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tmwwriting · 10 months ago

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Title: Guinevere Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI) Chapter: 4/X Word Count: 12.9K Tags/Warnings: Lucas Grey x female reader. Eugene Cobb x female reader. No use of Y/N. Explicit sexual content (18+, MDNI). Smut. Romance. Angst. Infidelity. Jealousy. Pining. No happy ending. Age Difference (ages never stated but reader is implied to be younger than both Cobb and Grey, who are in their mid/late 50s). Spoiler Title. Slow Burn (Grey/Reader). Minor Original Characters. Canon Hitman characters will have cameos in this. A/N: Slow burn plot-heavy fics...save me, slow burn plot-heavy fics.

AO3: (X)

"Guinevere grew grey in the grey shadow All things losing who at all things grasped." - J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fall of Arthur

You can thank a mini quiche for your current predicament. Taking refuge between the tables of aperitifs and appetizers places you smack in the crossfire of two Milton-Fitzpatrick employees who have decided that now—in a luncheon, in the midst of chamber music and polite tinkling of silverware—is the optimal time to work through some personal issues.

"—you said you would tell her—"

"For God's sake, can you try to think beyond—"

“It’s been long enough, you’ve been promising—”

You cough politely. For your trouble you receive a pair of scathing looks, and it's a bit like being flipped off by a driver utterly in the wrong. They've gone back to their argument before your flared indignation can come up with anything to say. Befuddled, with a handful of quiche and Eugene nowhere to be found, it's his secretary who takes pity on you, who takes your arm and walks you both a safe distance away.

Out of the blast radius, the red of her lip stain disappears behind her champagne glass, liquid draining from it like a shot. When she lowers it a moment later, there’s a bemused, crooked smile; she clicks her tongue, low and disapproving.

"Netflix should send some producers our way, huh? Love in a time of recession." She snorts. "More like Fatal Attraction 2.0."

"Eugene was telling me this might be kind of boring," you admit. You don't tell her that you brought up the definition of cruel and unusual punishment, or that Eugene laughed and promised the two of you could leave early.

"Ever the optimist."

Margaret—Maggie—has worked for Eugene for years, she tells you over coffee and scones the next morning, the two of you illuminated by the sun beating down through the cafe window. Eugene is a good boss, as far as bosses go; though, she adds with a fond little smile, often hard to buy a Secret Santa gift for.

"At least I've never gotten Savalas."

You get the details about her, too.

"Ignore her. She thinks if you didn't step off the assembly line at Le Rosey, you're lucky to be in her presence." Maggie's voice drops. "She's never been able to sink her hooks into Cobb, though, so don't worry there."

A weight comes off your chest, a corset of doubt loosening so much you almost choke on your sip of overpriced latte. Suddenly you'd pay for the thing a hundred times over. You're not sure when this little corner of New York got to be so beautiful—or the sun so bright, or the conversation so pleasant. It puts you in a good enough mood to mention, offhandedly and with a little eye roll, about looking for a job.

"Oh, lord, everyone in this town's hiring. Even if they don't post on Indeed about it." Maggie rummages through her purse. She takes out a pen and small card, and scribbles on it before sliding it across the table to you. "There ya go.”

The card is luxurious only in the threading and embossing. Otherwise, the slip of rectangle lacks all aesthetic: brutalism taken and printed on card stock.

"Morgan, Yates & Kohn," the two of you read in-sync, Maggie loudly as she rips open another sugar packet and you almost mouthing silently.

And underneath that, in pretty, loopy handwriting, is a number and the name Deborah.

Maggie continues alone. "Debbie is Cohn's secretary. Been there as long as he has. They've been looking for someone to replace another girl—ran off to Monaco with some racecar driver. Or maybe it was the team owner. I forget now."

She quirks an eyebrow and says something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like “Europeans”. You might be imagining the dry heave. She chatters on between sips of coffee, scarlet nails clinking against the side of the porcelain.

"Anyway, they’ll be more than willing to sponsor a visa if you need one—just don’t ask too many questions, ok? Nod, and take the job. They're very picky. Only ever take referrals, even for the staff. And the lawyers—well, you won't have to worry about that. She was the secretary for some new up-and-comer—you might get him; you might get some random junior partner. Depends."

"You didn't think of applying?" You hope your suspicion is sufficiently masked by the coffee cup.

"Oh, no—Mr. Cobb poached me from them a while back. Yates was quite put out about it, but they go back a long way. Still sends me a Christmas card every year. Let me know if Morgan still brings his dog to the office, will you? Cutest little thing—the dog, not Morgan—"

And now, here you are, a week out from an interview. The clock ticks down—day by day, faster than should be possible—and there’s never quite the right time to bring it up, to shove it into Eugene’s path as one more thing he needs to consider.

More and more chances slip you by until you’re blinking, hard, at the near-silent ceiling fan above you, like insomnia can be forced out from under your eyelids and the nerves can be quashed by the heavy comforter. The gentle hum of electricity at the edge of your perception makes the darkness comforting, enveloping rather than consuming. The muffled rush of water from beyond the door helps you self-soothe under the guise of sleeplessness, but the thoughts refuse to settle, churning until you’re seasick with it. A quaking little thought is unearthed, and cowers at the back of your mind.

That maybe—perhaps—you’re a coward. And maybe—perhaps—not in the tidy dictionary definition way, no portrait of you in Merriam-Webster under that word, but the repeat patterns of tucking tail have to mean something. Avoidance: a tell-tale symptom, and diagnosing yourself never goes well.

But It’s a little late for full blown philosophizing, and you’re tired, sore—exhausted down to your marrow, which seems to curdle at the very thought of broaching important subjects under the bright microscope of sunlight and decency.

And still, sleep won't come. You turn, this way and that, settling again on your back.

Butterflies flutter from your stomach up your esophagus—and no one ever tells you that the butterflies burn, their wings beating into ash inside your throat. The "friends" lie has finally been tossed out the window now, little more than roadkill in the rear view mirror. Trampled, squashed, laid to rest by Eugene's rather sweetly blunt admission over Kobe beef that he's no good at any of this, forgive him, too old to use the words "girlfriend" or "boyfriend" with any amount of seriousness, but there’s no one else. He committed without getting anything back from you in a way that can only horrify any proper businessman.

That would have been a convenient time to deliver your news, too. But the restaurant was too well lit, his face too expectant, the waitress was returning and you needed to ask her for a refill. (Cobb ordered the paccheri again, but this waitress got barely more than a glance, though she batted her eyelashes so fiercely you feared they'd fall into the minestrone.) You meted out understanding in a pretty little smile, and the immediate ease of the worry in Eugene's brow had effectively ended the serious portion of the evening; he relaxed, in his impeccably fitted suit and tie, and the flambé hadn't been the only thing set alight.

The two of you barely made it back to his bedroom without breaking any public decency laws, and there was no way to bring it up then, either, not with your thoughts and legs turning to quivery mush.

And now—now he’s not even in the room, anymore, but the clock is running down. If you don’t do it now, you won’t do it.

“I have an interview on Wednesday,” you announce once the shower stops and all that’s left is the sound of the swirling drain. That and the gentle hum from the fan is the only reply you get in the moment it takes Eugene to open the door.

“An interview?” He pokes his head into the bedroom, the light cascading and splintering out from behind him.

“A job.” You smile, and smooth the thick covers over yourself in a little cocoon of contentment. “You didn’t expect me to leech off you forever, did you?”

Eugene's laugh echoes off the tile as he retreats back inside the bathroom; the warmth in it makes you curl your toes under the blankets.

