There aren't too many things Sullivan likes. In fact, he hates more things than he likes. He hates women and their lying and deceiving ways, and he hates men and their senseless violence and how they feel the need to fuck everything in sight. He hates 99.99% of all humans, except her .1%. Her surface is marred with scars – from where did those come from? I'll fucking kill whoever did that, so who was it? – but it's not her appearance that he loves; he loves what she is, what she stands for.

She bucks beneath him, crying out and scratching at all the nearest things: the bed sheets, the wall, the headboard, him. Her unkept nails dig into his skin, and she drags them down, creating a red line from the top of his shoulder down to his elbow. It hurts, so he grips her thigh and squeezes. Oh yes, that'll leave quite the lovely bruise. He pushes in further, and she arches her back and screams. He closes his eyes and smiles as she screams and writhes. He likes that.


They're in the church and she's praying. Walter is sitting at one of the pews, staring down at his bloodied knife. He'd gotten Eight done. He was slowly getting into the groove of things; the more killing he did, the less guilty he felt about it. After all, it was for Mother. He was killing in Her name, so that he could be with Her. Walter pockets his knife and glances over at his blond partner and smiles. He's also doing it for her. When everything's done, the three of them will be together.

"My angel," he murmurs, and she looks up. His hand is held out in front of him and she walks over and places hers in his.