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kneamet · 2 years

Note

Can I request something for Lincoln Six Echo or Jonathan McQuarry. Sorry for not having an idea I had one but now I can’t fucking remember but since it’s late I probably will remember tomorrow

Illusions

Trigger Warning: yandere, obsession, stalking

Word Count: 2317

Character: jonathan mcquarry/reader

Summary: Jonathan has been watching you for a long time — even if you didn't know about his existence, and he didn't know your name. You were a sweet, desirable dream in his eyes, he longed for your love, wanted to at least talk to you... He felt separated, and Jonathan wasn't a particularly risky and brave guy to make you pay attention to him. but he wanted to protect you and that's why he walked you home every day.

In the air of the subway there was a bad smell of human sweat, fumes and wine, chocolate and those color perfumes whose owners you carefully avoid. The car, completely filled, rocked. It was not surprising — five o'clock, the end of the working day and everyone was going home, ready for dinner and a big TV, to his family, Only Jonathan, firmly grasping the silver handrail, diligently pretended to be an ordinary, normal person. A person who is expected, and not whom an empty apartment meets.

The whole life went round and round, repeated and repeated, was endless, like an endless salt bought once a long time ago or that program on an additional channel that does not even think is closed. The work occupied Jonathan's whole life, absorbed him and took away the last remnants of his life and aspirations, dreams with rough tentacles. After all, if you think about it, did he have a dream before? Was there something he coveted, maybe he kept and saved money for a long time?

No, he was a dummy.

Completely boring, an ordinary ordinary and unmarried clerk. How old was he? Thirty-five, thirty-seven? That was it... After all, it was completely unimportant, without meaning, and existence seemed monotonous, repetitive, as if on rewind, and forgettable. He's never lived, never been interested in anything. Maybe only in childhood.

The happiest moments that flashed through his head, he could only watch with a little boy in glasses, so demanding asking his mother to buy a new book. All childhood, all the memories from there, the events, were bright, meaningless and very awkward, somehow oblique, but in their own way, — so sometimes just wanted to return to native home, to the arms of mother.

Jonathan adjusts his falling glasses and blinks quickly when most of the people go out into the street of the lower district; a poor neighborhood filled with five-story houses and numerous cheap shops. He looks around again and once again hesitantly looks at the sitting girl — you. He squints out of the corner of his eye and immediately looks away when you raise your head, looking up from the ever — buzzing phone — you have a lot of friends and a lot of acquaintances, he knows. At work, you are constantly distracted by your old cracked phone when you sort through papers and fill out letters.

He sees you not for the first time, not for the first time and goes with you. The two of you are not in the same direction, but what a sincere pleasure it gives Jonathan, the pleasure of seeing you home and quietly wishing you «good night» is a recent habit, but how much it cost his empty heart. He always stood near that sprawling oak tree, clutching his briefcase, squeezing the leather handle and just sighing, watching the window open and the lights off.

You have to go to the last stop, Macquarie has known about it for a long time. Therefore, he has no choice but to sit down next to you, on the seat vacated by a large man. He put his briefcase on his knees, feeling their slight trembling and looked down at the floor in confusion, only occasionally throwing modest glances at you — and at your phone — but immediately cutting them off. Nausea and fear permeated him, completely — from head to toe — and made him feel painfully doomed.

He is not going to be with you, you absolutely will not succeed. Jonathan is not your type, absolutely not. He knows what kind of guys your type likes — self-confident, constantly getting into various adventures and coming out of them with a clear conscience, funny and sarcastic. He wasn't like that and that's why the gap between you grew bigger and bigger every day.

A satisfying name of the final street jumps on the panel and this allows you to exhale freely. Jonathan looked at you, at the way you walked to the door and couldn't help but admire you. So open, free, you were like a light butterfly, which one of his acquaintances was collecting at work. The best and most beautiful, Jonathan was sure you deserved worship and love.

And he was ready to give it to you.

As soon as the doors open, he follows you straight to the very exit, but tries to keep to himself so that he is not noticed. He hides, retreating, even if you don't think to look behind your back. As soon as he gets out of the stuffy and foul-smelling subway, a pleasant summer breeze blows over his face, with its whole essence suggesting the imminent rain, the smells of puddles, evaporated water and the body is in comfort.

Jonathan followed you, knew the way by heart, until you turned in some other direction. That's what made him doubt the correctness of his decisions for a couple of seconds, suddenly you saw him and suspected? until, however, you stopped by a small shop on a sparsely populated street and asked to make coffee. Your favorite. Even the coffee is wonderful; your taste was divine to Jonathan. He always bought a simple espresso or an Americano without sugar, just to cheer up.

And you helped him get a taste of life. There was something bright about you, something that set you apart from the crowd! Whether it was bracelets, rings or coffee, the location of the apartment or the appearance, Jonathan admired you, enjoyed and constantly recalled the incident in the subway when you accidentally spilled coffee on him — that's when he recognized your favorite. That day was, as usual, busy with work, endless cursory figures flashed before his eyes and were not remembered; he entered them into reports and immediately forgot. There was no time for personal life at work, and he didn't care about it.

It was hot and stuffy in the subway then, and there were more people than usual. Jonathan was standing close to a fat young man, the guy on the phone, and his chest to a girl with headphones holding coffee. He left work late, and it feels like he got into rush hour, like it's lunch time. How is his empty house? Can get a dog? Or a cat? There won't be enough time, he's always at work, always busy. There is no time to walk, and he gets tired. Maybe a fish? Have to clean the aquarium. How he wanted to take care of someone...

