A/N

Smoke and Mirrors—Cover Up— something that is intended to draw attention away from something else that somebody would prefer remain unnoticed.

Lie—to deliberately say something untrue.

Smoke and Mirrors

I'm a liar,

I'm a lover,

I'm a killer,

And I'd be lying,

If I said I'd never love.

He lures all of them with pretty words, his eyes glowing and speculative and his impish grin spreading across pallid cheeks as he skillfully leads them away into the dark. His hands are manipulative and in fact it's just himself that is a living exploitation. He can torture with a smile and he can laugh with a predatory gleam as the blood bubbles in cherry frothy foam at their lips before they finally give in and tell him the truth, just to receive the complimentary bullet in the head—of course, free of charge. That is how he is, a shell in a suit, with a gun and a smile and beautiful clandestine eyes that never tell the truth. He was never one to tell legitimacy, so he hid it beyond a smile and a doubt and the killer running through his veins.

He had always been a good liar, too good, in fact. When it came to falsities, he was a god, but, to those who managed to even catch a shroud of who he really was, they knew, he was lying.

He's sworn not to love, and so, he takes the love of others and twists it into a lemon sugar contraption that results in a girl, him, and dirty sheets.

And then shower, bar, reenact, repeat.

Again, and again, and again.

Just another girl and another him.

He had always expected it to be the same.

It wasn't a fairy tale, god no, it was a nightmare, with dreams or without; it was a smoldering hell on earth. She had that tight skirt that went down to her knee's, that crisped white shirt and beneath it? Pale skin, smoothed with lotion, but there were scars, and in her fluid brown eyes, there was a hint of a terrifying stone, a hardness that only death could bring. In her file reports, were the fragments of her last mission, the one that got her the job, the one that glued her into a stupefied submission.

Elimination of all previous acquaintances, and close contacts.

She had the light blonde hair, wispy and edged and sophisticated, and that naivety that could get an innocent girl killed with just one look.

And nobody knew or at least cared what was underneath. If one looked closely, her eyes were a pooling gold, and her skin was blemished with small curved scars, nails perhaps, her lips were full but frowning and when you read into her voice, all innocence was lost.

And when she had talked to him years after he had first seen her and the childishness suppressing the death lying in a suit—just like him, almost, except he was worse—he couldn't help but start talking, and he couldn't help, but get lost.

She was beautiful, sure, she had a nice husky voice and small dainty fingers, and painted lips, and a small body, toned with muscle and work and just feminine soap and perfume. But it wasn't that.

She was a killer.

She had no incorruptibility.

She killed children in their sleep, hell; she made the parents kill their children while they were sleeping soft in their little beds. She shot innocents in the heart when they heard small lingering whispers, and she tortured those who had proclaimed to be falsely maltreated.

She was just like him.

And that was when he misplaced himself.

Once, when all was quiet, and they had been standing there over the steaming coffee maker in her office, both guns set on the desktop—safety on of course—he had leaned over and for the moment, he had just pressed a kiss to her head.

He was never one to be gentle, except when it came to getting what he wanted, so she turned around, frowning and then grabbed his tie, tugging him in closer.

Skin clashed, and overall it was like a first kiss, all gracelessness and fumbling lips and teeth and tongues, oh but the warmth, he reasoned. She was warm and she was like him, like him! So, in that moment, there was nothing to forget except for who they were and what they were doing.

It was just fingers and skin and shirts and legs and that cup of coffee lying in a darkened puddle of the floor in her office.

It was him and her.

They never once said anything except for him, his voice whispering her name, because she was like him and she was his.

She was a killer.

She was never made to hold on to anything.

So was he.

But he broke the rules.

Would she?

Afterwards, he had pulled the jacket over them, and she was laying in the crook of his arm, just letting herself breath against his skin. He was staring at the ceiling.

"Have you ever… Have you ever apologized to someone you've killed…?"

He wanted to say yes, he wanted to tell her 'a million times baby, a million times…', but, he was a liar, and a killer, and he was hardened, so he lied like he always did. (Though, he wasn't lying, when he spoke her name…)

"Can't say that I have, babe."

He was seasoned, and so with one look, he knew, she was lying.

Keeping the one thing that made her weak inside of her from him.

"I haven't either… No… I don't think… I've even…tried."

"We're both liars."

She pressed a kiss to his skin. "Yeah…yeah we are, aren't we…?"

Then, just like he had walked in, he had walked out, and they had kept a secret that wouldn't last. He had told her the truth, and he had sworn to himself he would never try to love someone. He was a liar. And, he had lied to himself… 'I don't love her, I don't love her…'

He was a killer.

He loved it.

And he lied just as much as he hated it.

A year later, and he dared to look at her again.

She smiled at him, invited the both of them to her office…to the bar…to her bedroom later.

Under pristine sheets, it was the same position.

He kissed her, and kissed her again, he pressed his lips against her skin until it was red and it was aching and she was crying, and then he tasted the salt and the wetness.

She savored the smoke and the whiskey, and then found a small tear, that she savored even more.

She stared at his face, and he stared at the ceiling.

"If I told you I loved you, what would you do?"

She rested her chin in the crook of his neck, smiling sadly. "I would smile, and then let it fade away…"

He couldn't kiss her.

So he grabbed her hand.

"No you wouldn't…"

She sighed, breath murmuring tenderly into his shoulder. "I know…."

They're killers, she shoots and he strangles, they kill children, and they corner helpless victims in the darkness of gritty alleyways. He plants bombs, and she betrays her best friends, he chokes and she stabs, and in the end, they're both the same.

They're killers.

They are told not to love, they tell themselves never to love.

They say that they don't love.

They are murderers.

Murderers lie.

A/N:

Go Reno and Elena!

Anyway, I am bringing a closer look into the darker side of the Turks. And, it's a rainy day, so it's the perfect romantic angst ride.

I think I might eventually write a second part, but… It all depends on my mood and such.

Feedback's always fantastic!

TMoh