Stone Cold

Obvs is baby Taylor, adores her brother Axel more than LIFE ITSELF 

Parents are both from huge crime families - Mothers side (Mikhailov’s) came across to the US with the Vronsky’s 50 years ago, all while keeping their russian roots. Fathers side (Taylors) ran a v big shipping company that was up to nooooooo good at all. When they met, the two worlds converged and the Bratva scored themselves a piece of Chicago.

&.

There was a price that came with his job, and no, he doesn’t mean the version of work that he does in order to be a service to everyone else thanks to the badge that he wears that allows him to do such, but the job that comes with uncertainty wrapped up in thick stacks of cash. The job that provides as long as he does what is asked. It was something that he knew was trouble from the start but still never shied away from because the reward always outweighed the risk thanks to the skills that he had. These hands could stitch up something quick, wrap one up in a soft white cloth and then help clean away the mess, but they could also do the opposite. They knew exactly what to do to keep someone alive just enough until they’re unneeded, ready to be unthreaded and to bleed out at the request of someone else. He has seen this before in scenes that have played out in the favor of his employers so much so that he’s grown to be familiar with it, forever thinking of the best possible outcome for himself in these situations instead of the worst because up until now his life was aligned to be that way. As long as he held up his end of whatever fucked up deal that got him in this mess to begin with, he felt as though he was fine. Not untouchable, but it wasn’t like people would be looking out for the guy with the first aid kit come time for reckoning. But that also left a lot of room for life to mess with him in other ways, like getting him shot in a parking garage just shortly after telling off his trainer that he never wants speak to her again. 

So, the shock was still there even as he slept, the realization that he almost lost himself racing off in his mind as he tried to drift off into the spaces of his conscience that felt familiar and warm as he floated along lost memories and dreams, unaware of the cold reality he was in until he could feel himself falling and fading away, jerking himself awake to face it all. He felt himself snap out of it, his first instinct to straighten up in his bed only to be disappointed in how little he could move thanks to the pain in his chest. He could see that his room was plain, bright with fluorescents, with a small TV in one corner with not much else to look at aside from the familiar figure of a brunette at his bedside. She was tucked into a chair and all he wanted to do was reach out and touch her, the sound of her voice coming off smaller than what he was used to, but was welcomed all the same. “You stayed.” It wasn’t the answer she was looking for but he didn’t want a nurse right now and his mouth wasn’t in the business of saying anything more than what his brain needed as his last few memories came to him in waves. He tried to push himself up again. “What…happened?” Aside from the obvious. “How’d I get here?”

Instinctually, her hand flexed with the desire to reach out and steady him as he once again tried to push himself up, instead, fingers curled tightly around the blanket as she shifted into a position that no longer left her leg numb. “The uh..--” Stayed.. A concept that she hadn’t really considered until now. She’d only left the hospital for an hour or two before returning without further question, it was perhaps only now, that he’d voiced it, that Jack realized the stipulation behind it. “The nurses let me in.” Though, under what circumstances they had, she wasn’t all that willing to share with him just yet. “You probably shouldn’t sit up just yet.” Bullet wounds were one of the many things that had scarred her form, time and time again. The assassin understood how raw the pain could feel - even if she’d never caught one to the chest without a bulletproof vest before. Teeth caught her lip, drawing it backwards as she inhaled, onyx hues slipping away from Brandon as she pieced together what she knew. “Some kind of scuffle in the parking garage I think,” Or rather, knew. Knowing that she caught the gaze of Diana as she too, hovered protectively over Ryan after the shots rang out against the concrete walls. “You and a few others were caught by strays,” and her heart had never sunk quicker the moment it’d clicked, “You uh..-- Isabella found you at the bottom of the stairs.” Lie. “Did what she could until the ambulance arrived.” With the last thing he’s said to her repeating over and over in her head - Ever again.. Ever again... Ever again... She had no idea how learning - or remembering that she’d been at his side almost the entire time since the bullet had pierced his flesh. Maybe it was better this way, for him. “I was just waiting for someone else to come back, I didn’t exactly intend to be here when you woke up.” Another lie - as she backtracked, slipping forward in the chair and tossing the blanket to rest at the end of his bed. “If you don’t need a nurse though, you should be okay until someone shows up..”

location: northwestern memorial hospital

status: closed to @jacktaylcr​​​​

date: january 1st

Isabella considered herself to be a patient person when it countered, but there was nothing more agonizing than the feeling of having nothing but patience to cling too while the life of friend hung in the balance. Uncertainty lingered about the waiting room like a bad omen and it was the faces of those surrounding her that drew her attention. Many of which were dressed in similar Gatsby attire, wearing expressions of concern as they too awaited news. But it was the raven haired woman whom had initially brought her to Brandon’s aid that her gaze settled upon as she paced before her. “Shapiro is as stubborn as they come, he will get through this.” She attempted to reassure, uncertain if it was more for the other’s benefit or her own as hues shifted from the woman to settle upon the faded carpet beneath her feet. 

