— * the last man on earth.

But that would be a lie. Her attraction runs deeper than that.

It's why when he calls her beautiful, she can look past the ring and blush. Deep brown eyes, now half lidded with her own need for sleep, gaze at him. Kiss him. Just kiss him. He looks so soft in this light, a face deserving to be cradled in between her palms, messy hair made wilder as her fingers navigate through them, pushing the locks out of his face, pulling the truth and answers along with the strands as they fall from between her fingers. A slow nod at the confession. "I... I could've guessed." Softly spoken, the same butterflies fluttering around deep in her core. "But, uhm, thank you... I—" She stops the thought, stalling it. She should let him sleep. Should cut this now. Should walk into her room, close the door and go to bed. "I want you to find me beautiful. I'm glad you do." Her heart is hammering against her ribs, she feels it all the way into her lungs through her stomach.

Another nod. "Yeah, yeah, I was part of my church and school choir. Church until I was nineteen and then school from, like... God..." She laughs, thinking of how long ago it was. "Sixth grade until I graduated and then I did some college play stuff but only for a year." She waves off the experience, having played Maureen from RENT! and then a few smaller roles throughout the season. It was an experience but she much preferred focusing on her program classes in the end. Eyebrows raise, excitement over the idea of him sitting at a piano, keys under his fingers even if they were just clanging along and laughing. She's sure he's entertained his wife the same way, it may be why he didn't learn, but it's an act of affection that warms her.

Even if it's another woman in the picture.

"I'd be happy to make an attempt to teach; I'm very patient." She notes with a final nod and a smile, happy to put herself into a new picture. A picture that includes healthy debates, banter, late-night talks on current politics and the ever-changing world around them as they enter the new millennium. Those dreams are tabled with the news that Edward has been to Susan's home. A privilege Sophia herself hasn't even been given, and they're in a book club together. Hand covers her mouth, what's basically a shriek of excitement being muffled. "I'm sorry, I'm just so taken aback that you've actually been to her house!" A quiet exclamation, hanging on the fact that he knows how elusive their colleague lives. She has her own few choices on his adoration of Crime and Punishment, as well as enjoying other Russian lit. Sophia has already admitted her lack of education on such topics; however, she knows enough from her brothers to realize it's all depressing and thorough in the romantics of suffering.

She needs to get out of there. Safely under the blankets of her bed and away from the temptation that is sure to damn her further. The energy from him is drawing her back, and she actively ignores it, unable to allow herself to imagine what isn't there with him. If he'd wanted to kiss her he would've by now right? He would've taken advantage of those moments? Then again, she could've as well. Would it be worse to be rebuffed than to commit adultery? Would it be worse to bring those eyes closer to her, hold his gaze and press her lips to his, eyelashes fluttering against her cheek during a long embrace? Or is it worse to suffer in silence? Maintain their dignity and innocence?

A fresh blanket is folded in her arms, smile softening as she takes him in. Exhausted. Sleepy. Still fighting sleep like a child that's been told they can stay up past their bedtime as a reward. The babble that comes from him elicits a laugh, soft, quiet; she pads over to him across the carpet that now needs to be cleaned. Carefully, she sets the new blanket down, grabbing one of the pillows from the end of the couch and tucking it into the space on Edward's opposite side. "Here, go ahead and rest." A gentle encouragement as she unfolds the blanket for him.

But he wouldn’t be here at all if he weren’t delusional, so there’s that.

He wants to ask about the college plays: whether the scenery was always falling apart, whether being on a stage made her feel alive. His own stage credits are limited to rigid school productions that left his mum crying with silent laughter because, according to her, he looked like he was reading a ransom note whenever he tried to deliver his lines. He would always scowl at her for that, only to find himself years later in the exact same position as a father: other people having to shush him and Esme — almost always the youngest parents there and by far the most immature — while the two of them sat in the back row, completely losing it because one of their daughters was playing a horse and the papier-mâché head had spontaneously fallen off and rolled across the stage. "I have so many questions about the plays. What shows did you do? Or, if there are too many to name, which one was your favourite?"

I’m very patient. He could intellectualise that, reach for some unnecessarily long words to explain exactly what it makes him feel, construct an elaborate theory about restraint and devotion and the particularities of wanting someone. But the reality is much simpler: it’s hot. Nobody needs to swallow a thesaurus to admit that. Patience is one of the traits Edward finds the most attractive, despite possessing absolutely none of it himself. But for Sophia, he knows he’d be patient. In guitar lessons, certainly, but beyond that too. He knows he could wait for anything. The fact that he hasn’t thrown himself across the sofa to kiss her like a teenager tonight is, in his mind, proof of restraint in action. She doesn’t need to know that he often dreams of the opposite — of her patience finally running out. Of Sophia, flushed and flustered, pulling him into empty rooms at Horizons, or down onto the sofa he now knows the colour of, already certain his future fantasies will adjust accordingly, filling in the new details her apartment has revealed. "I've been to Susan's house and lived to tell the tale. I deserve a medal, truly."

Another opportunity to kiss her presents itself when she sets down the new blanket. Another opportunity that Edward already knows himself well enough to know he won’t seize. All he wants is to pull her down next to him, to nudge his nose against her cheek, to sleepily kiss her face — her forehead, the corner of her jaw, the tip of her nose. To fall asleep with his head on her shoulder or in her lap, feeling her nails scratch softly across his scalp, her fingers carding through his hair until sleep swallows him. It feels as though Sophia's read his mind. At first, he thinks he’s imagining it: the hand brushing his hair away from his face. He leans into the touch instinctively, eyes closing briefly, a small, shaky sigh escaping. Turning his head to nudge against her palm like Clíodhna, fighting the urge to press a kiss there. But she’s gone too soon. Her hand disappears, pulled back as though he’s a hot stove. Edward wants to tell her not to apologise, that all he wants to do is melt into her touch, that all the tension in his body drained the moment her fingers found his hair. He wants to tell her that she has no idea how much she’s given him in such a small gesture, that she's been so gentle with him he feels like he could cry.

Exhaustion makes him braver, but not that brave. He says none of it.

"Thank you. For letting me stay." Quiet and reverent. The Ghost and Mrs. Muir. The reference catches up with him belatedly, a flicker of excitement crossing his tired face as he realises he understands it. He’s too afraid to acknowledge the obvious parallels between the film and his relationship with Sophia, just as he refuses to admit that his own favourite film, Roman Holiday, is currently unfolding in her apartment. "I was in love with Gene Tierney as a kid." It ages him, he thinks, that he grew up falling for the likes of Gene Tierney and Eartha Kitt rather than existing in this strange, modern world full of technology he doesn’t understand and people he definitely doesn’t understand. God knows what the millennium will bring. The machines will probably take over.

Usually, he loves like a timid cat: slowly inching his way closer to people he likes, testing whether it’s safe, always ready to lurch back the moment things move too quickly. But with Sophia, everything's moved far too fast — a headrush if ever there was one — and somehow, he’s still here, wanting more. He catches her hand gently before she can leave, thumb brushing once over her knuckles. "Stay with me?" A second brush, almost absent-mindedly hopeful. "Just until I fall asleep?" If she agrees, he already knows he’ll fight like hell to keep his eyes open, that her face will swim in and out of focus until sleep has the audacity to pull them apart.