Oh!

Jonathan shuddered when he looked at the clothes with his mouth open— the white shirt turned dirty, brown, but the water was immediately absorbed. He looked at the girl and got an apologetic look, regretful. She mumbled words of apology, «I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to», «do you want me to do the laundry?» «Excuse me, mister», while Jonathan watched her in fascination. The girl fussed, calmly exhaling when people got off at the station and there were more places, and held out wet wipes in the hope that it would help.

Almost no one paid attention to them, and the girl herself would obviously soon forget about it. Only Jonathan ignored everything, and when she got off — at that time not at her station — he stared blankly, discouraged, missing his stop.

How beautiful you were at that moment! Like the number thirty-seven! Your jingling bracelets and rings, loose clothes, the memorable aroma of coffee and buzzing phone. Confused, shackled, with ridiculous sarcasm, then you didn't even know how deep Jonathan's heart had settled. After all, since that incident, work has ceased to seem ordinary, and lunch in the park a distraction from routine. He worked with enthusiasm and what was Jonathan's surprise when he saw you in the office — in a strict pantsuit, with sleeves rolled up to the elbow and suspenders, you were somehow very nice.

Jonathan used to go out to the park during a break, and now he went to the dining room, sat down at the far row against the wall and pretended to be engrossed in a book while looking for you. You were beaming, laughing and accidentally touching a guy in braces with your hand. Your lunch was almost forgotten and you were completely carried away by the dialogue with the person sitting. If only... If, Jonathan allowed himself to think, you sat down next to him, spoke first, would you laugh? Would there be a smile on your face? Or would you have no common topics and would you just take a break in silence?

Jonathan assumed that he would have bored you quickly.

Exhaling softly and restlessly, shaking the air with a trembling sigh, Jonathan continued to follow you, almost without meaning, along a little — known street to him — there was a school here, behind the fence, trees near the train part, and the path along which he walked with you was very crooked and oblique. In the dark, you can stumble over an inequality or a protruding stone, but Jonathan blindly followed you.

You were on the phone with some guy- or maybe it was a girl? — joking and bursting into pure laughter, like the sound of ringing bells. Gesturing violently, waving your arms, you weren't afraid to spill coffee. And Jonathan was thinking that he would definitely buy himself a coffee after he saw you off and wished you good night. Your favorite. His favorite. Fingers, sweaty with excitement, clutched the handle of the briefcase, he could smell the sweat coming from himself, and his shoes began to press in his little fingers, it became painful to walk. He wind themselves, worried.

Jonathan didn't understand what are you talking about and with whom, only occasionally, when cars weren't passing by, he noticed sarcasm or a joke. But he heard you, your voice — your alluring, forbidden and such a charming voice — was extraordinary. He brought to trembling knees and stupor in speech, sometimes Jonathan lost his way, listening to the intonation and knew that when talking to you, he would not find what to say. Will open her mouth and close it, he is not able to utter.

Jonathan's step was tense, unlike your light one, and he wished with all his heart that you would not turn around, look at him and reproach him. He would not have coped, he always gives up quickly and only now... only now decided to act, to show myself a «man». The guys from those movies on TV did so often — they went after their loved ones, gave gifts, flowers, and the richest and most expensive dresses. His wallet was incapable of that. Jonathan gave flowers, but you threw them away with the note. Probably thought it was from an obsessive fan, a stalker who molested you.

As you approached the house, Jonathan slowed down and turned the corner to a large tree with a direct view of your window. It was a large high-rise building, but he remembered the view of your window for a long time; the feature was the colorful curtains and the lighting garland. He quietly watched you from his seat: how you walk to the front door, how you throw away the paper cup and how the lights turn on in your apartment. Jonathan leaned his shoulder against the tree, adjusting his glasses and paying attention to the dark orange sunset, lowered like a puppeteer behind the skyscrapers.

The sky was calm, peaceful and empty, only occasionally there were lonely wandering clouds. Jonathan looked at his watch, realizing that he would have to stay here for a long time. The light in the apartment did not turn off before eleven in the evening, but even then he did not leave, he knew that you would be sitting on the phone and chatting; your fingers would tap on the phone and type a message, making such a strange sound, p. And he would stand, wait for your sleep and drink coffee, dream about you, think: what do you do? and to wish for a future together.

No one is waiting for him at home, and does he have a house? Not an apartment, in its usual sense, but a family, comfort, a place where you want to return and where you can hide in a moment of danger.

He has books, furniture in his apartment and nothing native, nothing close to his heart.

Tonight Jonathan was thinking about you, in a dream he imagined you in all your girlish beauty, stretching out a gentle hand and stroking his cheek, and he craved affection, missed her. His cheeks turned pink every time he laughed or stared at you, and something alive appeared in his eyes, something that had not been there for several years. And what was his most vivid recent memory? Jonathan couldn't remember, strained his mind, but everything was going to crash. He had only work and you in head.

How would Jonathan's evening have gone if he had gone home, got out earlier, at his station and stopped seeing you off, wishing you «good night»? He would remember the past, dream of an unfulfilled future together with you, holding back tears and looking at himself in the mirror, noticing a dull look, dirty skin that he would diligently rub in the shower; thin hair, an ordinary and gloomy face — as if he was a typical math teacher. Once again sat down at the reports and never finished them by nightfall, fell asleep right at the table.

Jonathan smiled, realizing that he wasn't alone — he had you. And even if you forgot about him, threw that meeting out of your head, he will be with you. Jonathan will always mutter softly under his breath:

“Good night and... Sleep well, beloved,” and go home to yourself, full of desire, delight and extraordinary happiness.

