Matthew Williams, Chief of Police, Washington, D.C. stood in the parking lot outside headquarters on the morning of the showdown, a Monday that marked three weeks since Ivan Braginsky had started talking to Mr. FBI. Matt assessed the shoddy assembly of his friends, colleagues, and his brother. He began to sweat and pushed his glasses up his nose. "The gang's all here, eh?"
"Ludwig is gone," Arthur Kirkland grumbled.
"And, another plot twist: Toris is a spy," Alfred F. Jones echoed.
Arthur batted a careless hand. "But we totally knew that already."
"Francis, Antonio, and Gilbert are still unaccounted for…" chimed in Elizabeta Héderváry.
"And Kiku said he'll just meet us there," Alfred continued.
Officer Carlos Machado scratched through his dreads. He was wearing a floral-print shirt, his gun belt, and a half-smile. "Well, boys and madam, I woke up this morning optimistic, so we gonna go with that. Let's roll out."
Alfred gave him the stinkeye; he wanted to groan out loud. He had almost thrown up all his nerves that morning just getting ready for this. Today he was going to see Ivan again. They would be at Constitution Gardens, the center of DC, the place where Ivan and Alfred had met—had gone on their first date. The park was private enough, but Alfred's heart was in practically more turmoil than the dysfunctional FBI divisions. He turned to his boss and softly whined, "Mr. Kirkland, I don't feel so good. I don't wanna go."
The midday sun beamed off of Kirkland's badge. His gaze was on the horizon, his stature uneasy, pieces of his hair lifting slightly on the ghost of a breeze. Was that a trick of the light, or was that a gray hair? Alfred almost wondered what inner demons he himself was battling; the old Englishman was the epitome of rumination. Arthur mumbled to himself, "I think I left the oven on."
Matthew sucked in a breath, looked at Alfred, and sighed. "I guess we're ready, then."
"No, we are not," a tired-sounding voice answered. The small crowd parted, and there stood Natalya and Yekaterina at the front of the lot. They were both wearing sunglasses and the formalest of vacation rompers.
"Where is Ivan?" Yekaterina asked. The question was timid, but heavy with emotion, and gave the impression that she was done hearing excuses. "You said there was a meeting today."
Natalya treaded right up to Alfred. He didn't back down, but his face began to itch, reminded of the sting when she had slapped him. She didn't look angry anymore, however, when she took off her shades and met his eyes. It was a look that had been trying to hold onto confidence for a long time and was feeling the first notes of creeping doubt. "I know you are important to him. You know something. Everyone of you know something. All we want is you take us to him now, or we swear we will sue."
On what grounds? Alfred might have challenged a few weeks ago. Today, he knew better. "We were actually just on our way to meet him. Your sister's right. But—he's going to be with his other hacker friends and criminals, just so you know. It was arranged this way."
A flicker of pain crossed her face, but she said nothing. Matt leaned in and softly offered, "We can give you a ride there, but I'm afraid you'll have to stay in the car at least until we figure things out. It might be safer like that, too."
Natalya closed her eyes for a second of frustration. She turned to Yekaterina and said something, and then Yekaterina put her head in her hands and groaned something back. Finally, Natalya turned back and nodded slowly. "We will come."
Elizabeta nodded. "And we will do our best to take care of you both, and Ivan. Trust me, it is in our best intentions."
Natalya stared at her bleakly. "I do not know if I even trust myself after all this."
Alfred felt a newfound appreciation for her. It took real guts to go this far to defend someone you cared about, especially in a new country and out of the blue like this. She and Yekaterina were probably stronger than all of them, but they were in for a rude awakening. If the plan worked and the forces managed to capture and jail Ivan a second time, there would be no chance they would ever get to see him again for a long, long while.
And that would mean Alfred would have to let go of Ivan as well—for real. For legit.
And, just like them, he didn't know if that was a thing he could possibly do.
When Ivan had woken up that morning his entire body had been cold.
He normally didn't shift too much during sleep or kick his blankets around in the night, but there they were, bunched in a pile toward the end of his bed, and there he was, splayed out all over his pillow and computer, which rested in the bed with him. He blearily recalled that he had been rereading the messages and watching Alfred in the evening, and strange crying and shouting from down the hall had woken him up many times throughout the night. Ivan sat up and tried to focus. A shower warmed him, but only slightly.