Head shakes slowly at his statement about the cabs. They both know the city never sleeps, and so neither do the transport services, but much like the daydreams of traveling and a life away from here, he seems to choose the same ideal: playing dumb. I'd love it if you stayed. I have plenty of room in my bed. You're always welcome here. Instead, "No, not at all an inconvenience."

Her spine straightens a bit. He thinks she's beautiful. She knows she's beautiful, but it's different when someone you want says it. It reinforces what she'd long known, but both had chosen to keep a secret. Her heart all but stops, cheeks flush, and all she can do is laugh a little bit. Nerves, playing it off for his sake, or the inability to do what she wants to do following the compliment, she isn't sure, but she laughs softly all the same. Looking at him through her own lashes now, the blush all too honest about her feelings for her to look up again, she chooses to drop her gaze and follow the patterns on the quilt, picking at a loose thread. "I-I-I," A nod while she gathers her words. "I got what you meant... Thank you."

Finally, she looks up again, lips pressing into a thin line as she gazes off to the side and thinks. "God... I think it was probably some choir song? We played a lot of more religious songs, but when I was older, I taught myself Smoke On The Water." Her boyfriend at the time was a Deep Purple fan so she learned it in an attempt to impress him further. An act of teenage love. She smiles as he speaks of his own musical experience, or lack thereof, finding it so romantic to have a loved one teach you a new language, one that doesn't require speaking. "Piano is hard, but if you ever want to learn more, I'd be happy to teach you some easy songs on guitar. I don't have a piano, unfortunately. It would clash with the hardwood." As if the clash was the bigger factor, not the entire lack of space.

"Not for a while. Maybe one day." There's nothing left for her to say about her birthplace, and she doesn't feel much like elaborating right now. It does, however, seem they have that much in common: classism. She knows a thing or two about lost opportunities or outright being denied because of where she came from or what she lacked in financial security. Her place on the proverbial totem pole solidified before she'd even known it existed. "I would join you in that rant, so it is probably best saved for another night." She chuckled, eyebrows raising a bit at some of the memories. The key difference is that despite all she ran from, she remained rooted in the bones that built her. The bloodied knuckles of her father in the mines, the scars on both of her parents' feet as they fled a country that had every intention of dragging them down- she proudly stands with her head held high of where she came from; accent and all.

There's a silence she can't quite place that settles over them. The compliment about her hands, coming from his mouth, punctuated by his gaze falling on her fingers and his ruddy cheeks. She isn't sure what to say. To her, it's the thing that they also both seem to have in common; there's little desire to be anything less than authentic. Are there things about herself she's yet to tell him? Of course, on the flipside, she's sure there are truths he's omitted for the sake of privacy, for the sake of preservation where trust has yet to be built. But when he speaks of her hands and the honesty they deliver, it's a level of observation that has only been expressed by close friends she no longer sees. There is a breath stuck in her lungs, begging to be exhaled and let fresh oxygen fill the space, but she has yet to figure out how to do so without it seeming like she's gasping. Like she wasn't just thinking about tossing the quilts aside and giving to him what every man she'd ever met tried so hard to obtain. Like being seen was enough to both suffocate and revive her.

"Somewhere in Vegas, Susan knows you're giving all sorts of great psychological information, and she's pissed she's not here to hear it." It comes out breathy, strained, but she's finally able to breathe. To swallow down the dryness in her throat. "But I do know Crime and Punishment; I had to read most of it for one of my psych classes in undergrad. It is not helping your case against Susan at all." She laughs, mostly teasing him but also now very much curious as to what the fuck has gone on in Edwards' life. Dostoevsky was one of his favorite authors. "I'm going to tell her I met your dad just to see what happens. She'll probably combust."

Hazy in a good way. We could make it happen. It's an interesting exploration of what trauma will do to a brain that is finally able to relax. To a body that does not have to fight. But Edward is not her experiment. He's not a patient. He's someone she cares for, and she doesn't want to betray his trust in her by asking therapeutic questions. Even though she wants to know him inside and out. She doesn't need a degree, nor the spoken words, to know he has faced unspeakable moments in life. It's evident in the way he carries himself, and in the bits of his life she's been honored to be told about. Whether it's from surviving the war, parental issues, or some life-altering event, a combination of them all, Sophia hopes he'll tell her one day. For now, there's a sense of duty to him. A sense that if she cannot be his, she can give him a space to feel safe. To feel free.

She wants to utterly ruin the moment and give in. "I would like that as well... Very much so." Self-restraint is a virtue.

It doesn't take long for her to be on her knees in front of him, not the way she'd hoped to be, and too focused on the social faux pas to realize his lack of eye contact is giving away his own fantasies. "Tired brain." She laughs off, looking up to say something, hopefully something witty, only to realize their faces are barely inches apart, close enough she can smell his cologne and the smoke with tea on his breath and his voice in her ear. He's right there. Is he making the first move? The hope diffuses when he snatches himself back, quilts in hand, one shoe unlaced.

Composure. Regain your composure. Slowly, she lets out a shaky breath, picking the cup up and moving it back to the coffee table, debating if her legs are strong enough to stand or if she'd make like Bambi the moment she tried. A hard swallow, she finally tries, unable to stop the short laugh at his quip. "Look out, Naomi Campbell, fashion is actually in Vegas." She teases in return, the urgent need to get away from the situation overwhelming. She finally leans over, grabs the now empty cups and takes them to the kitchen.

In the end, he looks away from the phone, thoroughly ashamed of himself. Gaze dropping to his hands, thumb brushing over his wedding ring as if the familiar weight of it might somehow recentre him.

He imagines Sophia must hear she’s beautiful ad nauseam. He prefers to pretend he’s above noticing things like beauty, intellectualising attraction as if it’s something he can shut off, but beneath everything, he’s always been captivated by women. He regularly finds himself gazing at Nari, unable to comprehend how someone could be so beautiful, literally married to her yet often still as bashful around her as a lovesick teenager asking someone to a school dance. And Sophia’s beauty is undeniable: hair like late autumn leaves that he can’t stop thinking about getting his hands tangled in, lips he wants to brush the pad of his thumb over; the same lips he keeps trying not to look at, although he doesn’t even need to anymore. He’s memorised her mouth, dreamed of it so often that reminders are unnecessary. "I didn’t mean that. When I said it was just about your voice. I lied." The confession comes out hurriedly, like he’s a child admitting to colouring on the walls — not because they’re noble enough to confess, but because they know their parents are about to notice their crayon-stained hands and think they’ll get in less trouble for admitting it outright. "I was trying to say that you’re beautiful. Just in general. Your hair. Your smile. How kind you are. People must tell you that all the time." But I mean it more than they do. The thought is so pathetically petulant for a grown man that he’s quietly horrified it entered his mind at all.

