Berwald is neither weak nor an unskilled killer. This is obvious, since Ivan Braginski hired him; the only weak people Ivan deals with are those he kills, fucks, or both. Nonetheless, as soon as Berwald breaks soundlessly into Gilbert's house and begins choking him from behind, he realizes he has made a mistake.
Well, not quite a mistake. A miscalculation.
He had thought Gilbert would fight him with the cold, brutal skill of a trained hit man—one with more experience than Berwald has. This turns out to be wrong.
Gilbert fights like a rabid tiger.
The German lashes out, but backward, toward Berwald. His hands go for his face, fingers digging for his eyes, and his legs both kick at Berwald. The weight of Gilbert falling down pulls overwhelmed Berwald to the floor as well, and his hold on Gilbert's neck weakens as he wrenches his head back from fingers very nearly stabbing out his eyes.
Gilbert is on him immediately, straddling him and wildly punching his head. Berwald takes a blow to his cheek and another to his mouth before he throws his arms up, blocking more punches. The sudden brutality of this, the submission, nearly takes Berwald's breath away, but he cannot afford to hesitate. Gilbert is relentless. So Berwald reaches upward, latching his hands around Gilbert's throat.
The albino snarls like the beast he is, red eyes feral, and strangles Berwald right back. The pair of them hold each other by the throats, locked together, eyes bulging with rage, until the tension rises to its peak—and Berwald lets go of Gilbert, reaches into his jacket, and plunges a blade into the German's abdomen.
Gilbert scrambles backward, hands on the hilt of the blade, a king impaled on a sword. "Fuck!" He bares his teeth at Berwald as they both stagger to their feet. "You stabbed my fuckin' stomach, you Nordic bitchcunt."
This gives Berwald a slight amount of pause. Nordic? Is this just an assumption based on his blond hair and blue eyes, his Scandinavian breed of frigid features? Or does Gilbert actually know who he is? Braginski could have mentioned him before . . . The world is small, and their world, smaller. Nothing is impossible.
Gilbert is breathing hard, but so is Berwald. They face each other, Berwald in his dark blue coat, Gilbert shirtless and bleeding, though he hasn't removed the knife. Berwald stares, a sharp, dark blade. Gilbert glares, a handful of shrapnel. Both deadly. One far more ragged than the other.
Arthur, Berwald knows, is cowering with the lifting bench behind him. He can hear the quiet whimpering coming from the British man, who is not to be harmed. Berwald curses the challenge set by Braginski. Fighting someone to kill them is simple—two people try to kill each other, one wins and the other dies. But fighting someone trying to kill you and having an order to bring them back alive? That puts Berwald at a disadvantage.
Every part of him is tense, alert. Waiting for Gilbert to make a move.
But he doesn't. Instead, he speaks. "Did Braginski fuckin' send you?"
Even if Berwald lies, Gilbert will know the answer. In fact, if he says nothing, Gilbert will know. So Berwald stays silent.
Gilbert shakes his head. "Fuckin' Soviet piece of shit." He glares at Berwald, brow low on his eyes, furious. "I won't shoot the messenger. You leave right now, we'll be square."
Berwald is admittedly tempted by this, honor among thieves. He knows he should not be. He tries to fold his feelings, but they snap. The whimpering man behind him is innocent, and doesn't deserve this. And it's entirely possible, Berwald realizes, that Gilbert doesn't deserve it, either.
Don't do it.
"Why are you keeping Mr. Jones here?" Berwald asks, keeping his tone neutral.
Gilbert doesn't look away from Berwald, but his gaze softens a microscopic amount. "Because Alfred Jones, her husband, is trying to find Arthur. He'll hurt her if he does."
Berwald's brow furrows slightly. Gilbert's English must be good enough not to mistake pronouns. "Her?"
Gilbert holds his stomach. It will be seriously hurting now, but Berwald suspects he has a high tolerance for pain. If he doesn't, he's in the wrong business. "She's trans. Woman inside, man outside. Alfred thinks she's crazy. He wants her to be a man even though she isn't. Not that you probably understand what I'm even talking about."
Berwald wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His split lip is bleeding. "I know what you're talking about." He reaches into his jacket slowly, and Gilbert's shoulders square, expecting a gun, no doubt. Instead, Berwald holds out a picture. He knows what it looks like; he's memorized it. He's in it, sitting on the sofa in his home in Sweden. Sitting on his lap, holding the camera, is a smaller blond man, smiling in absolute delight. Tino. Blessed, beautiful, sweet Tino.
Gilbert looks at the photo, eyes softening another degree, and then back up at Berwald. "That your boytoy?"
Berwald carefully returns the picture to his jacket pocket. "My wife."
They regard each other, hit men, equals.
Gilbert takes a deep breath, winces at the pain in his stomach. "Looks like we're in the same situation, ja? We both got valuables that Braginski'll hurt if we let him. So what do you think about working together? Forget about this shit." He gestures to the knife still in his stomach. "I'll get it stitched, no problem. But can I trust you?"
Berwald tries to fold his feelings again. But he can't ignore this. This could be his way out, so much faster than the years he'd have to give Ivan otherwise. He has no allies, and neither does Gilbert. Berwald could even be in Gilbert's position right now, if things were switched, if Arthur was Tino. Wouldn't Berwald want Gilbert's help? Of course he would. And doesn't he want to return to Tino as soon as possible? Of course he does.
Berwald hesitates, then inclines his head. "I will work with you, Mr. Bielschmidt."
Gilbert nods, eyes dark with weary gratitude. "Danke, Mr. Oxienstierna."
They exchange a small, respectful look. A knowing look. Nothing is impossible.
"What," asks Berwald, in his slow, low way, "did you have in mind?"