Axel leans against one side of the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. A cigarette dangling between his lips as the events of the night replayed in his mind. How could he have not scoped out the area a little better? He knew the second he went to see Zeph it was going to be a long conversation of him repeating what had gone on over and over. There was no way anyone but them and the owner’s family knew what was happening in the basement. So, maybe it was the other side of the deals fault but whoever it was had a bounty on their head and this Taylor was going to be the one to complete. 

His head turned as he heard the front door, knowing it could only be one person he waited until she walked further in. His gaze drifted to every single inch of her to make sure the blood on her fingers hadn’t come from her. Inhaling a puff of the cigarette, he gestures his head towards the bathroom to let her know she can go take a shower and there’s already a fresh towel hanging up for her. He waits until she leaves the room before he moves away from the archway towards the kitchen to grab a glass. He grabs the bottle of vodka he set aside of his sister whenever she comes over like this, screwing off the cap with his index finger and thumb, tossing the lid onto the counter. He pours her a single glass and plucks it off the counter, making his way over to the kitchen table and placing both the bottle of vodka and the glass he poured before plopping down himself. His eyes lift up towards the area his sister appears in an hour or so later, leaning back in his seat. “Who’s blood?” He asks.

There are very few places that Jack goes that don’t prompt her to immediately plan out an exit strategy. It’s become as instinctual as breathing has and over the years, each one has stored itself away for whatever rainy day might come biting at her heels, waiting to catch her off guard. Jack Taylor had never felt the need to think about that in her brothers home. The greatest safe haven she’d ever known existed purely with Axel, and maybe that was why she came here instead of going home, or to the compound. She doesn’t wait for much more, the front door closes behind her and she’s hyper aware of the way he looks her over, trying to find a pinpoint for where the blood might be from, but there’s nothing for him to worry about - so she says nothing. The heat of the water scalds and Jack has never wanted to be rid of the crimson as much as she does now. The thought of getting out of the shower before she knows it’s stripped layers from her skin is almost crippling and she barely remembers the last time she’s fought so hard for breath. 

By the time she resurfaced in the kitchen, after digging through the mess of clothes she always left in the spare room, Jack felt a little more alive - no longer able to feel Brandon’s fleshy wound beneath her palms. “Not mine.” And it was the only immediate answer that she could give him, as lithe fingertips find the glass he’s poured her, she finishes it in a single mouthful. It’s crass, and she can feel the slight tremor in the hand that curls tighter now. “Do you ever think about everything we’ve given up to be who we are?” Under no circumstance, had Jack ever considered the life she led to be wrong - nor did she regret any single part of it. Upon realizing all the things that would never be “normal”, she’d suffered no pain. “I thought I was done with this shit after Lincoln.” After he’d used her to get information - to get closer to the Bratva - after she’d sunk three bullets into him and closed herself off to everyone and everything. Pouring a second drink, she sits in the chair next to him, dark hues focusing on nothing at all, “I won’t be blindsided again.”

…

Fletcher knew better than to believe she would leave just as swiftly as she had appeared. Because when it came to Jack Taylor there was always an ulterior motive at play, or on some occasions a bigger picture. One he was quickly put to task on figuring out against the clock. And while it was clear she knew all the right strings to pull to get him to follow along in the race to collect the puzzle pieces, a small part of him actually enjoyed the chase. Whether that was primarily because it was rare that his skillset was challenged in such a way, or because failure, as much as he condemned himself for it, was the only way of bettering himself. Little did the lethal weapon of a woman know she was indirectly aiding that of her nemesis. But alas, it seemed there was still much to learn as he stepped into the dark alley only to feel the full brunt of her elbow connecting with the side of his face. He should have known better. The impact sent him stumbling back, but not once did he take his eyes off the prize as crystalline irises watched her shift into action once more. That was sure to leave quite the spectacular bruise. “Best prepare to choke on those words, Taylor.” He seethed, words spat through gritted teeth as he gave chase. 