“I wouldn’t call it leeching, dear.” But he looks concerned, creases around his brow despite the smile, in the split second you can see his face before he flicks the bathroom lights off. “But this is what you want? You don’t have to. You know that, right?”

“I know. But the IRS will appreciate it, I'm sure.” You press a chaste kiss to Eugene's lips as he slips into bed beside you, the mattress dipping under the weight. The scent of his aftershave tingles as he pulls away. There's not a delicate way to enlighten him to the fact that the longer you stay—whether that's New York, his penthouse, or his bed—the more you feel like a freeloading tick.

(Symbiosis. Noun. A tad more flattering than parasitism, but there's not much you can offer to a man who already has everything.)

“Hmm. I’m not going to start charging you rent, if that’s your concern.”

It’s too dark to be certain he’s still smiling, but his voice is dappled with amusement. Probably at the idea of paying taxes. Or maybe at your own silly little scruples—he's a smart man, can likely sniff out the insecurities that are driving you to start a rainy-day fund. A just in case that someone more his equal wouldn't have bothered with.

Although now there’s a deeply unpleasant thought about Milton-Fitzpatrick as your landlord: not even a face to blame for overpriced leases and faulty plumbing and rat infestations. They do have a real estate division. (Everything you know about that place has been learned somewhat against your will; you don't ask Eugene much more than how his days go, and ever since the interrupted evening in his office, he tends to avoid the topic, too. During dinner he'd ignored a phone call from Savalas, and it'd either been triumph or heartburn swelling in your chest.)

You hum, fidget under the covers until you're nestled close to Eugene in a warm, tangled nest of limbs. His bed is far too big; it swallows you whole, the expensive mattress feeling five feet thick sometimes.

He breathes quietly for a few moments, before: "Where at, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Law firm. Narrows it down, huh?"

"Keeping secrets, are we?"

"Bad luck to talk about it now. Though thankfully, there seems to be a city-wide shortage of secretaries."

Eugene huffs, a little puff of amusement hitting your forehead before his lips follow again, warm on your temple. "We're hiring, too, you know."

"Banking seems so..." Both of you laugh when no words come. "Anyway, about tomorrow and that ferry tour—I asked like you wanted me to, and Mr. Grey said he'd go with me."

There's the faintest tinge of pettiness: "I still don't think it's necessary" hangs in the air, unspoken, as you look at where Eugene’s face should be, where you can just make out the outline of his nose, your hand splayed out over his chest like you're trying to burrow inside. It'd be touching that he cares so much for your safety, if it didn't come with an implicit denial of fact: that you're no one nearly important enough to warrant it. There's a gentle accusation there also, a knife cloaked in velvet: you could’ve come with me, too.

Eugene sighs, tickling your ear with his exasperation. He's already apologized for being so absent, in that quiet, unsure way of his—the same way his "please"s are polite little afterthoughts.

"I think it's his day off tomorrow, dear."

And with that, the conversation is over.

It picks up promptly at 6:30 AM with a surprisingly curt discussion over the bagels and scrambled eggs and slightly overcooked little sausages—you do not need Eugene to charter a private boat, flinching both at the cost and the utter spectacle it would make for a single passenger to have the boat to themselves—and you win that argument with an odd taste in your mouth. Not sour, or bitter, just—odd. You'd used the word normal like a shield, a defense, and Eugene had looked a bit lost, coffee cup half way between the table and his mouth, like it had never occurred to him that all of this is still unsettling to you. The little clink of the china setting back down had been a little angrier than you thought possible for a delicate piece of cutlery.

Grey doesn't care either way when Eugene calls him in to tell him about the change in plans (it's still much earlier than the 9 AM you and Grey had agreed on, and you blink a little to find that he's here already, suddenly very interested in pushing your food around your plate). You finally glance up to gauge any reaction, but Eugene could have told him to ship you via FedEx to Madagascar and he'd probably have done it without question. The two get along well, you’ve noticed—a perfect mesh of practicality and efficiency though in different areas of expertise—a little envious of the surefootedness Eugene has with him that you desperately try to emulate as you follow Grey to the car. You’ve done this so many times now but the slight awkwardness never seems to leave you entirely, like it's dug in and leaches uncertainty into your bloodstream. You are learning though—you no longer reach to open your own door, can read Grey well enough to know where to maneuver, know when he wants you behind him or off to the side, or when you can wander a little ahead. You’ve become one of those remoras slinking under the shark for guidance and protection—more symbiosis, you suppose, again unsure of your contribution, the scale slipping towards parasitism with him, too.

This morning there’s a crisp chill in the air that bites at your nose and cheeks, making you a smoker every time you exhale, little puffs dissipating out and up into the cold—but you’d brought your jacket this time, and mittens that match your shoes, and you smile at Grey as if to say, see? His nod as he opens the car door for you seems a tad less curt, though no matter how you grease the skids for him, you doubt he'd ever acknowledge it.

The traffic is incessant despite the early hour as you and Mr. Grey make the cross-town trek out and up the western side of the island, the pedestrians and cyclists more annoying than usual as your fingers tap cadences into your thighs, thrumming easily into the rhythm of the crowds and car horns. When that doesn't work off enough steam, you hum along to the song that comes over the radio—some top 40 hit that's been practically ubiquitous the past couple months. So much for making life easier for Grey; you like to think you're used to him now, at least well enough to not be cowed by the way he looks at you in the reflection of the rear-view mirror, and it's a minor victory when he glances back out to the road with you still humming. He's not even white-knuckling the steering wheel the way he did before.

"It's catchy," you pronounce, fiddling with the hem of your jacket.

Grey makes no audible judgements of your taste in music, and you tack up your victories to two.

When, finally, the view of the pier fills the front windshield, and since there is no spare driver (no spare anybody, from the glimpses you've seen of the trip preparations), Grey has to pull into the parking structure. It's uncrowded—no one else showing up a good hour and a half early—and empty spaces dot the walls. But Grey must not like having to leave the car: he drives past all the spots near the entrance, further in and around the bend (and away from the convenient walkway to the ticket office).

Hiking is healthy, you suppose, grumbling to yourself as the car keeps going in an inverse gumball machine; up another level, and then off to the side lane, and finally to a stop. Not into park, though, engine idling as Grey sees something—

"One moment."

Your hand freezes at your seat-belt buckle. Grey sends the car into reverse as he stares through the line of vehicles in front of him, something wrong hidden between the dominoes of rental cars and grimy windshields; you don't care about the cars in front, almost cranking your neck trying to make sure he doesn't collide with anyone unfortunate enough to be behind you. There isn't anyone, so he doesn't, only sends the wheel back the other way, down this lane and up another, up to the roof before finally pulling in to a spot.

There’s no one else up here—there’s nothing but an abandoned soda cup, forlorn and abandoned between parking spaces, and a flock of pigeons standing guard on the railing that take flight as the doors slam and you get out—but Grey takes one final look back, like something might have appeared in the twenty seconds it’s taken for you two to cross the length of the rooftop. You glance back, too, but see only the ramp disappearing into the lower levels, ears barely catching the faint hum of engines from the busier floors. A car horn goes off from the street. An indignant little beep makes a reply, and tires squeal.

Eyes forward again, you mourn the closer parking spots on the levels below as the "Elevator Out of Service" sign becomes legible, plastered onto fading paint with thick duct tape.

