I woke up with the most annoying pain in my lower back. Murphy's claim that the bed was more comfortable than it looked was a bold face lie. I tossed the blankets off me only to be greeted with an uncomfortable chill and was quick to rewrap myself in the warmth. Just because I was Russian didn't mean I was fond of cold weather.
Dragging the comforter off the bed and keeping it wrapped around me I slowly made my move to the living room. I only saw Conner; sitting shirtless in a pair of jeans on the sofa with his feet propped up on the coffee table and a mug of coffee in his hand. He didn't look at me, but he did spare me a mumbled, "Good morning".
"Top of the morning to ya'." I tried my best Irish accent and I heard him muffle a soft laugh.
"There's some fresh coffee." He informed me, taking his feet from the coffee table and leaning forward. "It's fucking terrible, but it's coffee."
"Can't be that bad." I shuffled over to the kitchen and rummaged around for the coffee mugs. Poured myself a little and took a quick swig, almost immediately spitting it back up. "How the hell are you not dead?"
"Tolerance." He answered with a simple chuckle.
"So…" I began to ponder out loud as I made my way over to the arm chair next to e sofa. "Where's Murphy?"
"He went into town to buy you some clothes." Conner answered simply.
"This early?"
"The country that never sleeps." He joked, taking a swig of his coffee.
A rather uncomfortable silence fell over us. It was strange mostly because I knew this wasn't what he wanted. If Conner had it his way I'd be in the ground by now. That was when my interest was rather sparked. I looked up at him as he did his best to avoid eye contact with me and with a soft whimper spoke, "Why didn't you kill me?"
"Why didn't you kill Murphy?" He retorted rather quickly.
"Love at first sight." I joked, laughing a little under my breath as I pulled the blanket tighter around me.
"You know I'd almost believe that." He looked at me now, actually smirking a bit, "But typically you don't stab someone in the leg if you love them."
"I believe in tough love."
"I thought all love was tough."
"You sound like you've been in love a lot."
"Not really..." He mused out loud.
I was desperate to change the subject, not wanting to travel down this obviously awkward road, "How are you not freezing without a shirt on?"
"Shouldn't you be used to the cold?"
"That my friend is a rather vicious stereotype."
"So is thinking all Irishmen say 'top of the morning to ya'." He laughed now without trying to mumble it.
"You know what, I've never actually heard an Irish accent in person before. In moves, yeah, but never like…face to face."
"Is that so?" Conner took another quick swig of his coffee, setting on the table and looking at me with a rather cheese worthy smile, "And how is it?"
"Positively swoon worthy." I tried my best to sound like a gitty little school girl as I dramatically posed my hand across my forehead and we both started to laugh.
"I don't think I've heard an assassin laugh before." He commented once our laughter died down a bit.
"A rare oddity, indeed." I added.
"You don't laugh often? Even on your off days?"
"I don't have off days." I remarked, snickering a little. "Even if I just sit in a room all day, alone in the dark, it's never done. It replays, everything replays."
I saw a certain look in his eyes, one of understanding but at the same time complete disbelief. "How do you do it? Make it through each day with that much blood on your hands?" He asked me not out of curiosity but more in a sense of asking for advice.
"Anyone who says they can kill and sleep perfectly fine at night is damn lair." I began simply. "It might be easier than others to pull the trigger, but taking a life, no matter how many times you've done it, never stops haunting you. I don't know if you could really say I make it through anything. I survive. I'm not happy. I'm not sad. I'm just breathing."
He looked scared in that moment, scared that one day he might become as emotionless and dead on the inside as me. But I wasn't dead. At least, I didn't fully feel that way anymore. I felt a stupid sense of hope, one I couldn't allow myself to get too comfortable with, not with knowing Vladimir was coming. I had to take care of him first, before I could really start to believe any of this was actually achievable.
Murphy came through the front door just then with a bag full of clothes. "Well, looks like prince charming finally kissed Snow White." He commented with a laugh as he walked over to me to hand me the bad. "I don't know how you Russians do it, but here in Ireland we like to rise with the sun."
"What can I say? We Russians are pretty heavy sleepers, must be the aftermath from all the mass amounts of vodka." I rose with the bag in my hand and shuffled over to the bedroom to change.
The clothes Murphy picked up were fairly simply. Jeans and some tee shirts. Nothing fancy really, just enough to dress myself. I slipped on some Levi's, but had to roll the pants legs up since they were a bit too long. Fortunately Murphy had been considerate enough to purchase me a new bra since he threw my other one away last night. I slipped on a plain black tee that was a little baggie but comfortable.
When I went back out into the living room I found Conner had put on a shirt and Murphy had joined him on the sofa with a cup of coffee. "So Ms. Volkov," Murphy began, "How are the clothes?"
"They fit." I commented blankly, returning to the armchair to perch myself.
"Told you I'd find something." Murphy smiled at me.
"Now," Conner cut in, "I believe you have some information for us?"
I took in a deep breath and nodded simply, "Well." I searched my memory. What could I tell them? What would play to their advantage? Everything, really. I told them everything I could possibly think of. I told them about his fear of knives and guns. I told them about how I once watched him crush a man's eyeballs into his skull. I told them about the time he raped our cousin in front of her mother after her father insulted him. I told them about his rigorous daily workout that lasted about five hours. I told them he only drank closed beverages because he had an irrational paranoid of fear of everything being poisoned (which is why he always insisted on watching his food being prepared before he ate it as well). I told them he had broken his wrist several times, and he was on the verge of permanently damaging it if he so much as waved too rough.
I told everything about my brother as it came to mind and I watched their faces as they sat in silence with unreadable expressions just taking it all in. Finally when I stopped a silence fell over us. They both looked down; Conner was the first to say anything, "So how do you beat him?"
"You don't." I was quick to respond. Conner and Murphy both looked up at me with confused eyes, scared eyes, eager eyes. "You kill him before he gets a chance to lay a single finger on you, because if you don't, he will beat you until you're dead. You wait at that door with your guns drawn and shoot him in the fucking face before he can even ring the doorbell. You don't beat Vladimir, you just kill him."
