Dallas lasts all of three weeks after the Lamia incident before he packs his bags to leave the Genoard manor once more.

In the other room, Eve is asleep, so he works as discretely as he can, not even turning on the lights as he pushes random articles of clothing into a suitcase. The specifics don't matter to him, nor does the destination he has not yet decided upon. It is only the inescapable urge to run off, the need to escape the steely hand of the estate, welling up in him once more like some impossible craving.

The last three weeks have been uncomfortable and painful, his interactions with Eve akin to learning a new dance, the moves to which no one bothers to teach him. Dallas tries to speak to her as he always has, but he notices more now, after all that's transpired. He notices how she scrunches her nose when he curses out an acquaintance. He sees how her gaze slides away when he lobs a thoughtless insult her way. He cannot turn a blind eye to how she recoils when his anger flares up, how she cannot look at him sometimes. She does not want him around; he's outlived his purpose in her life, now that the danger has passed.

Just like his father once said, Dallas contributes nothing to the house. He's like the missing piece of a broken glass frame, but the edges of his shard are too rough and worn down to properly fit anymore.

Most days, he goes out drinking at the local speakeasies, a habit he swore he'd change right after Eve rescued him. His promise of alcoholic abstinence lasted no longer than a few days. Sometimes, he'll stumble home, drunk and near-tears, and she'll be there, waiting. And she asks why. Nothing else, just why. The morning after, the only thing Dallas remembers is his answer: "Because it's like drowning, all over again."

Every night, he wakes from the same, vivid nightmare, shot back to consciousness through sheer terror alone. There's no picture to the dream, just the blackness of being locked in an abyss, the absence of all senses, the overwhelming pain he cannot articulate, the closest to death he is allowed to be no matter how much he begs. At the point of dying, that brief and temporal relief, he'll awake with a muffled scream, gasping for breath to the point of hyperventilation. And he'll claw at his own flesh, convinced the sweat soaking his skin is that watery grave coming to drag him back under once more.

Eve comes into his room, most of the time, when his scream is loud enough to reach her in the other room. She grabs his hand and restrains him from his hysterics, asking over and over again, what's wrong. What's wrong, Dallas. And when his wits return to him, he pulls away from her, and he forces a scowl. Pointing towards the door, he yells at her to get out of his room, to go get some sleep. She shouldn't disturb her sleep to worry about him. He does not deserve that. She never listens, though, and ends up falling asleep sitting next to his bed, refusing to return to her room for a more comfortable slumber.

He supposes Eve means to give him comfort with that. But really, all he takes away from it is an unbearable guilt, insidious and sticky and acidic inside his ribcage. Not to mention, the humiliation of having his younger sister, whom he is meant to protect, watching him in a helpless and pathetic state.

Snap.

Dallas shuts the suitcase, latching it closed. Sitting on the ground, he buries his face in his hands and heaves a deep sigh. He supposes he will return to New York City, try to make it again on those streets that suit his brutish nature better than a fancy manor ever will. No matter where he runs to, Dallas knows it will be the same. Nothing ever changes; even the water that swallowed him for so long couldn't wash out the blemishes on his personality, the stains on his soul. He can inflate his ego with booze and mugging and fistfights all he wants. But he'll never escape the fact that he is the person who made his sister cry, who failed in the only task he cared about - the true failure of the Genoard family, just like his pop always said.

The difference is - it's easier to forget these facts when he has alcohol and thugs backing him up, feeding him respect that cannot fill the void, but which can at least make him forget its existence. He figures it shouldn't take him too long to round up some new cohorts. Ill people always attract each other, trying to justify their predilections with the presence of their equally depraved peers. They are all interchangeable, the type he hangs around. Just as Dallas is. Which is why he feels no guilt for leaving the estate.

He runs the palm of his hand over the smooth, leather surface of his suitcase. Had this been his father's? Or perhaps Jeffrey's? Their possessions litter the mansion, those little reminders that it would always belong to them, even if just in spirit. Dallas wonders if it disappoints Eve, that they are dead, and he's the one she's been left with. Did she ever wish he had died in their stead? It's strange that this should bother him now. When he plotted to kill his father, he spared no thought to Eve's potential reaction. Faced with the same question now, would he make the same decision? Would he commit patricide, Eve's opinion be damned? Dallas pretends it is a difficult question, but in truth, he knows in an instant what choice he'd make.

