leemalkovich

[leemalkovich]

As it is, there is far more than a lonesome dollar in his bank account — in fact, many empty digits await for the day when Lee will know what to spend them on. Twenty years into this cursed career, it hasn't happened still.

"Not me." It isn't defiance — it's honesty. Sam had worked his way up on his own, without so much as an opinion from Lee when it came to his climb up the Syndicate's ever steep hill.

They were never equal even in the before. It would be pointless to fantasize about such a reality now. "Sorry, aye. Forgot my wallet at home."

All irony is gone as soon as Lee's fingers wrap around the curve of Sam's jaw, pressing slightly. Another man would likely flinch at his closeness, but he knows Samar won't. Perhaps he does deserve it, after all. "Enjoy the crown, mate."

It's funny when he looks back and considers their mutual timeline. Lee has seen Sam as a young man, basically watched him grow up from an idiot to whatever he might be called, today. He's always been acutely aware of him, though he doubts Lee really paid him a half a thought until many years later. Now, they're talking wives and mistresses and cattle and more.

"You know, I'm not so stupid that I don't realize that someone got me here." Lee, specifically. No way Pierre thought up that one all on his own. "And I'm not going to forget that, Mrs. Burman."

He glances toward Petros, sights lingering as he considers all of it. How once again, they're in this position of uncertainty while they hold their anxious breath.

"Lee, I'm serious. Give me a dollar, and we go in equal."

Last call, even though he knows the answer.

[leemalkovich]

In the aftermath, Lee's phone had remained dead and uncharged; tossed and forgotten in some drawer of his bedroom. It was never unusual of the killer to revert back to the silence of his Brooklyn loft, dipping in and out of his darkroom — rows of photographs developing right before his eyes.

A knock at the door brings Lee back to reality — and for a long moment, he considers playing the silent game, waiting it out until whatever guest is on the other side decides against a visit.

One look at Hank —his Italian greyhound who deals with sound as well as it deals with mountain lions— and Lee's right on his feet, reaching for the door.

"'Ello," he says, upon the sight of her. "Haven't you heard, darling? I'm on sabbatical."

who: @leemalkovich setting: his home

It had been only a few days since the auction, the night the syndicate’s reins passed into samar burman’s hands, a transaction as cold and calculated as livestock at market. a part of her disliked the way the outcome sat in her bones, its weight unsettling.

in the days since, she had reviewed every thread of her dealings with the syndicate, knowing a meeting with samar would soon be inevitable.

but that was not why she stood at lee’s door. she had felt the shift in him when the announcement was made and perhaps it lingered all the more because she had left him unconscious before the night was over.

her fingers tapped lightly against the wood, a measured rhythm, the kind that announced itself without urgency but demanded to be answered.

[leemalkovich]

The very concept of a family business wasn't one Lee had ever compelled himself to understand. If he'd been inspired by his parents footsteps, he would end up a car salesman — or a telephone operator. While his sister did follow him into the Syndicate, it'd been all but a natural process. Something of twinhood, perhaps.

"Well, he won't be doing that any longer," Lee says. He would deal with Levi's brother in private, and order for a stop to this aimless ploy of his. Whatever the case— "There's no such thing as darkness in one's blood, darling. Badness isn't passed down, nor is goodness, aye. It's much more of an issue of the mind," — Lee chuckles — "or so I've been told."

Levi thought that Lee picked a good location to discuss for sure and he was going to keep his head of the deal. Plus, he really needed a beer and there was nothing like free beer. Levi looked around, taking note of the place before letting a sigh. "I am a man of my word," he spoke.

"My brother is currently pissed at me and thinks am wasting my potential and not going into the family business and using my skills to help the family," he spoke looking at the other. Levi did use his medical skills but his brother want him to use his more deadly skills. "So he is sending people after me to trigger me, cross that line so to speak and show me that I can't escape from the darkness in my blood. Our family blood."

[leemalkovich]

"I'm a photographer, you absolute twat." Though, Lee supposes the way his blade cuts through flesh and bone is quite artistic, in its own way. "I hold my position because it was forced onto me, and twenty years later, I'm trapped still." It certainly held appeal, back then, to have the human embodiment of a forest fire as your second-in-command. Like a bloodthirsty Cerberus to guard the Syndicate's realm of death.

