Written at 2 in the morning, originally for my tumblr account (.com/) that I role play Shelly on. I was pretty happy with the way it turned out, so I decided to upload it here, too.

Enjoy your dose of Valentine's Day angst!~

Another client. Another city. Another hotel room.

Five star, of course. Being an assassin certainly paid the bills, at the very least. Not that Shelly did it for the money. He had a reputation to uphold, a less than honorable one in the eyes of most but nevertheless well established since the twentieth century. Tradition was his creed. There was no need for any other sentiments.

Naturally, Shelly was a light packer. He was a vagrant. Without a place to call home, what personal belongings would he possibly need to cram into a suitcase? Hotels provided all the essentials to their guests. That was all he needed. The essentials. Trivial objects such as the obligatory bible in the nightstand drawer bore no significance to a man such as he.

He undid the pair of buckles on his single suitcase and proceeded to unfold the nightshirts, trousers, and undergarments that were neatly packed inside. The bare necessities. Nothing more. As he walked over to the closet to hang them up (hangers were, of course, provided by the hotel), he took a quick glance at the calendar tacked up on the wall.

February 14th. Valentine's Day.

There were no sick days or vacation time in the life of a professional assassin. Today was a typical Monday. Nothing more. Specific dates such as this should bear no relevance on his life.

They shouldn't.

Clothes forgotten in a pile on the floor, Shelly made his way back to the bed where the lone suitcase was laid open. There was a single item left unpacked.

Slowly, he unzipped a side compartment and removed the small picture frame. It was a simple photograph of a young woman. She certainly wasn't a model - in fact, there was nothing particularly striking about her. Fair skinned with straight blonde hair that fell just past her shoulders. Brown eyes and a plain blue sundress. She was smiling.

Shelly thought it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen in his life.

He hated himself for not being able to part with it. He hated himself even more for not being able to part with her. He, the third heir to the de Killer name, burdened with emotional attachment?

He felt no guilt or remorse for the people he'd killed. The blood wasn't on his hands. It was simply his job. So how could a mere image bring these feelings to the heart of an assassin?

Leaving her was harder than carrying out any request in his decades of work. Yes, it was for her own good. He loved her too much to get her involved with the nature of his life. Yes, it never would have worked out. His job made it impossible to settle down and start a family - the fact that such a notion had even crossed his mind was ridiculous. Yes, he had his priorities in check. He was a man of tradition, after all. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else was supposed to matter. Logically, it was clear that he'd made the right choice.

But why did it still hurt so much after all these years?

Before any more unnecessary thoughts had time to fill his head, Shelly jammed the frame back into the pocket and zipped it up. He had work to do. He was here on business. Everything was about business. That was just how it worked. How he worked.

Being human was nothing but a burden.