It's one of his regrets - the untimely death of his brother and father. He always wanted to rip the life from them himself, to prove himself through killing at least one of them. Preferably his father. But even in death, the men cheated Dallas, by stealing from him the chance for retribution. His relationship with them is akin to an unfinished story, the end pages ripped out and lost forever. How empty, the conclusion leaves him. How unfulfilled. 'Bastards to the end.' He thinks, fingers stabbing against the hard suitcase cover.

In his mind, Dallas plots the route he will take through the house. If he takes the stairway on the east side, he can avoid the creaky steps that echo through the upstairs hallway. By cutting through the well-lit second-floor office, he can avoid the long stretch of hall, the one that's so poorly lit he always knocks a piece of furniture over. He's snuck out of the house enough times by now to know all the tricks, the paths, the methods to avoiding detection. This time, Dallas swears, he will not run into Eve.

Click.

And he's correct. Dallas does not run into Eve, because before he even leaves, the door creaks open, spilling a line of light into the room that falls upon Dallas and splits his face in two. Guilty hand still on the packed suitcase, and sitting on the floor, Dallas cannot bring himself to look up at the figure standing at the doorway.

"You're leaving again."

Is that resignation he hears, sapping the energy from her tone? If he can convince himself of it, Dallas thinks he will be able to leave without hesitation. Because if even Eve, who holds such infallible faith in her God despite the destruction of her family, loses her belief in him, then it means he is just as utterly irredeemable as he always imagined.

Dallas turns his back to her, not losing his grip on the leather case. He shuts his eyes, wondering if he can shut out his conscience too with such ease. It used to be the simplest matter in the world for him. But since being drudged up from the river, he finds that suppressed morality seeping back in, called forth by his younger sister's presence.

"Go away, Eve. Get the hell back to bed - you're going to be exhausted in the morning."

There's the sound of feet against the soft carpet. The creak of the floor as Eve kneels down behind him. And when she speaks, it is louder than before.

"I can make my own decisions, Dallas. When morning comes, I will be fine. What worries me, is that you won't be."

Must she speak so plainly? Without shame, without pretenses, she speaks with honest intention, unafraid to put forth the thoughts troubling her mind. In this way, this casual lack of restraint, Dallas thinks they are similar. It's just that Dallas harbors a great deal more violent energy to let reign free than his gentle sister.

Once more, Dallas tries to trivialize his sister's opinion, to dismiss her in the easiest manner possible.

"Quit your worrying, Eve. What are you doing here anyway?"

"I come in here every night."

Dallas tenses. Another inconvenience, another trespass into the life of his sister. How long will he have to stay before she starts whittling down her life, making it small enough to fit into the only niche his massive problems will leave for her? Through a stiff jaw, he says, "What? The hell you doing that for?"

"To make sure you're still here."

'Damn her. Damn it all to hell.' How many times has he left Eve behind now? Too many to count. Too many times he flitted in and out at will, as if he had all the time in the world to decide on what he wanted. At least that last time, he meant to steal away any hope for his return. To keep her from having to worry about him leaving again. And yet, here he is. Right back where he began, in the place he always wanted to escape.

She asks, "What is it about this place that makes you so unhappy?"

'Typical.' Despite himself, a smile permeates Dallas's face, though it is twisted and bitter. The natural question to ask, especially for a young girl, is - "what is it that makes you leave me?" or "Why do you keep leaving me behind? " Instead, Eve penetrates straight to the heart of the matter, asking not in relation to herself, but to his own unhappiness. His emotions regarding this trait of hers are double-sided. On one hand, it's her acceptance and empathy that make her so revered to Dallas. On the other, it's the same idiotic selflessness that he uses to justify his taking advantage of those who offer it to him. He worries her naivety will make her that victim someday, if not by his hand, then by that of someone more sinister.

"I just don't belong here, alright? Don't be stupid, I'm not fit for a place like this. It ain't for people like me."

"I'm sorry, Dallas. I just don't understand."

Her voice hitches, and that's how he knows she is tearing up. He can't even leave her right, can't even spare her his presence without somehow inflicting pain upon her. It's like he's bound to her by a coil of barbed wire, and every attempt to disentangle her from it just drives the barbs in deeper.

"It's not that damn hard to get, Eve. I just don't want to bother you anymore. I'm not good here. For you or myself."

"But you're not bothering me."

'Fuck. You'll never understand, will you?' Two siblings, forever trying to grasp a hold of one another, trying to snatch that elusive thread of understanding, doomed to fail by the core dissonance of their vastly different characters. It's not fair, Dallas thinks, that her God should make them so close, and yet so incapable of ever meeting in understanding. It's one of the many reasons he refuses to believe in prayer.

