#the number of times id pause to gasp while writing up my notes while listening to the vids is wack lol

[elegyofthemoon]

it's been fun to actually play "her story" after many years of having it on the backburner for so long i might actually look into "telling lies" and "immortality" too i just like piecing things together alskdjfha

[stormyweaver]

OKAY SOI really wanted to just, write something and I reblogged a fall sick fic prompt here, put it in the random generator and came out with this. Now,  I don’t know if vegan werewolves could even BE an actual thing, but it came out this way in my head so, y’know. Artistic liberties... right? Yeah, yeah, right. Enjoy! (and feel free to send me prompts if you desire!)

prompt - homemade soup

"It's still a low grade fever. That's good!... I mean, I think so? I'm not saying you should have one but, like, if you did have one then that'd be really bad, y'know?" Peter wore a tense smile, watching as Henry's only response was a deadpan stare through red-rimmed, rheumy eyes, which promptly rolled as his body did the same atop the battered pull out couch. "I'b always a little warmb. Part of the territory," 

"Oh, right. The whole wolf-thing," A sharp glance from the ailing super caused Peter to worry if he'd misspoken, though he didn't get the chance to ask as a coughing fit soon overcame the other. They were wet and rough from what he could glean, and they shook Henry's thinner frame thoroughly. It was still so funny, that a guy who people would refer to as a beanpole could transform into a beast large enough to mow down a bodybuilder on steroids. For the most part, Peter was content just to watch over the young supernatural while he was on the mend. It was the least he could do after last week - which, now that he put deeper thought into it, probably contributed to the werewolf's current condition. Nearly being ripped apart in the midst of a downpour wasn't exactly great for anyone's immune system. When it came down to the whole care-taking aspect, he wasn't exactly well-versed. But that didn't mean he couldn't, and wouldn't, try. "Hang tight, I'll uh, be right back, okay?" When he only received a perturbed grunt, he swiveled into the kitchen, the pads of his fingers swiping rapidly across his phone until a familiar number laid beneath his thumb. The line only rang twice before he got an answer. "Hey! Hey, mom, yeah it's me-- I know, it's been a while since I-- Yeah, I know mom... Mom?... Mom, listen, I love you too, but this is important! So, uh, remember all those times I was sick, and you said I hated chicken noodle soup so you'd make that tomato-y one?..." -- Ten minutes later, Peter was scouring through the remnants of his fridge and heavily scrutinizing every nook and cranny of disposable goods. He was seriously going to have to update his shopping list after this. But, more important matters were at hand. His mother's recipe lay scribbled down haphazardly on a nearby note pad, and although he didn't have every single ingredient, he was able to nix and improvise on a few of them. Maybe it wouldn't be worthy of going up on Pintrest, but it would suffice. And hopefully provide the other with some much needed nutrients. "What are you doi'g?" A yelp flew past Peter's lips, head jerking up sharply only to slam against the top of his refrigerator. "Augh, sonofabitch--!" He hissed, tenderly rubbing the spot before whipping around to face Henry with a slightly irritable frown. Though it held little ground as he noticed how the other was shivering despite the tartan fleece blanket heaved onto his shoulders. The corner of his mouth was quirked up in an amused smirk, but looking beyond that only spoke volumes about his pale features, sans the bright red of his eyes and nose. Sighing, Peter rose from his crouched spot and deposited his handful of food stuffs atop the counter. "I'm... just gonna make you something to eat. I know you don't eat meat, so, y'know. Figured I'd... work with it," The scoff, he was expecting, as well as the short string of coughs that followed it. But what happened next sent the hairs on the back of his neck tingling. It was so quick that he might have missed it, if not for the sheer volume. Henry's lips parted, likely in preparation for a snarky remark about not needing to be fussed over or something similar. But then his features had tensed, brows drawn together, eyes rolling back and his lip caught in a snarl. It all happened in a manner that could only be described as pure desperation. A shaky gasp of an inhale before his body was thrown forward with a gun shot of a sneeze. "hHRRAA'TSSCCHHH!" Peter couldn't help it. He audibly gasped and cringed, noticing the sheen of mist that one sneeze had managed to produce. With a quick shake of his head, he was able to return to his senses and made to approach Henry, but was stopped at a trembling palm outstretched towards him. "Nnn... Ndot d-done...!" Ah. As awkward as it was to wait in limbo while Henry huffed and puffed (no pun intended) towards another sneeze, he turned back to the counter, barely settling his hand atop a tomato before the other finally released another set of expulsions. "hHHRRREESHHCHH! hhHRRAAATTSHH'Huh! Ugghh..." Out of the corner of his eye, he idly watched as Henry scrubbed a wrist beneath his impossibly redder nose, an audible squelching sound the result of how much congestion was lacing his sinuses. He sniffled, sighed, and gave Peter a weary stare before shrugging. "... always cobes id threes," Peter gave a soft 'Mm' of acknowledgement while grabbing a knife from the utensil drawer. "Right. That's... good to know," He paused, wincing at how weird that might have sounded. But, was it any weirder than fixing tomato soup for a surly, vegetarian werewolf? The thought almost made him chuckle, but instead he gave his head another light jostle before adding on, "Bless you, by the way," "Thadks," Nodding, he waited until he heard Henry's retreating padding to begin slicing the vegetable, the corner of his mouth rising ever so slightly. Three's. Definitely good to know.