You were his sun in a meaningless and dark life.

i don't really like this work, but i hope you really liked it, and next time i'll write something more grandiose for jonathan.

today i reread "the red and the black" and remembering that there is a series based on this book, in which ewan played, i realized that i had to write something for julien sorel! he would be an ideal yandere, believe me.

and yes, @compulsivewriter111 and her post just makes me write the third part for ewan's characters. so in the near future, wait for content on his little-known characters (by the way, if there are any options who can be added, then write)

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dorminchu · 2 years

Text

Insult to Injury: The Director's Cut — Chapter 04 [Revised]

IV: MA JEUNESSE EST RESTÉE LÀ AU DÉTOUR DE CE CHEMIN

The first time Madeleine discovered her father’s Beretta 92S she was looking around for the bleach. Like everything else in the kitchen cabinet, the gun had a use, and was not to be tampered with. With no one around to chastise her, Madeleine cradled it in unpractised hands, careful to keep her fingers off the trigger.

When the adolescent thrill of bending the rules faded into disillusionment, she was still on the kitchen floor, and maman was snoring in the living room. Madeleine simply put the gun back.

⁂

December, 1995.

The last time Madeleine lived under the same roof as her father, they were flying back to Austria from Morocco. Growing up, she’d hear that old adage, how children should be seen and not heard—that was Frederich König. A presence felt, rather than observed. Calling him papa up ’til a few years ago, this stranger standing arm-in-arm with her mother in weathered family photos. To the men from his protective detail, and the associates distinguishable by the cut of their suits and bottomless apathy, he was just Mr. White.

Back home in Altaussee, she walked up the stairs, through the front door after her father. The house was quiet. Her father told her, “I have to make some calls. Go upstairs and get unpacked.”

Madeleine’s room, on the second storey, looked out over the lake and the surrounding roads Puchen and Fischerndorferstraße. In the winters, she’d stand right next to the glass and see how long she could tolerate it without shivering. Thanks to the generator, the house never froze over.

Her father’s voice drifted from the floor below, migrating from kitchen to hall to living room. Madeleine caught the names Ziffer and Blofeld, and the phrase éminence grise. A heavier door opened, closed. His voice faded, though he couldn’t have left through the back.

Madeleine crept downstairs to investigate. Her father’s coat hung up in the closet. He wasn’t in the living room or the kitchen. There was a door between the two rooms which she and maman never touched, because it was always locked.

Madeleine put her ear against it. It was too thick to hear anything. She pulled away, frowning. The knob turned and Madeleine jumped back as Mr. White stepped into the kitchen.

“Maddie,” he said. “What are you doing down here?”

Madeleine admitted that she finished unpacking. Then asked, What were you doing in there?

“For the next month,” he said, “I’ll be working from home. So don’t make too much noise upstairs.”

Madeleine didn’t understand. You’re always away on business trips.

White chuckled. “That’s your mother talking. An associate of mine has agreed to take over in my absence. It won’t be permanent.” White considered her for a moment. Glancing at the kitchen sink, he said, “This was going to come up, sooner or later.” He opened the door with one arm. Madeleine stood on the peripheral between childhood home and the great unknown. Over his shoulder, he said, “No need to be shy. Just be careful on the stairs. There isn’t any handrail.”

Following him down a flight of steps, into the basement glowing under bare bulbs. A map of Morocco hung on the wall above a row of black storage cabinets, with several blankets folded neatly atop. Stacks of VHS tapes organised with a VCR. A pair of CRTs displaying a black-and-white image of the front and rear exits.

Madeleine’s attention drawn to the old oak desk in the left corner of the room. It looked heavy enough to break the staircase, and very beautiful. A flat plane gleamed obliquely on its surface.

She went over to get a better look. A framed photograph, reflecting the light. Ten soldiers in khaki uniform, standing against a hand-painted mural of an octopus engulfing a fighter jet. A message scrawled behind them, Les Spectres de Pierre, 1982.

Who is this?

Madeleine pointed to a face in the front row. The smallest of the group, with piercing eyes and a thin smile. His blonde hair, a little fuller on his scalp, was cut short.

“Mr. Blofeld and I were in the same division,” said White after a pause. “It was a long time ago.”

Gesturing her over to a stainless metal bench, along the opposite wall. There was the Beretta 92S. Running through the basics: this button at the bottom of the grip released the magazine; slide-mounted safety that also functioned as a decocker.

“Ideally,” said White, “you want to keep a round chambered and the safety off. The first pull will be a little stiff, but in a realistic scenario it won’t impede you.”

His gnarled hands passed the gun into her own. While Madeleine lacked the muscle memory of a soldier in the French Foreign Legion, his approval was a powerful motivator.

Each day, the two of them spent an hour or two in his office after school. Once she was comfortable with the gun he took her outside, setting up targets. “Shot placement is crucial. Go for the vitals. The lungs or the heart. The head, only if you are certain you won’t miss. At the end of a string of fire, always decock and then move the safety back up.”

Once she was able to consistently get chest-shots, her father introduced her to the concept of a ballistic vest.

“At close range,” he said, loading the Beretta, “it’ll knock you off your feet.”

Madeleine instinctively squared her shoulders. She’d seen what that gun could do to a target.

Does it hurt?

White paused. “Oh, you might have a bruise. Nothing too bad.” Taking aim while Madeleine fought against the muscles in her face, not to cower. The way he described it sounded no worse than a needle. He fired one round exactly into the centre of her chest; Madeleine went sailing backwards through the air, skidding in the snow which cushioned her fall.