It's not a far walk after the trek down. (You’re in front of Grey, and unable to glare daggers at the back of his head.) Boats rest right alongside the walkway, their slight swaying looking like breathing in a deep slumber. The morning fog has already started to dissipate, flung out from the docks to hover over deeper sections of water. The Atlantic still rests far beyond your field of view, the Hudson cutting like a wide swath of highway for ships and trawlers, little speedboats and tugs. A massive tower—some American warship a few piers over, enjoying retirement as a museum—looms in your sightline. The smell, of fuel and sea and damp, envelops everything, settles deep in your lungs before five minutes have passed.

Even on the gangplank, Grey keeps watch over the car, like whatever he didn’t like about the parking garage might be following you in. You wouldn't have noticed, if it weren't for the deliberate angles he keeps you at in the line, and then on the ferry itself. There's a bar—reconvened for a breakfast, you hope, until you see the sign for bottomless mimosas—and buffet on the lower level. The deck above has tables sprawled along its length, and a forlorn, empty dance floor (more suited for the nighttime booze cruises), and the main deck glints fiercely under the sun, the flags on the masts tossing in the winds.

"Was it really your day off today?" You blurt out as soon as the two of you are on that upper deck away from the others, kept company only by the breeze and occasional cloud passing by far in the distance.

He waits so long you almost think he's not going to answer. Then, "Additional personnel requests take priority."

It doesn't make you feel better, even though he doesn't sound particularly inconvenienced. He doesn't sound particularly anything; with someone else you could've teased or laughed or commiserated. You realize, then, how far you have to go, because instead of telling him Could've told me it was your day off or, Hope you're hourly, you only wonder to yourself if he had plans. That spirals into wondering what he likes, if he's heard of things called hobbies, or fun; if he goes to the movies or concerts or lounges around his home in a t-shirt and sweats. Even he has to relax, though you doubt it the moment the thought forms. It's like trying to imagine a magenta sky or empty Manhattan: wrong, factually incorrect, something to wave off or flinch away from.

You hum some vague assent and worry your bottom lip.

The ferry finally begins to move, kicking up churn on the smooth waters, the low drone slotting nicely into the soundtrack of the morning. Grey remains an enigma, though one who doesn’t stand out nearly as much as you thought he would in the bright sunlight, with no crowds to blend into or disappear among. It'd been one thing traipsing through the tsunami of people on the streets with him; now the two of you are stuck, little figureheads at the railing of the ship. There’re mostly families on here with you, accents from all over filling the air, but also a large summer school group that thankfully is kept sequestered on the covered deck below, and more than a few couples, most of them wandering around hand-in-hand, sparing the two of you only passing glances. A flush heats your cheeks as you wonder what this looks like. Grey doesn’t touch you, at a respectful distance always, but even you can see the staunch protectiveness in the way he stands, the rapt attention that makes you uneasy under the invisible spotlight.

You throw your own attention out into the waters like a line, but reel in nothing. The wonders of the Hoboken dockyards do little to keep you occupied, their dull fingers stretching long and low towards the ship, out into the blue vastness. But even the skyscrapers on the other side, dazzling in the sun, only hurt your eyes.

Mr. Grey doesn't seem to mind the glare bouncing off the entire island of Manhattan (and of course he's impervious, unbothered, no sunglasses when everyone else without them is squinting or shading their faces with their hands); he's looking out at the distance, concentration not needed closer, the passengers uninteresting and nonthreatening in equal measure. Whatever he saw in the parking lot didn’t follow you in. You try and drag him into conversation, and very little works (the weather and what he thinks of a brightly colored party boat are not winning topics) until you mention the interview you have in a few days. You pluck nervously at the railing as you tell him, and he watches for a moment before asking:

"You don’t think you’ll do well?”

You blink. "I don’t know. Maybe. It’s been a while since I've interviewed for a job. I’m not —" There’s a lot of words you could use to try and explain, but none quite fit (and the ones that do you'll never admit to), and so you continue with an inadequate phrase that feels wrong even as it forms: “I’m not big on change.”

There's the slightest lift of an eyebrow, doubt creasing into frown lines. “Following Mr. Cobb not a big change?”

Nerves force a weak little scoff out of your lungs. You'd been trying to laugh and tripped over it. “I don’t know. I guess. Maybe. Probably a big enough leap of faith for one lifetime—"

Grey turns his head when you don't finish that thought, looks at you like he'll find the rest of it somewhere in the tensing of your jaw, or the steadfast way you refuse to look back at him. Scorching your retinas on the curve of the Goldman Sachs building seems preferable to having Grey root around and pick you apart. Even from your peripherals you can tell he doesn’t understand, though. He inspects you like a vaguely interesting exhibit at a museum he didn't particularly want to go to. When it's safe and he lets the matter drop, attention caught by some boisterous jet skiers, you chance a glance at him. He can pack up and be halfway around the world without so much as a “nice knowing you”. Forwarding addresses aren't a thing to him: a transient, in the purest sense of the word.

“Well, look, you follow him too." You give him a verbal poke and yank your metaphorical hand back quick. Does it bother you? is what you want to ask. Is it worth it, to be at the whims of an employer? But truth, as always, is too much, and you leave the little offering at his feet as is.

Grey only nods. “That’s the job.”

The déjà vu rolls you back on your heels, makes you grip the handrail again even though the water's smooth in its gentle rocking. You can taste the brine of it, the sour stench of a cold, disinterested voice: Whatever the job was.

You're here because you want to be, because Yelp and a few travel bloggers suggested a boat tour as the second-best thing to do in Manhattan and you've been through everything else on that list, but he—he's here because he has to be. Because he’s paid to be. Because his boss told him to.

Transient. Skin deep. All of this just another job, one he might talk about in a few years' time to the next poor soul who tries to get to know him.

And maybe you’re not such a coward, because you press a little on the bruise, grit your teeth and keep the conversation going. There’s a definition of insanity you should heed, but don’t, though the echoes of warning sirens beat faintly against your skull—

“Right. Getting my own, now, too. Can't wander around forever, sight-seeing and waiting for Eugene to come home. There’s only so many overpriced trinkets a woman can look at through the windows."

It’s lighthearted. Nonchalant. Like getting a job is just the whimsy of a bored girlfriend, belying the unsettling reality that you're completely reliant on Eugene, and despite how well whatever-this-is seems to be going. . .that little throwaway line from last night about charging you rent has stuck in your teeth, your mind grazing over it the way your tongue would. It hasn't come free, just notches deeper until it's all you can think of. People don't charge their pets rent, either.

"You don't want to work for Milton-Fitzpatrick, I take it."

He knows. It’s laced into every word, tilting on the edge of sarcasm. He knows why you want a job, and why it can’t be for his boss.

You have to force out another little laugh. "You sound like Eugene. No, I think it's better if I – if I don't."

Grey doesn't react to that.

"Any tips, though?" You ask, half-jokingly, wondering if he'll tell you about how exactly he ended up here; how he came to decide on this as his next rest stop; how long he’ll decide to stay before picking up and moving on.

"What worked for me won't work for you," he says, more honestly than you were expecting. He seems to remember that night, too, looking beyond the horizon to the memories of the bitter disappointment pooling in your eyes as he took you home. You wonder if he ever told Eugene.

Grey clears his throat and continues. "Didn't email a CV."

His honesty is more ominous than the obfuscating, terse responses from before. What did you do? seems like the logical follow-up, but you no longer want to know.

So instead, you shift the topic back towards the safe, boring realm of people-watching, making slight comments he answers with noncommittal grunts or hums. He didn't mean to be so open, either, you realize.

Only once, when you remark on a picturesque, happy little family passing by to look out over the helm, does he look over for a few moments, then back to you.