[today-only-happens-once]

Break

Title: Break

Summary: Logan, a high school science teacher, gets a text from his high school-counselor husband on his day off. Active shooter. I love you so much, Logan. Human AU. Logicality, Familial LAMP.

Warnings: Active shooter situation observed from the outside, death mention, angst, crying, cursing, violence.

A/N:  Because I’m tired and angry and scared. They say write what scares you? Here you go. I needed to put my thoughts and emotions somewhere, and this is what happened. Don’t feel obligated to read it, please. I know many of you are probably exhausted from this subject matter, and that’s more than okay. But I sat down to write it and I got emotional over the subject matter while writing and it’s almost 3k words so just…. I thought maybe it’d be worth putting up on here? I dunno.

I wrote this all in one sitting... It’s mostly a vent fic, if I’m going to be very honest with you all. Just... sorry, I guess.... 

Tags: @helloisthisusernametaken, @ren-allen, @lizaelsparrow, @princelogical, @random-pianist, @erlenmeyertrash, @milomeepit, @at-least-seven-pretty-potatoes, @rileyfirstname, @pinkeasteregg, @sassy-in-glasses, @vigilantvirgil, @generalfandomfabulousness, @lacrimosathedark, @monikastec, @heir-of-the-founders, @yourworstnightmare999, @artistictaurean, @kanejandkruge, @cdragontogacotar, @candiukas, @damienswifeolicitydallysgirl

Logan is standing in the kitchen when he gets the text.

His phone buzzes on the corner of the table and he sees the ID as Patton’s name. He sets the mug of coffee down on the countertop beside him with a quiet click as he reaches for the phone.

It wasn’t entirely unusual that his husband would text him randomly throughout the day. The contents of such texts varied: sometimes they were reminders about eating and sleeping, sometimes they were quick affirmations, sometimes they were dog pictures or random science jokes that Patton thought Logan would appreciate. And he always did, the corner of his lips curling in a smile when he’d quickly check his phone between classes. Every once in a while, Patton would send him an “I miss you” and Logan would affectionately roll his eyes and reply, “you realize my classroom is right down the hall from your office?”

Logan, however, had taken the day off. He had been at a conference for K-12 STEM educators and had got the red-eye flight back. He hated not being in school, but he couldn’t stress the importance of physical and mental health to his students and not lead by example. Besides, he had never taken a day off before in his life until now.

Logan quickly swipes in the code to open the phone and pulls up messages. He stares at the message even as his stomach drops.

P: Active shooter. I love you so much, Logan.

Logan’s jaw jumps before he types out a reply. Stay calm. RHF. He pauses and swallows hard. I love you too.

He grabs his keys and tears out of the house so fast he almost forgets to put on shoes.

…

He speeds the entire way. He very nearly runs a red light, slamming hard on the brakes at the last second. His hands are wrapped around the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip. The radio is turned to the news. He can’t bear to listen to it. He can’t bear not to.

Why did he have to have taken today, of all damn days, off?

Logan can’t help the tightness in his stomach. The faint feeling that he might throw up. That same feeling making him slam a hand against the steering wheel. He checks his phone. Nothing.

The light turns green.

Logan’s fingers twitch as he hits the gas again. He thinks of Virgil—his son, in his junior year at the high school. He wonders if he should text him. A second later, Logan shakes his head quickly. Texting him could put him in danger. The alert, if not silenced, could give away his location. Did Virgil make it out? Did Patton?