Smoke on the Water gets filed away. A choir implies a church, although he supposes there are non-denominational choirs. He wants to ask for clarification, unsure if it’s an overstep. "Choir, as in a church choir?" The thought of being taught how to play the guitar by Sophia prompts the same strange combination of warmth and dread as so many things about their relationship. Like the self-defence lesson, Edward knows the reality would be excruciating: her hands showing him what to do, resting over his as she guides them both over the strings. On a positive note, it would be an excuse to study her hands under the guise of an education. But he’s never needed an excuse to study them, has he? "We have a piano." It's offered quietly. We. Nari. In his home. Their home. He's acutely aware that the most predictable thing a man in his position could do is have an affair, and remains frustrated with himself for pursuing this, yet also unable to step off the carousel of clichés. Because it’s Sophia, and that, Edward's learning, is always a good enough reason. But it’s also a reminder that there is a we. That Nari’s hands have also been studied by him; that they were one of the first things that made him realise he was falling in love with her, unable to understand why he couldn’t tear his gaze away, too frightened and too stupid to accept the obvious explanation. "But I would love to learn how to play. I can’t promise I won’t make you regret offering, though. I’m pretty clumsy with stuff like that."

Not for a while. Maybe one day. He has a terrible track record with social cues, but even Edward recognises a closed door when he sees one. Not slammed; just closed for now. So he doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask why not, or what it would feel like to return home if she did. I would join you in that rant, so it is probably best saved for another night. "Another night, then." Another dream, perhaps. A safer one than most: ranting together. God, he’ll really have to find a way to curb the swearing, though. He can’t think of a single political rant he’s ever gone on that hasn’t mostly consisted of cursing. Back in Ireland, his mother always said he would’ve made an excellent politician if he wasn’t so enamoured with the word fuck. Unfortunately, everyone knew that if he ever made it into Leinster House, he’d spend his entire career being removed from debates for swearing at his peers.

He’s seen where Susan lives, having helped her home once when her car broke down. He doesn’t want to describe it as a lair, but... if the shoe fits. She’d been strangely excited about him being there, all giggles and hair twirling, which he's never tried to examine. Sophia offers threads and Edward wants to pull them. Susan offers the same, and he debates the merits of walking into the desert and never returning. "I bet she’s awake right now, listening. Her house is very odd. I’ve only been there once, but it’s definitely haunted. Although perhaps it’s just haunted by Susan herself." A sheepish pause. "I feel mean sometimes when I speak about her like this, but then she goes and says something ridiculous and my conscience is washed clean." It’s all in jest anyway, and Susan seems to enjoy arguing with him, telling Edward he’s going to hell with the kind of smirk that suggests she’d quite like to join him there. "But God, I love Crime and Punishment." Of course he bloody does. The most predictable thing possible: being a Russian literature fanboy. But there are so many books he cannot be remotely normal about; once he starts, he’ll go on and on and on. Sometimes Clíodhna is the only one he can convince to listen. She’ll meow throughout his one-man literary debates, and he’ll nod at her each time, taking it as agreement. Exactly, Clio. "And, oh, please do that. We need to make it ridiculous. Tell her my dad only speaks in riddles and ran away with the circus. I told her he worked for a circus once, but I don’t think she believed me. I mean, I did also tell her he stitched the Bayeux Tapestry and painted the Sistine Chapel ceiling during the same conversation. How Susan hasn’t murdered me yet remains one of life’s mysteries."

Before he’d lurched back, he’d seen Sophia’s eyes closer than ever before: little flecks of colour he hadn’t known existed until tonight. Soft lashes. His list of reasons for being doomed hardly requires any additions, but he makes the revision anyway. He knows he should’ve kissed her; the perfect moment had presented itself, and he’d squandered it. When Sophia stands, he silently wills her not to leave. His hand moves from his knee as if to reach for her arm, to gently pull her back, but he loses courage almost as soon as he lifts it and his fingers curl uselessly around the empty air.

Can I get you anything else to be comfortable? As pitiful as it sounds, all he wants is her. To rest his head on her shoulder and fall asleep. To allow himself to be that bold, even for a moment. But he can’t say it, so instead: "No, I’m okay, but thank you, Sophia." The tea-stained socks are still damp and uncomfortable — a sensory hell — but somehow the thought of being barefoot in her apartment feels worse. Too intimate. Too vulnerable. So Edward resigns himself to enduring it. His shoes seem to have taken the worst of the spillage, at least. Besides, he’s struggling to keep his eyes open, frustrated with himself that all his body seems to want is to give in, to slump forward, when there's still so much he'd like to ask Sophia. He tries to form another question, but he’s so exhausted that the words come out unintelligible, leaving him laughing softly at himself and covering his face. "Oh my God. Sorry. That was meant to be, ‘What’s your favourite film?'"

Yes. Sophia would like that to happen; however, the cat is so tightly coiled against Edward that she does not see her giving up the warmth of his leg. If anything, the little beast could probably read Sophia's mind. Women know women; call it a cosmic connection between species. There have been studies showing the relationship between people and animals regarding emotional well-being. It's why therapy animals have become so popular in the late 90's. They can sense just as well as any trained therapist. She's sure that this means the cat could probably see the imagery of his fingers running through red locks, cool touch brushing her scalp, her jaw, her cheeks, tracing her lips, playing out in Sophia's mind on a wide screen.

So she stands there, shifting the weight on her feet, debating if it's worth going against holy advice. If it's worth the potential of damnation.

"I also support her. It's the Lord's Day somewhere, I'm sure of it. She deserves a rest." She chuckles, the cat's eyes opening briefly to observe Sophia before nuzzling closer into Edward's palm, as if teasing the redhead. She definitely knows.

She knows that Sophia is currently running through her knowledge of Dante's Inferno and wondering if it's worth the wrongs she's about to commit. Unfortunately for her soul, the more he speaks, the more his voice develops a gravitational pull, moving her towards him. Fingers glide along the back of the pew, feet feeling detached from her until she reaches him, looking down into his eyes, studying his face, before finally taking a seat.

It's sad in a way how the sound of his face made the decision of her fate for her.

She can feel the dimples in her cheeks right now, an all-consuming feeling without a name, without a reason, without a root, that burns her from the inside out. There's still a high from telling someone, from wanting to share with Edward because he would care. He would listen to her thoughts and feelings and share his own. There's not enough naivety for him to understand or share the same excitement, but there is enough for her to believe he would care simply because she does. That whatever knowledge he has about rejection and recovery would deepen their connection in one of the most daunting and holy of spaces.

"Nothin' ain't nothin'." She quotes softly, eyes dropping to their benchmate, who is now looking fully at Sophia. "Please, don't apologize. I'm sure it isn't easy being an owner of a large business or multiple large businesses." A brief pause as she holds her hand out to the cat, a peace offering accepted with a wet-nosed bump against her fingers, earning scratches to her ears and down her spine, the same purr echoing between them. "I uhm, I'm glad you're enjoying Janis. She's a very different vocalist..." A trail-off as a question pops into her head: why that line in particular called to him. Instead, she focuses on the apology, adding it to her ever-growing list. "I really enjoyed having your company... I've been looking forward to our self-defense lesson." An excuse to see him. An excuse to touch him with intention. An excuse to talk about books, an excuse to talk about music, media, the future, the past, and the present. An excuse to explore this man who has remained a specter to the majority of Vegas yet has blessed her with a backstage pass to his inner thoughts.

