He turns to her when it's too quiet and too still and the bar downstairs looks too appealing. He turns to her when there's no one else; she always turns to him first. It's this vice that she knows will be her undoing, but when his lips are there, when his fingers touch her there, she can't bring herself to care.
The 'After the Job' Job
She hates admitting that she needs him. Even now, when they've spent more nights together than apart, she finds herself pacing outside his door. Pensive. Broken. She looks up to see him standing in the open doorway. Damn shoes, she thinks to herself as she stares down at them and sees the blood that's not hers creeping through their fabric. He doesn't say a word, simply holds out is arm to her. She doesn't meet his eyes because she can't bear to see the pity she fears is there. Their last job took too much, cost too much, and he had expected too much of her. The irony is that he's the last person she wants to see right now and yet the only one she needs. She can't stop the tears from slipping out of her eyes as she walks to him and is taken in.
Once inside his apartment they are finally completely alone. He slips the torn dress, still splattered with their mark's blood, from her shoulders and lets it fall to the floor. She is hardly the modest type so when her arms wrap around her bare breasts he knows she's covering more than flesh. He pulls her to him then, tightly encircling her as she trembles against him.
"I killed a man today." She whispers into his neck as she steps out of her dress and shoes and settles into his embrace. She's so close to him that he can feel every inch of them connect. She clutches at him, fisting the fabric of his suit until her nails dig into the flesh underneath. Her trembling increases to full-fledged shaking and racking sobs as the events of the day are finally free to spill out.
"You had to. He would have killed you." His voice broke at the last, knowing exactly how close he had come to losing her tonight. They had gone from plan B to X in seconds. Everyone was trying to catch up and no one could get to her in time. He couldn't explain how grateful he was for the small part of her that was Annie Kroy. She mumbled something into his shoulder that he thinks might have been 'It doesn't change it,' but he won't move them to find out.
She breathes in the whiskey, sweat, blood and everything that is calming and him. One hand massages slow circles on her back, tracing the bruises she knows are already forming. The other tangles in her hair, occasionally squeezing the back of her neck. She thinks for a moment how strange they must look to an outsider: him still wearing the horrid cheap suit of his earlier persona, holding her naked body in the middle of his living room. But there are no outsiders. And she has no intention of moving until he does.
He loses track of how long they're standing there. He waits until she completely relaxes against him, until her sobs are quieted, until her fingers begin running through the disheveled curls on the back of his neck instead if digging into his shoulders before he says a word. "Hey," is all he whispers as he moves his hand down the line of her jaw and hooks a finger under her chin, lifting her face to meet is eyes.
His one word says everything she needs to hear: "I'm here. You're safe. It's over. You're forgiven." She smiles genuinely for the first time since before everything started to go horribly wrong and answers all his questions about what his next move is with a fierce kiss as practiced fingers deftly relieved him of his shirt.
"I'm sorry," he kisses into her neck. He failed her today. It's his responsibility to account for every contingency, to get the job done, to keep them safe. Today, however, he left her out on her own and forced her to act.
"I know," she gets out between ragged breaths because what he's doing with his hands now is beginning to make her head spin. But she does know. As sure as she knew she loves this man she knows that he'll never stop blaming himself for what she had to do tonight. Although none of them suspected the con to go so badly he'll shoulder the blame because that's what he does. "I'll be okay." She says this more firmly, directing it to both of them. She stills his roaming hands with hers making sure that he takes in what she's saying.
"I know." He brings their hands to his lips and lightly kisses her fingers. He smiles at her then because he knows she will be. She's here. She hasn't run away from them, from him. He draws her in again, the mood different this time as he kisses her slowly, passionately.
They won't talk about it again in the morning, mostly because they won't need to. It'll be another job done, another close call, another flame of memory squelched by time and trust. He's the only one she's ever known that forces her to be nothing and no one but herself. It's the simple fact she both loves and hates him for. Her life is and has always been about control and she's feels invisible when it's lost. But when he holds her in the dark; when his fingers trace the line of her jaw; when his lips find the spot on the side of her breast; when she doesn't have to be anyone other than the woman she is, she lets go of all her other selves and comes undone.