Why had none of them texted him yet? Logan glances at the clock on the dashboard. He had received Patton’s initial text three minutes ago.

Had it only been three minutes?

Logan drives in a distant haze. He parks on a street in the neighborhood surrounding the school. He’s barely slammed the gear shift into park and yanked his keys out of the ignition before he’s out of the car and running towards the school. He can see police cars lining the streets, areas roped off.

“Mr. Sanders!” The sound of his name grabs his attention. Logan stumbles to a halt, looking around for the source of it.

He sees her a second later. Valerie. Senior. She was in your AP Chemistry class last year, Logan reminds himself. She had always been one of the sweetest, smartest, and hardest working kids he’d ever had the pleasure of working with. She’s sprinting towards him, her cheeks streaked with dark mascara. Her eyes are wide in terror, red from tears. Logan catches her by the arms as she sags with a sob.

“Valerie,” Logan says. “Valerie, look at me.”

She hiccups and blinks hard. Logan can feel her shaking. “Mr. Sanders,” she says, taking in a few breaths. Logan can feel his heart in his throat. “Have you seen my mom? I need—I...”

Logan takes in a breath of his own, closing his eyes for just a moment. Pull it together, he tells himself. These kids need you. He doesn’t know if Virgil has made it out of the school yet. He doesn’t know about Patton. But he cant stand here and do nothing but worry. Not when these kids—these children—need him.

“I haven’t seen her,” Logan answers her. “Did you call her?”

Valerie nods. “Y-yeah. I—yeah.”

Suddenly, a soft feminine voice interrupts them from behind. “Valerie?”

Logan hears Valerie gasp. “Mom?”

The teacher releases a faint breath and lets go of the girl in front of him. “Oh, mi amor, I’m so happy you’re safe,” her mother says through tears, wrapping her daughter up in her arms. She locks eyes with Logan for a brief moment. Thank you, she mouths. Logan can’t manage a smile, even a polite one, but he nods.

Part of the job, he thinks, and realizes with a faintly nauseous feeling in his stomach how messed up it was that it was true.

“Valerie,” Logan says, his voice tight, “did… did you, by any chance, see Virgil? Or my husband?”

Valerie shakes her head, brushing at her eyes again. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Sanders. I just… I just ran. I don’t remember seeing either of them.”

Logan swallows thickly but waves a hand. “Don’t apologize. Please. Your safety should absolutely have been your number one concern. You did the right thing.”

“I’m sure they’re okay, though,” Valerie says as Logan starts to walk away.

Perhaps it is rude of him, but Logan keeps walking. Every part of him wants to believe her with a desperation that scares him. Logan feels his eyes burn and he picks up his pace as he walks closer to the school.

He checks his phone. Nothing.

…

The police stop him before he gets much closer. Logan wants to yell at them. He doesn’t. They’re just doing their job, he reminds himself.

It’s just… his entire life is inside that building.

He thinks of Patton’s bright smile through the video camera the night before when they’d FaceTimed while Logan was in the airport. He thinks of the warm giggle he’d let out when he’d made an airplane pun and Logan had groaned and bit back a smile. He thinks about how Patton had made him biscuits and bought a new jar of Crofters for when he returned from his red-eye with a small note reminding him to sleep today.

Logan twists his wedding band around his finger and wonders if he’ll ever sleep again.

He thinks about Virgil, too. How much better their house and family was once they’d adopted him. Virgil meant the world to him. He thought about Virgil’s witty, snarky quips. He thought of that faint smile he’d let out once in a while that showed he felt loved and safe and accepted. He thinks about all the times he’d helped Virgil through a panic attack. Virgil was the bravest, most wonderful kid Logan had ever met. Adopting him had been the best decision of his life.

Losing either one of them would be to lose everything.

“Logan?”

The voice startles him out of his thoughts. Logan stops twisting his ring around his finger and tears his gaze away from the swarm of police cars in the distance to look at the man beside him. A colleague, this time.

“Emile.” Dr. Picani. Another school counselor alongside his husband. Logan’s left thumb brushes the smooth metal of his ring again, fighting down the rising hope. “I’m glad to see you’re safe.”

The counselor’s eyes—usually warm and sympathetic—have something else behind them. Something darker. Guilt, maybe, and a bit of anger as well. Logan isn’t sure. Patton’s the better one at identifying emotions. “Wish I could say the same. Unfortunately, I can’t honestly say that I’m glad about much of anything right now.”