He watches Sophia’s fingers dance over the pew, brushing the weathered grain of the wood before stopping beside him. He wills himself to hold her gaze, hand momentarily stilling in the cat's fur, mid-stroke, as he looks up, eyes soft and unguarded.

Nothin' ain't nothin' “If it ain't free,” he finishes the line for her with a small, conspiratorial smile, like they’re sharing something nobody else would understand. His gaze follows hers to the cat between them, to the gentleness with which Sophia strokes her. It's so easy to imagine it’s Clíodhna instead; that their impossible plans for Sophia to visit his home have somehow come to fruition. They could wander the grounds until the manor disappeared behind the trees and everything became quiet. He'd show her his favourite hiding places, listen to the birdsong together and try to identify each species—a game he already plays silently in his own head, though he'd always imagined it would be better shared. He’d find her a mug in one of her favourite colours. Show her the library: warm fairy lights reflected in the dark windows, towering shelves, untidy stacks of books that his housekeeper continually scolds him for leaving unshelved, and for constantly buying more. To the point where he’s started smuggling new books into the library as though they’re contraband.

He has so many questions for her; those already waiting on his original list, and countless new ones surging forward now that he’s found her here. What were you confessing? is the obvious, indecorous question, the one sitting at the forefront of his mind and the one he knows he absolutely cannot ask. Everything else feels equally enormous. Do you believe in God? What does faith mean to you? Are we living in a secular age, or are people simply finding new things to worship?

Please, don't apologize. I'm sure it isn't easy being an owner of a large business or multiple large businesses. He doesn’t know what to say, so he opts for the coward’s choice of saying nothing at first. Even if he dressed every one of his businesses up as legitimate — and conveniently ignored the minor detail of the literal money laundering — the sheer number of places he owns still feels obscene. "It’s the paperwork, mostly. It’s like, if I blink, it multiplies. Horizons generates mountains of it, and the previous Vitelli administration were..." He almost swears; almost says fucking abysmal. Only now does he realise how tightly he reins himself in around Sophia, diluting the colourful Irish vocabulary and only ever speaking like a gentleman. Another deception, he supposes, like refusing to smoke around her, as though she’d somehow believe he didn’t have the habit at all despite the scent lingering in his clothes; constantly trying to present the most respectable version of himself. "Well. Let’s just say that the occult practices in the basement consist primarily of me arguing with misfiled folders." He nods at the mention of Janis Joplin. "Very different, but in the best way." He wonders whether he’d enjoy it half as much if he weren’t so hopelessly smitten with Sophia. Perhaps not, but Edward suspects she could recommend circus music and he’d convince himself it was highbrow art deserving of a bloody Grammy.

The self-defence lesson. God. He’s been staring down the inevitability of it in the same way he imagines most people would reserve for staring down the date of their own execution. Not seeing it through would be worse, though; he'd never forgive himself if he backed out of helping Sophia. Unfortunately, actually imagining the lesson is agonising no matter which way he tries to spin it. Furniture pushed aside to make room, his shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, suit jacket and tie abandoned over her marigold sofa. The lesson beginning earnestly enough before inevitably collapsing beneath the weight of its own distractions. Explaining wrist locks to the wallpaper because looking directly at her would feel impossible. Her hair falling between them as they tumbled across the floor while he demonstrated how to break free from a hold; how he’d need to keep his legs locked around her waist, wrestle with her arms, try to pin her wrists down. It would be easier if he could make it ridiculous, like slapstick theatre. Something almost childlike about two people their age play-fighting in the middle of her living room. But he knows it wouldn't be like that: it'd be tension-soaked and impossible. How is he meant to survive it? He supposes he'll just have to imagine he's wrestling with Susan instead. "Oh. Definitely. I’ve been thinking about the lesson, trying to remember everything I know. I haven't taught anyone in a while, but I want to get it right for you. It's important."

He’s genuinely stunned into silence when she thanks him, his brain short-circuiting. He did something nice for someone... and they’re thanking him for it? Dealing with criminals on a daily basis means Edward's life is full of people who are openly hostile towards him — not that he’s innocent either, always willing to spit venom straight back at them. But Sophia’s consistent kindness keeps breaking something fundamental about his understanding of people. He has to consult the imaginary societal handbook in his head, trying to imitate what he imagines a normal person would say. "You’re welcome. It was nice to see the city at night. Usually I’m at home, so..." His voice trails off awkwardly; apparently even the cat finds his conversational skills unbearable, because she hops down from the pew with a dismissive flick of her tail, weaving between the benches before disappearing further into the church. "Well, that’s rude. She didn’t even say goodbye." He laughs quietly, despite the fact that without her wedged between them, the empty space feels dangerous.

"Do you come here often? I’m surprised we’ve never crossed paths before."

Yup, he went from wishing Edward Weiss would leave him alone to selling himself to Edward Weiss on how important he is to his line of work. However, it is a good idea to tell the man how important he is. If Ace is important, then his chances of being alive goes up.

God damn it. How the hell is he gonna shake this guy off now?

"Mr. Weiss," he starts off in a sickly sweet tone because he's still trying to stop himself from thinking about Edward pouting and not laughing at his face. "Since I like you so much that I don't want you tripping into a ditch out of confusion—fine. You can stand behind me when I do autopsies and point at the body like a child asking 'What's that? What's this? How did that happen?'"

It's so easy to start joking around with Edward that he actually is a bit annoyed. If he's not digging his grave, then he's getting chummy with him. "Are you happy? Does that make your inner child jump in joy? Does it finally make your heart go 'Oh, Ace is such an amazing person that I'm so happy he was born! He's someone who can answer all of my morbid curiosities!"

Ace has a split second to think that their conversation is way too inappropriate to have in public. Here he is telling a mafia boss to be happy about Ace because he's giving him all important information about murders that the police are looking into.

When Edward had mentioned that he was being a gentleman for letting Ace goes first, his mouth moved faster than his brain once again, "Do I look like a fucking chick to you?" if his mother ever heard him, she'll kick him out of the house for a couple of hours for disrespect, "I'm sorry, I wasn't aware I was wearing a fucking dress-" he stops his next words because he once again remembered that Edward Weiss is a mafia boss. He clears his throat then made an apology to all the women in the world in the back of his head. "You're a gentleman, but as someone who cares deeply, I insist that you go first."

