Cringing Disclaimer; I don't own them, they belong to Quentin Tarantino, I was just borrowing them, and please get your gun out of my face. Thank you.
It wasn't supposed to end like this. It wasn't fuckin' supposed to end like this! They were gonna pull the heist, get the diamonds, and get their asses out of there. Well, that went down the pan pretty quickly. But up until just now he'd still thought they were gonna get out of it somehow. Not any more. One sentence, three words which sent his world tumbling in free-fall to explode into sharp fragments around him, three words which shook him so completely that he can't stop the tears from leaking between his eyelids, though he never cries, never used to cry.
The kid looks at him, with those wide, scared eyes, asking, pleading with him to understand, to forgive. But how can he understand that? How can he forgive the words that broke his defences so completely, that smashed his soul into fragments on the blood-stained floor? "I'm a cop." So simple, as if that made it easier to swallow, easier to fit into a world which was crumbling around them. Cops aren't people. The kid is a cop. The kid is a person. But cops aren't people. And he'd liked the kid. No, fuck that, he'd loved the kid, loved him like the son he'd never had, still loved him, loved him though he'd broken his heart and shattered his trust.
But the kid is a cop. The kid betrayed him, smiled to his face, and laughed behind his back. But he loves the kid. The kid killed Blonde. But he loves the kid. He killed for the kid, killed his oldest friend for the boy who asked to be held, who leant against him like a child against its parent's shoulder. He loves the kid. He loves the boy who is like his son, who looks at him with honest, lying eyes filled with false trust and asks forgiveness in a voice that is heavy with the weight of true falsehoods and snake-tongued promises.
The tears roll down his cheeks, but he doesn't notice, he doesn't care - his eyes stay fixed on that beautiful, betraying, vulnerable, heartless face, as he brings the gun slowly up, nestling it in the kid's cheekbone. His kid, his beautiful boy, who clung to him so tightly, but betrayed him in his heart. His kid, the cop. His kid, his soul, who stayed so close, but was so far away inside. But afterwards, in the Dark, free from duty, free from the constraints of honour, his son will come to him. His son will come home. And they will be together, for always, and he will protect his son, his kid, his child, and he will hold him. And they will not be parted. And as his finger tightens on the trigger, as he hears the shouted voices, the gunshots, feels the bullets rip through him, that's the one thought he keeps hold of, the one thing that he takes into the Dark with him: We are one. And we will never be divided.