“How do you feel?” he called.

Madeleine blinked a couple times to clear her vision. Pushing herself to stand, brushing the snow off her clothes. Unzipping her coat, running her fingers along the dent left by the bullet, she said in a slightly halting voice, My jeans are wet.

Her dad chuckled. “Not so bad, eh?”

Madeleine’s mouth curled into a wavering smile.

“That vest is what we call soft armour. It’ll stop a handgun bullet and protect you from fragmentation. If someone comes at you with a rifle, you should be wearing hard armour. Even then, by the time someone is pointing a gun at you, it’s better to shoot first.”

He caught her at the perfect time. Before this burgeoning curiosity about his job curdled into abhorrence. Ten years old, tough enough to get back up without sniffling. Interpreting compassion as the Kevlar vest around her torso, rather than the gun itself.

⁂

One morning, Madeleine came downstairs to find her father pacing from room to room. Talking agitatedly to someone named Herr Ziffer. Madeleine had to leave for school with the guard. Coming home that afternoon, her father was in the living room. Stacks of paper, where her mother usually took up residence. Briefcase placed at his feet. Wearing his suit and overcoat indoors.

“Hello, Maddie. How was your day at school?”

Madeleine told him the usual. Her father’s greatest concern was that she keep up with her studies. She said, How was your day?

“Busy as usual.” His tone was a little off. Attempting levity without any credence. “They’ve called me back into work. Your mother is well enough to come home.”

Is it because of mom?

White shook his head. “It has nothing to do with either of you.” Turning around, giving her his undivided attention. “If there is any trouble while I am gone, you know where the gun is and which number to call. You are to tell no one about the basement, or the gun, not even your mother. Do we understand each other?”

Yes, papa.

⁂

After thirty days of counselling, Maman could walk around by herself. Usually, she just sat in the living room, huddled under blankets, nursing a glass of mineral water. Or a cigarette. She was supposed to give up smoking as well as alcohol, but her husband couldn’t force her to comply with the doctor when he was on a business commute. She still had a terrible cough.

Sobriety opened up her personality in other ways.

Five days into January, Madeleine came home to find her curled up on the kitchen floor, weeping about her husband. Trail of blood from the clenched fist on her knee. The bread knife and conspicuous loaf of bread scattered at her feet. When Madeleine tried to touch her, her mother shoved her away and said she didn’t need any damn help.

Madeleine sat with her anyway. Convincing her that it was okay to bind her hand, helping her to stand. Walking her to the living room, to sit by the window. Before she could go and clean up, her mother pulled her into an embrace, kissing the top of her head. All she whispered was, “Thank you.”

Madeleine said nothing. Pulling away from her mother with a strange ache in her chest. In the kitchen, wiping down the bloodstains and discarding the bread, she could hear maman humming La petite maison bleue. Creeping upstairs, she shut the door to her bedroom before smothering the inevitable loss of composure into her pillow.

On a better day, Madeleine would eat breakfast to the sounds of Ella Fitzgerald, Françoise Hardy, Charles Aznavour. This morning, she did not have school, so she had no excuse to avoid sitting with her frail mother, collecting dust in an isolated cabin.

“It’s already been an hour,” her mother said with a scoff. “This is unacceptable. I’ll have to talk with your father about these thugs he hires.”

Madeleine glanced out the window. The sky outside brilliant blue.

Maman.

“Hm?”

You want me to put on a record?

“Pars?” Madeleine got up. As she was putting the record on, her mother said, “How was Tangier?”

They never discussed her father’s business or his friends, if it could be helped. Especially when he wasn’t around.

Madeleine told her a little about the dinner, in Morocco. Faceless men in well-tailored suits. Mr. Le Chiffre, who was friends with her father. And Ernst.

“Mr. Blofeld. Don’t be rude.”

Yes, sorry.

“That bastard. He’s been waiting to get his claws in you since your father signed the prenup.” Madeleine averted her eyes. “I told your father he wasn’t allowed to bring his Legion friends around here anymore. This is his idea of a solution.” Her mother was nearly out of mineral water. When Madeleine walked over to check if a refill was in order, her mother said, “Just promise me you won’t get yourself involved with men like Blofeld.”

Okay.

Her mother’s face contorted. She grabbed Madeleine’s hand in her cool ones.

“You don’t know what he’s capable of. For your own sake, I need you to promise me.”

Yes, said Madeleine, not sure what she was agreeing to, I promise.

Her mother let go. Madeleine had an excuse to put on the B-side; La Bambola, and Dans La Ville Endormie. But she said,

Mom?

“Yes, dear?”

What’s an éminence grise?

Her mother leant forward. “Where did you hear that term?”

I just read about it somewhere.

Glancing out the window with a scoff, shake of the head, her mother said, “An éminence grise is someone who exercises power or influence without holding an official position of authority. Imagine a person who never shows his face in public. This person relies on other men to do his bidding. So, if something goes wrong, they will take the blame instead.”

Is my father an éminence grise?

Her mother raised the glass of mineral water to her lips. “He definitely works for one.”

Veering into the kitchen on the pretense of taking her mother’s glass to the sink, she stopped by the closet to put on her old pastel coat, fuzzy grey boots. Ignoring the dirty dishes on the counter, she opened the cabinet. Took the Beretta 92S from its holster, shoving it in her coat pocket.

Her mother asked where she was off to in such a hurry.

Madeleine told her that it was a nice day out. Seemed a shame to stay in here all morning. When she passed by the living room again her mother had averted her eyes to the dying cigarette in its ashtray. Madeleine added if she would like to join her outside, that was okay.