When he emerged for breakfast wearing his scarf and regular day clothes, he found the tiny apartment in motion. Raivis was walking in a little circle by the door, feeding some concerned language into his cell phone. Eduard seemed like he was trying to pack away breakfast and prepare for the meeting at the same time; he had wires in one hand and notecards in the other, and Ivan did a double take when he realized Eduard was wearing a casual suit instead of his striped pajamas for once. He stole a bread roll off of its plate before the hacker extraordinaire could whisk it away.
Felicks was hogging up the bathroom, so Ivan began to walk back to his room when he noticed that a hallway door—the one normally chained and dead-bolted—was swinging wide open. He gave a curious glance inside and found a completely empty room.
"Scusi," said someone behind him. Ivan moved out of the way of a nicely-dressed young man whom he could only describe as a lighter-haired, bouncier, higher-timbred version of Lovino. The other Vargas, then—Feliciano. Behind him followed Lovino—who carried a gun.
"Do not look in there because they are gone," Lovino told Ivan. "Thank the Lord, thank the Heaven, they are gone."
Ivan again felt his internal temperature plunge. He all but whispered, "Did you...kill them?"
Lovino stared. "I wish I damn did. No, they are the hostages."
"They are safe in the truck now," Feliciano affirmed. He then squinted, and popped his eyes open wide. "Oh, hi! Are you Ivan who is in love with Alfred? I understand you! I am Feliciano. I am in love with Ludwig and he is one of the hostages, and he is also an FBI agent! Nice to finally meet you, I guess."
Lovino immediately scoffed and pushed past them.
Ivan wasn't sure if he had heard correctly. His heart was just beginning to beat again. "Um, yes. Thanks, I hate it."
"It is a very funny kind of dramatic, I think," Feliciano acknowledged, waving his hands. "And tense. Lots of tense. And sad. There is the sad, too."
But Ivan was still hung up on how the small Italian had said "in love with Alfred." If he was in love with Alfred, they certainly hadn't mentioned it to each other. Love was an important word in both Russian and whatever else the two of them spoke, sometimes even internet lingo included. But things had moved so fast—had they just not had the chance? Did it matter?
"Whatever you just said is describing it perfectly," Ivan replied, curling his fingers into his scarf. He was going to try to make another comment when Felicks exploded out of the bathroom ahead of them.
"He just texted! He's almost here!" Felicks shrieked. He was wearing something suave as well, and Ivan wasn't sure what stood out more: the fedora, the fanny pack, the knife-pleated skirt, or the rifle strapped to his back.
Ivan's big mood, already conflicted, confused, and confounded, wasn't improving. He had so many questions, including, but not limited to "We are not going to actually fight them, right?" and "What the fuck? Is this allowed? Is that allowed?" but only one of them was answered by what happened next.
There was a knock on the apartment's front door and everybody stopped what they were doing and stilled. Lovino reached out to brush his brother's arm. Raivis, the closest, gently hung up on his phone. Eduard had dropped a plate but miraculously managed to catch it before it hit the ground. Felicks silently moved to the center of the room.
Mufflings from the other side of the door, and then a male voice Ivan had never heard before timidly said through the wood, "Uh, it's me. Sorry. I forgot the secret knock."
Everyone seemed to relax. Raivis gratefully stepped forward, peeped through the peephole, and opened—for a familiar-looking man who was wearing an FBI uniform.
Ivan shuddered and moved backwards, about to call out, when he realized no one else was doing the same. In fact, they were doing the opposite. Eduard and Raivis were smiling and giving greetings, and Felicks was waiting for the man's approach with an anxious tapping foot.
The agent had shoulder-length, light-brown hair and a cautious face when he beheld Ivan's reaction. Recognition passed between them and he seemed to wince and flinch a little, but didn't back down. Ivan had seen this man before, hadn't he? In the holding cell room, this man had been there: silent, in the background, unnoticed, unsuspecting, but he had been there and seen everything. He knew who Ivan was, at least, and Ivan didn't like that.
"Why are you here?" Ivan asked, the question coming straight from his dry throat.
The agent gulped and rearranged his expression into something polite. "Hello, I am Toris. Um, I know this sounds strange, but you might know me because of—"
"You do not have to say his name," Ivan uttered. Alfred had talked about his coworkers minimally since he had been trying to conceal his real job, of course, and perhaps Toris had been one of them. But that still didn't explain why he was here.