"You just don't see it yet. You're still a stupid little girl. I don't want it to be too late when you realize what I'm doing to you."

A pressure on the back of his shoulder blade, the soft touch of her hand against him, at once both a comfort and a reason to flee. It's not right that she, the little sister, should be granting comfort to him. It's not right that he cannot even fit the role of protector like a big brother should.

Eve gives her only argument, the one that rings purest and most honest. "You're the only family I have left."

He counters with his own. "I can't stay in this place."

Dallas expects her to cease fighting, to give up her own will in order for him to find his happiness in departure. He has always walked right over her, after all. Even when he does not mean to. Why should tonight be any different? He wraps his fingers around the handle of the suitcase, and makes a motion to get up, when she speaks again.

"They're gone. Father, and Jeffrey, they're gone. So is the money. I always thought that was why you hated this place, and why you kept leaving. But I was wrong, wasn't I?"

She's growing up too fast for Dallas's liking. Seeing too much, growing too wise to her brother's sickness. He blames his father, curses the upbringing and family that he likes to call responsible for his disastrous life. And they did lend a hand in the creation of Dallas's faulty nature. But now, he thinks there must be something deeper wrong with him, an illness that flushes through his veins and comes from the inside. Because surely, if it was his family's fault, then their death should bring his redemption, right? But he's still the same. Just more disappointed in the outcome of his prestigious family.

"Yeah. You were wrong."

It's the only answer he can muster. Even after all this time, he cannot put into words what compels him to split from his family. Is it the respect he earns on the street, that never echoed through these walls? The ability to sink into depravity without judgment? The offer of constant entertainment, when his attention wanes so easily and is caught only by the ugliest of means? The fear that he will have to misshape his own soul to fit in with the family's reputation, should he stay? The urge to protect Eve, but this time from his own troubles? Perhaps it is the hatred for his father, his brother, so deep-seated it manifests even after their death. Never particularly bright, Dallas finds himself unable to analyze his own motives, acting only on the irresistible impulse of the desire the unknown motive formulates itself as.

"Was it me, then? Am I the reason you keep leaving?"

The words finally get through to Dallas, breaking through his muddled thoughts and restless desires to remind him that, no matter how much he refuses to look at her, there's another person being affected. He turns around, a quick jerk of a movement that has her pulling back, before he roughly grabs her shoulders. Her eyes widen, and gathering at the corners, the tears gleam with a light he thinks can only be his deliverance.

"For the last time, Eve - stop being stupid. It's not you. Don't you fucking dare blame yourself. You hearing me?"

"Yes. Yes, Dallas." She says, and she's wincing, trembling under his careless fingers.

"Now, you listen to me. You stay out of trouble, and you take care of this fucking estate. You're the only one who ever liked this hellhole anyway. And you quit the damn praying, because sooner or later, some asshole is going to try and take advantage of you, and there ain't no God who will help you then. You got that? All of that?" He says, desperate to impart some lesson on her, leave some lasting impression, before he expunges his presence from her everyday life.

"But I'll have you to help me. Won't I?"

With a cry of frustration, he gives her an inadvertent shake, causing her to gasp and tear up even more. And once again, he's biting his lip, and he's hating himself, because he always forgets to restrain himself around her, forgets his own strength. He's not used to having any real power over another person; how is he supposed to know how to keep it in check?

"Make it so you don't need me, Eve. I'll be right fucking there if you do, to keep you safe, but you make sure you don't get into any trouble." How can he make her understand? It isn't fair. It isn't fair that his only purpose should be one he doesn't want to have to utilize. If Eve has to be hurt for him to be of worth - what kind of redemption is that? He'd rather stay a filthy thug.

"Please, Dallas. Can you just tell me why? I must know why." She says. It's the same question she asks when he comes home drunk, when he tells her to leave him alone after a nightmare, when she finds him gone from bed and curled up in the spacious and well-lit family room in the morning. It's the same question she used to ask as a kid when she caught him sneaking out, when he had no answer but muttered swears.

"I don't fucking know, for the last time, Eve. It's just - it's freer there, alright? More stuff there for people like me. Stuff that ain't here. You're the only thing I care about here." He says, and as he grimaces over his inability to compose an adequate answer, his fingers dig into her skin.

