#berlin x reader

"Please let go of my wrist."

"Say 'please' again, Jackdaw. It sounds pretty off your lips."

"Let go of my wrist, Berlin."

The grip tightens.

His smile widens.

"You really like pushing my strings to their breaking point, don't you, little one. Let's try this one...last...time..."

Berlin pushes his forehead into yours, lulling with you. You notice his eyes close for a moment, as if truly lost in those few seconds. The fabric of his jumpsuit rustles against yours. His waist touches you and pushes your body into the table, you feel the heat of his words on your neck, so close he could be kissing them into your throat:

"Please...pretty please...let go of my wrist, Berlin, sir...now. Try it. Don't be shy."

His eyes flicked open, wide, beckoning, sharp. Feigned patience playing in them, like he was playing up the role of a particularly exasperated professor. But so intrigued he can't help himself.

Your heart was beating out of your chest. Your breath both fast and low, trying to keep calm, knowing he's well aware of the cameras. But dear god, you don't know if you're quivering for him to follow through on his worst promises or for the need to push him into the opposing wall.

You breathe in, little hops in your throat almost touching his lips the way he's leaning into you.

"Just tie me up and get it over with. Berlin."

Your words try to sound sharp and yet they're anything but - tumbling out of your throat in half breathed whispers, sounding both terrified and utterly overwhelmed with things he'd be delighted to explore.

And he wastes no time.

"Wrong answer."

Berlin grabs your collar he'd been so careful to adjust just moments ago and drags you under the table before you can even gasp.

❥❥❥

A hand is firmly clasped over your mouth.

"Shhh. Hush. Look at me."

You don't.

"Look at me, Manhattan."

The order was clear.

You carefully look up, anger building in your eyes and his fingers placed across your lips, palm over your cheeks, aren't helping. He nods slowly.

"Good girl. Now, give me your hands."

You lift your wrists up halfway, shaking now. Not because of him, but because of how fast he seemingly lost interest and went right back to using you as bait.

Sweet words with no depth. Music on plywood.

He turns to rustle through his pockets, and when he turns back, those small motions and head lulls stop mid-movement. Berlin's eyes sink into yours, studying, then...

He stops again.

Only one finger across your mouth taps into you, as if moving to an invisible tune.

Tap tap.

Tap tap tap.

Tap.

But he's gazing into your eyes, transfixed. Lips just the slightest bit open, as if to speak, but he remains silent. You watch the smooth lines in his face, studying it carefully for the first time.

So much pressure, so much control embedded in the seemingly calm and level surface. His hair is slightly dishevelled, his collar uneven, his neck...strained. His pulse is almost visible. Your eyes jitter to his hand, his fistful of zip ties, and it must have sparked a reaction in you, because his own gaze softens for just a second before growing cold and faintly entertained.

His dark brows lift as if to taunt you further, dare you to disobey, to talk back, to disagree.

And you say nothing, fear gripping your heart. It dawns on you - he's a stranger. A dangerous, volatile stranger, you're alone with him, no cameras can see you right now, and he doesn't care. You're being watched like a worm on a hook, entertaining in its wriggling, nothing more. Fate sealed.

Your eyes lower, lips quivering under the force of the man's palm, just the slightest bit. In any other scenario it would resemble a kiss, but that only plays into your sense of wrong.

Berlin suddenly begins a slow movement and strokes your cheek with the thumb of his hand, each trail slower than the last. Looking at you. The more he looks, the slower the movement, until he shifts from your mouth to the side of your face.

The hand lets your face rest into it, enjoying the caress and ceasing the gagging placement entirely. He simply...remains that way. Watching you. Letting you feed on the comfort of his touch. Your head inadvertently lets him, and he smiles everso slightly to himself.

His voice comes quiet, but not soft.

"Excuse me, Manhattan...I got carried away."

As if trying to lower the matter-of-factness that sincerely hurt your feelings, the man leans closer with a hint of genuine emotion.

"You have no idea how much your eyes can yell in frequencies that get right under my skin."

He chuckles to himself and lightly smacks your cheek, to underline the joviality of the words.

He's bluffing.

You don't say a word as you realise, he's nervous.