"I apologize," the agent finished, his eyes widening in apprehension. "I—I understand how tricky of a situation it can be, Ivan."
No, you don't, Ivan wanted to growl. He wasn't sure how to feel about all these new people coming up to him and telling him they "understood."
Felicks took the liberty of interrupting them, crossing his arms and pouting at Toris. "Um, excuse me, who am I?"
"Ah, yes." Toris remembered himself and tried for a wider smile. He set down his suitcase, walked over, and promptly gave Felicks a kiss on the cheek. "And hello, my Felicks."
Ivan had only thought he was well-adapted to whiplash before. He turned and silently begged explanation from anyone, anyone in the room. Eduard just nodded and offered up another typicality: "We will explain in the car. Come on, everyone! We're going to be late, and to the FBI, that is not fashionable!"
And that was how Ivan found himself squashed between Raivis and Eduard in the backseat of another SAVE THE WHALES van en route to the meeting destination, his laptop clutched in his arms (showing a live broadcast of Alfred's phone), his legs bent into weird positions to fit for Toris and Felicks in front of them, and his ears ringing with the sounds of the Mafia and the hostages tumbling around in the cargo hold behind him.
"We've been together for forever," Felicks was saying. He and Toris were leaning all over each other, Toris partially immersed in his phone, Felicks awkwardly adjusting around his rifle. "Before he started watching me on the phone, in fact. We are, like, a perfect team."
Ivan was slowly putting it together. "He is your Mr. FBI? You have one, too?"
"Felicks is a wanted criminal," declared Toris, looking up. "My work for the government was to watch him, and my work for us was to watch the government."
A double agent, then. A spy within a spy, who had both God and anime on his side. "You are the reason we can know so much, like schedules and things. I have been wondering! They don't tell me things. Let me guess: you were what they called my 'backup,' too?"
Toris winced again in harmony with Eduard and Raivis, but nodded. "In a sense. I do take lots of notes." An angry yelp came from the cargo hold.
Ivan squeezed his shoulders together, not so keen to be cozy anymore. He was exhausted of asking questions and getting excuses and half-answers and multitudes of "we'll explain later." He decided to just remain silent and wait it out. Toris was polite and likeable at the least, and at the least, he was one more person to back them up. Kind of.
On Ivan's computer screen, Alfred seemed to be texting his friend Kiku. Surrounding Alfred's face was a canopy of green over a pleasant blue sky; he was already there. Ivan explored Alfred's concentrated expression, reading the stressed, squinted lines on his face, the anticipation in his eyes. His messages to Kiku were brief and distracted, segmented into separate thoughts. He looked up constantly, scanned his surroundings, spoke with his coworkers, and looked back down. Mumbled things to himself. Started to hum a tune but never finished it.
Ivan was compelled to touch the screen. Alfred had never let him see this weak, anxious side of himself, and it was intimate that Ivan got to see it now, but he still felt dirty, because he knew that spying was the wrong way to go about doing it. He knew he wanted to feel a competitive confidence boost by drinking in the image, but he also knew Alfred might have seen Ivan this way himself, and Ivan wouldn't have wanted to let him see that, either.
"Almost there," informed Raivis. The mood in the cabin dimmed.
"I want to do talking to Alfred," Ivan decided on his own. "No one else. He is nervous, and I think he will want to talk with me, too."
Toris looked back at him. "And are you nervous, as well?"
Ivan closed his eyes. "I really just want to go home away from all this." He stroked along his scarf's downiness, tucking his chin into it. "See my sisters." But he didn't want to see his sisters. He didn't want to see Alfred, and he didn't want to see hackers and FBI agents. He wanted to start over again and make friends that he didn't have to lie to, that didn't have to lie to him, that he would never doubt if they cared for him, if they loved him. But once again, he was stuck somewhere he didn't want to be.
The SAVE THE WHALES van parked on the north side of the Gardens right behind the infamous Yao Wang's Wok & Roll food truck.
(When Ivan disembarked he approached the truck out of curiosity, but found it apparently closed, the serving window hatch down, the paper lanterns standing still. However. When he pressed his ear up against the side, totally not in the fashion of some lonely street stalker, he heard the telltale music.)