Her mother looked up. At the same moment there was a harsh knocking at the front door. The gun weighed against Madeleine’s hip, despite adjusting her stance. Her mother said, “That must be your goon. Get the door, would you? I don’t want him in the house.”

The man on the other side of the door wore a white parka, snow pants. Porcelain mask betrayed no humanity beyond the glittering eyes beneath. He tilted his head down at her and asked, “Vy Blanshar?”

Madeleine was looking at the rifle slung over his shoulder. The bodyguards all referred to their employer as The Pale King. Sorry, Madeleine said in French, you must have the wrong address. She went to close the door. He stopped her with his arm, one gloved hand resting on the jamb. Madeleine, light-headed, had to crane her neck to look him in the eyes.

Her mother called, “Shut the damn door. It’s the middle of January.”

The man’s head lifted in the direction of her voice. “Chto ona skazala?”

At school, a classmate once told her he could understand Russian partially, on account of his fluency in Polish. He was the only kid to admit to knowing Russian in such a capacity. Madeleine’s conception of Russia limited to the dissolution of the USSR, when she was five years old. A few terms on the news and in the newspapers, like glasnost and perestroika. All of it so far away. Abstract to a child who grew up without want of food, or safety.

“Blanshar,” the man reiterated, in accented English. “She is here? You know her?”

The only way to get into her father’s office was the key he carried on him. Madeleine had a very small chance to deceive this man, playing mute. With a mask, his visibility was limited. All she had to do was reach into her coat and take aim.

Rather than ask twice, he simply forced his way over the threshold. The back of his head in line of sight. Madeleine couldn’t move. Not as he turned the corner into the living room, out of sight. Not as he asked in that same, accented English, “Are you Blanshar?”

“What the hell are you doing in my house?” her mother snapped, “I can hardly understand you with that mask.”

“A message, from Adelheid.”

A wheezing, repetitive shudder; her mother’s laughter. In French she hissed, “Ernst, you son of a bitch,” switching back to English, “all right, what is this about? Money? Favours? We do more than enough for that family.”

“Your husband forgets his obligations. You will make sure he gets the message.”

Cowering against the wall, Madeleine stuck out like a bullseye in her winter coat. Shoving one hand into her coat pocket and clutching the Beretta 92S so tightly her fingers hurt.

Her mother was saying, “If you are the best Adelheid can afford, I pity her. Someone must really abhor you. I’m sure you feel very confident, under your mask. So, when I’m finished talking, you’re going to turn around, walk out the way you came in. Explain to Ms. Adelheid, or her contact, that my husband is not here, and I’ve no idea where he is. He doesn’t tell me a goddamn thing about his SPECTRE friends or the trouble he is in. Tell Adelheid I will pass along this message of yours whenever he deigns to come home. Now get the hell out of my sight.”

Two shots overpowered Madeleine’s scream. With the blood roaring in her ears, she wasn’t thinking about ballistics or shot placement. Ten years old. Choking back her breath in one fist to stop from hyperventilating.

Gunman came into view as did the shine of dark red on hardwood, the soles of his boots. The rifle around his shoulder, at ease.

Just like that, Madeleine was not a child anymore.

She drew the gun, aiming between the eyes. His whole body tensed up, an animal about to spring. Turning himself away, at an angle where the bullet wouldn’t penetrate his skull. The first shot grazed his the jaw—shattered the mask, drawing blood.

Madeleine emptied the magazine into his chest.

⁂

The colour of the sky was fading into crimson when Primo confirmed her father’s arrival in Zürich. He would be at the penthouse in a matter of minutes.

Madeleine took up a seat at the living room, where she had line-of-sight of the entrance hall.

Mr. White was a businessman first. When all was said and done, only her surface-level concerns would be addressed. It was better to settle for whatever answer she got, because he’d happily keep her waiting the rest of her life if she allowed him the opportunity. Approach him, not as her father, but a business partner who wanted to cut her a deal.

The front door opened. Her father’s voice drifting in. Despite living in a variety of different countries during her lifetime, he had never been able to leave behind his Austrian accent.

Coming into view, he’d dressed for the weather in a sharp grey coat and matching homburg hat. As he moved up the hall into the living room, his gait was a little slower. His cheeks sunken. Greyer around the temples. Through all these years spent running from his shadow, on his dime, she’d never stopped to notice. “Hello, Madeleine.”

Right out of the past, and back into her life. “Hello.”

Mr. White did not remove his hat. His eyes lingered on her face. Safin motioned to Primo, who went out. White said, “You’ve grown out your hair. It looks lovely.”

“Will you be staying?” Madeleine asked, focused on her father.

“I’m afraid I can’t for very long, I’ve got a meeting in Rome, tomorrow.” The words and tone of voice didn’t match his expression. Body language closed-off, eying her critically. Less the concerned parent and more a discerning realtor. Madeleine said nothing. Mr. White’s mouth thinned. “You must understand, Madeleine I’ve done everything in my power to let you live as you wish. And you have been exceptionally self-sufficient, always. But there are exceptions to any rule, and given your situation—”

“—are you going to tell me why?” Mr. White paused. His frown set the lines in his face into sharp relief. Madeleine levelled her tone: “I’ve been uprooted from my previous life without advance notice. Explain it to me, what could possibly be the issue? Is it my finances? Poor choice in men?”

Safin averted his attention down the hall, towards his associate. White glanced at him, back to Madeleine. Scowling. “Don’t tell me you’re still seeing that—what the hell was his name, Olivier?”