"A lobotomy, perhaps?" He hardly wants what he has now; let alone more. "But colour me flattered."

"— carving bodies doesn't count as art, my friend." The transporter jests with a gentle, warm laugh; he didn't quite see eye-to-eye with The Syndicate but he wouldn't disagree that they were more alike than different in some ways. Halil sighs then, nodding. "If I can be honest, yes. Acquisitions might be typical of business, but I assume that your pockets, despite deep enough, aren't the reason you hold your position. These things take time, effort, trust, so regardless of your methods, you're the best suited, don't you think?" And then. "What would you need to make that happen?" Because if the new owner of The Syndicate was trigger happy and undiplomatic, it could affect his operations, routes, and he wasn't about to let that happen.

[leemalkovich]

"Ghosts and nihilism," Lee adds, not entirely correcting. "Poetry, as well as an alarming amount of guyliner."

If I let you capture me, she says, it won’t be because your lens is sharp. It’ll be because I chose to be seen. In over thirty years of eternalizing faces and moments, it's Lee's first time hearing such a perspective. He grins, then, "I've no doubt of it."

"I couldn't tell you, darling." He pulls out the promised Leica, vintage though well-kept, loaded with quality black and white film. "If I could see clearly through these eyes, alas, I wouldn't need a camera at all." Most times, it was the thing to ground him in reality — as a writer certainly feels of his paper and quill. "After the first or second photograph, I'll have a better idea."

She tilted her head, amused and just a touch intrigued, the corner of her mouth curling like she’d caught the scent of something dangerous and expensive. “Sex Pistols and Poe,” she echoed, her voice laced with velvet curiosity. “So you’re telling me you were raised by ghosts in a mosh pit? That does explain a lot.” There was a spark behind her eyes now, one that flared brighter in the presence of men who flirted like they were playing chess. She leaned in slightly, but not enough to close the space—just enough to make it known that she could, if she wanted.

“I like secrets. I like art. And I especially like the idea of someone believing they can keep me hidden away in a darkroom.” Her gaze swept over him with deliberate slowness, an appraising flicker. “But darling, if I let you capture me, it won’t be because your lens is sharp. It’ll be because I chose to be seen.” She took a step back then, not retreating—just creating room for the game to breathe. “Now go on. Tell me what you see. And then maybe, just maybe we can talk about those pictures.”

[leemalkovich]

"How strange. My thesis was on Sartre's Hell," Lee says. Although there is a parallel to the imprisonment he'd come to face later on, such consequences hadn't been faced yet, at the time of writing. "Cambridge, 1999."

Everything that burns, everything that rips me apart, foreshadowed in the text, I want to suffer with my body.

"Colour me bloody curious, then. How would you fix madness in a child?" Despite the claim of curiosity, Lee isn't open to any specific answer. "I wish you lot would just accept it, aye. Some are born mad, and they'll die mad. We can't be fixed."

I'd rather have a hundred wounds, whips, poisons — than this kind of suffering in the head. During late nights at the hospital, it would all come ringing back. This phantom of suffering, which touches me softly and caresses me without ever really hurting.

"Like a holiday in the Maldives," Lee deadpans. It wasn't pleasant, no — but between pain and boredom, the latter would ruin him first.

Then, he shrugs. "Very sorry to ruin the fantasy, darling, but I don't care about it nearly as much as you'd fancy me to." True psychopathy, developed into almost textbook material. There's a certain pit behind his eyes, truly soulless, where most people's spirits would be. "Who lives, who dies — who gets away with murder, and who takes the fall for it. Alas, it's all the same to me."

Lee's eyes follow down to the bar counter, and Selim's hand drumming a rhythm on its surface. Notably, there's no wedding ring to be found. "Risk or not, he's a free man now. And so am I." Here. he smiles. "Aren't you just over the moon about it?"

"It's my job." The agent shrugs. "I wrote my thesis on why early diagnosis and intervention of psychiatric conditions could lead to lower rates of violent crime — I'm sorry for what you must've experienced there, from what I've read, it wasn't a pleasant place to be." And although it's an angle, his words are genuine; he couldn't imagine how a hospital meant to help could do so much damage.