Little more than a brash laugh fell from her lips at his sharpened quip, Jack already sifting through the crowd of people spilling out of the club and into the street before them. Fletcher gave chase and the satisfaction that settled deep within her chest only intensified as she darted out into the street beyond. In truth, their targets were never truly that hard to find. Generally speaking, they left little to the imagination - all of them righteous pigs that didn’t deserve the quick death they usually earnt and Jack Taylor was more than happy to turn death into a venture all it’s own. Unlike others that she might have drawn out, however - this one was one that she intended to leave an impression on the other assassin. Regardless of the war going on - their was something else entirely. It was one of skill and rigor, one that could never be matched for their skills were far beyond the realm of normalcy. Skitting out into the middle of the road, Jack was illuminated by the bright glow of headlights as the driver of the vehicle in front of her slammed on their breaks. The vehicle didn’t quite catch her, but that certainly didn’t mean she hadn’t slammed her hand down against the grill as she looked through the front windscreen and stared the two targets they’d been following dead in the eyes before she flipped them off. The tiny gadget she’d tucked beneath the metallic strips of the grill completely unnoticed, she pushed back against the bonnet once more before she reaches for her bike. Flicking the kickstand up, she offers one final look in Fletcher’s direction as he reaches the road, before something akin to a smile, yet undoubtedly more malicious settles on her features, a disposable phone pulled from her pocket and a single button is pressed and the car, targets within, explodes.

He feels his heart race for a moment, his pulse quicken, his mouth run dry, when she looks at him. It’s a look he’s received before, but it’s as if she can see into the depths of a truth he’s had years to think about. He’s thought about that evening, sorted through the remnants of his life, of his feelings, of how he should continue to live his life. His choice to stay hidden away in obscurity was taken from him, and the chips have fallen in a way that he now knows he can no longer avoid. Her words aren’t what he expects to hear, and at the same time, it’s exactly what he had wanted. She looks at him like he’s someone different, and he comes to the realisation that it’s the truth. He’s not the same man, not but a long shot, and he yearns to feel nothing in the gaze, but something bubbles beneath his well concocted surface and he comes to find that he hates what she did. He’d skirted around the word for so long, not knowing how to reconcile such an ugly feeling with her, but it’s what it is and he grits his teeth when she speaks. The anger that had been tamed for so long breaks, and he looks at her, though she tries to look everywhere else. It still is. The dam is broken. “Good.” He replies and he means it. His voice betrays none of his rage. “I wish you had killed me that night.” It’s not a lie but he cuts to the chase, eyes boring into hers, though she still hasn’t met his gaze. “I just wanted you to know something. The next time you get close enough to kill me,” his words are soft, but calm, despite the tumult beneath them. “Don’t miss.” He thinks of the deal he’s about to make with the Syndicate, and he know it’ll only be a matter of time before they cross each other’s paths again, and the dark, twisted feeling in his chest wells and soars. “Because I won’t.”

&.

IT WAS UNEXPLAINABLE, this feeling he got when he heard his name echo out from Jack, this sort of surreal sensation that made him feel as though this was all just some terrible dream that he wasn’t allowed to wake from. She says his name like she’s waiting for him to respond and all Brandon does is lay there because he’s tired, body feeling like it’s on fire. She’s not really there, and why would she be? He was having a terrible time trying to convince himself of the reality he was in, that she hadn’t just pushed him away just moments before, when every time he felt his eyes flutter open for the briefest second in an attempt to keep himself sane, he could see her leaning over him, wet streaks on her cheeks. Jack’s all an image of dark hair and even darker eyes and seeing her with a smear of blood across her face left him more disoriented than he had felt before. She’s not really there. He had to be dreaming because he didn’t know what he’d do if he wasn’t. 

And then he felt it, really felt it. Not the pain that was swelling across his body causing him to feel like his chest was tightening or like there wasn’t enough air in this damn garage for him to breath in, but the pressure of someone’s hand on the wound that struck him and with all the left over strength he possibly could muster, his own went to reach over it even though he winced. The hand was all smooth skin covered in something crimson when he felt himself hold onto it tighter. “Jack?” He doesn’t want her to leave now that he knew the sight of her wasn’t some sort of twisted mirage his mind was making up in the heat of the situation. He needed her there with him, only those words never find their way out, just another squeeze of his hand overs hers because right now that felt like his lifeline, his only real connection to staying conscious since he was starting to feel himself starting to grow more exhausted by staying awake. It was even a struggle to keep his eyes open, but tried even though the struggle. “Fuck.” His body shook as he coughed, pained at how difficult it was to speak while their hands were still held over his chest. “Fuck, Jack—do not leave me here.” 