Pointing at bodies like a child and asking What’s that? What’s this? How did that happen? is a beloved pastime, one that Edward has absolutely no intention of giving up, with or without Ace’s permission. But the idea of, technically, being granted permission pleases him enough that he smiles, bright and genuine, something almost childlike in its sincerity. "You’re so selfless, Ace. And I suspect you’d hate it if I wasn’t actually around. If it was just you, a corpse, and your own thoughts, you’d miss my intrusions." A severe overestimation of his importance in other people’s lives, really; if anything, Ace would probably enjoy the peace afforded by not having a crime boss attempting to clumsily juggle scalpels or asking what every single piece of equipment does. "And yes, it makes me very happy. My inner child is so thrilled that he’s progressed from jumping in joy to doing Olympic gymnast flips."

I wasn’t aware I was wearing a fucking dress. It makes Edward laugh openly, even as he pretends to reassess Ace’s outfit with exaggerated seriousness, as though this is brand new information. "Oh. Well, I think things would be considerably more fun if you were wearing a dress." Deadpan, despite the same undiluted amusement shining in his eyes, bright smile refusing to disappear. "I think we’re just going to keep arguing about this. I’m not going first. I’m far too stubborn for that. Besides, I want to enjoy every moment of watching you get thrown off. If I go first, I’ll probably be too busy stemming a nosebleed to appreciate it."

Thoughts run laps around her head at Mach speed as she enters the confessional, only slightly calmed to hear Ethan's voice on the other side. "Bless me for I have sinned. My last confession was three weeks ago." Her previous sins had been smaller and she'd done the work to be absolved of them. Now, it was time to confess the one thing that was truly eating at her.

She needed to tell someone about the man that had rooted his way into her head and into her home and into her very soul. So much older, married, and her boss there were too many factors that screamed it was a bad idea. And above all else, it was adultery without the act itself. She needed someone to know what was going on in her head. Soleil and Aries had been great confidants, but it was the one thing she felt she couldn't share with the most important women in her life.

The church wasn't a regular stop for her, but she'd attended a couple of sermons, met both pastors, and talked to them at length. She'd started to meet other women in the flock, finding compassion amongst them. Today would be a test to how true they were to their convictions.

She spills everything. From the rodeo to the night he stayed over to her guilt over it all. And he listens. He listens, and she can hear him hum in response as she takes a breath. Just as before, the judgment never comes. The acid that could infuse his words isn't there; instead, he meets her with the same timed compassion, the same unwavering care as before. He gives her eloquent pastoral advice on how to wade through the feelings. On how to approach it from a faith-based perspective rather than from her clinical knowledge. And then he absolves her and she steps out. The weight on her chest had been lifted, a full breath of air filling her lungs for what felt like the first time since Edward had fallen asleep on her couch and she'd tucked him in with a handmade quilt.

Her eyes lift to the image of Christ on the cross, for the first time feeling like she'd actually been bathed in love from the Lord, making the sign and bowing her head before heading back down the aisle. Her stride is cut short by blue eyes and her name.

God the way he says her name.

He's right in front of her and she wants to tell him about the wonderful confession she just had. How good it felt to tell someone. How good it felt to tell someone about him. Sophia thinks of all the things that have crossed her mind since he stayed over, all the questions about his favorite books, media, places to visit or where he wants to go that he hasn't. She purposefully keeps thoughts of lying on the couch together, sharing her bed and blankets, the notable smile lines on his face, and how she wants to kiss them at bay. All those thoughts freeze upon her name.

A faint smile crosses her lips as she pauses at the pew he inhabits. "Edward." She greets him, eyes falling on the cat beside him, thinking now of how much she'd like to meet his companion. "May I join?"

It dawns on her moments later she hadn't taken him for the religious type. If he was, he'd been very good at hiding it from her, two trained saints running parallel and not letting the other know. To add, she definitely hadn't taken him to be Catholic, but she assumes it makes sense with the bits she knows about his upbringing and the history behind the rise of Catholicism.

Even now, he struggles to reconcile the internal jolt of hearing his name in Sophia’s mouth. Like an ice bath. Like a heatwave. Like a wound. Like a salve. "Of course you can. It’s nice to see you." A ridiculous understatement; the words feel absurdly inadequate when his heart still hasn’t adjusted to the simple fact of her existing in the same space as him, pulse stuttering, gaze lifting only to immediately have to look away again.

I can also leave you be if you’re trying to pray.

He doesn’t pray, but he ought to. Especially considering that, before coming here, he’d signed off on two executions. There had been a time when he built a new mental grave every time someone died under his orders, tending to the cemetery in his head with a grim kind of reverence. But eventually it became overcrowded - which isn’t funny at all, but if he doesn’t stubbornly decide it is, Edward thinks he might actually cry. He doesn’t remember the names of victims anymore - self-preservation, probably - just infrequent fragments of horror that cut through the noise. Noticing wedding rings clinging to dead fingers. A note folded into someone’s pocket reminding them of the date and time of their child’s school play. Pregnancy scans tucked into wallets. A blood-stained scrap of paper with a reminder to call their mother.

But he'd like Sophia to believe the opposite: that he's a good man, an honest man, perhaps even a God-fearing man who never strays far from heaven’s light.

The irony of being inside a church at all is never lost on Edward, considering the objectively godless life he leads. Mostly, it’s his mother’s lingering influence: the impossible mindfuck of grieving the only person who was ever capable of dragging him somewhere like this. She used to regularly attend, irritating everyone else in the congregation by attempting to read their palms in the pews or casually informing people, apropos of nothing, that their handbags were haunted. The usual nonsense, superstitious to the point of absurdity, the kind of thing most people dismissed entirely. He imagines her obituary was read by the congregation with a certain amount of relief. And yet Edward still comes here of his own volition, missing her enough to seek out every place she used to annoy people in.

"Oh, no. I’m just…" He trails off. What could he say? I don’t pray sounds weirdly defensive, almost derisive, and worse, it would be untrue; he's found himself making the same desperate bargains with God as his parents did whenever he wants something badly enough. But lying, despite how much of his existence is a fabrication to Sophia, seems worse. "I'm just enjoying the company." A small nod towards his companion, purring contentedly beside him. "She’s supposed to be catching mice, but she’s decided being decorative is a better use of her time, and I support it wholeheartedly."

"How are you?" A pause. "Sorry for running out on you the other day. I wanted to stay." It had, in fact, taken a level of self-restraint he didn’t know he even possessed to drag his eyes away from Sophia sleeping. To fold the quilts neatly. To write a careful note instead of something far too honest, resisting leaving words behind that he'd regret the moment they existed outside of his head. “But I had some work matters to attend to, unfortunately." Vague. Deliberately so, as if he’d been trapped in tedious meetings, buried beneath paperwork. Which, technically, he had been, just paperwork involving murder, supply lines, drug-dealing...

He accepts that withholding crucial parts of the truth from her is the same thing as lying. Just not enough to stop doing it.

"I had a really nice time. And my Janis Joplin education has already commenced. I listened to the songs you mentioned." He doesn't know how his brain has any capacity for lyrics when it's so overcrowded, but it has quite an extensive catalogue that Sophia is now influencing. Lover, You Should've Come Over has monopolised his thoughts, dominating proceedings, but Me & Bobby McGee and Ball and Chain are now following closely behind. He loves the songs because she loves them. "Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose. I liked that line a lot."