Selim's brows knit together. "You and I know that the bartending is only a cover for something more sinister. Your boss might be foolish enough to overturn a state conviction easily but unless my husband is extremely important to you, pulling on the resources they'd need to overturn a federal conviction is risky. Isn't it?" Tapping his fingers again on the bar, he takes a deep, purposeful breath, his dark eyes falling on Lee. "How do you feel about it?" The man asks, following it with a clarifying, "I'd expect it would be YOU taking the fall for his decision if it backfired, right? So tell me, what do you think of him taking a risk on Fatih? Was it worth it?"

[leemalkovich]

💋✨🍷 - to geneviève

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[ LEE ➝ GEN ] Evening, gorgeous. Fancy dinner? xxx

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[ LEE ➝ GEN ] Thoughts on Alla Prima? x

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[ LEE ➝ GEN ] I don't suppose Art Deco's all bad, but it's just sort of stupid. Too many bloody shapes

✧ — ⋆    𝐒𝐎𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐀 & 𝐓𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 . — RAHI | HANS | JULIAN | LEE | ANAÏS | TRISTAN

[leemalkovich]

At the bar, Lee finds a spot near enough to the bar for the ease of refills, and hidden enough that whatever business they carry, is carried in private. Not that a spectacle didn't hold a dear, hungry place in his heart.

"Alright, then," he says, lifting his own drink in consideration. "I'm all ears, love."

"Sounds like a deal and a fair trade. A drink for secrets or some little information," he replied back before a small chuckle escaped his lips. Levi really could use a drink after the day he has had. Drinking with someone was better than doing it alone and he found Lee interesting and he liked the guy. Levi always got vibes about people in the underground world but with Levi it was different. "Lead the way good sir."

[leemalkovich]

A more rational man, at a more rational time, would have known exactly how to word the tornado of his mind. Fear and uncertainty rule Lee's system, twisting around him from the inside out.

At first, Lee shrugs. Then, attempts at a more coherent thought. He fails. "It means—" I haven't got a bloody clue. "I'd like to be the wife, not the mistress."

His opinion heard first, held to higher regard. A friendship honored — leadership, be damned.

"Take it back. I never said anything about how you do things." All said in good fun, but he means it. Sam would fully ask him to kill, maim, terrorize—he's done it before, he'd do it again. Lee just happens to specialize in these things, and his imagination is unmatched.

"Fine." Beat. "But I'm watermarking them."

There's a moment in the conversation when the air around them seems to shift, a wordless transition from jokes to business. Sam listens, still as ever as three items are placed before him—Lee's non-negotiables.

"Your branch is your own." Lee's heard Sam bitch about unprofessional psycho killer behavior enough to know where he stands on damn near everything and anything. "If something is bugging me, I'll ask you about it." Operative word being ask, not tell.

"War Stars only." A nod, perhaps even an audible pause, before he asks his question: "What does priority mean to you?"

[leemalkovich]

"No other way to forget about it, love," Lee tells her. "But to dive into the bottle, head-first."

He's not a drinker, per se. While Lee will sip the occasional liquor at functions like these, drunkenness isn't a threshold he often steps through — his mind's erratic streak magnified by the lack of control alcohol brings.

Weaving through the crowd, he offers Genevieve his hand to take — guiding them, toward the nearest exit. "There's a pub somewhere around 'ere, if I remember. And I reckon my place isn't too far out, either. How good are those heels for walking, darling?"

lee had a point, what’s right often isn’t clear until the moment demands it. “you trust your instincts,” geneviève murmured, more to herself than to him.

they each had their place in the syndicate. his, sharpened and brutal, carved in blood and skill. hers, more subtle, a curator by trade, she offered sanctuary for wealth to change hands quietly, artfully, without a trace.

when samar’s name fell, a quiet wave of relief swept through her. she turned slightly, catching a flicker of something unfamiliar on lee’s face. tension, perhaps. or a trace of unease buried beneath the calm.

“i’ll come with you,” she said, her voice low, smooth as silk. the night’s business was over, and samar could wait until tomorrow. “but i promise you, coma will not be the end of your night.”

her eyes met his, glinting with a familiar tease, the ghost of earlier words lingering between them

[leemalkovich]

"How's one to say," Lee asks then, "what is right, and what isn't, darling?"