There’s something that swells up in her throat as he reaches for her, the menial amount of strength that encases itself around her hand draws out a sound that she’d never heard before. Something warped, neatly wrapped in guilt, desperation and relief that he speaks her name. “Hey..-- Hey... don’t move okay.” She knew that the likelihood of him remaining conscious for much longer was slim, but until she found a way to get him out of here, it was the last thing she wanted there and then at the base of the stairwell. The door at the top of the stairs swings open and before Jack even has a moment to register who it might be, her own weapon is drawn, caught between bloodied fingers as she releases pressure from Brandon’s wound momentarily to aim instinctively. Slowly, several seconds pass, and the hardened nature that Jack carried with her encompassed the man beneath in a way that nobody could have ever expected, “Are you fucking stupid?” She knows the look - the haunting in the eyes of a young man who’d never seen so much blood in his life, but she cares so little for anything bar the man bleeding out, that the ice she carries spills over. “Close your fucking mouth and go get someone. Call someone --- Isabella Marino, do you know her?” He remains silent, its irritating and it’s all she can do not to fire her own weapon at him to scare him out of the shock. “Do you know her?”  He nods and her gun scatters to the floor as her hands return to the wound in Brandon’s chest. “Go get her, now.” How long it took him to disappear, Jack had no clue.. her attention no longer focused on anything beyond the crimson liquid that ooze between her fingertips and the shallow movement as his chest rose and fell with every breath. “I’m not..--” Fingertips moved gently across his jaw, trying to lull him away from whatever depths he saw now. Maybe it wouldn’t be enough - her voice, her presence.. She bled death, carried it with her everywhere she went and perhaps the greatest irony is that, she’d never sought to save someone from the mirror image of death that she dished out. “I’m not going anywhere okay. Someone's coming.. Help is coming...”

- time skip - 

It feels an awful lot like lingering, the fluorescent lights above harsh against porcelain skin that still somehow holds the faint hue of blood. It’s been washed away, hours prior. Jack had forcibly made herself leave as she watched syndicate members spill into the hospital for news. The only relief she could hold within her, was that her place among the bratva had never been public knowledge - only a select few beyond their ranks understood the part she played in all of this. Even still, it sparked something new within her - a piece of knowledge that she didn’t hold before and hadn’t even considered. Whatever he did - whoever he was he was tied to the enemy somehow. It itched beneath her skin and made her question why she’d remained. Curled up beneath a scratchy hospital blanket in the uncomfortable chair of his hospital room, enduring each and every sympathetic look that crosses the room with each nurse that comes to check on him. They’d claimed the surgery had gone fine - information that had only ben divulged to her after she’d claimed to be his fiance and the only family he had with him in the city at the moment. A lie that had spilled from her lips with the ease of water and oil. He stirs and her elbow slips from it’s perch on the arm of the chair, shifting to balance on her knee as she catches her face in her hand, “Brandon?” Her voice almost feels fragile, as if someone else were speaking for her even. “Can you hear me?” It seems, silly -  almost too simple a task to just be there, and she continues to feel the weight of being out of place right there and then. “Do you want me to get a nurse?”

Everything felt, strangely off kilter. The once feeble glamor that the emerald green dress held now dulled out by the splotches of dried blood. Staining her fingernails and caught in the creases of the rings she wore in a way that bothered her far more than it ever had before. Somehow, she’d managed to be swept up into the back of the ambulance as they transported Brandon to the hospital, fussed over as if she suffered some brand of shock and trauma that hadn’t long since settled as part of the job. But the bullet hadn’t come from her - a shocking revelation when one considered who she was - and another painstaking reminder as she watched known syndicate members stream into the waiting room to see Brandon upon his surgery to remove the bullet. A fickle complication that soon had her adhering to the nurses insistence that she go home - do as many autonomous things as would carry her throughout the day (eat, sleep; wash the blood of another down the drain...) Home didn’t feel right though, and when the car pulled away from the curb, Jack realized that she’d given the driver her brothers address.  Without feeling like waiting for another car, she admonished herself for not paying attention sooner and made her way through the front door, more than willing to barely pay Axel any mind until she’d screwed her head on a little more - but well wishes weren’t always granted. One foot in the door, she stopped, onyx hues landing on the only others she knew to be as dark as her own. “I need a shower..” It fell in a way that didn’t sound like her own voice and she knew it “..-- vodka, tell me you’ve got vodka..

IT WAS SOBERING, this entire conversation that was happening before him that he hardly noticed how fast his heart was racing against his chest or how tight his hands were balled into fists at his side. He didn’t dare flinch at the tone, instead, it made him feel seasick, recalling all the things that have happened between them that could go against everything she said. Her words played over in a reel of his thoughts, his mind trying to process just where she was getting at like he hadn’t heard her clear as day. This isn’t going to work. Something he knew and had refused to see and it only made him feel more defeated as crueler words spin out, her eyes on him like he had so badly wanted.

We’re not going to be friends. You’re convenient and I will lie to you.