"The wife's having an affair.”

Your jaw opens then clacks shut at his casual verdict, lips pursing like he's shoved a lime into your mouth. You believe him, though, and keep your comments on the other passengers to a minimum after that.

At the southern tip of Manhattan, the chill finally starts to lift, sun beating down in full force. The water shimmers under the magnifying glass and lens flares spark off the sides of buildings. You take off your mittens and stuff them in your pocket, only for one to fall to the ground when it catches on your sleeve. It lands with a soft plop, the little ball you’d wadded it into starting to roll along the deck.

Grey gets to it before you do, and the two of you straighten at the same time, your hands empty, fingers splaying at your thigh. The mitten comes undone in his hands, falls out of its shape as he straightens out the fingers. He’s oddly gentle with the soft fleece. Almost wary, like it’s a grenade you’ve chucked at him to liven up the morning. You have to grin at that.

“Practical,” he says, like a toast.

“I am trying. Just — varying levels of success.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Grey's frown lines soften. He seems to realize he’s been holding your mitten for entirely too long, and hands it back to you—if only by accident, your hands could’ve touched, gently rocked together by the swell, as casual as brushing shoulders in a crowd. But they don’t, and that isn’t an accident, either.

The two of you are closer at the railing than before; you could elbow him if you want, pretend it’s to point out something in the water, or the Statue of Liberty off in the distance coming around the bend, or how the children are making their way out on the deck below, shrieks and giggles carrying up in a symphony of overexcited silliness.

But a blaring foghorn of a nearby departing ship makes you jerk away, hard. No playing it off when Grey glances over, either. After judging you to not be in imminent danger of either falling overboard or rolling down the stairs, he looks away again.

Heat blooms on your cheeks, a nice counterweight to the salty breeze licking at your face as the Hudson begins to lose the fight to the totality of the Atlantic, the beginning of the bay opening wide even though the true expanse of the ocean is still beyond your sight. The ferry slows and turns in towards a nearby island, hovers on the periphery of the crowds out here on the water—more tourists, you’re assuming, until you realize some of the ferries are taking commuters, huffing along busily, cutting through to the other side.

In the middle of this whirlpool of activity, settled grandly at center stage, is the Statue of Liberty in its buffeted green: taller than she looks in photos and postcards, the people crowded at her base looking like little more than ants against her sheer scale. There’s a thrum of activity on the boat as everyone crowds to get the best shots. She is lovely, the iconic silhouette proud against the blue backdrop of a gorgeous morning canvas.

Give me your tired, your poor—but you forget the rest, the pretty little poem fading to black in your memory.

Poetry and cloying sentiments…you shake your head, only slightly, until it all settles back at the bottom of the ocean floor.

Enough time passes for even the most fervent photographer to have their fill of the view. The ship rocks slowly as it begins its wide circle, points north, and heads up and around the opposite side of the island.

You have time to curate your own little photo album before the next stop, thumb swiping, both approving and disapproving in turn. You should have taken a photography composition class during your free time. By the time you've sorted everything out, a rather famous bridge is beginning to take shape in the distance, stretched like taffy over the dark blue, hammered down at each end; you snap a panorama of it, too, more pleased with yourself than you should be when you get it on the first try.

Grey hasn’t moved from where you left him, though you’ve done little two steps up and down the railing to get better angles—you turn to head back to him, and stop in your tracks.

He still cuts a severe figure, even more so in profile, but there’s an uncharacteristic slack to him now; he leans against the railing, weight on his elbows, eyes taking in everything. Not the view—a bridge to him is nothing more than a thoroughfare. Something beyond that, off towards the hazy line of the end of the world, and you stare until it feels like intruding on a deeply private moment. He’s almost happy, or maybe just at rest. You've never seen it before—anything other than the ramrod posture and cold, irritated glint. It's a mural of the man, more half-shadowed, splintered images you grope at, before the light's angle shifts and hides them again: he can feel you staring, turns his head so you know, and stares right back.

You pad over to him, phone held snug in your palm, slight smile as an apology.

"Sorry about your day off,” is the only thing you can think of to say.

"There are worse ways to spend a morning."

"Great, thanks." But you laugh, so light that it catches on the breeze. "Still, I – I wouldn't have asked. It's just that Eugene worries, and –"

"He's right to. Things can always go awry."

"On a boat tour?" Your nose wrinkles.

"Sure. Even if you manage to not fall overboard—"

Your cheeks get hot again.

“—ill-intentioned ship boardings aren't difficult. You could probably do it."

He glances at you, a barely perceptible ghost of a smirk upturning the corner of his mouth, the signature hard glint of his eyes softening just enough to tell you he’s not being cruel, even though his tone scrapes roughly over your senses. You scoff and roll your eyes with a smile—not insolence, but nerves. Your fingers tighten so hard it’s a wonder the phone doesn’t snap in two.

Friendliness is certainly new. From him it doesn't even feel friendly. It feels like braving a tight rope, too far above the ground to even see if there’s a net. You can’t climb back down the ladder now, not with your curiosity bubbling, spitting up questions—what is he like? How would he talk about something other than work?

Maybe it’s because it’s you: not his boss; not a coworker or subordinate. Just a guest scribbled in the margins of his life, familiar now as a dogeared page.

You can’t let the chance go, not when it’s perched so tantalizingly close. So, you mirror him, propping your elbows on the salt-flecked metal of the deck railing, and take a leap of faith forward on that clothesline stretched tight—

“That so, huh?”

It slips easily into a back-and-forth that lasts all the way up and around the island—and there may or may not be a net beneath you, but it doesn’t matter when you find yourself surprisingly steady. He's not as tentative, used to planting his feet with his decisions.

Your exclamation of "You have not met real pirates –" is met with only a tight little smile; when he asks how much Dramamine you took to make it out even this far, you huffily plead the fifth; and when you laugh at his tales of bone-crushing fast-rope landings, he splits into the first real grin you've ever seen: "I'm glad my pain amuses you."

You apologize through a fit of giggles; he pauses, then tells you more stories that have you laughing from behind your hands and fearing for the competence of several countries' armed forces. There are things you would rather not know, and kids in their barely-20s with automatic weapons are the stuff of nightmares.

The next hour passes quickly—the two of you move to the deck seating when Grey notices you shifting back and forth on aching soles, and then inside when the wind picks back up and stings your eyes until they brim with tears. The table inside is below an air vent, and below the table your fingers curl around a bottle of water, picking at the label as silence eventually falls. Grey looks like an actual companion this time. (You had almost expected him to sit at a different table.) He reaches to fix the center piece of the dining arrangement, and then clasps his hands over his lap as he joins you in looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows. The quiet is warm, comfortable, broken only by the overexcited munchkins swarming outside, thin glass not doing much for the noise. You and Grey share an amused glance, and the label falls to shreds in your fingers.

It's not long before everyone is deposited neatly back on shore. You eye the woman from earlier, arm in arm with her husband, two little kids trotting ahead, and try for a split second to see what Grey had seen. The wind tosses her hair up in golden streams, her smile a bright coral pink as she leans in to kiss her husband on the cheek. And then she’s gone, and the idyllic little scene is over. Your fingers clench hard around the fleece in your pocket.

“A walk?” You turn to ask Grey, whose presence presses in at your back. Anything to delay being packed into the car.