"Feli, I swear to god…listen! If anyone removes this duct tape again, I will personally deliver your ass to you on un piatto d'argento." Ivan didn't know what un piatto d'argento was, but he turned anyway at the sound of Lovino's voice.
The brothers were leading the four hostages out of the back of the van. Ivan felt awkward seeing them irl for the first time when they had been in such proximity before—their eyes were slightly squinty and their legs were slightly bent and their skin was slightly bleached after sitting in the dark for so long. However. Newly duct-taped mouths and everything, it was obvious that all of them (except for the buff blond one to whom Feliciano was attached at the hip) were grinning. Lovino seemed to notice this and lightly slapped the brunet on his zip-tied wrists. "Yeah, you better be happy, bastard. The hell."
"Thanks so much!" Raivis called to the van's driver, slipping her a green and then swiveling to face the group. He looked adorable in his promotional baseball cap and kiddie backpack; into it Eduard had slipped their computers and miscellaneous electronic whatnot in the case they would need them. "Okay. Um. A-Are we ready to go, or do we need a couple more vodkas first?"
"Bless," mumbled Ivan as a cheer went up all around. (One of the cheers even came from the palest of the FBI hostages, muffle and all, but they all chose to ignore it.)
And so Toris and Felicks took the lead, strolling down one of the park's paths leading a mix-matched squadron of semi-armed international felons and four captives. The sun was out and the guns were out; when they got a few questioning stares, Raivis blurted the magic words "Civil War reenactment," and all seemed to make sense to the poor Washingtonians. Ivan's American history wasn't outstanding, but he felt that his march of dread and the chaos running through his head were authentic enough.
In Constitution Gardens, there was a pond, and in the middle of that pond there was a small, lopsided island that Ivan had never actually checked out or paid much attention to before. Access to it was linked to the path via wooden footbridge. The FBI agents—or what was left of them in all their threefold glory—were waiting on the other side, and with them stood two cops whom Ivan guessed were only there for moral support.
"They look so sad," Toris voiced quietly to Felicks, echoing Ivan's thoughts. Felicks snorted in cocky affirmation, but yet had begun to drift behind.
Ivan was doing the same; Feliciano accidentally stepped on his ankle and apologized. They were crossing the bridge. There was some sort of mini-memorial on the island—a semicircle of stone blocks, each containing an ancient-looking engraved name, but Ivan wasn't admiring the scenery. Ivan was trying not to look at Alfred, who was wearing sunglasses, which made him look hot, which made Ivan want sunglasses. And Alfred wasn't smiling, but he still was wearing the sunglasses and he still looked overly confident, which let Ivan know that he was definitely hiding the parts of him that weren't. When the two groups got close enough, Alfred was the first to open his mouth to speak. Ivan took a deep breath, expecting a semi-formal "Well, well, well," or something of the sort, but what came out of Alfred's mouth wasn't even directed at him.
It was a frustrated, impromptu whine. "Tooooooooris! This whole time! You were my work buddy! Oh my god! You drove me places! Covered shifts for me! I even paid you to clean my house that one time, remember that? I can't believe it! You—you've joined the path of the dark side!"
The man next to Alfred, the English-sounding Chief Kirkland guy if Ivan remembered correctly, sniffed in a very English-sounding manner. He looked stuffy in his full uniform. "Which we knew. We did know this. I knew this. Ahem." He beheld the group, disgusted. "Yes. Why'd you do it, Toris, you sorry sod."
"Um. My apologies," mumbled Toris, sounding more like he was being embarrassed in front of the cool kids on the playground than he was sorry. He glanced back at Eduard and Raivis. "Someone help please."
Toris gave Felicks a little look of encouragement, and after a second, Felicks stood up straight. "Um, hello. I represent, like, the international black market, sort of. If you do not know, my name is Felicks."
Kirkland snarled and crossed his arms, glancing between the two. His voice was the low, deep-throated grumble of realization. "Nice skirt. Yes, we know you."
Another slow second passed, and then for full late-reaction effect Alfred let out a dramatic gasp, throwing his hands over his head. "No. ¿Qué pasa? Noooo."
Felicks gave a simper. "Yes. And thanks." Then he motioned to everyone behind him. "I actually have something for you. There is more people you might know."
They all stepped aside to reveal the hostaged FBI agents who had been missing in action for weeks.