Brandon took a step back rather than go forward, suddenly desperate for the space to grow between them as his eyes fall close in an ill hope that the room would stop spinning just as his teeth sink into the inside of his cheek. A mess of emotions — anger, resentment, hurt, loneliness, guilt, sadness. Everything he’s feeling and they’re all tied to her.

“I don’t want to ever talk to you again.” And he wanted her to know that he meant it as every single word was dragged out against his tongue. No hint of humor or his usual boyish smirk. Just a bitter stab to his chest that caused his voice to strain. Pathetic, this was pathetic and he didn’t want her to see him like this anymore. Too many times has he tried to see if this could work, too vulnerable. A hopeless, injured golden retriever just wincing and begging for her touch. Her attention. He can’t do this and it has him stepping back even further with a lift of his hand from his pocket to wave her off, walking with hyperfocused steps from their small space because he just needs to get away from any and all things Jack Taylor related for the sake of the new year.

And then it happens. All of it so quick that it doesn’t register to him at first, the hit to his chest immediately putting him in a daze as he swayed in his stance. A rock in his shoes, an unbalanced sort of feeling as the pain begins to radiate throughout his body, a red bloom soaking through a stark white shirt. He doesn’t pray much but he can feel himself reciting words passed down to him in a sort of surreal state, his mind split between trying to control what was happening and figuring out what he did to make Jack hate him so much. It took him seconds to hit the ground, the pain so unbearable that his face scrunched and his eyes began to burn, tiny beads pinched by his eyes. This was not how he planned this night to go. 

Immediately, Jack wondered whether she might throw up. Whether her body might simply reject all the twists and turns, knotted up organs and simply seek to rid itself of the swimming feeling that didn’t quite feel natural anymore. She remembered, vividly, that the feeling existed only once before - something akin to an out of body experience as she pulled the trigger and watched Lincoln’s body convulse on impact. If adrenaline and shock could ultimately exist together in a way that wasn’t quite codependent on one another, she had a feeling this would be it. “Good, you finally get it then.” It’s sharp, Jack finally feeling more like herself in the few seconds it seems to take Brandon to accept this for what it was, even if the lurch within her chest feels something like tumbling from a plane at fifteen thousand feet. A nose dive to the solid ground below, only now, the solid ground is Brandon, and it becomes forever out of reach.  The singular hand that still clings to the railing has surely become one with the steel at this point, Jack convinced that should she let go, the metal would have bent to the shape of her hand. He steps back, and she wonders whether she can breathe yet without being taken over by his entire being. Momentarily, she’s convinced that should her body seek out breath before she suffocates, somehow, she’d go back on everything she knows is right. It’s in the echo of each step he takes that she knows beyond all doubt that truly, it would never work. Jack Taylor was steel - she was iron. Imperfectly rigid, able to be marked, yet never changed, while Brandon was everything but.  Though, her intention was to leave, she finds no reason that she should continue down the final few steps into the parking garage. It doesn’t seem right to follow in his footsteps now, so instead, she reaches for the door that will take her back to the party above. Until something that shouldn’t have surprised her at all, sent a chill over her entire frame. 

It’s as familiar to her as the bitter scent of blood, she carries the sound in her memory so heavily that she almost doesn’t notice it at first. Over the years, Jack Taylor had become immune to it, blown her eardrums out a few dozen times before she’d figured it all out, but it sounds tonight louder than she’s ever heard it before. She hears the slump, it’s the same with every body. It’s clothing and limbs collapsing on itself in the most unnatural way and any other day she’d have kept on, but here, in the stairwell seconds past midnight, it turns her blood to ice.

Obsidian seeks out the crimson far too easily and before she realizes that she’s even moved, the weapon once holstered to her thigh is in her hands and at the ready and she stands over Brandon. As his body fell, it offered to prop open the door into the parking garage and a menial glimpse of the room beyond shows Diana holding another's body close as she screams, and her brother running out of her line of sight. Instinct takes over and almost immediately her spine straightens. She doesn’t yet know if the shot to his chest was straight through, or if he was even breathing and all she can think about for that split second, is where the fucking bullet came from - and how many she’d pump into whoever pulled the trigger. At least, it’s all she can think about until she hears sound of blood in the airways. 

“Brandon?!” Panic hadn’t quite risen beyond the lump in her throat, as she drops to her knees beside him, hands immediately moving to stifle the bullet wound “Brandon? Hey.. c’mon, you’re okay.” He was so far from okay and it sent a tremor through her hands. “You’re..-- you... hey, we’re gonna’...” but nothing sounded right. It all sounded like too much of a promise when death was all she knew. A reaper, sworn to carry those to the depths of hell. And yet. The lump in her throat imploded, the subsequent sob letting lose what felt like heat in her eyes. 