Logan shoves his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans. He understood all too well. He swallows. “I hate to ask this, Emile, but you didn’t… my husband…?” Logan hates how he can’t get the words to form.

Something softens in Picani’s expression. “I’m afraid I don’t know,” he says. “I was walking through the hallway when the first gunshot went off. Patton was already in his office. I think he was working with someone.”

Logan presses his lips together in a thin line. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. He feels Emile squeeze his shoulder before he steps away.

Logan checks his phone. Nothing.

…

Logan doesn’t know how long it lasts. He wanders through the streets, running into students and faculty alike. None of them had seen Patton or Virgil. He checks Twitter for news updates.

It won’t be reliable information, he tells himself, and he knows that but at least it’s something. At least it’s something.

He helps a student (Andrew Reinfeild, Logan remembers him from CP2 Chemistry last year) find his brother in the growing crowd, swallowing the lump in his throat at the desperation of their embrace. A student—Brayden Chase, a senior that Logan was convinced hated him for getting an F last year in his Astronomy class—sobbed against his chest until his girlfriend found him. Another student (Harmony Gibbins, Logan reminds himself, an incredibly bright freshman that was on the robotics team) stared numbly at the school until Logan approached her and said her name, told her that she was safe now. She burst into tears.

Logan waits with her until her friend appears and then he quietly dissolves back into the crowd. He keeps looking for son. He keeps looking for his husband. He feels like he’s moving in slow-motion.

He’s never felt so damn helpless in his life.

He listens to the murmurs and rumors in the crowd. One person says they heard four gunshots. Another says seven. A girl sobs that she heard there were casualties. The local news tweets out that there have been no confirmed deaths.

A student still in the building tweets a love note to her dad and her baby sister.

Logan checks his phone. Nothing.

…

“Suspect is in custody,” the police officer is saying with a bullhorn to the crowd that had been collecting in the streets of the neighborhood, far enough away that they could barely see the school. “I repeat, we have the shooter in custody. We are evacuating the rest of the building right now. Please be patient and calm—“

Logan is stiff and tense. He feels a bitter taste flood his mouth at the words.

“—as we continue to investigate.”

Someone shouts over the crowd as the officer starts to lower the bullhorn. “How many people died?”

The crowd falls silent. Logan watches, his gaze narrowed, as the officer hesitates and glances around the crowd. Finally, he turns the bullhorn back on and says quickly, “We are still evacuating the building.”

Logan pales. He can hear what the officer isn’t saying. People had died. Patton. Virgil.

“Mr. Sanders?”

Logan whirls around at the familiar voice. He stops short at the kid in front of him. “Roman.”

Roman Prince. A junior, and rising theatre star. Also Virgil’s best friend since freshman year. Logan practically considered him to be another son (only spurred further by the fact that he knew Roman’s parents were frequently absent from his life). Professionalism be damned, Logan says to himself. He shouldn’t, and it’s not like him, but his nerves are frayed. So he grabs Roman and pulls him in. The teen doesn’t need much encouragement before he’s hugging Logan back fiercely.

A moment later, Logan can feel his shirt by his shoulder getting damp and he realizes Roman is shaking like a leaf. The science teacher just runs a hand up and down his back slowly a few times. He doesn’t know what to say. In the corner of his eye, he sees a news camera pointed at the interaction and a part of him wants to march over and break it in half.

Roman pulls back and Logan relaxes his grip. The teen sniffles and wipes quickly at his eyes. “Have you heard from Virge?” he asks hopefully, and Logan’s heart somehow sinks even further. He’d been about to ask the same question.

Quietly, Logan shakes his head. “I’m afraid not.” And he is. He is so afraid.

“What about Mister Mr. Sanders?” Roman asks, the rawness in his voice overshadowing the lame attempt at humor. Roman had always referred to Patton as “Mister Mr. Sanders”. Usually, it made Logan smirk.

But all he can think about is Patton’s bright laugh when he’d hear Roman call him that the first time. Virgil’s eye roll and quiet snort of amusement. Wordlessly, Logan shakes his head again.

Roman frowns. “Mr. Sanders, you don’t look so good. Maybe you should sit down.”

“I’m fine,” he says hollowly.

“Pardon the language, but that’s bullshit,” Roman says. “Nothing is fine. Least of all us.”