His pay is high, yet not so high that he could buy the entire organization he works for without asking for a loan first. In the Syndicate, Lee is of the rare breed of killer that would perform his duties even if there was no profit; the very opportunity to fuel his madness without the risk of imprisonment is more than enough gain.

The gavel comes down, and suddenly, they all answer to Samar. If Lee could swallow through a dry throat, he would.

"Alright, then." Not the worst fate, yet not a promising one, either. "I'll go drink myself into a bloody coma, now." Somewhere, away from here. "You're welcome to join me, if you'd like."

from the outside, she appeared composed, unaffected by the glances cast their way, most of which, she knew, were more curious about the man beside her than anything else. behind her calm expression, calculations turned quietly in her mind, possibilities playing out like a chessboard she had yet to fully see.

his voice cut through her thoughts, drawing her eyes up to him. her words came low, nearly lost beneath the swell of the crowd.

“this is not good," she murmured, just under her breath, before letting her gaze sweep back over the room.

“i only expect you to do what is right for you,” she said, measured, clear. “as i will do for myself.” a pause. “though… working for you, it wouldn’t be the worst fate.”

[leemalkovich]

"Bloody liar," Lee says. "You wouldn't be willing to do half the things I do, mate." Alas, most humans wouldn't. It's what sets Lee apart from the rest of them — the sort of rot that one must be born with; it could never be learned.

With a glass brought up to his lips, he sips, then scoffs. "Cock and balls, at the very least." It's a joke — maybe. "Then we might just strike ourselves a deal."

As Lee lowers his glass, true contemplation begins. In older times, he'd never gotten the chance to advocate for himself — whether answering to a French, or Armenian leader.

"I'd like free rein, on my branch of the business." His voice is firm, and although this could be interpreted many different ways, what he means is: I'd like to be trusted. An unknown concept, for Lee Malkovich. To be seen as human, not an animal. "And I'd like priority over whatever underboss takes your place." Here, pride admittedly takes over. "And I'd like to never have to hear of Star Wars ever again." Please, and fank you.

A quiet laugh escapes him, short and nearly hollow. Eases the tension, calms the storm in his stomach that's been brewing since he'd arrived. While dinosaurs aren't quite his thing, classics are—familiar, and comforting. And then Lee had to go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like—

If he were being completely honest, he'd confide that he's had time to consider all this. Minutes, hours, days, spent preparing for a change without ever knowing just how brutal the gauntlet would be. "I never ask you to do something I haven't done, or wouldn't be willing to do myself.." Beat. "I don't leave you high and fucking dry, run away to fucking France. I don't sell you. You get invited to every Star Wars event, and definitely still get my nip pics."

[leemalkovich]

If Ava could read his thoughts, she might just be aghast to find that there's relief at the sight of her — at the presence of another whose mind might just understand his own.

He'd always wished for a smoother mask, for the ability to hide in plain sight like so many of their peers do. As Ava, mostly does. Not Lee. He cracks at the first hit, and such is obvious now, as he steps up closer — unable to keep up the act for a minute longer.

"I'd murder half of New York City and perhaps them, also." A shameless, loud claim. Then, what follows is delivered through a whisper: "Sammy's told me he would go for it. He'd said he wants it." Lee's voice is unreadable. He isn't claiming that Sam's hands are the wrong ones to hold such power — but he isn't saying otherwise, either. "What do you think of that, darling?" Honesty, a non-negotiable, here.

Her drink, on the other hand, is perfectly garnished and fresh out of the bottle. Ava, surprisingly, is dressed in all black tonight; for once, she doesn't plan to stand out. She hums into her glass and looks over the painting as if she's interested in this form of art. "Nah, I'd have nowhere to store it," she says, casually, as if she doesn't understand what he's really asking. She isn't interested in that either. "What would you do?" she asks, sipping on her drink and finally looking back up at him. Her expression might be tired but there's fire behind her eyes. Me too, it screams. "If it went into the wrong hands?"

[leemalkovich]

"I'm an artist, darling," Lee says, matter-of-fact. "Not only is it an interest — it's a passion." And he would spend his hard earned money on it too, if it weren't for the knowledge that the author isn't in fact Vermeer — but one of their very own.

