A/N: For Rigmor. We wear black on November 10th.
She shouldn't have answered the phone.
Hymie was going to tell her, why did anyone even think doing it over the phone was a good idea?
Hymie curses and slams his hand on the steering wheel. He had been devastated. Now he was just furious. His tires made odd noises as he gunned the engine.
She shouldn't have answered the phone.
Somebody from the morgue had called in Dean's body (and oh god that was a mess all in itself, how was this ever gonna get better) and Viola had answered the phone.
She called him not ten minutes later, words unintelligible through her tears. The only thing he could understand was you said you'd take care of him, and that had done it.
He'd promised Dean he'd tell her. He'd fucking promised. If he died first, Dean would tell Libby, and if Dean died first Hymie'd tell Vi. They'd never really meant it, could never really conceive of one of them dying before the other. They'd been together for most of their lives, and if not from beginning then they were determined for it to be until the end.
Only it couldn't be, now.
Until Dean's end, yes. But there was Hymie, still, alive and missing half of himself. The light turned red, and he slammed the brakes.
He wasn't wiping tears from his eyes. He wasn't.
The minute the car hit the curb, he yanked his key out and leapt from the car. Viola had always been steadfastly, wonderfully devoted to Dean, and he to her. Hymie might've snickered, might have been slightly annoyed by the degree of happiness that Dean exuded around Vi, but they had been it, for each other. Dean had confided in him once, slightly drunk and slightly lost, that he didn't think there was anyone else in the world for him. That Viola was the end of his proverbial romantic road. And Viola, young though she may have been, was not screwing around. She had adored Dean. Hymie honestly wouldn't put it past her to have a bullet in her brain by now, and he couldn't have that.
He'd made a goddamn promise.
She shouldn't have answered the phone.
Whoever had broken the news should probably have been fired. Vi wasn't the type for crocodile tears, so whatever they had said to reduce her to a sobbing mess must have either been disturbingly insensitive or truly horrific. He bound up the steps, thrust the key roughly into the lock, diving inside with nary a thought for the outside world.
"Vi!" he called, spinning and tossing looks into every room. "Viola, Viola, please, where are you." If she was dead he'd never forgive himself.
He doubted she'd forgive him, either, dead or alive. That was okay. He'd expected that.
"Is it true?" The croak from his left was welcome, relief and grief mingling in a cold empty space in hsi chest.
"Yes," Hymie answered, dropping to his knees next to her. He pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and she threw her arms around him. They clung to each other, both mourning, both breaking, neither quite ready to give him up for dead.
She shouldn't have answered the phone.
He buried his face in her hair, and he could smell tulips and smoke. It brought tears to his eyes. Viola was shaking, trembling, blown apart by six bullets that struck her as true as they did Dean, and Hymie could barely hold her together, press her back into one whole.
She clutched him tighter, and he obliged. Dean had loved her, and asked Hymie to look after her.
So he would.
He wasn't going to lose what little of his best friend he had left.
He wasn't going to let them hurt her any more than they already had.
He wasn't going to let them.