People like Benny, they were smart enough to recognise what they shouldn't do, but they still did it anyway.

Not even the horrified silence of his former co-conspirators could stop him, even if he was very certain the boss had just walked in - or simply already been there. He knew about Vampires, but he thought Edward wasn't one.

The drugdealer threw up his hands and bit his lip as he turned to the boss. He nodded slowly, though he disagreed. He thought he'd make a fine... whatever they called leaders of gangs these days. Godfathers? Kingpin? Why were all the titles so masculine?

"I'm serious though, boss," he said, that delicious feeling of chaos started to grow in his gut, and he should quench it, but instead he was feeding it for as long as he could before he had to worry about his job being on the line. He'd already been kicked out of the Hounds, there wasn't a next plan if he got kicked out of this business too.

"What are we waiting for? Enemy is weak, weak ass bitches. They're ripe for the taking. Why ain't we doing anything?"

The reason?

This.

Just… this.

"Oh, you’re being serious? Thank God for that. I thought you were being fucking stupid, but I’m glad to be mistaken."

Against his better judgement, he takes a seat, watching with quiet amusement as the other colour-drained, silent faces stare down at the tabletop as though the grain in the wood has suddenly become utterly captivating.

He doesn’t want to laugh at weak-ass bitches, and he despises the way his mouth twitches, the way his tongue flicks across his lips in a futile attempt to hide it. A half-hearted eye roll follows; an affection-tinged eye roll, if anything. If he wanted Benny dead, he’d be dead already. But the idea of setting Gemma - and her favourite knife - on him grows more tempting with every passing second.

"Who says we’re not doing anything? Just because you’re not involved in these decisions - for obvious reasons - that doesn’t mean everything behind the scenes is stagnant. And you’re right: they’re weak. But when people in my organisation can be heard from space gloating about it, it makes us look weak too."

It comes out too quick. She turns her head further into her palm to hide the smile on her face, to mask the warmth that continues to flood over her as they walk. There is the unfortunate reality hanging over them that this simply cannot be. A variety of reasons presented that they both know it would never be a good idea for her to go over, to meet his cat, to see how he lives amongst his own belongings and presumably comforts. She instead will spend time trying to piece together what his home looks like. A cluttered desk, a dusty bookshelf, a cat curled up on the desk and an absent fluffy bed in the corner because it's always most comfortable to be where he's left his warmth. Though she has not met Cliodhna, she can assume they have a bit in common. She can assume that Edwards' affections extend to her as well.

Why else would he still be sitting there, blatantly ignoring the passing of time and the unused phone?

"It's incredibly tragic on both ends. They were at their prime and just... Just taken away." It makes her think of her father and her brothers. Sophia would never have that kind of relationship but she remembers how doting Mikhail Petrovich had been to his sons. Of course, Sophia was the apple of his eye being the only daughter, but his sons? They had such a special bond, being able to share music, while Sophia was simply not allowed to partake, just observe. The father and son concept also makes her realize how lucky she was to know that, in the end, her father would be waiting on the other side for her. A man that went against god to save his only daughter, that would have killed for his sons, would surely face judgment and be allowed to be with his family in the end, right? She liked to think so. "It's an awful concept." She sighs, stands briefly, walks to a tall wicker basket in the opposite corner, and pulls out two blankets. "Here." Her voice is soft as she returns, handing a quilt to him.

Despite the alarm bells, Sophia knew he wouldn't be going anywhere tonight.

At first doe eyes stare at him, caught in the headlights of the flush on his cheeks. Is Edward Weiss, Mr. Weiss, blushing? She stammers and breaks her eye contact, getting comfortable again and draping her own quilt over her legs. "Uhm, yeah! Yeah, I was in choir as a kid and then sang a bit in college... When I could, I'd sing with my brother, Misha; he's also the one that taught me to play." Index finger gestures to the guitar in the corner before she pulls her arm back to rest on her lap. "Do you play at all? Sing? Have hidden inclinations towards the arts?"

The laugh has her by surprise but has her laughing as well, eyes sparkling at the idea that maybe he enjoys her company far more than being friendly. "Yes! Many mountains; it is, in fact, known as The Mountain State." She giggles, trying to think of how to describe it. "It's vast. Mostly closed-down coal mines and abandoned cities in some parts but Charleston is cool. If you ever enjoyed being in the woods, it's the place for you. The state is entirely Appalachia, so east to west you get the whole mountain line and it's... I mean..." She notes, shaking her head a bit as she tries to find words for the beauty. "I mean there ain't nothin' like it." And that was true. After she'd left, she was able to explore a vast world with new friends. Hollers that she didn't think could exist, rivers so clear they could've been glass, some felt swallowed by the thick trunks of the mountains; Sophia felt alive.

Eyebrows furrow together. Changing his voice? She supposes she can relate, having trained the twang out of her voice in professional scenarios to be taken seriously, to not be seen as some dumb hillbilly. Do they have hillbillies in England? She's never been but there must be an equivalent, and it must be where he's from. Her smile softens as he speaks about the origins of his tone, the work that went into carving a new part of himself and casting out what he was raised with. Somehow, it feels worse than changing your name. A name is a name, and it is yours, but so is your voice. Vocal patterns, inflections, and rhythms all come together to shape a unique melody that can only be identified by the person. She wonders if he'd ever sound like his old self again. "Thank you... I'm sorry you felt the need to change yourself, though. That's not right. Is there like... A divide from East End to... Other parts?"

Another time. There will be another time she's positive of it. She hangs on the promise like gospel ringing through the choir and simply nods. "Ooo.. I don't think so? A lot like you, I kind of just read anything, though I wouldn't say I'm unhinged. I think my wheelhouse is more music." She admits, happy to learn that they have something to teach each other. It gives him another reason to come over and half-heartedly finish his tea, slow sips ensuring it's definitely at least room temperature by now, buying them time that creeps into the early morning. "I haven't read that... I actually don't think I've even heard of it, so I'd love to know more." She offers up the vulnerability, though much less eloquently than he did when it came to Janis Joplin.

"Oh. Wow." Despite knowing his wealth and knowing they were in two very different classes, that was not what she'd pictured in terms of his home. Her eyebrows rose as she tried to picture what a home library looked like, but all that came to mind was a college library or the lone bookshelf she'd refurbished. Many questions came to mind. Did you build it yourself? How many books do you have? Do you have one of those cool sliding ladders like in the movies? Can I see it sometime?

She desperately wants to see his home now. She wants to experience being bitten by his cat and the wonder of his home library. Decorum be damned, she wants to know every piece of this man before her, down to why her apartment is on his list of favorite places. Sophia chews her bottom lip, hiding a smile once more. "Well, that is a high compliment." She notes, finally letting the smile break. "I'm glad my little corner of the city has charmed you, though. I would love to see the library sometime." She states the most pressing question on her mind, studying his face, eyes falling to his lips, lingering much too long for her own liking.

She's saved from her own desires by the dog and his nasty blanket.