"As normal as bloody murder." Last time power shifted, it hadn't been an auction — but the same pattern was more or less replicated. Only heavy pockets, made eligible. An entire organization, blindsided. "Acquisitions are typical of the business world, are they not? You lot should be ecstatic, darling. Or would you rather see a Syndicate led by me?"

At first, Halil had found it funny; one of the largest gangs in New York City up for auction — but REALITY set in quickly. Brief confusion; an overload of concern for the balance; and then empathy. New leadership rocked the boat, changed dynamics, confused rules and blurred lines, experiencing two himself, one that seemed to benefit him more than the first, he somehow, finds himself coming to stand next to Lee, both knowing his place and challenging boundaries at the same time. "No," Halil says, "visual arts have never been an interest of mine. You?"

A long exhale, subtle but audible sounds. "Warn me if you do —" He grins but it falters. "Is it normal for you? Auctions instead of Ascensions?"

[leemalkovich]

"Aye, I was raised on the Sex Pistols, Edgar Allan Poe, and Camden street alleys," he says. "If it's true that opposites attract, then we might just get on better than you thought."

Try and capture me. He appreciates her wording of things — like it's a challenge he might not be successful at. Lee can only grin at that; three decades worth of an artistic edge that he's willing to put to test, tonight.

"If it would put your security clearance's hearts at ease, darling, the photographs haven't got to ever see the light of day." He would develop them in his dark room tomorrow, and that's where they could stay — if she wished it so. "Sometimes, art is even better when it's secret."

Elena lets out a low, surprised laugh — genuine, not curated, the kind that rarely makes it past her public mask. “American Pie,” she repeats, shaking her head as she turns slightly toward him. “Well, that’s one way to win over a woman raised on Aretha and congressional briefings. Tragic, patriotic, a little too long — you’re dangerously close to capturing my entire biography.”

She gestures to his camera with a tilt of her chin. “If you really do have that Leica, I suppose I’d be foolish not to let you try and capture me. Just promise me you’ll go light on the symbolism and heavy on the lighting.” But even as she smiles, some distant part of her mind clicks quietly into gear — the part that’s had to consider the optics of every candid photo, every stray soundbite, every off-the-record moment that didn’t stay off the record. She sips her drink again, slower this time, the humour still present in her voice.

“If you do photograph me,” she says, “I’ll probably have to run it past three legal aides and draft a release agreement that doesn’t make me sound like a war criminal.” A soft, wry smile. “Welcome to life as a woman with a security clearance.” Her smile lingers, brighter now, softened at the edges. “But I’ll give you credit — that’s the most charming apology I’ve heard in weeks.” Then, with a wink: “Dramatics, I can handle. It’s sentimentality I’m allergic to.”

[leemalkovich]

RAHI | HANS | JULIAN | LEE | ANAÏS | TRISTAN

✧ — ⋆    𝐒𝐎𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐀 & 𝐓𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 .

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[leemalkovich]

It's a pity, that Sam doesn't know what crucial impact such simple words would have on him. Perhaps cattle had been the wrong word choice, anyway. Within the Syndicate, Lee's treatment had always closely resembled that of an attack dog — a wild card weapon, a fun circus trick for the sick of mind.

And one thing about an attack dog —bound not to falseties, but nature— is it can't act the way the most respected members of its same society can. Even if he wishes to lie to Sam now, he can't. Not to Sam, and not to anyone.

"Aye, you could 'do it', mate." Lee sighs, setting his empty glass down. "Though, you're so preoccupied with whether or not you could do it — that perhaps you should stop to think if you should." A reference, made on purpose. Breaking the ice, before the same frost glazes over them again.

Then— "...What's of me, if you manage it?"

There's a million things he could say, assurances to be made. You will never be cattle, chief among them. They'd fall short though, wouldn't they? It'd be empty words for Lee, and Sam would still lose someone close to him. Years, years, of the tallest, down the drain.

Sam swallows, studying Lee's face for a moment before nodding his understanding. He'd come up on his own, but it was Lee who championed him, and Sam had done his best to never make him look like a fool for it.

"Lee," it's a rare thing, first names. He wants to tell him that he can't stand the thought of another P name, or that he's scared that someone dangerous might ruin them all. "Do you think I could do it?" Handle it, manage it, own it - or would it swallow him whole?