Madeleine gave a little jerk of the head. “Arnaud. The one from Oxford.”

“Oh, of course,” said Mr. White. “And, how is Arnaud?”

“He threw himself out the window.” She glanced coolly at Safin. “That little stunt in Paris, was it meant to frighten me off as well?”

“What the hell is this about?” asked White sharply, to Safin.

Safin didn’t miss a beat. “An attack, meant for her.” Giving her a look that said, don’t test your luck. “We intercepted.”

Madeleine would not be ignored. “Maybe you can tell me who was behind the insurrection in Conakry?”

“Dr. Swann,” said Safin tersely.

“It’s got to do with Conakry,” said Mr. White slowly, “but you were smart enough to keep your nose clean. Your connections to me have attracted some… let’s say, unwanted attention. Right now, it’s in your best interest to lay low. I’ve sent your credentials to a private clinic in Norway, and they are keen to interview you as soon as you’re available. It will be a higher-end establishment, but you know how to conduct yourself. They specialise in forensic psychiatry. One of your interests in university, if I recall correctly?”

“You’ve been spying on me that long?”

White ignored this. “You’ll find that once you get into the right clinics, no one is going to bother you.”

“I don’t need to hear your excuses,” Madeleine said coldly. “For once in your life, at least, tell me the truth.”

White chuckled. “You think you can sit across this table and dissect me, as if I am one of your clients? That doctorate is just a piece of paper. All it tells me is that you know how to recite from a textbook. You do not understand what I have sacrificed to keep you safe.” White looked around the room, out the window. The sunset in the glass, over the ocean. He sighed. “I don’t fault you, for however you may feel. I could have interrupted your studies. I could have pushed you into taking over the family business, in spite of your interests, and watched you grow up into the spitting image of your mother. Would you have preferred that?”

Madeleine studied her hands. “I still dream about that house in Altaussee, you know? When you finally got back, it was sunset. I had been waiting for hours. I got frostbite, because I was so afraid to go back inside.”

White shrugged. “You still feel guilty? Buy Droit a nice bouquet this Christmas.”

“I understand what you are willing to sacrifice. Perhaps I’m just another failed investment. But that’s no major loss, is it?” The look of shock on his face was almost worth the unretractable line. Madeleine looked into the old grey face. She was so tired of running. She exhaled, slowly. “I hope you will excuse my tone, papa. It’s been a very hectic week, without answers. I understand this is for my protection. And, I will not refuse your generosity.”

Mr. White blinked several times, then forced a smile. “Of course.” A man who had always been apathetic, unshakeable, showing the first signs of age. “Well, if that’s all settled, I’ll be on my way.”

Madeleine stared at his retreating figure. When the door shut behind him her eyes lingered on the empty space his body had occupied. She stood up. “What do you think you’re doing?” said Safin.

Madeleine turned. “With all due respect, it doesn’t involve you.” Too tired to argue with any conviction but unable to settle her emotions properly. “It’s not as if I’m going to change his mind on this. God knows, my mother tried. But it’s all the same trivial matter to you, isn’t it?”

Safin went very still. Six days did not leave a lot of room for prolonged familiarity, but the expression on his face engendered an immediate sense of regret.

“I forget,” he began, in a voice that came from a dead throat, “how ignorant you are of your situation. I will explain, this one time. Your family spat, and what you believe you witnessed a week ago, are of no importance in the big picture. If you value your life, you will take me at my word.”

Madeleine’s eyes drifted to the window and the empty horizon. Trapped in her contempt, unwilling to back down for the sake of pride. Safin wasn’t her father, or Arnaud, or anyone else that could be bartered with. She did the next best thing and checked the larder in the kitchen. Fetched the bottle of liquor that had not been touched. Opening cabinets, setting the glass on the counter with unnecessary force, pouring a shot. Downed it like medicine, coughing. Her nose burned. Glancing at Safin through a grimace, she said, “You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you? Just another trust-fund baby with daddy issues.”

The smile was very slight, but it touched his eyes. Amber eyes.

Madeleine averted her gaze to the bottle on the counter with uncharacteristic interest. “How much do you suppose I could drink before I pass out?”

“Assuming your tolerance, it won’t kill you. You might wish it had.”

“Please,” said Madeleine with an imprecise wave of the hand, “don’t pretend as if you care.”

The expression on Safin’s face would suggest he was, at best, affronted. “You speak this way to all of your CPOs?”

“Oh, yes. You’ve been assigned to babysit me. Did my father select you personably?” Safin threw her a very odd look. “Personably? No, that’s—personable. Merde. Personably.” She ambled to the kitchen table with a slight waver and took a seat. She scoffed. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You pity me.” He kept her in his peripherals. “That’s your problem, you know? You want me to think you don’t give a damn, but you stare too much.” He was definitely studying her. Just to make sure this wasn’t some kind of half-assed attempt at a come-on. Some phony mental exercise. Trailing off for a second with renewed fascination, she added, “You have beautiful eyes.” Safin blinked slowly. “Ah, I guess that was a little forward. Has anyone told you?”

“You’re intoxicated,” he muttered, with a slight scowl.

Madeleine didn’t need a doctorate to tell you that keeping a man’s attention was no different anywhere. An unfixable melancholy in her eyes and smile. The humanitarian angle never got her any points, but it looked good on a resume.

“I don’t usually do this, sorry. I must be causing you a lot of trouble.” Interpreting his silence as a grant to continue. “Can I tell you a secret? I don’t believe I have ever been in love. I don’t even know how to lie about it. If you put a gun to my head I don’t know what I’d do. Does that make sense?”