Ivan had to admit, it was the cherry on top to watch the agents and the police go absolutely ballistic over this. Chief Kirkland's mouth fell wide open and he exclaimed, "Francis Bonnefoy is not gone!"
Francis Bonnefoy narrowed his eyes at that but did not—probably because he could not—respond.
The leading lady of the FBI group stepped forward, her hands clenched in frustrated fists at her sides. "Dear holy Lord fuck, this is happening so fast! Can we back up? Let's back up. My name is Elizabeta Héderváry, Chief of all those idiots you have kidnapped and mistakenly thought were valuable." Glares all around. "Oh, excluding Ludwig. You are valid, Ludwig! You know, why is there such a surplus of men in this story in the first place? Ugh. Will the rest of you who I do not already know please make my acquaintance, if you are willing?"
Something in her voice already told Ivan not that this person wasn't going to say "please" twice. He stiffened when Felicks looked pointedly at him.
"Um, privet," he stammered. "I think we are already familiar, but just in case, I am Ivan."
Alfred crossed his arms, mirroring his boss. His expression was unreadable. "Hi, Ivan."
Ivan frowned. Should he cross his arms as well? He was too sweaty for that, so he just left them at his sides, but made sure to try to hold himself with more purpose. "Hi, Alfred."
"Mmm. Yes. Next," Elizabeta dictated, rubbing her chin.
Raivis respectfully took off his baseball cap when she trained her gaze on him. His voice wobbled at first when he gave his name and greeting, but to his credit it steadied out as he went on. "I am our group coordinator, and I work part-time with certain factions of SAVE THE WHALES."
Héderváry pursed her lips, in slight disbelief. "You?"
"So the whale people were involved! Great." Kirkland shook his head. "What's worse than a hacker?"
Ivan, his mind on overdrive, didn't miss a beat and responded instantly out of instinct. "A child. Boom."
Raivis stepped back, and Ivan immediately blushed; Alfred's mouth twitched, but besides raising his eyebrows and folding over his lips he didn't respond. Was he trying not to smile? Could that be possible? Kirkland looked mildly confused but didn't say anything at the outburst either.
Eduard was up next, and he was ready. He had even prepared note cards to aid his speech, and being he had an essential role in an essential part of the group's antics, he felt it necessary to put in some perspective. As the cops shifted and shuffled, he straightened, and took a deep breath, and announced himself.
Everyone listened: "The reason I founded this circle of vigilantes was because, during our actions as vigilantes, we happened upon a plot even more nefarious."
(Eduard had asked Ivan and the rest with help using the right English words to as such illustrate the dramatic air, and the conglomeratic conclusion had been thus.)
"The US government, in foolishly allowing a breach of privacy of this caliber, has established for itself a base of lies and shame. All of it goes against ideals that are not limited only to digital peace and freedom. It is in our intentions of challenging you that we seek justice. End this now. All of it."
He succeeded in the theatrics at least. The sun passed behind an errant cloud, and the glare on his glasses subsided so he could meet everyone in the eye. One guilty second passed, two, three, and then Chief Kirkland started laughing. It was totally villain-type laughter.
"Do you really believe you have even the grounds to 'challenge' us?" he pointed out. "Since you confessed, I'll give you this: I also admit that what we've been doing is immoral in a sense. But if we meet in court, everyone will know who you are and that what you all have been doing is so, so much worse."
A gust pooled over the still waters of the pond, carrying away the ducks with it. They were all alone on their tiny island; no visitors had dared approach. Ivan was filled with a spark of resistance. No one was going to make Eduard look weak if he could help it. He took a step forward and kept his response deathly quiet. "Is it?"
The FBI group didn't answer back until Alfred moved, giving a tired, pained groan. "Ivan. It is. It just is, okay? The whole reason this thing was started—the whole reason I did what I did—was to catch people like you," he altercated.
Ivan found he hated the when the wrong words came out of Alfred's mouth. "You say 'people like me?' People who cannot help it? Alfred, fighting for what is right is the right thing to do even if it gets you into trouble, and you know it. And maybe it is a radical statement."
Alfred nodded. "Because we're both radical people."
Ivan beamed the message back at him: "And we are both liars."
And for a heartbeat, they understood.