You expect a bit more of a fuss: a “We should be getting back”, said in his usual terseness when you make life more difficult for him, but it doesn’t come. He only falls into lockstep beside you. He lets you lead, even, since it’s still exploring to you; Grey seems to know these streets, still navigating around your clumsiness as subtly as he can while also shooting down all your ideas for the next time he finds himself in the middle of a ship boarding.

You're making an impassioned defense of your tactics when he glances over his shoulder, catching it like a scent on the wind: something more than the tar wafting out of a construction site down the street, and deeper even than the smell of docks, of fish and barnacles plastered on the seawall holding you up. The peace wipes off him, slipping back under the mask of ice. Whatever he was going to tell you about—probably to refute your fishing with dynamite ideas—dies on his lips.

But the crowd is innocuous when you turn to look. There’re parents herding little packs of overexcited children; business suits walking in crisp, ironed lines on the way to another six hours of furious typing at a desk; gaggles of tourists earning ire by coming to abrupt stops in the middle of pathways. You don't have Grey's eyes: target-seeking, discerning. It's not a gift most people want. So, whatever makes him tense, has you two heading back to the car with strides a little too quick, too purposeful to be relaxing, is beyond your notice. He angles between you and the outside world until the car door is shut and you're safely ensconced in the SUV you've come to think of as The Tank.

The air crackles with discomfort when he gets in. The radio has the speakers thrumming, still on those silly songs from the morning, but all the air is getting sucked out of the cabin and you don't dare try to say anything as the AC becomes unbearably chilly. You half-expect frost to spread over the windshield. Grey's skin pulls tight around his knuckles as the piers disappear behind you; if he ever releases the steering wheel again, the imprints of his hands might be permanently engraved.

You shudder, and put your mittens back on.

It shouldn't take that long to reach the penthouse, far enough into the day to avoid the normal commuters—but instead of taking an efficient route back, Grey seems to be trying to take every single street possible, drawing a pattern of miniature boxes as nearly each block is carefully circled.

You almost ask why. When you turn your head forward from the view of the street (the same view of the same street, when it’s been half an hour), you see his eyes in the rear-view mirror, eerie in their coldness, like the chill has reached in him and glazed them over. All of the friendliness is gone, a pit in your stomach left in its place. A muscle twinges in his jaw. You stop looking, if only because it won’t change anything.

It's going to have to be you, you realize. But the tightrope from earlier has snapped, and there’s no net anymore, and questioning this man never ends well. Common sense and curiosity have always been long foes. Somewhere between twirling through the city blocks and finally—finally—making it back to the familiar Gilded Age building, you pluck up the courage to pivot, face him head on when he's trapped with you in the elevator.

"What is it, what happened?"

"Standard precaution." Grey's not facing you, but like he knows you're pursing your lips to argue, he adds: "That's all."

He doesn't even bother looking over: more swatting at flies. The pain in your stomach spikes, hard; your next inhale is audible. He's lying, you're sure of it. You couldn't point to exhibit A or B as to how you know, would probably stutter out something about intuition if it was asked of you, and he knows that too—knows you can't accuse him, and offers only a quick "Have a good rest of the day" before stepping out as soon as the doors glide open.

He disappears down the hall and around the corner, and you're left to fend for yourself amidst the chaos, even more off kilter, as your hands knead at the fabric of your top. The penthouse has the same ambience of an airport departure terminal; you’re here, bereft of suitcase, of a ride home, of anything, while everyone else strides with hurried purpose.

It's not fair, really, Cobb's trip disrupting everything—just as you were starting to slot rather nicely into the routine of everyone around you, finally make yourself as little of a problem as possible. Simple things that were easy to catch once you started paying attention: the optimal time for breakfast is early enough to avoid the traffic of the morning shift arrival, but late enough to where the cook isn't frantically trying to prepare you something with her purse still around her shoulders. The housekeepers have a different pattern depending on the day and what it's been set aside for, but in general seem to move counter-clockwise through the penthouse, teams moving from the top and bottom floors to meet in the middle. Easy enough to get out of their way once you'd figured that out.

But, of course, everything changes with the frantic preparations to kick off the traveling circus of the Milton-Fitzpatrick c-suite. Like a pop star on a world tour, you mention to Eugene in bed once. He laughs, but even that sounds strained and tired, like he's wringing out what he can for you.

You can't bother him now with something that sounds as silly as "I think Mr. Grey lied to me", or with problems as trite as your own job prospects; you can't bother anyone, no one left to talk to who's not running around with larger concerns about the international financial market.

It starts to affect your sleep: nightmares of a faceless, formless something, just out of sight that only Grey can see, and he won't tell you no matter how dream-you pleads with him; you wake in a cold sweat, reaching for Eugene with a hoarse whisper-cry on your lips. Your clammy hands grasp at cold, rumpled sheets—it's the first night with Eugene gone, and you spend the rest of it staring at the ceiling fan. The soft hum roars like a train engine.

You blame the interview, the nerves that have built up behind a callous of years off the job market. Anything to distract from the dark, so similar to the formless monster of your dreams—a shiver ripples across your skin, even under the miles of heavy comforter. You force your thoughts to coalesce around the mundane: basic, job fair stuff for tomorrow. Firm handshake, but not like you’re trying to take off their fingers. Eye contact, but don’t stare. Polite smile, but not mindlessly grinning.

Tell me about a time you failed —

You roll over, and pray for morning.

When it comes, you piece yourself together in front of the mirror and then hasten out the door before second-guessing everything from your kitten heels to the interview time, repeating the mantra of “It’s only a job” as you clutch your bag and wait in a vast lobby that looks like something out of a 90's Wall Street movie. The pinstripe suits are a little on the nose, the pencil skirts even more constricting than the ones at Milton-Fitzpatrick.

It's not nearly as taxing as you're prepared for it be, which is exasperating and relieving in equal measure. A little over an hour and a half later, with a cheery wave, you’re shown back out to the lobby, emerging from a suite of offices clearly designed by glass manufacturers and interior decorators with a penchant for peeping.

You text Maggie on your way out the door, the stink of a garbage truck across the street making you cough: Think it went well!! Either way, thanks for everything.

You get back a heart emoji and a GIF of a cat in sunglasses, followed quickly by another message: Fingers crossed!! The PTO rate over there is amazing—and if you see Pickles, give him a scratch behind the ears for me!"

The waiting game that follows is something you're deeply familiar with. It feeds into your listlessness: there's no shortage of things to do, but the motivation to do them is quickly in short supply. Eugene is gone, and with him the rest of the universe that revolves around him—the ever-present hum of activity around a live wire suddenly silenced, cut off with a snip. Even the household staff are on a reduced schedule.

At least you finish your book, then start another and finish that, too. Your thumb gets a workout on the TV remote, going through the entire catalog of shows and movies, picking your way through until you lose interest or fall asleep.

Eugene calls as often as he can. You can hear TVs in a low drone in the background sometimes, and once even the noises of an office, and a PA announcement about a retirement party in the break-room. Sometimes there's just the quiet hum of a plane's engines and the soft shuffling of papers and files to accompany his voice, lower over the airwaves, enough to have you blushing. Eugene never speaks about work, though, other than to mention it's going well, and that he'd rather be home.

It's not enough, not even close, and you take to sleeping in your bedroom again just to avoid the vast emptiness of his. Breakfast is now in a nook off of the kitchen, the dining room immense and foreboding when it's only you at the table, like the last sentinel at Pompeii.

You miss Grey, too—the other guards aren't assigned to your detail at your own insistence. One of them is even more aloof than Grey, nodding at you curtly when you cross paths in the halls, always looking at you like you've run over his dog or insulted his wife. The other is warmer, more relaxed: he's fairly new, you learn, when you chat with him in the hall. Still bright-eyed and enthusiastic, not put off by either of his taciturn bosses. Nothing but good things to say about Cobb, too.