She cries out, and that is how he knows he has hurt her again. This time his hands jerk away from her, as if burnt by a hot stovetop. Guilty, he brings his hands back towards his chest, fingers spread apart, palms facing his sister. Has he always hurt her, this way? Or is he just noticing it more now?

He closes his eyes and turns away from her again, ready to punish himself for being the one to put her in harm's way. He said he'd protect her from any enemies. But what is he to do if that includes himself?

"I'm sorry, Eve. Just get the hell out of here. Fucking scram and leave me alone. I'm making my own damn decision and you can't stop me."

There's silence, and he figures she has finally gotten some sense into her. Dallas reaches for the suitcase once more, his fingers grazing the handle when her voice pipes up again.

"You know, you're not the only one, Dallas. You're not the only one in this family who makes mistakes."

"Well no shit - Pop and Jeffrey were fucking full of them. Our idea of mistakes just differs."

"I mean by their definition. I've hurt this family, too."

He freezes, his blood running cold. "Don't talk like that, Eve."

There's a pressure on his back again, but this time, it is a tug. Eve has grabbed a hold of the fabric of his jacket, clinging to it tightly, like a child afraid of becoming lost. Or of losing the person she holds on to.

"There's something I haven't told you."

The distress in her voice baffles him. What could Eve possibly have done that could ever measure up to any of Dallas's blunders with the family? She must know he's the last person who can judge her. Or perhaps that's why she can tell him - because he's the only one foul enough that he has to forgive her, no matter what.

"What is it, Eve?"

Her grip tightens. "Those thieves - the ones who took away our family's fortune? Dallas, I - I saw them, that night. I let them take it all. I prayed for them to steal it away."

Eve's confession hits him, heavy and loaded as a bag of bricks. His first instinct is to snap at her, to let her know how idiotic and naive she really is. He knew that prayer would get her in trouble someday, and he feels validated in hearing this. It's her fault their money is gone. It's her fault he has no fortune to his name. It's her fault he's reduced to a nobody. The hot beginnings of anger kindles inside him.

Where would he be, had she prevented the thieves from ruining their estate? He'd have killed his father, perhaps. Or maybe he'd have cowered away and returned to the streets, unsuccessful. He could be in jail, right now. Or stuck still in that barrel, because she would have no reason to rescue him without the death of her other family. Compared to being stuck in the estate, penniless and bound to the home he hates, he thinks both places would be preferable.

When Dallas does not speak, too busy seething and trying to keep from lashing out at the only person he cares about, Eve lets go of his shirt. "I'm sorry, Dallas. I can't imagine what you must think of me."

'That's a laugh,' Dallas thinks, bitterly. What he must think of her? Even if she did flush away his rightful inheritance, it still pales in comparison to the plans of murder he harbored at that same point in time.

He takes her question from earlier, and turns it back on her. "Why?"

"I thought - I thought it would save us. You and father and Jeffrey, always at each other's throats. I couldn't bear to see all that unhappiness. I just wanted a miracle, something to make it all better. A-and, I thought the money was the problem. But it wasn't. I didn't understand."

'No, you didn't.' And Dallas realizes that of course she did not understand, could not have understood, because she was barely a teenager when the robbery occurred. He still struggles to understand the roots of his family's unhappiness, and so it strikes him as unfair to expect Eve to have been able to, at such a young age.

He can't imagine it, wanting to give up a fortune. Money - that's all he pursued, on the streets with his straggling bunch of cohorts. It's what drove him to plot patricide, what drove a permanent wedge between him and his older brother. It's what he dreams of, still, when dealing with thoughts of the bleak future that lays ahead. How can anyone want to give away something as important as money? He can't fathom it. And for what - not for her own happiness, but for that of the terrible people she called family? It's unimaginable. If it was anyone else, he'd call them a sucker, and tell them they deserved any robbing they got. But it's not, and he can't, so he stays quiet.

Another surprise comes when she speaks again, despite the clear breaking of her voice that indicates her shaken state. "But you don't understand either, Dallas. I-I thought taking money away would make you happy. And you think taking yourself away will make me happy. But we're both wrong. Can't you please see that?"

Some days, Dallas finds it hard to believe he and Eve share any blood relation between them. However, any doubts he once expressed are rectified in this confession. If nothing else, they both share the same sin between them. Presuming to know what plagues the heart of another person. Wanting to believe the solution to happiness is as simple as running away, whether from fortune or from an estate.