A singular hand shifts from the wound, subconsciously rising to brush the salt away before it falls too far, smearing her face with crimson. Her mind spins, in a thousand different directions and she knows that she’ll never be able to pick apart a single thought of how to fix this. “I don’t know how..--” And it’s a new admission, and perhaps another lie, because she does know how to fix this. Given, she’s not fantastic in the art of first aid response - she’s always been more, shotty needle work and a patchwork job on any wound she’d suffered before, but she knows how to react to this. She knows that whenever another Bratva had been injured beside her, she’s sprung into action once delivering the final blow of revenge, but this feels frighteningly different. 

IT WAS A better reaction than he expected. Still hostile and unlike the version of her he remembered a few months back during their run - in at Halloween, but better than whatever his mind could come up with when it came to preparing for any of this when deciding to follow her out. Her words were clipped like they usually were, no surprise there, and he can trail her gaze that isn’t on him but on a slab on concrete before them, like he wasn’t even there and a more sensible part of him cannot blame her for that. He could barely turn his eyes in direction during that first delight of a conversation between them and one more and regret was quick to follow because of it. She was right. She didn’t owe him shit. Not an explanation, not some full history. Nothing. So why couldn’t he just walk away instead of standing there with his feet planted in the ground in refusal? Why was it so hard to just accept the fact that he was wasting his time with someone who so very clearly didn’t want him around? “I just wanted to talk to you.” Not something Brandon willingly wanted to admit in this strange exit way but it comes out in one smooth tone, his accent and the height of being slightly inebriated making his words melt together when he spoke. “I, I just don’t know what to do around you.” Now it was his turn to sound exhaustive while pulling cold hands into his pockets to keep them from flexing from ansty nerves, still behind her with some distance because he can’t find it in himself to get closer, something in the edge of her voice keeping him frozen. The silence is heavy, almost suffocating now that he can’t drown out his thoughts with white noise and idle chatter, and he can’t find any more words to say other than the ones he’s been wanting to get out all night and while it does take a minute for them to come it, eventually they spill into something of a whisper. 

“Can you please look at me?” The request is asked while he stepped forward, just a bit to close some of the space, and was matched with a sigh. “I’m not doing this if you’re just gonna act like I’m not standing here with your back turned.” 

I just wanted to talk to you. It seemed to be a notion that existed as far away as possible to anything that had ever occurred between them. Bickering and lashing out seemed far more akin to anything that had passed between their lips while the other was near. Jack didn’t know what to say - how did she process something like that, when the most immediate thing that came to her head was how much she wanted to talk to him too. Talk. Fingers tightened, undoubtedly, so tightly that were the railing not flush against her palm, half moons would have bitten into the flesh of her hand far too easily. The uncertainty in his voice welled a knot in her throat, the kind that wouldn’t allow air to sink into her lungs until she admitted something out loud. Despite popular belief, in quiet corners, Jack’s instinct didn’t always take over, sometimes, she was merely human. With wants, needs - emotions that she’d never learnt how to deal with because she’d never needed them or they’d never serve her well in the world she claimed her own. Feeling him shift closer, the air in the stairwell moving with him - she catches the smell of liquor, clinging to him and masking the same woodish musk that she’d caught in the haunted house. Her jaw works over a few times, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t know if she wants to but it’s only a momentary fracture in her judgement that lets slip her hand from the railing as she turns. “This isn’t going to work,” her voice is low but its certainly a sure thing. Jack is almost surprised by the solid nature of it, because she certainly doesn’t feel solid right now. Onyx hues lift, giving him what he’s asked for, and now that she knows of the tiny specks of gold that his iris holds, she has to promise herself she won’t go looking this time. “We’re not going to be friends, Brandon. You keep trying and... - I don’t know how to make it any fucking clearer with you.” But, clear was one thing she knew she hadn’t been. Perhaps another lie to add to her lifetime of them. “You’re convenient,” his own words cast back at him coated in a toxin that she’s never tasted before, “And I will lie to you because you make it so fucking easy.” The laugh that slips from her lips holds no humor, but it drags ice down into the small of her spine, “Give it up already, you look like a fool.”

closed.

new years eve  ╱  someplace brandon would rather not be .. and yet @jacktaylcr​

IN ALL HONESTY, Brandon figured he could get by with the rest of his night by finding somewhere else to go. The gears in his head already mapping out a plan to make a swing by the bar and get friendly with people who didn’t make him feel like how he did now, a rather low bar bordering on pathetic with the champagne in his system turning his usual saccharine words into something thorny. So why was he following her out into the stairwell, trailing shortly behind in expensive shoes and looking for answers he knew he might not get the answer to? Sober Brandon would have a proper response or at least a better guess. This current version of him, however, had other plans that seemed too important to halt even after splitting ways and saying forced goodbyes. A weird surge of adrenaline pumped through his veins as people flashed by in a series of glitter, satin, and sequins. Confetti, cheers, and music. All of it loud and distracting until the empty silence of an emergency exit could harbor them both. 