But there's only so much friendly chitchat that can fill your days. When the Morgan, Yates & Kohn hiring manager calls you, voice as raspy as a fifty-year smoker, you stay on the phone with her long after you get the offer and sort through the details—she finally escapes when someone passing by on her end calls her to lunch. Other than that, most of the time it feels as though you're honoring a vow of silence. There’s no one to talk to about the deep twinge of discomfort at the speed this law firm got everything settled and ready—surely, they’re not that enthusiastic about you, enough to blaze through what you had assumed would be a bureaucratic nightmare.

Don’t ask questions. You can see Maggie now, eyebrows raised over her coffee. Don’t. Ask. Questions. Which brings you back to your vow of silence.

Small wonder, then, that your heart practically leaps in your chest at the harsh buzzing sound your phone makes on the bedside table one afternoon, the words everything you've wanted to see from Eugene:

Headed back to New York for a few days.

But that, too, is for work, a brief stop in this game of leap frog—Miami will be next, and then Sao Paulo. He sounds hopeful that will be the end of it when you call him quickly, his syllables dragging upwards, buoyed by optimism.

It starts well, at least, when they show up half a day early, a sudden commotion sending everyone fluttering about like pigeons when word comes in from the airport. Like any good lost moon, you find your orbit around him as soon as he walks through the door. He wears stress well: high in the shoulders, and low in the grip on his briefcase. His mouth is pressed thin, sealed shut. But he smiles when he sees you, when you wrap your arms around him in a bear hug, both of you slotting together like long lost puzzle pieces. You back away only to not crush his diaphragm.

Just behind him is Grey, who doesn't look at you before moving past with the others. London didn't agree with him. Even in the few seconds you have, you can see the dark circles under his eyes, etched into the skin with a heavy hand, though he refuses to let the tiredness show elsewhere. Ramrod straight, tense, alert. Almost more than usual. When you cross paths later in the afternoon, he doesn't return your smile, tentatively extended to him like an olive branch.

You can't really blame him when you find out the work that's brought them back is a gala, some horrendous circus act that Savalas chairs biennially, and insisted Eugene return for. Even he sounds less than enthused.

"We'll leave as soon as we can," he promises in the back of the car when the night finally arrives, cuff-links glinting in the bright lights zooming by out the window. You're going to hold him to that—you survey the reception stretching out in front of you like a battlefield. Eugene is both cover and spotlight: everyone hones in on the two of you, but engages him first. You’re the very well-dressed afterthought, which frees up your attention from the tenth conversation about the intricacies of some kind of mutual fund—

Do these people do anything but work?

A quick glance to your left and right, hoping that Maggie is around, leaves you disappointed though slightly amused:

For all the polished finery, foppery, and fêting—there's a bird flying overhead, some baffled pigeon doing occasional laps high among the rafters. The poor little thing might be just as confused to be here as you are. Everyone else knows each other, congregates in packs, fills the air with "Oh, there you are", and "It's been so long.” You smile, arm-in-arm with Eugene, and try not to dissociate through a regaling of the worst traffic so-and-so has ever seen getting back into the city from some beach resort.

There is an obscenely large clock staring down at you all, and it must be pure spite that has the hands moving so slowly. Boredom glazes over your eyes, paints your face with a blank look that you have to snap into polite smiles the few times Eugene drags you into the discussion. It all sounds the same, words blurring together, an endless merry-go-round that shaves away at your willingness to be here.

The clock's hands still refuse to move. They must keep half-time here, that must be it. Five minutes, then ten, then twenty. You’d swear it’s been five days.

The entire night becomes nothing but the worst game of Where's Waldo? trying to find someone who didn't go to an Ivy and start out with a small loan of millions of dollars from their parents. There's only so much "Mhm"-ing and polite smiles you can be expected to force to your face as someone bitches at you about how the polo league in the Hamptons is really going downhill. Even the banking conversations are preferable to this.

You excuse yourself from Eugene's side with a faux apologetic smile, desperate for at least one moment where you can drop the act, and find your little haven in one of the bathroom stalls. Even the bathrooms here are embarrassingly grand—you've lived in apartments that weren't as roomy, or as well-ventilated.

You blot your makeup with a square of toilet paper and inhale as slowly as you can. Get it together: It's a party, not a waterboarding. If you can suffer through another half hour, you have pretty good odds of doe-eyeing your way out of here. Half an hour.

You really might have made it, too, if it weren't for the pair of women who come in and stop at the row of mirrors to trade opinions on everything from the venue (grand, but old and terribly out of style), the food (decent, but portions far too small, haven’t they run a reception style dinner before?), and the other invitees (pleasant, except for Savalas, who looks like an overgrown eagle). You can't see them, but your mind pictures them clearly anyway: immaculately polished, put-together little socialites who have nothing better to do than gossip. The topic shifts from Savalas to one of their ex boyfriends, who’s the son of so-and-so, didn't you see him when we came in?—and you almost walk out of the stall when one of the girls interjects.

"And that poor little thing, looks like a fish out of water—"

"Oh, I know, wonder where Cobb found her—"

"He must have paid for that dress she's wearing. No way she could afford that, it was barely shown in Paris last month."

"Bet she earns her keep, though."

Your hand stills at the latch, breath caught hard in your throat until you swallow it down. It doesn’t go on for much longer. They’re more curious than nasty, onlookers rubbernecking an accident in the road. You smooth down the bodice of the dress with shaky fingers (it certainly feels expensive; you hadn’t dared ask the price when Eugene presented you with the garment bag, hoping against hope he had gotten it on clearance). Part of you fantasizes about walking out of the stall, how their faces would look: the stunned, embarrassed little 'o's their mouths would drop into. The next high-pitch giggle bursts like a crackle of static, and follows them out until the door swings shut behind them.

You give it another five minutes.

It’s stupid, and you don’t really care about two strangers with nothing better to do than to catalogue every guest here—but it reminds you of Grey's cold read of the woman on the ferry, and how horrifyingly easy you must be to flip open like a book and scan through. Anger and embarrassment feel so similar, run together like the Hudson and the Atlantic, as tears sting hot and bitter at the corner of your eyes. Your vision blurs as you dodge and weave your way through the throngs of tuxedoed and ballgown-clad assholes.

Air. You need air. You shrug past a waiter with a precarious grip on an hors d'oevres platter, then think better of it and grab a slider before hurrying off. You don't see Eugene anywhere, which is a relief: there's no way to explain to him what just happened without sounding like a middle-schooler running to daddy. The burning in your sinuses swells again as the next section of dam threatens to break. You rub at your nose before remembering the makeup and shoving your hand back down at your side.

There's a conservatory somewhere in this architectural monstrosity—you remember Eugene taking you there once. It was only a little footnote for him, a dismissive wave of the hand, but it was the only place in the building where you didn't feel like an ant under a magnifying glass.

Now if you could only recall where it is...

You head down a hallway, then pause and look for a directory. There isn't one: not a guest area.

Was it even on this side of the building?

Maybe it's down the stairs—you might actually be up a level too high now. There’s a fork in the paths a little farther ahead, so you press onward. You don't think it was in a corner of the building, so you try to level back a bit, but now you're not sure.

And....

You could've sworn there was an elevator down this hallway the last time you were here.

Another turn. Then another.

