there's a light that never goes out

An ocean's a perfectly fine line to keep. Eva can have all the conversations she likes with Vanya, and Zed will continue to shrug off the updates. It's enough to know that she's alive.

When he sees her opt for caffeine. His fist hits the side of the coffee machine with a thunk. It's broken, and it requires a certain touch to begin spewing coffee into a cup.

"It's right outside the window." If she took a peek, maybe she'll catch him ordering kung pao, and attempting mandarin. "He is fine, кузен."

Both their eyes then wander to the door opening.

Eva was one phone text away from having that old thing replaced with a shiny new one. At least this way, she wouldn't have to endure the taste of plain, brown water.

"Would that be poisonous?" a brow arched at the coffee now dripping into her cup.

He is fine, кузен.

Words that failed to reassure her, much like any other words that left her cousin's mouth. He might have been older, perhaps even wiser on a good day, but unreliable when it came to predicting a good outcome out of a terrible situation. He simply did not think that far into the future, nor did he posess any psychic abilities — at least none that she was aware of.

So, another look shot. A stone cold expression that surely got the point across.

The door swung open and a blonde head of hair peaked from the corner.

"Дядя Зед, я вернулся! Я покупал столько еды — " he paused, when blue eyes met his mother. It was safe to say, Zed wouldn't see a dime in return, from the sight of the three heavy bags the kid was carrying. Chinese for the whole apartment building.

Sasha joined his uncle's side.

But the sound of their glasses touching rang through the office. Church bells after hearing the town isn't going to get sacked and burned. At least for today.

It had been a dreadful place that someone like him had no business being in. But that had been the whole point. To be somewhere he didn't have to be himself. He had been flippant and immature but charming enough (and rich enough) that those things got turned into charming and fun. Eva had been stronger than him. Maybe they had been built out of similar things but her construction had been sturdier. Or at least had appeared like it. She'd steadied them and he'd made sure they lived life.

"I'm lucky I didn't get a lot of things." Archer agreed his own mouth quirking up into a grin. His own green eyes travelled down to her right hand as well. Remembering the meaty sound of a fist on a face. "I'm sure my robust immune system didn't hurt."

He hate for them to argue right now too. So when her eyes found his he added, "But it's got nothing on that mean right hook of yours."

Like tiny green blades of grass after a forest fire. It made perfect sense to Archer suddenly why green had always been associated with hope.

His own glass was empty, but he held it in his hands, watching her reach for her also empty glass. He glanced at the bottle they had put a more than hefty dent in. "Refill? Or should we think about being respectable people and stopping?"

Silence pulled them in. Her eyes lingered for a moment longer. "I should be getting home." a single rational throught ripped through the haze. Eva hopped off the desk, bare feet light on the floor. The world spun for a moment, and her hand reeached for Archer — grounding.

Vulnerablity was a rarity she couldn't afford — not even now. Especially now, when her mind was foggy and wrapped up in comfortable memories, of the warmth of a laughter she'd been missing, a sound she couldnt trust.

Not even her own.

But they did laugh, for as long as the glasses kept coming. As long as they kept them full, the bottle close by for a refil that would come quicker than the sense of reality.

Game over. For now.

"I cannot be seen drunk with you. What would our dear journalists say?"

Nothing the two of them couldn't poof out of existence. Yet neither of them needed the extra salt in the wound.

To watch her look at him and actually feel like she saw them. The two of them. The him in context with her. Until this moment, for all the years in-between, every time she'd looked at him he had seen her thoughts reflected there. Distaste. Disinterest. Distrust. But not now.

And with each drink another choice was made. To make this moment last a little longer. To let themselves slip back to other days and other nights sitting around and talking about anything, everything. Didn't matter. A soft blanket of whiskey wrapped around his brain. As they sat with each other in his office.

Archer was on one of the chairs he had for guests, seated low to look up at Eva on his desk. Eyes drifting down to her nails picking away at the wood. Like she was intent to leave a mark he would see in the morning. Proof that she was there. That they were here. His tie loose and two buttons undone.

He didn't reminisce often, not too many people to reminisce too. So when she brought up the dive that she'd pulled him out of he grinned. "Stumble Inn." He said into his glass. He shook his head, "God that place was horrible. Smelled like dried vomit and hepatitis."