“So you’re just going to walk away?” Not that she owed him anything. He was just a guy at the gym ( remember ) who didn’t have grounds to be as offended as he was being. They weren’t even friends. And he knew that now, wholeheartedly, yet it still stung hearing all that was being said on top of the sparkly new information about the other’s relationship with Sam, someone up until quite recently he would have ( and maybe still did ) considered a really good friend, too. It was all jarring, and that did not pair well with being drunk. “Throw a Happy New Year in my face and just waltz off in your little green dress because you’re Jack and that’s what do you, right? Leave when conversations get tough and lie to people because it’s convenient.” He held his hand up in mock defense, realizing in short just what had rolled off his tongue. “My apologies, not Jack. You’re Estelle.” The twisted expression that crossed his features was a telltale sign that her real name still didn’t taste right on his tongue, but he was going to continue until his mind could make sense of it all. “Or whatever you actually go by since I wouldn’t know. Just your trainee walkin’ round blind.” 

Vividly, she now remembered why generally speaking, she kept to herself. People served her far better with a bullet between their eyes than something that crept up into the depths of her soul and lingered long enough to poke holes in each hardened surface she’d created. The cold chill in the air as the door closed behind her, encasing her in the concrete staircase was a steep contrast to the heat flushed within her cheeks. For a moment, she felt dazed, the familiar feeling as alcohol settled into her system and made itself known. It felt like everything was just, closing in around her. That perhaps every horrible thing she’d done was catching up to her all in the span of a singular night. Such control was slipping between her fingers and it angered her more than anything. Fingers curled tightly around the steel staircase and all she could do was breathe. Steady her focus, aim down the sights.. At least, that’s what the intention was, before the silence of the stairwell was assaulted by all that she’d left behind as the door swung open and Brandon came barrelling into the mausoleum silence with her. “Here we go..” She muttered beneath her breath, unwilling to uncurl her fingertips from the steel just yet to look at him. It wasn’t certain that she would have gotten a word in had she tried, whatever tirade Brandon was on, he wasn’t slowing down any time soon and with each word that left his lips, Jack felt her own plateau. Lie to people because it’s convenient.. It should have torn shreds, but in truth, Jack lied to people because a lie was far better than the truth when it came to who, and what she was. It wasn’t a matter of her being a bad person by accident.. - this was what she chose. She didn’t fall into it - didn’t grow with it twisted in her veins, it just was, and she knew that was hard to swallow. Even her lifelong best friend couldn’t look at her the same now that she knew. How Brandon could ever do the same, when he couldn’t even handle the idea that her name was the greatest lie she might or might not have actively told, was beyond her. This was all for the better. “Are you done?” Still, she hadn’t move, hues of obsidian still trained on the concrete wall opposite her. “I don’t owe you shit, Brandon.” It’s not spoken with the same venom as their earlier conversation, each syllable is exhaustive because she doesn’t argue - she pulls the trigger and it’s done. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

“Ouch, okay,” he doesn’t mind that she’s turned down the drink, but somehow the curtness strikes a nerve. What does he want? A simple question. Probably could have warranted a simple answer, but he doesn’t even know where to begin. There’s a few things that bother him about the fact that she knows him, perhaps better than he’d given her credit for. Firstly, that he can’t slip beneath whatever facade he wants to create for himself on a whim, but secondly, that he doesn’t have to feign politeness. After all, she did try to kill him, but he still doesn’t like the now coldness that lingers between them. It’s odd, though logical. He still doesn’t like it. The success of that particular mission regardless. “Just to talk,” it’s not a lie, and he leans back into the seat, making himself comfortable and placing both elbows on the arm rests of the seat. A show really. He doesn’t need to verbalise that he’s armed, but at least with empty hands that are out in the open, perhaps it can be a more civil conversation. “Something we used to be able to do quite easily,” his voice becomes wistful. “In so many different positions, locations…” he trails off before darkened eyes meet hers. “You recall, of course,” he’s purposefully trying to get a rise out of her now, and still, he doesn’t quite know what sort of angle he wants to take with her. “Maybe I just have one question, and I guess you could lie but I don’t really give a shit,” he clears his throat. He doesn’t miss a beat when he asks, and knows he doesn’t have to clarify what he means. “Was it easy?”

brvnshapiro​:

&.