A frantic look back towards where you think you came from, but even that's hard to tell now. The hallways are identical—gray and gold and ornate columns dotting the paths every so often. Louis XV would be embarrassed at the needless, showy opulence, but bankers are another breed, evidently. You take a few jogging steps, or try to, in these godawful heels. Your feet stutter on the tile. Panic is the only thing down here with you and its breath raises goosebumps across your skin.

Shit.

You come to a halt. Nothing before you looks familiar. Nothing behind you, either.

You don't even know how to get back.

"Looking for something?" A rough British voice echoes through the hall, reverberating off of tile and glass from all sides like the building itself wants to know what you think you're doing. You startle like a deer at a gun shot and turn quickly, hoping to get it over with.

Mr. Grey stands at the top of the closest flight of stairs. Not the person you want to see: suspicion looks good on him, brow deeply furrowed and shoulders set in violent resolve. You'd almost rather keep running headlong down the length of the bank. The man's been an absolute terror since returning from London—at least, that's what you've heard, since he no longer works at the house. Usual rotations, according to Eugene. Without Grey there, the rumor mill has kicked up, and the fact that no one's been able to tell you anything about him makes it so much worse. Ex-mob guy, one of the maids said when you worked up the courage to snoop around. Ex-special forces, according to another. Cartel hitman, a spy gone rogue. You think the other staff just have fun wondering.

Grey's down the steps before you can get an answer out—probably correctly guessing that you're a half-second away from bolting—and you blink. So much for the head start.

"I – I remembered a conservatory from the last time I was here. Just wanted to see it again." Your voice is frail as you fight down a new wave of panic, and apparently thoroughly unconvincing; Grey's eyes narrow and you take an involuntary step back. Fantastic. Now you're going to be murdered deep in the bowels of knockoff Versailles. No one will ever find your body, Grey must know how to dispose of one, and now the last things you’re going to see are fleur-de-lys and the angry set of his jaw--

"The conservatory is in the west annex," he finally says, like he's talking to a five-year-old. He's decided you're not much of a threat. A terribly accurate assessment. Somewhat insulting, too; your chin lifts, just a little.

He comes closer—he doesn't make a sound the entire way, not a footstep, nothing, not even in the acoustic nightmare that the tiled hallway turns into. It's eerie, another thing to add to the growing list of ways he unsettles you. Grey finally stops a few feet away, takes in everything in a long glance: eyes glistening, brimming tears that threaten to scar the heavy makeup on your cheeks; the desperate, white-knuckled grip you have on your handbag; the way your lungs ache to keep your breathing from shaking.

He finds some mercy. Or maybe even he wouldn't enjoy kicking a puppy already dumped on the curb.

"You—follow me." He turns and speaks into his earpiece: "Perez, cover sector nine."

He walks off without checking that you're following. You trail behind and thank your lucky stars that someone found you after all, even if had to be Grey. If he hadn't...With your luck, you'd have died somewhere in the New York sewer system, never to be seen again.

You try and step as gently as you can, quiet your sniffling so it's not so deafeningly loud; Grey is so silent that the only sounds either of you can hear are very clearly coming from you. He walks quickly, no matter how much you lengthen your stride, so you’re always a handful of steps behind him. You give up your goal of discreet silence in favor of simply keeping up with the man.

Grey doesn't lead you back to teller hall—he takes another turn, down a hallway the opposite direction of the one you chose—and in a few minutes has you outside the entryway of a green paradise, gated shut as paradises usually are. Leafy fronds and damp, wet earth are just beyond, and Mr. Grey presses at a keypad and scans a card that has the wrought-iron shuddering open.

"Oh." You take a few hesitant steps in once he nods at you to go ahead. "Thank you!"

You give him a shaky little smile—the only genuine smile you've given anyone tonight, and your face aches like it forgot how. Grey blinks, once. His scowl disappears. Your smile wavers for just a moment, caught in the awkward pause where you wait for him to say something, do something other than look at you like you're the oddest little sideshow he's ever seen. It's not going to happen. Sparing you both, you pivot and head further into the atrium. You expect him to leave you there, go back to whatever important work he was doing before he had to come and track you down to see what idiot set off the alarms in the labyrinth—but when you turn to check, he's standing guard at the entry.

Probably thinks you’re going to run off with some rare hybrid carnations.

You leave him there—the paths spread out before you, dampening your footfalls on their soft mix of gravel and paving stones, and crisscross as much as the tendrils of the vines they’re under. Going down one fork in the path has you looking up at the tallest hibiscus you’ve ever seen, and its neighbors are wonderfully variegated monsteras that loom menacingly into the walkway. You continue down the row in a delighted wonder, your neck craning this way and that to not miss anything. Grey finally follows once you turn down a small dirt path, far behind but not letting you out of his sightline.

It must take you another 30 minutes to work your way back to the original split, and you hurry down the other branch before slowing to a halting walk. No harm in taking your time. You don’t want to leave, in no hurry to return to the eighth circle of hell with its champagne flutes and cocktail napkins.

At the end of this side of the path, you reach the roses in the back, sectioned off by color and height, some gorgeous reds standing off to the left, some gossamer yellows in neat little mounds on the right, and rows and rows of rose bushes in an ornamental hedge maze stretching before you. There must be a hundred varieties. You pick your way through, section by section. A collection of shrubs, shorter than some of the others, lie like scattered gumdrops. Their blossoms are a scarlet and white meld of color in a single petal, velvet to the touch: Osiria roses.

"They're gorgeous, aren’t they?" You turn back to Mr. Grey, who has been forced by the layout of the roses to keep closer than before. He hears you—has to, with nothing here other than the softly muted hum of air conditioning being piped through the ancient building—and gives only the slightest tilt of his head. He's heard you, and doesn't agree. You almost laugh at that.

You continue on your own, letting the petals go: "Eye of the beholder, I guess." Small wonder neither of you can see what the other does.

The rose garden never seems to end, but you have no motivation to leave this little place even when it does and you hit the concrete wall on the other side; neither does Grey, looming just on the edge of your vision, and so the evening passes in the shade of a few late-blooming magnolia trees, as you plop down on a section of manicured lawn, though a bench lies just across the path.

Lost in the pleasant fog of quiet, you almost miss Grey moving a hand up to his earpiece. He glances at you before coming over; you get to your feet just as "Mr. Cobb is looking for you" reaches your ears.

"Pleasant while it lasted,” you say half to yourself. When you reenter teller hall, you scan quickly for Eugene, and find him deep in conversation with the Hamptons-polo complainer. You glance behind you, thinking to ask Grey to simply escort you to the car—only to find no one there, the man disappearing as suddenly as he came to your rescue earlier. He’s left you no other option, and you try to not resent the only person to truly spend time with you this evening, but that’s hard to do when you get closer to Eugene and can hear the same insipid little conversation from his guest.

Eugene smiles when you come up to him and doesn’t ask where you were, though you think he comes close when you’re in the car, and then again in the bedroom, as you’re unlacing your shoes. Each time he talks about something different: how the gala really doesn’t need to be every two years, and how Athena really should take him off the required guest list. You hum absentmindedly, and don’t mention that it was his choice to come back, or that she works for him, and could learn to take no for an answer. It’s an unpleasant feeling that chases you into sleep. The chill seems to have settled in the scant space of the bed, and when you startle awake, you’re not reaching for Eugene.

After tossing and turning, deeming it light enough outside to give up on sleep and get out of bed, you wander down your well-trod path from the hallway to the kitchen, rubbing at your eyes and wondering if caffeine pills would be worth it after all. No more galas, you frown, before coming to a stop once you realize all the flower arrangements in the hall are now the crisp red-white blooms of Osiria roses. You blink, then blink again when the drowsiness clears and the Osirias are still there.