Ivan had been feeling rushes of boldness and bravado ever since he met Alfred, and he could tell how Alfred got them too. The exhaustion in Alfred's body language and the weary thoughts inside Ivan's own head spoke numbers about how really little throughout this whole thing they had been driven to care about concepts like "justice" and "morality." In another world, this meeting might have put the cornerstone on their "rights," but in this world there had been only their caution, and the wind to throw it to.
When it became apparent Ivan and Alfred were momentarily done hashing it out, the rest of their posses got up the nerve to speak again.
"So," began one of the cops—one that Ivan had found out before was Alfred's brother, interestingly. "If you don't mind me asking...well, actually you shouldn't mind, because I need to know. Where have you been hiding all this time? Mr. Vargas isn't in Italy, and Felicks, correct me if I'm wrong...well, actually, don't, because I'm pretty sure I'm right, but aren't you supposed to live in Poland?"
"Yeah, I have been here for some time," Felicks happily jeered.
"Not according to Toris," scowled Kirkland.
Lovino Vargas said his first words yet (that weren't whispered curses or hissed requests for certain people to shut up). "Tell me about it. Where were we? It was crazy crazy. We were fucking everywhere, day and night, and we were roommates."
Alfred's shoulders jerked. "Oh my god."
"What?" asked Kirkland.
He bit his lip. "They were roommates."
Ivan had the good human decency to smirk.
"But not you," pointed out Héderváry, gesturing to Feliciano. "You lived separately. I will bet good money that you were just the cover. And Ludwig found that out last night, didn't he, and that's why he is all tied up."
To the chagrin of his brother, Feliciano sheepishly nodded, and Ludwig nodded in sync. "But, you know, in the end, I had fun!"
Kirkland was seized with a shudder. "Heavens. What did we tell you, Agent Beilschmidt the Younger?"
"Oh, he cannot talk, hang on!" (Feliciano peeled back some of the tape; Ludwig cringed and grimaced.)
Ludwig cleared his throat. "You told me that getting too close and falling in love is against the rules and to be safe because he could be the Mafia."
"And what happened?"
Ludwig hung his head like a kicked dog. "...That happened, and he was the Mafia."
A light went on in the back of Ivan's head. I understand you. This whole day was going to be full of understandings—he could just tell. As he thought it, Héderváry said it.
Over a quick puff of giggle: "It happened to all three of the agents. They all got too close and fell in love. How does that happen? It's amazing! And also concerning."
Ivan's gaze drifted to meet Alfred's eyes, or what he thought were Alfred's eyes, because he still couldn't see beyond the blackened sunglasses. Did...you…?
Alfred looked away.
Ivan clenched his hands in fists at his sides.
"And whatta we gonna do about them?" asked another cop, one that Ivan recognized as well, because he was the cop that had arrested him. Carlos Machado. He was referring to the hostages. "Do you even want them back? Haven't said anything…"
"Right. Yes." Héderváry folded her hands and stared wistfully at the three agents. Heaved a sigh. "Oh, my division. What do we do with you."
Eduard spoke up again. "They will only return on one condition: you promise to shut down both your FBI divisions for good, and ensure that nothing like this will ever happen again in the future. Effective immediately."
There was much protest. Chief Kirkland's face went red. "You don't even know what you're saying! Do you know how complicated that would be? These are our jobs. No-can-do!"
"Wait a sec, though." Alfred put up a hand. "If you're gonna make conditions like that, we have to get a part of the bargain, too."
Ivan was already beginning to get another bad premonition, and the last time he had had this certain feeling, he had ended up locked in a cell. He met Alfred's challenge anyway. "Like what."
"You know." He shuffled another step forward. "You shut down the circle. Give up hacking for good. Face it. Let go."
Ivan didn't say anything.
"That might be difficult also, won't it," peeped Raivis.
"These are our jobs, too," said Eduard.
Felicks folded his arms and stuck out his hip so the rifle tilted. "Yeah, I am not liking it. I am used to my life. Say, like, no, Braginsky."
Toris shifted. "There has to be a better compromise. At least, don't say yes…"
Everyone turned to him.
Ivan breathed steadily. All of their arms were folded. He didn't like that he had been accidentally placed as the decision-maker. He had never wanted any of this in the first place, but he had told them that only he was allowed to speak with Alfred. He sweated and swallowed.