The difference is - she learned from her mistake, and she grew stronger from it. She's one of the strongest people Dallas has ever met, even without the bias of his disdain for nearly every other person on earth. She adapts, while he's just repeating the same old errors, caught in some inexplicable cycle. 'I never was the smart one, Eve.' He thinks, not surprised it has taken him well into adulthood to figure out what she discovered so young.

When she speaks again, it's a whisper. "I'd very much like it if you said something, Dallas."

But what can he say? His anger has drained completely from him, leaving only a tired affection that he does not know what to do with. He feels more than ever that she is his sister, his kin, no matter how often other people look upon their relation with disbelief. And even now, she's still teaching him new lessons, ones he did not know he needed to learn. What has running away done for either of them in the past? Nothing. She's learned that. It's about time he does, too.

Dallas whips around and ,with the same violent energy he pours into everything, he throws his arms around her small frame and pulls her tight against his chest. Tears stain her cheek, and they dampen his shirt, his skin. His hand tangles into her long, soft hair, and he wonders if that gentleness will ever temper the harshness of his own body. He remembers once worrying about dragging her down with him. But he knows now - that's impossible. Because she's stronger than him, and you cannot make budge anything with more strength than you. Even if he grabs her hand and falls, he cannot bring her down. If he tries, she will only lift him right on back up.

"I'm sorry, little Eve. I ought to go straight to hell, for making you cry."

She's shaking, a little. He has not seen her cry like this since he first saw her after being dropped from that skyscraper.

"Do you forgive me, Dallas?"

"For what? For losing the money? So you were stupid, so the fuck what? So am I, more often than you are. We're Genoards. It's what we do. We fuck up."

She nods into the embrace. "And then we always come back together."

"Damn right, Eve."

"Are you still going to leave?"

He looks over to the suitcase, with its unforgiving black leather surface, its handle probably marred from the touch of his deceased brother or father. He thinks about the streets of the city, and he wonders whether they are truly any better than the estate. It's the same misery, wherever he goes. Just different people, different troubles. And here, at least, he has Eve. And no matter how convinced he is that he's a burden on her, Dallas tries to break from that line of thinking.

"I don't think so. Not tonight, at least."

She pulls away from him, so that she can look at his face, searching as if trying to find any trace of dishonesty upon his expression. She's always been able to read him like a book, whatever schemes he tries to pull. And when she is satisfied, when her face relaxes, those eyes return to that wide-eyed look that reminds him of how she used to look up at him as a child. He hasn't seen that look in some time, now. Deservedly so - he has betrayed it too often in the past to warrant it.

And in those eyes that bring him back to his first escape as a kid, he wonders if his desire to leave is only the desire to run away. What if some component of it is actually the urge to run towards? What is it that he would run to try and find, all those times before? Respect, attention, power, happiness, worth, an audience to his thoughts. Love. All qualities he finds in the depths of her forgiving gaze. All qualities that have been in this hated manor all this time, buried beneath the anger and feuds of his other family members.

In that moment, Dallas knows he will not try to flee the house again. Because there is nothing at his destination that he cannot find right in front of him.

And if he should hurt her, as he fears? It doesn't matter. Because he should know by now that he understands nothing of what hurts Eve, of what consequences his actions bring. The steps he takes to keep her protected always end up hurting her in the end. Same with the steps he takes to make himself happier. How can he pretend to know what's best for anyone? Eve learned this lesson. He'd have to be an idiot not to take this as his cue to do the same.

Dallas stands up, and he offers a hand to Eve, helping her to her feet as well. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hands, until there is no trace of her sorrow left.

He points towards the door. "Go get some rest. I mean it this time, Eve. And do it in your room, where you can actually be comfortable. Got it?"

She nods, but her expression does not change. "Will I find you here, when I wake up?"

Dallas wonders how often she has asked herself this exact question, during those late-night prayers. And this makes him think of those thieves, and of how it's his terrible actions that led her to pray for them to liberate her family. Just as he's prayed, though to no God, for liberation countless times - from the manor, from his father and brother, from trouble, from the barrel, even from Eve.

'It always ends in misery. This time, I'm not going to fuck up. I'm not just a fucking disappointment. Just you goddamn wait and see.' He thinks, swearing to some unknown and intangible force.

Dallas reaches down and pats Eve on the head, which ends up a gentle, but awkward movement. He thinks of that dance again, the one he hasn't quite figured out. And, with full honesty in his voice and in his intention, he makes his pact to her.

"I won't leave you again. I promise, Eve."

A/N: Final piece. Hope you enjoyed it, and thank you very much for reading.