“Dr. Swann.”

“Don’t be so formal, you’ve already called me Madeleine.” A flood of warmth stirred within her breast, separate from the buzz of intoxication. Admitting her feelings in such a casual, vulnerable way. The esurient flaw of the lonesome. “People must tell you all sorts of things. Do you just learn to tune it out, or—” Safin came over and took her by the arm about as graciously as when he’d steered her into the Jeep “—pour l’amour de Dieu,” she grumbled, brushing him away, “I’m tipsy, that’s all. Give me a minute.”

He obliged. Madeleine glanced down at her hands. Seeking closure from a man whose job it was to remain impartial. Maybe trust was a bridge too far.

“Do you drink tea, Dr. Swann?”

Madeleine blinked. Safin was on the other side of the room, opening and closing cupboards, retrieving a porcelain tea set and kettle. A dark silhouette against warm light, filling the kettle with water at the refrigerator tap. Moving over to the stove, clicking on the burner.

“When I used to live with my mother’s sister. She made a lot of black tea. I remember that it was awfully bitter but I didn’t mind at the time. It might have been Earl Grey.”

“Did she squeeze the sachet?”

Madeleine looked up sharply. “How did you know?”

“It shouldn’t be overly bitter. But a lot of people never learn how to make tea properly.” He indicated the tin to his right. “Any preference?”

“Decaffeinated. It’s getting late.” Madeleine got up. Hiss of the boiling water put her in a soporific trance that could just as easily be attributed to the liquor. She lingered by the counter until her arm bumped his. He glanced over. Not accusatory, assessing.

“It won’t be as strong,” he said. “The temperature should be in the range of 71-100°C, depends on the kind of tea. Red tea, or black tea to you, it brews at 100°C. But only at sea level. This matters more with delicate brews. Even a commercial brand—” he gestured “—is workable if you know what to do.” Transferring the boiling water from kettle to teapot, placing a sachet into the empty teacup, he poured the boiling water directly onto it. “Should be five minutes. Any longer, and it will be too bitter.” He paused. “I’m not boring you?”

“No. You don’t exactly come off as the type to offer anyone tea.”

His mouth twitched. “Primo would get along with you.”

Madeleine smiled back. “What kind of name is it? Safin,” she clarified.

“My mother told me it was Turkish, pronounced it Şahin. My brother said it was Arabic.” His shoulders lifted. “There are many different Safins in the world. Could just be misspelled.”

Four minutes later, he removed the sachets. She took the cup, scorching against her palms. Rather than sitting at the table she stood at the counter. “So, you’re seeing me to Norway?”

“That’s correct.”

Staring into her cup. “I didn’t really mind, leaving Paris. The rent was tolerable. I couldn’t stand working at that clinic. Everyone wanted to be friends. What I would do, to have problems like that. I used to daydream about it when I was a little girl. Whatever normal people did with their lives.” Madeleine shook her head. “Look at this. I’m actually talking to you about my life.”

“You’re not special. Just another bleeding heart with too much money.”

Madeleine chuckled. Grief stuck around in her stomach like a tangible weight. The liquor, just a counter to stoicism. “At least you’re honest.”

“You mistake self-preservation for altruism. It is not your job to be the world’s saviour. There are those that will die in your stead, not because you are weak but because life can be very cruel. It’s impossible to protect everyone you love, no matter how much it pains you.” He paused. “As far as charities go, there are worse ones than Médecins Sans Frontiers.”

“I’m so glad you approve,” Madeleine drawled. “Why don’t you explain this to me, I’m absolutely fascinated.”

He paused. “They are dependent, most often, upon the goodwill of donations. If an overwhelming crisis were to occur, cast them in an unfavourable light, it would be simple enough to take over. Once you are in control of operations, whatever you wish. Circumvent the money’s destination. Blame it on terrorism.” He glanced over. “The problem isn’t altruism. That’s good for business. It is everything else that gets in the way of honest men.”

She frowned. “You’ve thought about this very deeply.”

Safin shrugged. “It’s relative to what you’re trying to accomplish. You see enough suffering in the world. You are willing to face it. I can respect that.” Something almost imperceptible in his expression. Could have been a trick of the light. “Who taught you how to shoot?”

“My father. We had men on-post, around the house.” She took a sip of tea. “There was one time, they were unusually late. My father was away on a business trip. His gun was in the kitchen cabinet under the sink, and maman didn’t know how to use it. There was a knock at the door. She guessed it was the bodyguard. He was wearing this mask you might see in a museum.” Another sip. “Anyone with half-a-brain could tell you he was not there to take me to school. He kept asking for Blanshar, which was maman’s surname.”

She shook her head, mouth dry.

“I thought I could keep him busy because I had my father’s gun in my coat. But he invited himself in. Said he was there on behalf of Adelheid, I’ve no idea who that could be. My father never mentioned anyone with that name. Maman was just sitting there, and I—” tears sprung to her eyes, unbidden. Blinking them away, she continued in a girl’s wispy register “—I wanted to kill him so badly I didn’t care about dying myself. That’s what I thought. I fired nine shots into his chest. He must’ve had a bulletproof vest, which I didn’t consider at the time. I just assumed he would kill me—but, he let me go. Not maman, of course. Only me.

“My father found me outside that same evening. He put me into boarding school so I would have an excuse to miss the funeral. I remember hearing that he paid a lot of money for a closed-casket, which I never understood. There was no body to speak of. He moved back to Nittedal that same year, because there was a gas leak,” she scoffed, “if you catch my inference.”