Because he's married. Because he's older. Because he is, in all likelihood, going to die a brutal death sooner rather than later. And Sophia is so full of life, so kind and talented, that he should be the one - if only because of their age difference alone- to stop this before it goes too far. He should be sensible, but nothing about this is remotely sensible, and refusing to surrender to an insanity that feels like a siren song is becoming too much to ask. So: "I would like that, too."

The quilt should feel inevitable; he suspects they both know how much they've been tiptoeing around the subject of calling a cab as though it’s an active minefield. Yet the reality that he will likely be staying here still manages to horrify and thrill Edward in equal measure. "Thank you. I suppose the cabs... probably won't be coming out tonight?" His driver could be there within minutes. Or, at worst, he could walk. There’s very little point in pretending otherwise, yet he still feels compelled to play along because the alternative would be admitting the truth: that he wanted this. That, from the moment he entered her apartment, he's been quietly searching for reasons not to leave. That even before then - during their walk - he'd been trying to stretch the night longer, greedily stealing every extra minute he could have with her. His voice is small, impossibly tired, when he speaks again. "Would it be terribly inconvenient if I stayed?" He'd leave, of course, if she wanted him to. But the speed with which she retrieved the blanket suggests Sophia might quite like the idea of him falling asleep on her sofa. He carefully unfolds the quilt, fingers brushing over the fabric as he smooths it down, as though even this tiny act of domesticity is something he needs to handle carefully.

Misha. A name filed away, another piece of information he's inevitably doomed to mention later and make Sophia think he’s strange. She might wonder how on earth he remembered it, why he remembered it, or both. "I didn't realise." He’s already said that before, but apparently it's the only thing his tongue-tied brain can produce. He's visibly flustered, perhaps more openly than he’s ever been around her, and Edward has no idea why the discovery that she can sing has affected him so profoundly. "But I think it’s beautiful. I think you’re beautiful." The horror arrives immediately, clearing his throat softly, as though the gesture alone might somehow undo the admission. "I meant that your voice is beautiful. Sorry. Tired brain moment." As though calling Sophia beautiful isn’t one of the most honest things he has ever said. His gaze follows her finger towards the guitar. Another question of his answered: she plays. He wonders what songs she gravitates towards. What she plays when nobody is listening. Whether she sings along. "What was the first song you learned to play?"

Do you play at all? Sing? Have any hidden inclinations towards the arts? "Oh God, no. For the sake of everyone’s ears, I don’t sing." It’s self-deprecating and objectively untrue; he can sing well enough. Not nearly as nicely as Sophia, obvioussly, but well enough to have sung old Irish lullabies or fragments of the Françoise Hardy songs his wife loved to his daughters when they couldn’t sleep. He used to sing along quietly to the radio in his office without even realising, before silence became the default. These days, he only sings when he’s making up ridiculous songs for Clíodhna or trying to make Nari laugh, and that's different; those are performances where the entire point is to be terrible. "If I have any hidden inclinations, they’re so well hidden that even I don’t know about them." A laugh, then, more seriously: "I can play the piano. Not very well. My wife taught me." He chooses not to specify which one. The first one; the one he hasn’t told Sophia about. Her hands over his, guiding his fingers across the keys, rushing through lessons or abandoning them entirely in favour of kissing.

The Mountain State. Obviously. He rolls his eyes at his own stupidity, though the amusement remains. There ain't nothin' like it. Another new dream, apparently: getting lost in the mountains with her. "Do you ever go back to visit?" I’m sorry you felt the need to change yourself. He’d considered changing his own voice so necessary that he never stopped to consider what he was losing until it was already gone, or how it must've felt for the people around him to watch him become so ashamed of sounding like them that he reconstructed his entire vocabulary. Nowadays, it’s almost a relief when he gets so angry or upset that the East End inflections slip back through; proof that some part of it still exists. "Like books, I'm also deeply unhinged about classism, but maybe that's a topic for another time. If you're interested in sweary political rants, I'm always happy to oblige." He doesn't know why he’s trying to mine humour from it; the subject is so far from funny that it tips into something closer to grief. Deflection. Always deflection. He remains furious about politics, grateful not to be living in England while still irritating himself by keeping up with the news. But Las Vegas had only reinforced the belief that, even as part of the one percent, he will never truly be accepted anywhere. The Vitelli feud, in his mind, had always been classism in action; they could smell the struggle on him like bloodhounds. But he’s alive. And Augustu is dead. So, apparently, it pays to be poor.

Music is Sophia's wheelhouse; he's learning that now. It makes perfect sense. Her hands dancing when she talks about it, her knowledge of Janis Joplin, and, as the lingering flush on his face proves, discovering she's a singer herself; he still doesn't understand why it has unravelled him so completely, just like he doesn't understand why dimples or hearing her say his name have the same effect. Logic seldom applies to his thoughts about Sophia. Most men, Edward imagines, would have their minds wandering in one particular direction. He is no better - his thoughts have gone there too - but mostly he finds himself caught on the smaller things; the freckle on her thumb has occupied his thoughts more than any fantasy of ending up in her bed. "I liked it when you spoke about music." His gaze drops briefly to her hands. "Your hands danced. I feel like people suppress that instinct, like they try so hard to be cool when, actually, it's far more embarrassing to not care." Deeply ironic coming from one of the most emotionally repressed men in Nevada, but he means it. "Oh. It's by Dostoevsky." He pauses, considering whether another reference might land better if The Brothers Karamazov means nothing to her. "Like Crime and Punishment? White Nights? That Dostoevsky." His thoughts snag on the idea of Sophia introducing him to music, him giving her book recommendations in return. Maybe, of all the things they cannot have, that's something they can. "I think Susan would love the choice because patricide is a huge part of it." A book largely about patricide, when he killed his own father. Edward is painfully aware of the irony. "And even though I keep telling her I don't have a dad and simply fell to earth, she has informed me this is," air quotes. "not scientifically possible. She's always asking about him."

I'm glad my little corner of the city has charmed you. A pause. "It's just... maybe this is weird, but it’s the quietest my brain has been in..." He trails off, genuinely unable to quantify it. "I don't even know how long. It feels nice. Hazy." It should frighten him. The idea of his mind not constantly moving, of losing the one thing he values most. Instead, it had felt like a relief so profound he thinks he could cry. "But hazy in a good way." He wants her to see the library too. Edward searches for some half-plausible excuse, some reason that would make the invitation seem casual; he can't find one. "We could make it happen." As though he's trying to convince himself just as much as her. When her gaze drops to his lips, he immediately stares down at his hands. What does she want? Is it a workplace fantasy? Just something exciting and temporary? Or does she want to kiss him because she wants to keep kissing him? The thought of Sophia imagining any kind of future with him fills Edward with a strange combination of warmth and dread.