Alfred was sizing him up, all bravado again, hiding. Old angry thoughts resurfaced to the top of Ivan's mind, like how Alfred was to blame for all of this. The real criminal. Ivan knew that unless either of them stopped it, this battle would wage until they were both further drawn to places they did not want to be. Further separated, further punished. This truly might be the last time they were together.
And, he didn't know if that was a thing he could possibly bear—
But.
Maybe staying far away from each other was a good thing, because every time they were together, something horrible happened as consequence.
Maybe Ivan needed to take heed. Let go. After all, he had been trying so hard before.
Maybe Ivan should have left Washington, D.C. a long time ago.
He thought of a response, but Alfred had read his mind and was already there, interrupting the awkward silence and clearing his throat and opening his big mouth to say the worst thing he had said all day.
Alfred took off his sunglasses. "Fine. Maybe if I can't convince you, someone else can." Pulled the walkie-talkie from his belt. "Bring them out."
Horror struck Ivan in the gut and he reached for his scarf before he even knew what was happening, before Alfred looked off, over to the other side of the peaceful, algae-decorated pond. Before Kiku Honda, the museum worker, stepped out from behind a tree and beckoned for two figures to follow him. They were Ivan's sisters, Natalya and Yekaterina.
He was frozen; his entire body was cold.
They were as peaceful as the pond, their white-blonde hair flowing in the breeze, their rompers fluttering, and they did not belong in this scene of lies and fighting. They were at least a hundred feet away, but it was like Ivan could read their expressions and hear them clearly. He hadn't had a chance to communicate with them since the police department and since they had left that note in his dresser drawer. We love you.
But they were here—did they?
Yekaterina stepped gently into the pond as if an invisible force was pulling her to her brother. "Come home, Vanya. Just stop all of this and come home," she said, sadness pooling in the words of the language they had spoken as children all the way across the world.
Natalya put her hand on her older sister's shoulder and met Ivan with hard eyes. "We miss you. You should not have left."
Ivan's soul lurched. Plain as day, they were on Alfred's side, and they had turned against him. They didn't love him. Alfred didn't love him. No one loved him. He didn't even love himself.
He had been wrong. He shouldn't have even come to Washington, D.C.
He took a step back, bumping into the border of engraved stones. The attention of his family and his friends and his enemies were still on him, but he was far away, soaring up, over the trees, out of the park, past the silent glare of the Washington Monument, away and away. He was in outer space, in the universe, in the universe that had once belonged to Alfred and he but that was now dead and freezing, fading into fragments. He was nothing.
Three things happened at once.
The first: someone's phone began to ring, loud and unabashedly. It was so unexpected and inopportune that everyone jumped and began patting their pockets on instinct. No one found out whose it was, however.
The second: Gilbert Beilschmidt the Elder threw his hands into the air. One of his hands held a knife and a broken zip-tie and the other held the duct tape he had ripped off his mouth. He shouted, "NOW!" and he, along with two other freed FBI agents began to make a glorious break for it by jumping straight into the pond. As they swam for their lives, in the direction of Ivan's sisters on the other shore (who were quite taken aback by this turn of events and started to squeal discontentedly), Ludwig, the last one left, also freed but for some reason choosing not to follow, stood on the edge of the stones and exclaimed, "Seriously?"
The third: Ivan made eye contact with Alfred, turned in the opposite direction, looked up the footbridge into the city, and fled.
Alfred went into panic mode. People started shouting, moving, and he could not push past them enough to see what was happening. His veins throbbed on overdrive, carrying nervous, frustrated hormones to his limbs, which subsequently were overwhelmed and began to go numb. He gasped; everything was too hot and too loud and too bright and too busy and his head was heavy and his tongue was stiffening up so he couldn't even call out for help or for backup or for anyone. He blinked five times.
Ivan.
Ivan was leaving.
Ivan should not be leaving. Ivan's place was here. In his sight. With him. Anywhere else was wrong.
Alfred felt like he was going to pass out, so he started running.
To Ivan.
showdown - britney
y'all
this is like 20 pages and 6,000+ words it better be damn worth all the damn time that my damn life did notgive me, frowny sad face times ten
also, i'm having a bunch of issues on this site, so i will probably be less active on here, and it'll take me longer to respond to comments than my ao3 or my tumblr. you can still leave me messages and everything, it's totally fine, but come on over to my other sites if you please smiley happy face times ten!
BUT Y'ALL