“What happened to the gunman?”

“My father kept the old arrest records. Turns out it was this contract killer from the CIS—Vadim Durmaz. The police had his hotel reservations and the rifle he used. He was still injured when they found him.” She smiled. “Could you believe he was only seventeen? Anyway, it’s been about that many years, since it happened. I like to think he’s rotting underground somewhere.” She drank the rest of her tea. Safin was staring down into the tin. Madeleine said, “It’s not a very conclusive story.”

Still, he didn’t answer. Tension in his shoulders persistent. She got up to take her empty cup to the sink and he said, “My French was terrible.” Madeleine stopped in her tracks. “I spoke German well enough to get by at customs. Of course, my accent couldn’t be helped.”

Turning around as Madeleine took a step back and then another. Retreating until the backs of her legs hit the table. Shaking her head, whispering, “No. No, this isn’t—you are not making sense.”

“I didn’t know König had a daughter. My client told me where to go and who to shoot.” He gestured to a small scar just under his right ear. “If not for your hesitance, I would be dead as you say.” The expression on his face struck someplace in her gut. Like making eye-contact with a guard dog on the opposite side of a fence. “Later, I was told the authorities planted the physical evidence into the room of a different tourist at a different hotel, close-by. He’s likely the one who showed up in the arrest records.” Safin turned away first. “You shouldn’t worry about being targeted. You are smarter than your mother.”

“What the hell is this? Your idea of a confession? Were you hoping for my forgiveness? What, because you decided not to murder me that day? Because I’m smarter than someone who was so sick, she could barely walk around by herself?” A flicker in his expression, jarred out of indifference. Human vulnerability. She sneered with all the power she had left, “Don’t tell me you feel guilty.”

“It was a clean hit until you opened the door.” He didn’t have to raise his voice to make himself clear. Speech deliberate, tightly controlled, not for her sake. “I just didn’t want collateral.”

Madeleine’s laugh came out harsher. “Of course. Nothing is ever personal to men like you.” Safin turned around, but there was nothing to say that could acquit him. Her only weapon was contempt. “Don’t try and justify yourself. I don’t want to hear it.”

Retreating into the privacy of her room, the curtains were drawn. Suitcase laid on the centre of her bed. The door to the bathroom ajar as she’d left it. In the bathroom the light was on. Collapsing to sit on the edge of the bed, heart in her throat, she pushed her face into her palms.

Violent, wracking sobs without noise.

The first time unmasking this phantom through records, Madeleine was unprepared to find only a man. A face and identity assigned to her recollection. Human just like her, only seven years older. Perhaps with a family to mourn his loss. Her father speculated mob ties. Madeleine stared at the photo, trying to corroborate the two identities; Vadim Durmaz, L’homme masqué. Crossing paths only in dreams.

Once she lost the strength to cry, once the old burden around her heart subsided enough to breathe, only then did Madeleine rise from the bed. Stumbling into the bathroom to fix her face. Checking the suitcase to discover her new clothes already packed. She dug out the Glock 32, tucked between the folds of that morbid raincoat. Sitting at the end-table by her bed, ejecting the magazine. For old time’s sake.

She heard the gait coming. Could be Primo, coming to check if she was rational. Perfectly lucid. Just having a moment. Didn’t these men understand that jarring her out of such a fragile state could be detrimental? What did a couple of hired thugs know about empathy?

The knock at her door still made her hackles raise. “Dr. Swann.”

She said, “It’s unlocked.”

The knob did not turn. Madeleine got up. Opening her door to the same monster under a different alias, corroded by time and exposure. At this range, it would take one clean shot to the chest. An insurmountable burden lifted from her shoulders with the surprise flickering over his scarred face. Wine-red stain blooming across the dress shirt. Catching himself on the jamb, leaning against it. His breath wheezing, congealed. With a punctured lung he would have fifteen minutes. Less with the likelihood of internal damage, or the associate’s reaction time. Sliding to the floor, a trickle of blood from his mouth. Drowning from the inside. Primo would catch up, and that would be the end for the daughter of Frederich König.

Such a pity that her parents brought up a liar, not a killer. Hands balling to empty fists, nails into her palms, grounding her in this seventeen year-old nightmare. The heartless killer still had the courtesy to give her space. She whispered, “No one has ever told me what really happened to maman.” Her eyes prickled. Worrying her lip. The child’s anguish bleeding through cracks in her composure. “Tell me,” she said, gesticulating to the gun on the table, “why you would give this to me, after what you have explained?”

In one hand, he produced the box of 9mm Speer Gold Dot JHP ammo. “Protection.” His voice a little softer. She could be forgiven, for misinterpreting reassurance out of apathy. “That is the only reason, Dr. Swann.”

The way he looked through her, it made her whole body turn cold. Her greatest triumph was to lay in bed each night, whispering to no one, I could have stopped this. I could have.

Now, grasping at this inexorable truth, this exoneration from her mother’s slaughter, she almost asked him to stay. A preposterous notion with no acceptable conclusion. Her mother’s killer, sitting by the bedside, watching over her. Watching the door. As a child, there was never a hand to hold in the dark.

Safin said, “Your flight departs at at 07:40. We’ll leave an hour before then. Be ready.”

He closed the door softly. Madeleine took the Glock, placing it back exactly as she found it. Beyond the curtains, there was no one left to lie to but her reflection.

EDIT: 11/06/22: Cleaned up the ending dialogue and fixed formatting in html.

#fanfiction #fanfic #lyutsifer safin #madeleine swann #mr. white #nttd #multichapter #no time to die

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