Dog behaviour remains a mystery, even after the explanation. Edward holds Zoinks' damp blanket as though he's defusing a bomb, carefully moving it away from himself, unwilling to seem ungrateful. He's too busy processing Sophia moving closer - combined with the dangerous hope born from her staring at his lips that she might actually kiss him - to predict what's about to happen until it already has. The teacups slip, tea spilling everywhere. "Oh, no, it's okay, I - " Sophia's so close, kneeling down as she does in dreams that leave him avoiding eye contact with her at Horizons for days afterwards. All he can do is stare at the crown of her head. "I should've seen that coming and warned you. Let me help." He immediately reaches for the blanket, using it to soak up the spilled tea, figuring it will need to be washed anyway and ignoring his shoes entirely. Sophia's floor is the priority; only afterwards does his attention drift down to his feet. He'd wanted to offer to remove his shoes when he first arrived out of politeness, but had been too distracted to remember. Leaning forward automatically to undo the laces, his head bumps softly against hers, his hair brushing her forehead before he moves back as though burned. "Oh. Sorry, I just - it's okay, I'll just..." Too flustered to lean in again, he awkwardly uses one foot to prise off the other shoe, then repeats the process until they're both discarded, deciding the tea-soaked socks can wait until she's moved away. The last thing he wants is for her to feel embarrassed; that has, somehow, become the most important thing in the world. "It's okay, honestly. I'm okay." It's punctuated with a weak, apologetic smile. "I've heard tea-stained socks are very en vogue right now."

"is it really a suggestion when you don't give others an option? cause it feels like that's what you didn't me, sir." before what happened to him, spencer was terrified of edward. he still was, but he felt a little different. like something changed and at this point maybe he won't let edward get to him that much, or at all. that's at least what's he attempting to tell himself as he lays in bed, watching edward looking at him. he feels like he's being examined, investigated. those cold blue eyes staring at him, seizing up what was done to him. hell if he was in edward's position, he'd be staring too. "maybe they don't care about me. maybe i asked for them to go away. something tells me that even if i had guards you'd still sneak your way in like snake you are."

maybe dying made him a little bold. he felt like he could tell edward anything he still wouldn't be able to hurt him.

"guess he's not." spencer shrugs his shoulders very slowly. he turns his head to look out the window before quickly moving his eyes back to the other. "it's funny how you talk like i actually give a damn about that man. like you can't scare me with your words. newsflash, i'm pretty sure he hated me." he wanted to be scared. to be pissed off at what edward was saying, but he felt annoyed. almost like he couldn't wait until the older man was gone. from this world or just his hospital room? spencer didn't really know. "allegedly? allegedly tells me that you did and that what you're saying is bullshit." spencer once again tries to push the nurse's call button. when it doesn't lite up red, he realizes that maybe he's broke it. his heartbeat races slightly. he takes a few deep breathes to calm himself down. "he didn't find use for those who disappointed him. of course he didn't offer them anything to stay. he didn't offer me anything. instead he took everything."

maybe he shouldn't tell secrets to edward of all people. he knew this. yet, it felt good to hint to someone outside of the family, that augustu didn't give a damn about him once he wasn't useful. why it was edward of all people, spencer will probably never really understand.

he can't help the eye roll when edward doesn't explain what why he wants to know. he was starting to realize that maybe it was typical edward behavior. on top of dying and having to still be in this predicament with the other, edwards idea of not telling him right annoyed him. spencer's head tilts to the said so he can give him a death glare.

"did you know i died?" spencer asks, voice coming out hoarse. "if i actually succeeded in dying, how would you get your money back? ask my corpse for it?" spencer lets out a laugh of his own, suddenly feeling courageous; remembering that he knew something edward didn't. "wouldn't you like to know? you probably just want to laugh at me.” there’s a pause as he clears his throat. “i don't see the point in telling you when you won't tell me why you're asking what i know about your family.” spencer crosses his arms on his stomach best to his ability, without there being too much pain.

“how about you tell me why and maybe i'll tell you about something even the great and powerful edward weiss doesn't know." spencer grabs some water and slowly takes a sip of it as he looks at edward and smirks at him over the cup. he felt powerful in this moment and maybe dying gave him the strength to stand strong against edward weiss.

He will always devour criticism of Augustu, perpetually delighted to uncover another piece of evidence confirming what an appalling man he'd been. While Edward knows he's hardly winning any awards for his own parenting - it pays to retain at least some self-awareness - he's also aware he's nothing like the Vitelli patriarch, endlessly grateful for the distinction. The Weisses are a fucking catastrophe, certainly, but the stories he's heard about Augustu's treatment of his children only reinforces his suspicion that the man was fundamentally irredeemable. He seemed to take genuine pleasure in making his offspring miserable, despite constantly producing more, as though the next child would somehow be the one who didn't disappoint him. It apparently never occurred to him that perhaps the problem was the impossible expectations he'd placed upon them. Edward shares that particular flaw, but at least he only traumatised three kids. Augustu appears to have traumatised a small army.

"Why would he hate you?" Genuine curiosity rears its head, as much as Edward doesn't want it to. "Because you wouldn’t blindly follow him into organised crime?" It’s something he still begrudgingly has to respect Spencer for, even if he remains thoroughly confused by the notion of someone willingly turning away from power in favour of an honest, nauseatingly earnest existence. Or perhaps less so nowadays; his entanglement with Sophia has made him wonder whether that kind of life might be possible for him too, although, judging by the fact that he’s currently here terrorising Spencer, his metamorphosis remains largely theoretical. "Well. I talk a lot of bullshit." He’s unable to resist the inevitable joke, or the faint smirk that accompanies it: "Allegedly."

Did you know I died? He hadn’t known, though he isn’t entirely sure, when all is said and done, that it changes anything. There is, however, that same inconvenient twist of guilt he’s been plagued by lately, heavy in his chest. "Don’t be silly, Spencer. Corpses are notoriously poor conversationalists. I try not to speak to them." He already knows that, in the event of Spencer’s demise, he'd simply find someone else to pursue the debt, far too stubborn to allow even death to interfere with his tireless commitment to being a menace. "I’d find someone else. Perhaps a friend of your parents. I mean, I know they had friends because their funerals certainly weren’t sparsely attended." More bullshit? Or had he actually been there? Had he been invited, or had he simply shown up to gloat? Like the suggestion that the Vitellis murdered the Whitlocks, it's offered primarily for entertainment, another thread to pull loose until Spencer can't tell facts from fiction.

Weirdly enough, he actively prefers the defiance to submission. It's easier not to feel so guilty when Spencer is snapping back at him; anger has always been much simpler to justify than fear. "I wanted to know what you knew about my family because I intend to make you work for us." It's accompanied by a perfectly pleasant smile, his tone conversational and light, as though he’s discussing one of Lenore’s weather predictions rather than outlining a plan designed to ruin Spencer’s life. "You were evidently a bad Vitelli, but perhaps you’ll make a better Weiss." A half-hearted eye roll follows Spencer’s implication, once again, that he knows something Edward doesn’t. He attempts, as he did at the rodeo, to appear completely unaffected; a soft, derisive snort as he settles further back into the chair. "I highly doubt there’s anything in this city I don’t know about. If anything, I wish I knew less sometimes. However, seeing as I’ve told you what I intend to do with you, I think it’s only fair that you enlighten me about the one thing I supposedly don’t know."

   — Susan Sontag, Reborn: Journals and Notebooks, 1947-1964