived from Romania or something, for a last vacation! I can't look at you without shuddering to myself even once!"

Ghost from Romania, I think. How oddly believable that sounds.

"I'm not going to let you go off and do anything else stupid," he explains. "So, despite the fact that I'm pissed as hell at you – which I am. Very much. – I can't let you leave. You'd only screw things up more."

Maybe I would. Maybe he's right. But he's also missing one major detail. "But," I blabber nervously, "what about… I lied to you! I betrayed you! I'm a fucking murderer for Christ's sake! An assassin! I don't blame you one bit for being scared or–"

"Scared!" he snarls back at me, indignant, and his temper flares. He sits up a little higher and I pull back, wary. "You think I'm scared of you?" he demands. "Is that so?"

There seems to be no safe way out of this. "Well, I, that's not, just, I mean," I stutter, lost.

He grabs the chain around my neck that holds my cross and yanks on it, bringing us closer. I'd be very pleased if I wasn't a little bit freaked out. "Listen to me, Andrei," he says in a low, dangerous tone. "Listen to me very carefully. I'd like to remind you that one; I have a cousin who's killed numerous people in more devious ways that you could ever imagine whom I still somehow manage to love."

Right. The scary Mafia-employed surgeon Yurii.

"And two;" he continues, "I can kick your sorry ass to Pluto any day of the week. I know your fears and I know your buttons and I know you like the back of my hand."

Fair point.

"Kapisch?" he growls.

"Yes dear," I answer in a tiny voice.

He lets go of me and sits back down, letting out a short burst of air and muttering to himself under his breath.

"That may all be true," I begin again and he gives me this look that says; don't you ever learn? but I go on stubbornly, "but what about the obvious? What about you? Do you really want this?"

His fury becomes tainted with thoughtfulness.

"Do you really want me?" I whisper, truly afraid now.

There is a long pause from his end, which I expect to be broken with words, but that is not his idea. Instead of answering me verbally, he slowly leans forward, in a way that's so familiar that it makes my heart stop for two whole seconds and my brain buzz with adrenaline and oh God, are you serious, is this real, I don't deserve this but who the hell am I to complain, I'm going out of my mind, that must be it because there's no possible way he'd actually

He kisses me.

A little noise of surprise vibrates from my throat, but the meaning of it is lost between our mouths. I'm on cloud nine. I've died and gone to heaven.

He pulls back and I remain, swaying a little, still high from just that one little kiss.

Already used to this (he does know me well), Leo snaps his fingers in front of my face a few times, seeming annoyed in a good-natured way. "Okay, focus. I need you to listen, not faint," he instructs.

I try. I really do.

He rolls his eyes and then shakes his head. "The answer to your question is – I feel better when you're here than when you're gone. So if you want to please me, don't run off like an idiot again. If I want you gone, I'll say so."

I snap back to reality, sobered by the ring of truth in this statement. "Really?" This is way too good to be true. Way too perfect. I must be dreaming.

Exasperation colors his features. "Really."

I jump him, knocking us both back onto the bed, pressing him into the mattress and hugging the living daylights out of him. He seems too surprised to protest at first, and then his face goes all red.

"Hey, hey," he growls half-heartedly. "No one said you could do that. You're going to have to earn those rights from now on."

I move away quickly, getting a hold of myself. "Sorry," I apologize, but my face, glowing with happiness gives away just how sorry I am. I wonder what the penalty will be for 'those rights' without permission. I think I can handle a few whacks with a shovel. It'd be worth it if I got to kiss him again. "How can I earn them?" I decide to ask, just out of curiosity.

He pretends to think about it. "There's a bee's nest under the roof by the balcony. You're going to have to get it down."

I hate bees. "Done," I agree.

He grins, and I return it. "Anything else?"

"And no guns in the house," he tells me. He's more serious, but this is easier.

"Okay."

"Aaaand…" he frowns. "Well, I'm sure there's something else."

"Anything," I say easily, and lean forward again. "Now, how much are the bees worth?"

He smirks. "Oh, I don't know… A hug?"

"But bees are dangerous! I'd be putting myself in harm's way! What if I get stung?" I exclaim.

"Maybe a kiss, then," he amends.

"What would I have to do for a grope?" I laugh, coming closer still.

He hums thoughtfully. "Something truly heroic."

"Well, you're even more dangerous than bees. Isn't this heroic enough?" I ask innocently and then slide my arm around his waist.

He pushes me away, but there's almost no effort to it. By now, he's laughing, just like I am. "That's cheating. You're going to pay for it."

I kiss him and gently tip us over, savoring the taste that clings to his tongue – some herbal tea – and tracing his jaw with my lips and nipping hungrily at his silky skin. He shivers and growls, still trying to act angry, but I have already decided what we're going to do tonight.

Tomorrow, the shovel and I are going to be best friends.

Okay, so, hereyago folks. Yet another installment of random characters from yours truly. :P If you want a little fun-facts; Leo started out as a girl in my head. And in the beginning, HE was the assassin. Andrei didn't change much. He was always kind of puppy-ish and a bit of a stupid-head. But a loveable stupid-head, so that's okay.

(You may say – I can't imagine him murdering anyone! And I would totally agree with you. It shall, perhaps, remain a mystery forever.)

Questions, comments, criticisms? I will shuffle through every one best as I can.