She would never know, unless she took the chance; click her glass with his. And she did, the glasses touched and the crystal sound etched a deal made into the air around them.

Stumble Inn. It should've been named Her Worst Nightmare, because not only was it disgusting, but it was swallowing up her best friend. The only person intolerable enough to tolerate her. They used to laugh at the concept — how similiar they were. Only difference was that he was cooler, back then — outgoing and witty, and dare she even say — funny. He was a daredevil and she was the mediator pulling him away at the slightest sign of agitation.

"You're lucky, you didn't get hepatitis." lips stretched into a smirk.

Green eyes narrowed to her right hand. "I'd like to say it's thanks to me, but I fear you might argue with me on that one." she could still feel the pain in her knuckles, still hear the crack of the cheek bone that got smashed beneath her hand.

"And I'd hate to argue right now." her eyes met his. Something very fragile and genuine was forming from the ashes they've left, and Eva wished she knew how to cradle it. How to nurse it back to life.

Her hand reached for her glass once more, only to find it empty.

At least, he does look at Lev's. Swears it's the equivalent to the comic strips in the paper.

There's a reason Lev hasn't said shit about the whole you're gonna be an auntie thing. First and foremost, he'd never fucking say auntie. Secondly, it isn't her first time (or so she thinks, he thinks). So, it makes sense to just not be all uppity about it, right?

Right.

So here he is, at her place with a bottle of water in one hand and inflatable bat in the other (don't ask, we don't have an answer), just talking about a different controversial thing: leaving the media. "I need like three fucking letters of recommendation and a suit jacket that doesn't look pretentious and fucking itchy." He points the bat at her. "You gotta keep Pops off my ass about this one."

She knew when he was lying.

Not because he was a bad liar (there was no such thing in the Movska gene) , and not because she deciphers faces and behaviors for a living, but because she was his sister.

He spoke. When has she not provided their father with a seemingly good distraction in favor of her siblings? There was a breathy, airy scoff and a small shake of her head. Her back was still turned to her brother. He didn't trust her it seemed, but Eva wouldn't trust herself either, if she was in his shoes. Keeping things from her father wasn't something she did usually. Her siblings were lucky when she did. Because despite it all — she never wished to see them suffer, not even from the consequences of their own actions. If she could shelter them from that too — she would.

He's not much better at looking interested when he learns what Eva's implying — and he doesn't poke the bear. Not this time. Not about Vanya, or black eyes. The chemist's heard enough about it as it is.

"Good." It's curt. Because much about he and Vanya were. Eva's a step up — but only because she's right in front of him.

Their eyes meet, and then they quickly part; a conversation had, understood and ended, in a few moments.

Sasha. Ah.

Zed starts to make space on the coffee table — anticipating the smaller of Movska's arrival (hopefully, with food in hand): "He is picking lunch — just outside." A careful head nod towards the window, to hear the bustle of Chinatown outside.

"Like brother, like sister." Final words on the matter and a look. Zed and Vanya had a certain affinity to using their fists as weapons, while Eva always chose a more verbal approach — If only her own siblings, were more like her.

Eva moved past him, helping herself to a cup of coffee, if there even was any left. "On his own?" her brows furrowed in slowly. She did not mean to accuse him of endangering her child, yet her tone implied otherwise. How long has he been gone for? Motherly instincts that had long caught rust poked at her insides. Sasha was an easy target, if anyone liked to get a piece of Movska flesh.

"Are you using my child to run your errands?" her arms had crossed over her chest, back leaned against the counter, when the door swung open with a creak.

"Yes, violence often has precursors, ones that society is all to willing to ignore if a person is rich and powerful enough." She doesn't condemn it, but simply states it for exactly what it is. She would be a hypocrite considering that power structure is something she thrives on for her work in both sectors. "Men like that, I'm sure there are other signs if you look hard enough. People tend to talk about that sort of thing."

That's all she has to say on the topic, uncaring mostly of this random celebrity beyond how he ties in with a family like the Movskas. "Sentimental it may be, it hardly seems hygenic," Laure says, making a face. "And despite what the movies want to tell us, I'm quite certain the mustache doesn't remain in one piece like that." Beyond the plethora of other reasons why it was such an odd selection to put up, but then again, she expected nothing less from Lee.