The teacher doesn’t argue with that.

Logan checks his phone. Nothing.

…

The minutes—the hours? Logan can’t keep track—tick by. Logan does, eventually, sit down on the grass. He puts his head in his hands. Roman sits beside him and, for perhaps the first time since Logan met him three years ago, is silent.

At some point, the officer announces that they’ve cleared the building. He sends a text to both Patton and Virgil the second he says it. Where are you?

The death count is somewhere in the double-digits. Logan only half-listens. Every time the screen on his phone dims out, he presses the button to light it up again. After a while, Roman quietly takes his phone and makes an adjustment in settings so that it won’t go to sleep. The teen’s own phone sits in front of him. Every time it lights up with a message, Logan glances at the ID to see if it might be Virgil.

It never is.

People around him are sobbing. Others are silent.

Logan can’t feel anything except an overwhelming, aching emptiness. The crowd grows thinner as parents arrive to take their shaken, terrified children home. Every reunion twists a sharp, hot pain in Logan’s chest as he thinks of Virgil.

“C’mon you two,” says a voice behind him. Logan lifts his head out of his hands. It’s Dr. Picani. “Let me drive ya home.”

“You don’t have to do that, Emile,” Logan says, his voice distant. “I can take Roman home.”

“Nonsense,” Emile replies firmly. “I’m not letting you drive in the state you’re in, Logan.”

Logan doesn’t have it in him to argue. He doesn’t have it in him to do anything. Numbly, he nods and stands up, motioning for Roman to do the same.

“Hey,” Dr. Picani says softly to him after a moment. “Don’t give up hope. They evacuated people in all directions. And they might’ve gotten out earlier. They’ll call.”

Logan checks his phone. Nothing.

…

The ride is silent. Roman mutters an empty thanks when he’s dropped off. Logan snaps out of his haze long enough to make Roman promise that if he needs someone, he’ll reach out. You have my number, Logan reminds him. Roman just nods and slams the door closed.

When they get to Logan’s house, the high school science teacher stares at the drive way. His eyes burn. Part of him feels, not for the first time today, like he might be sick. Because there in the drive way is Patton’s car. Logan blinks hard a few times, and he expects it to disappear. His mind is playing tricks on him.

But the car stays there in the driveway. Logan’s hands are shaking. Dr. Picani gives a soft, relieved smile. “Well look at that.”

Logan is still staring at it.

Emile chuckles. “Logan, you can gape at the car all you want but you should probably go inside. I have a feeling there’s someone there who wants to see you.”

His edges of his vision blur and he blinks again, shaking his head. “Y-yes. Yes, of course.”

He fumbles with the seat belt and practically falls out of the car. He breaks into a run for the front door, trying the handle and cursing under his breath when he finds it locked. Logan pats his pockets for his keys, digging them out of his front left pocket. He drops them in the process and curses again.

When he finally gets the door open, he calls out tentatively. “Patton?”

The first person he sees isn’t Patton. A young, familiar face stands in the entryway to the kitchen in that signature black and purple hoodie. The hood is pulled up over his long bangs but his eyes are wide and familiar beneath them. A second later, a flop of brown hair, thick black glasses, and a bright blue polo appears behind him.

“Dad?” Virgil asks at the same time Patton says, “Logan, honey…” 

Logan breaks.

…

[thesilverstaganddoe]

The Beginning: Psychology and the Law (Killing Eve Fic) Chapter 14

AO3 Link

Chapter [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13]

Chapter 14: Best Case Scenario

On Monday, Eve went to the MI6 offices. It was the first time she had been there since she’d collected her things a week after officially “retiring” and it was a bit strange to be back. She didn’t recognize the woman at the security desk in the front lobby. She peered at Eve’s old MI6 ID.

“Do you work here? I don’t recognize you.”

“I used to. I’m here to see Bill. Bill Pargrave.”

“Do you have an appointment? I don’t see your name on the list.”

“I don’t need one, he’s my old boss, he’ll want to see me.”

“Oh, well, I’m not sure…”

“It’s fine, really.”

The woman faltered for another moment, but something in Eve’s expression seemed to convince her that she didn’t want to keep arguing and she allowed Eve to pass through.  

The office looked much the same, except that someone else had clearly taken over Eve’s desk. There were colored sticky notes lining the edges of the computer monitor and sitting beside it was a photo of a smiling couple holding a little girl.