IT’S LIKE INSTANT regret in the way that he realizes that he should have just stayed back in the ballroom, this conversation doing nothing for him but make him see Jack in a completely different light compared to the one he had been holding her up to all this time. It’s something like disappointment that flows through him, amplified by pale champagne and adrenaline, and he can’t seem to shake away the thoughts running through his head as both she and Sam discard their glasses and piece him in with comments that he doesn’t give much of reaction to aside from the occasional eye roll and the tightening of his knuckles on his own glass as he heard things like the name Estelle and how people were temporary for Sam. How Jack didn’t have time to deal with his stupidity when all he wanted to do was talk to her. Though he manages a rather unwavering sense of confidence on a normal day, the brunette standing beside him is the one person that could make it all come tumbling down with a few choice words and mocking smirk to match. 

“Who the fuck is Estelle?” Even the name tastes foreign on his tongue, but he knows it’s her and it feels like he’s been double slapped all the same. And while the question’s directed to Sam, someone who hasn’t been lying to his face for the last couple of months, his gaze is on Jack’s for the first time directly since he’s come over. He wants her to say something other than a smart remark or a witty comeback to save herself from answering the question and it’s foolish to think he’ll get anything but. Only he can’t stop thinking about all the times they’ve spent together and how stupid he could have been to think that the other would have had the decency to at least not lie about their name. “You know what,” Brandon makes a noise that may have been a laugh or a cough, or even a combination of the two, and takes a step back with his free hand held up. “I don’t even want the answer to that.” Because you’ll probably lie. His gaze drifts to Sam, his tone softer and more apologetic despite the edge given to him from all the drinking. “I really wanted to talk to you, but I should go before this turns into a thing.”

+

It’s a gross mischaracterization which smacks her directly in the face, lips parting ever so slightly in absolute shock that Sam probably has no right to feel after everything. Maybe she deserves the insult, or maybe putting stock in Jack’s ability to keep it civil around others was wholly misplaced. A combination of both perhaps, but snapping back with the name Estelle doesn’t provide any sense of vengeance or ease the accompanying discomfort. An underlying guilt slips beneath the surface of her skin, flushed and disconcerting in the silence which follows on her own end. No smart quip, no return fire. “I think we’re done here.” No longer able to stomach the malicious turn their conversation has taken, despite how she adores Brandon and wishes for nothing more than to ease the trepidation between them, this could only stoop further into toxicity for all involved. The voice at her side temporarily draws Sam’s attention away from seeking out an exit route and the only person who could properly erase this entire fiasco from her mind. “We’ll talk, I promise.” One hand rests gingerly on his arm as she reassures Brandon with a tight smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes, clearly still affected by the other woman’s venom. “Goodnight.” Sparing not a single glance in said ex-lover’s direction, she wastes little time flitting off into the crowd. At least Jack had been correct about one thing: leaving was a talent the blonde nearly perfected. @jacktaylcr​

Had she found it in her to speak, once more, to the blonde that remained to be the first to form some kind of break within her, Jack might have thought to note that they’d been done long ago - Samantha had seen to that, very clearly. Something about the heaviness in the air had found it’s way into her throat because she knew how it looked. Jack was hardened, controlled and held her emotions in check in ways that most people would only dream they’d be capable of. She looked like the asshole - and sure, she’d admit to going out of her way with harsh words and insults, but she’d never been left before - let alone, left with her thoughts in the way that Samantha Bishop had done. Instead, she watches, silently as Brandon and Samantha share the promise of a later exchange and that hurts. It tears something in her chest because in what world had she been offered the same promise. Jack Taylor is venom. She’s lethal, dangerous and everything that people grow up fearing - and she does not break. The familiar glint of blonde hair disappears into the crowd, and she wonders how long it will be before the phantom woman shows her face again. Which corner she’d turn to find her haunting Jack’s every move. One of many, creeping up to remind her of all the things she isn’t suited for. As if the sight of Brandon standing before her isn’t the only reminder she needs right at that moment. Snagging a champagne flute from a passing waiter, the assassin wastes no time at all in polishing it off in a single mouthful, though it didn’t help to lessen the constriction she felt rising in her throat. She swallows thickly, turning her hues away for a mere moment to collect another fleeting moment of her usual mannerisms. “I’m Estelle,” She said, lips pursed as onyx hues returned to Brandon, “You never asked.” Not that she would have ever thought to tell him, but perhaps... she might have found reason to slip, just that little bit more. “Happy New Years, Brandon.” The second empty glass touches down on the tabletop with an unruly clink, her heavy handed movement barely noticeable to her as she pushes past him towards the stairwell. ~ bye @samanthaxbishop​; @brvnshapiro​