But there's a pleased hum and smile on her lips when Eva mentions the book of poems she had picked up at the auction. "I'm certainly glad it's going to a good home, and between you and me, that copy cost me twice as much as what you bid for it, but it went towards a good cause."

"I'm sure you know there are all kinds of psychopaths lurking around. Perhaps, you could auction a strand of your hair next time, and see for yourself." Laure was a beautiful woman — there would certainly be wealthy admirers willing to pay for a single perfect curl.

To some it would be hard to believe that a copy of a poem book, even if said copy was Dickinson's, would ever be sold for twenty two thousands. To some, but not to her — Eva would pay even a milion, if the woman's cold, dead hands came as an accessory.

"Then why did you give it up?" she asked. Laure could've easily gone with offering a pair of expensive shoes, or god forbid — a toenail.

To be happy was a dangerous beast. Happiness was a weapon that others could wield against you. It was better to find small moments of enjoyment, of being busy, of victory, fleeting things that couldn't be used against you later. This fragile moment, a bubble on a breeze. If it was blown in the wrong direction it would break and be gone.

He heard her take the glass rather than looking down. Watching to see if she did in fact dissolve into the wind, into the past, where this moment belonged. A moment built of so many other moments. Packed against a sticky bar they had no business being in, laughing at something that probably wasn't funny to anyone but them.

Archer lifted his own drink to his mouth and thought about the question. "Someone in the campaign that wants to keep me happy with them." No names. Because that's not the way you kept secrets. But he figured she would be able to figure it out if she put her mind to it.

His gaze had been on her hand, watching her fingers pick at his desk. And again they came up to Eva's at the question, a sly grin. And the answer was never. Never. A rather impressive word to be able to use and mean it. People threw around the words always and never. But rarely meant them. He meant them, "Never." The light tone of voice had not prepared him for what she said next.

-The most awful crime.-

-You can count of me to be there.-

He had to look down. Not trusting his eyes. Not trusting his face. Not knowing just how raw and ripped open he must look. He carefully walked out from behind the desk, letting all that air stand between them again. Green eyes back on hers as he lifts his glass to hers, and touches them together very gently, "To keeping each other's secrets...." He paused then added softly, "And to being there."

Clearly, she did fail somewhere along the way.

When he was no longer there, when all that was left of her friend was uncertainty and gone — she did grieve, so perhaps her heart was no longer as solid, as some may have thought. Perhaps it has begun to thaw.

She wondered — if roles were reversed, if she was the one to leave — would he cradle any hope? Even when he moved closer — the gentleness with which he approached her, even when he was less weapons and more exposed wound, Eva still waited for something to signal fallacy. "Is that a toast or a promise?" the words escape her before she had the chance to figure out their meaning, and now she looked worse than he did. She looked hopeful — and that, was one step closer to looking weak.

But there was no one else — no other eyes were on her, but his and she looked at him, unabashedly and saw — her friend. Not an enemy, not a wound that was sloppily stapled, not ten years of grief shoved down deeper. She almost wished he would return to the way he looked at her before, because this — now —

What was she supposed to do from here?

The drink turned several, and still no clarity was gained, only numbness — like partial anaesthesia.

She was sat down on the desk, fingers still chipping away at the wood — digits that were used to always clicking away on her phone, almost like muscle memory. Blonde locks had descended from the high of her formal work hairstyle and her eyes were now staring into — whatever was on the wall behind him.

"I do remember that actually — " she spoke, " — when I dragged you from that disgusting place." her nose wrinckled in sheer disgust at the memory of it. That smell — she remembered it so well, "What was it called again?"

Tired wasn't the word to describe what she was. Eva wasn't exactly a friend, but she was a familiar face and that alone felt good enough in a place like this. When she approached, it was only to step in line beside her without actually looking.

Unfamiliar territory — and she was on her own for once. No one attached to her arm or even in a five meter radios, bringing her drinks or offering dull compliments that lacked any life — like carnations on a coffin.

"For once — I'd say I prefer it." she turned to meet the other. Lara — despite being on the opposing side, was far from being her enemy. "The youngest other person in here just turned 77."