Eve had already been in a pretty foul mood and it didn’t make her feel any better.

It was early and there wasn’t anyone in the outer office, but Eve knew Bill had a habit of getting in early and, as expected, he was in his office, hunched over his computer, picking at a croissant.

“Hi, Bill.”

He looked up. “Eve! What a surprise! A wonderful surprise, of course.”

She nodded. It was good to see him, of course, but she wasn’t exactly feeling cheerful or particularly filled with a desire to catch up on old times. So, she got right to the point.

“I need help with something. A favor.”

“Okay. Straightforward as always. Is everything alright?”

“I need information on someone. An address, at least, and anything else you can get me.”

“Okay. You’ll also owe me a favor, though, Eve.”

“Fine, whatever you want.”

“I’ll hold you to that. What’s the name?”

“Anna. I don’t know her last name, but she was a teacher at the Gorchakov boarding school about fifteen years ago.”

“That’s not a lot to go on.”

“I have faith in you. You’ve done more with less.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Come by tomorrow, I’ll leave a file for you at the front desk.”

“Thank you.” Eve turned to go and then pause by the door and turned back around. “Bill?”

“Yes?”

“Will you let me into the shooting range?”

Bill raised his eyebrows, but didn’t comment. He simply held out his keys.

Normally, Eve’s position at MI6 wouldn’t have warranted her carrying a gun, but after some threats had been made in a particularly difficult case, she received some training and been issued one. After leaving MI6, she’d obtained a civilian license and kept it, but it had always been in a lockbox under her bed that she’d never opened since her departure.

Until that day.

She’d opened it up again that morning, before she left to meet Bill. It made her uncomfortable; it was a reminder of difficult and stressful days. She’d been allowed to keep it with the idea that the threat could potentially remain, even once she’d left MI6 and abandoned the case. But, really, she hadn’t been too concerned; she’d left, she’d done what they wanted. There was no reason to get rid of her anymore.

But she’d kept it, and in that moment she was glad she had.

———-

As promised, a file was waiting for Eve the next morning.

Anna Aanmokoba. The file had a list of basic information, including her ex-husband’s name and her age. She was forty-nine. Which would have made her thirty-five when Oksana was sixteen. Eve’s fingers clenched into fist tight enough that her nails dug hard into her palm.

Fuck her. Fuck her a hundred times over.

It also had her address. She was no longer working at the school, it appeared she was retired, but she was still living close to it.

Eve booked a flight. Somehow, by some grace of a god she didn’t really believe in, there was a flight out of London to St. Petersburg early the very next morning. It had a layover in Vienna, but it wasn’t too bad, less than an hour. The price was exorbitant last minute, but Eve didn’t care.

Oksana texted her in the afternoon, asking her if she wanted to come over for dinner or drinks that night. Eve told her that her friend had had a baby and she was leaving early the next morning to spend the next couple of days with her in Leeds.

Oh, okay.

Eve felt bad. But what else could she say?

———-

When she finally landed in St. Petersburg, she didn’t even bother with the train; she couldn’t focus enough to figure out the Russian schedules. Part of her wished Oksana was with her. She’d make it so simple, converse easily with everyone they came across, charm everyone in their path.

But, no, it was something Eve needed to do alone.

So, she managed to get a rental car from an agency whose people spoke enough English to not make it miserable and by midafteroon was making her way to the address Bill had given her.

It was in Pavlovsk, about an hour’s drive from St. Petersburg. Eve flicked through Russian radio stations as she drove, barely listening to any of them. She paused on one, a host whose voice sounded a little like Oksana’s. Ultimately, though, she slammed her hand down on the power button and drove the rest of the way in silence.

Anna’s house was small, almost cute, if Eve had been in the kind of mood to make such an assessment. She sat in the car outside for a few minutes, considering what she was about to do. She didn’t really have a plan, exactly, she just felt like she needed to do...something.

So she went and knocked on the door.

She didn’t know what she expected, but whatever it was, the woman who answered wasn’t it. She was mousy and she looked old, older than Eve had even expected. Which just made Eve feel even more irritated.

She wasn’t ugly, really, but there wasn’t anything special about her either. Except her hair. She really did have quite nice hair. Eve also found that irritating.

“Hello?” the woman asked.

“Are you Anna?”

“Yes?”

Eve pushed past her into the house.

“We need to talk.”

Anna trailed behind her, not even commenting on the fact that Eve had just walked into her house without invitation.