Breakfast can wait, though your stomach roils angrily in protest. The housekeepers you find in the library, plucking roses from the cart they lug behind them to tie off and deposit in the vases adorning the room, scented sentinels perched on tables and sills and mantles.

"Oh, Mr. Cobb had new instructions for the bouquet arrangements this week," one of them tells you when you hurry over to ask. She winks. "Apparently, they're someone's favorite."

It's a swooping sense of dread, oddly enough, that fills you then, when her words sink in as you head back up the hallway. Grey telling Eugene everything about last night is not what you need, not when Eugene's finally relaxed a little after all the other messes you make tripping over your own feet.

I don't need a babysitter.

You don't even know if Grey's here (he shouldn't be, should still be part of the team at the bank), but the security suite lies only on the other side of the penthouse; even if he were here, he wouldn't care if you barged in, pointed an accusing finger and asked where he gets the audacity. He just wouldn’t tell you, and you're tired of losing to him. Eugene, at least, is a far more gracious victor.

And he's in his office a floor up, poring over files as you come in and shut the door behind you. His suit jacket lies over the back of the heavy leather chair positioned like a throne; his sleeves are rolled up, but deep blue tie still on and kept tight, the sheen of it pristine even from here. You blink. It's the weekend.

He looks up, faint mask of annoyance dropping immediately once he sees you. The files seem to lose their importance, too, as he gives them a casual little toss to the other side of the desk. You give him a faint good morning as you pad over, standing on the other side of the desk like a client, while befuddlement knits itself across his face. You still don't have a plan; no play, no strategy. The red-white of the rose burns behind your eyelids.

"I saw the flowers,” you start. “They really are gorgeous."

"I'm glad you like them. Mr. Grey was telling me you seemed quite enamored with the ones we have down at the branch office."

You slip into the opening provided, fingers playing uselessly with one of the pens on the desk. It rolls towards him, out of reach. "Did he say anything else?"

"Nothing much. A few issues that have come up, but nothing to trouble you with." Eugene frowns. He comes around the desk, tracing the edges of it before taking one of your hands in his. His thumb rubs over the silky ridges of your knuckles, how you would soothe a skittish cat. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing. Just wondering. Not much else to do until tomorrow."

"Hmm." He accepts the reasoning, as pitiful as it stands, so easily that your chest aches. "I am sorry I can't take you with me."

"Well, I'm going to be a busy woman now, 'gene. Couldn't go with you anyway." No more lying, you tell yourself fiercely.

"Still no chance of getting you to agree to a security detail, is there?" There's a soft crease between his brows, a dip of worry that makes you drag him down for a kiss. No more lying—

"No one knows who I am. it will only draw attention."

It's agreed after a little more back and forth, and Eugene has nothing to complain about, other than the small stack of files you send tumbling to the ground as he braces you up against the desk, followed quickly by those pens, thudding softly against the plush carpet as you hope desperately that his office is soundproofed.

There’s several moments like that in the lead up to his leaving—moments you grasp at with both hands, try to hold to your chest and shelter like a flame in the wind.

I'll miss you. Be safe. All said without words, in only the pretty sighs he takes from your mouth, in the bedroom, in his office again, once even in the car, in the five minutes before your driver comes back. (It’s not Grey, or you would never have dared, and that distinction makes something in your stomach swoop uneasily, not enough Dramamine in the world to undo the wave of nausea at the thought.)

Eugene’s forced to settle for words though, at the final goodbye, awfully stiff and formal after everything else, in the foyer with its glaring fluorescent overheads, where everyone can see.

“Stay out of trouble,” he says as he breaks the kiss first. He wants to say more, inhales to find the words, but then just gives you a small smile.

“I always do,” you say with a smile of your own, and he huffs a little laugh.

You watch him until the elevator doors slide shut. The soft little ding feels like a thunderclap in the silence it leaves behind, and the night is cold no matter how many blankets you pile on or burrow in, and the sunrise only makes your eyes ache at the brightness.

Your new morning commute is an excellent distraction from the emptiness of the day, exciting the way being thrown onto the back of a rodeo bull is exciting, as you grasp the overpriced coffee with one hand and keep a firm grip on your bag with the other, hustling along with the torrents of other people—keep right, keep right, keep right—flowing like water down into the city's basement mazes of transit.

First days are always busy: ceaseless introductions, polite small talk, logging everyone into your own internal database of “seems like a dick” or ��hope I work more with them”. You may use Grey's idea of flashcards at this point.

For the most part, you sit at your desk and Try to Not Fuck Up, along with Don’t Get in the Way. By the end of the week, neither mission has been a catastrophic failure, although there was one close call with a rather tetchy sliding door of a conference room.

A slow prickling raises goosebumps along the back of your neck this particular morning; it's the same feeling you get in parking lots after dark, when you try to walk fast but not too fast, head on a swivel and a hand deep in your pocket wrapped around your keys. It’s the feeling you got in the lower levels of Milton-Fitzpatrick, cold and alone and lost. An odd thing to feel now, with half the city out here with you under a sunny sky. You make it one block, and then another, and when it still doesn’t pass, you jog across the next street—feeling like a proper New Yorker as you assert your right to jaywalk over one ton metal vehicles—and dash into the closest, nicest looking storefront.

The door swings shut and the instant immersion into a well-lit cafe blasting reggaeton is like being dunked in water. The baristas closest to the door give you a "Hey, welcome!" far too genuine for this early in the morning; the place either only hires rays of sunshine, or these employees have consumed entirely too much caffeine. You're busy looking behind you, trying to see through decals in the window, to reply with much more than a tight smile as you get in line.

A tennis match rages in your head.

Everything's fine.

Something's watching.

Nothing's watching you.

Grey saw something, too –

Yes, but if it were important, he would have told you.

It's only been a few days and you're already freaking yourself out: this is silly, and the prices here are not worth saving you the awkwardness of immediately turning around and walking back out. You turn to leave, only to back into someone when you find the little lane blocked by a man that looms over you and the shelf of free-trade coffee lining the aisle.

The ping-pongs in your head stop so suddenly the whiplash hurts, and your apology dies with a stammer on your lips, everything redlining hard as you take him in.

He reminds you of Grey, oddly enough—not in looks, but in the way he seems to not belong. Not here, in whatever plane of existence mere mortals wander about in, worrying about groceries and car payments. And certainly not in line for an Instagrammable latte or croissant. The scars you can see on the man—and you have to stop your eyes from trailing along them—look vicious despite their faded age, a violent tapestry that makes you shiver. His smile is charming, though, almost enough to make you not take a few more steps back; it turns forgiving when you do, though he’s probably chalking it up to the sheer awkwardness of the situation.

"Pardon me, miss. Never did get accustomed to the crowds here."

His voice is a thick molasses that reminds you of old Westerns, that deep twang belonging on a deck porch in hot, lazy afternoons. There should be a basset hound at his feet and a banjo there, too, strings plucked in a pretty, bluesy motif. It's so completely incongruous with the surroundings that all you can do is blink at him for a moment. Your manners are more muscle memory than anything.

"Right. No worries, uh—"

"Jackson. Like Mississippi”. He engulfs your hand in a firm grip, and when he smiles, the jagged pink scar running down one side of his face stretches with it.

#hitman #hitman fanfiction #lucas grey #lucas grey x reader #eugene cobb #eugene cobb x reader #fic: guinevere

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