"Maybe it wasn't, but I'm glad he was at least able to do what I wish I could have," she replies with a shrug. It's not the first time she's wished violence on Nick before, but there's a different kind of rage when confronted with Nicholas turning his ire on anyone else. And it seems like he's learned that one of the easiest ways to provoke a reaction out of Daya was to go after someone she cares about. If Zed hadn't been there, it would have been Daya who reacted and that would have been an even poorer ending.

But she mentions none of that when Eva's attention is drawn to her wrist and immediately, Daya looks around to make sure no one has noticed.

"I'm smart enough to know that he's one of the most powerful men in the world, and he knows who I love," Daya responds evenly, meeting Eva's eyes. "I don't care what he does to me, as long as he leaves other people alone." It's what she tells herself to get through each day, knowing that she would rather die than let someone else take her place. "Besides, it's just until the twins turn 18. Four more years. It'll go by in a flash," she lies, a tight smile on her face.

Her mind couldn't wrap around the idea of Daya not being selfish, when she had every right to be. She had every right to focus on herself and put herself before others. Eva would certainly do that, if roles had been reversed — save herself.

In a way she did, differnt reason entirely, some months ago.

She leaned in slowly, eyes still on her friend, "You cannot possible say that." she'd call this absolutely foolishness, "It's your arm today. What if it's your head tomorrow? Do you have absolutely no regard for your life?"

Spare her the selfless act — Eva would sacrifice whoever was needed, if that would mean Daya would be safe.

"And does he know that?" she asked, untrusting of the plan Daya had come up with and it's execution. "Has he agreed to this?" somehow Eva couldn't believe a horrible man like Nick, would settle down for anything less than his own arrangement. Would he truly let Daya nagotiate?

"I say a lot of things I don't really believe." Archer replied simply. He was a lawyer after all. And a crisis manager. "But I also don't have to believe in things for them to still be true."

Green eyes watched her move away from the wall. Back towards his desk and the chairs. Having the desk between them again making things a little less raw. But his own thoughts were still whirring, still wondering if they could do this. Sit across from each other; turning the clock back years to something that might truly no longer exist.

A ghost of a smile on his lips as Eva said she wasn't much of a drinker. Readying himself for the rough lash of a verbal reprimand and she would be gone again. But she slipped off her jacket and their eyes met. And he didn't know what was in his eyes but something melted with just that tiny touch of warmth from her. It was a rare thing, to live in the sun of Eva. The ghost of the smile became real, small, quiet as he nodded his head.

He left his tie loose and unlocked the lowest drawer, taking out two glasses and a respectable single malt. The heavy bottom of the glasses made a thick noise on the desk as he placed them down.

The comment caught him off guard and he laughed. A genuine sound as he opened the bottle and poured them each a few fingers worth. "What is allowed and what is permitted are vastly different things in the RNC." He glanced up at her as he set the glass in front of her, "You going to tell on me, Ms. Movska?"

She stayed and he looked pleased — not the way a politician did, when they were satisfied with her work, not the way a distant relative would at an appropriate christmas present. She was known for having a good taste and for actually, listening to people and their wants and needs. He looked like he was cut out of a picture frame — one of their many summers, sand stuck to their toes, and in between their hair and through the pain of his burnt nose — he was pleased, and calm — not the kind of calm he was in his job, but the kind that meant that he was almost — happy.

Her eyes remained on him, as her hand found one of the glasses. A smile that matched his own played on her lips.

"And who was the one to authorize that, then?" she was already taking a sip, not at all opposed to the idea of drowning a bit of the tension in good liquor. It was far better, than when she was downing vodka shots with her cousin after a very dreadful funeral. One hand remained on the desk — the no man land — fingers picking at the wood slightly.

"When have I ever done such thing?" a playful raise of her brow. She took another sip, larger than the last one — the light tone of her voice replaced with something a bit more quiet. "Even if you were to do the most awful crime — " a beat — green on green. "You can count on me to keep your secret. You can count on me to be there."

"That's awfully long." she replied — distracted, eyes still on the screen, voice dry. She was a perfect multi tasker, of course. Everything that came out of the other woman's lips was registreted and could be repeated.

A moment passed, before she put the phone down and reached for her glass of champagne. "Well, that must be one handsome date, if you're here thirty minutes early." red lips curled into a smirk.