“Who are you?”

Eve whirled on her and glared. There was no point in hiding her anger.

“A friend of Oksana’s.”

Anna actually smiled.

“Ah. How is she?”

Eve hissed out a breath. “Good. No thanks to you.”

The smile remained, but it hardened a bit. “No thanks to me? I was everything to that girl.”

It took everything Eve had not to slap her.

“Do you seriously think that? You abused her. You forced her into a relationship she was too young for.”

Anna scoffed, the look on her face twisting and growing nasty. “Oh, I didn’t force her into anything. If anything, she pushed it on me. She was a manipulative little snot. And she was obsessed with me.”

Eve really, really wanted to hit her. “That’s crap.”

“I’ll show you.”

Anna disappeared into another room and came back with a large box stuffed with papers. She set it down on the end table in front of Eve.

“These are from her.”

Eve narrowed her eyes at the woman. She didn’t really want to look away from her, but she had to admit, she was curious.

She began to page through them. There were some photos, some of them of Oksana and Anna together, but a number of just Oksana. She looked so young, so innocent, so naive. So easily hurt.

Mostly though, the box was filled with letters, largely written in French, which Eve had actually learned in school. It had been quite a while since she’d spoken it, much less read it, but she was still able to decipher sections of the letters.

My darling, Anna

I miss you.

Do you know the life we could have together?

I need to see you.

You looked beautiful in class today, I couldn’t stop watching you.

Please write to me, I have not heard from you in ages.

My heart longs for you, darling.

Eve felt the rage bubbling up in her chest anew. Anna raised an eyebrow at her.

“See? It was all her.”

“You’re a monster,” Eve hissed.

Anna shook her head. “She’s the monster. She’s a psychopath, did you know that?”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, dear. You’ve got it bad. She’s got you wrapped around her little finger, doesn’t she? You know that she’s manipulating you, right? You need to know that. It’ll all fall apart soon enough.”

Every last bit of Eve’s patience was gone; it was amazing that it had lasted as long as it did. She grabbed Anna by both her shoulders and shoved her as hard as she could. She looked utterly shocked as she fell backwards onto the coffee table. It had a glass top and Anna crashed through it in an instant, shattered pieces flying across the floor and embedding themselves in Anna's skin.

Eve pulled the gun out of where she’d had it tucked in the back of her waistband and pointed it at Anna.

“I used to work for MI6 and I still have friends in high places and not just in the UK. If you ever contact her again, I will have you thrown in jail - and that’s if you’re lucky.”

Anna gave her a disgusted look. “You’re just like her. You deserve each other.”

“She certainly deserves better than you.”

Eve's finger hovered on the trigger for a long while, but eventually, with a deep breath, she moved it away. She took the box of letters and photos and moved backwards to the door, keeping the gun pointed at Anna. She never made an attempt to get up, though, and Eve slipped out the door without any trouble.

She set the box in the backseat, got into the front, threw the gun in the passenger seat and drove around the block, where she pulled over to the side of the road and parked again. Her heart was racing and she was gasping for breathing.

Suddenly she found herself crying, huge, hysterical sobs, and she buried her face in her hands and leaned against the steering wheel. She was crying because she was scared. Because she was angry. Because her heart hurt for Oksana. Because what she’d just done was the best thing she could think of to help her and it still didn’t seem like enough.

Because she didn’t know what to do with any of those feelings and it was screwing with her head.

———-

She drove to a convenience store and bought a thing of lighter fluid, some matches, and a bottle of whiskey. She drove, vaguely in the direction of the airport. Once she’d left the residential area, the road mostly ran through endless fields. It annoyed Eve. Fuck Russia.

At some point, after some indeterminate amount of time, a few trees started to appear along the roadside and Eve swerved off the side of the road towards them. She got out of the car, grabbed the box from the backseat, and tossed the lighter fluid and matches into it.

She walked into the trees, going deeper and deeper until the darkness settled around her and she could no longer see the road behind her. She grabbed fistfuls of the letters from the box and began throwing them on the ground. She kept the old photos, at least the ones that were only of Oksana. But the letters ended up in a heap on the ground

She poured the lighter fluid on top, stepped back a foot or two, struck a match, and tossed it on top of the pile. Flames sprung forward instantly and Eve watched them for a moment, letting the heat warm her cheeks and the sparks burn at her eyes. Then, she turned and walked away, letting it burn behind her.