And if he's nervous already, you're fucked.

❥❥❥

"Give me your hands, little one."

You should have smacked him when he said that.

Because he leaned to you, and used his legs to rest against yours, so that you couldn't move without his exact permission. The small space felt suffocating and there was no way to not be in contact with him. His legs circled yours, even if you huddled to yourself. His arms rested against your body, large palms always just a flicker of movement away.

When you didn't directly obey, he only smiled that little corner smile and grabbed your wrists, not with force, but with thoughts circling a far darker cliff.

Berlin twisted the ties around meticulously, leaving them undone. All the way up your arms, all the way up to your elbow. When he was satisfied, he pulled you closer by the collar, and you gasped - but he already touched your wrist with his finger and circled the tender spot beating for dear life with his hand.

He looks at you, reading you like a book. The pressure circling you everso slightly. Up down. Up down. Just the way he trails his finger. Electricity running all the way up your arms and down to your chest, lingering in your heart.

"Calm down, little Jackdaw. There's no other place to hide than here."

And he chuckles. He chuckles and you know. You know he's playing into the scene of your first meeting. And he's delighted in how the puzzle pieces slip into their perfect places without effort, without hinder.

Berlin begins to ruffle through his pocket as he lets your hand go for just a while, and you fully expect him to take out his cigarettes. Just to drive the point home, you feel the beads of sweat beginning to form on your forehead.

But no.

He takes out a shiny thing.

Duct tape?

"Are you serious right now?" Your voice is finally level, finally found, riding on a wave if disbelief and embarrassment. You kick yourself away and shuffle backwards, hitting your back on the table leg.

"How sick are you?! This wasn't the deal, this wasn't the damn deal, Berlin---"

And he, in quiet exasperation, grabs the back of your head and a fistful of hair, forcing you to bend closer to him. His voice is low, almost a whisper, but commanding.

"I make the rules, Manhattan. You obey. Now..." he undoes a sliver and bites it off, you wince at the sound, "hold still."

Before he lays the sticky surface across your mouth, he pats your cheek again, gentler this time, but remains in place as he hovers too close.

"Stay still or this is going to hurt even more than I intend it to."

"Oh fuck you Berl--"

He lays it against your mouth and pushes it down with a firm hand, trailing fingers on each side of your mouth and finally gazing at his creation with too much satisfaction. You barely realise what's happened and how helpless you are as the realisation sinks in and you shudder, desperate to be further away. Too close, to close, too...Berlin holds both sides of your head, and he seems to have stopped his errant movements. Fully focused on you. Just looking. Each of his thumbs push down the corners of our mouth as if adjusting the tape, but they linger too long.

You close your eyes, hoping to calm the maelstrom in your head, and feel Berlin's fingers trail down. They grab your jaw, turning your head in his hand, inspecting you. You open your eyes to see his lips open up too, as if mouthing to himself, studying, watchful - and his gaze darts from your gagged mouth to your angry eyes.

"That fire, Manhattan."

His face is like a mask, but his eyes threaten to swallow you whole.

"That fire makes me want to burn this place to the ground just to see you react."

You don't pull away. But you do complain.

"Mhhmph!"

He laughs to himself, bringing your head closer to his. You can feel his breath on your skin and see your hair trickling down upon his free hand that is simply resting against your leg.

He fingers the strands softly, like a cat playing with string.

"Sorry, little one, I didn't quite get that. Would you come closer to Mister Berlin and articulate a little better? I'm sure you can manage. Such a clever little girl you are, no?"

His lips end on a patronising 'o' shape and his eyes remain half closed, very satisfied, too gratified.

You only breathe out angrily through your nose and roll your eyes to the side, pushing yourself away again.

Well, this was even worse than you thought.

❥❥❥

You feel his eyes positively skewer you, knowing his brain is likely working overtime. You try to shift but find it almost impossible in such a small space with his legs in the way and you - almost unable to move.

Have it your way, his demeanour seems to say, and he wordlessly pulls your arms far too roughly to himself. Berlin pauses, as if to let the gesture sink in, and slowly, one by one...

Tightens.

Each.

Zip-tie.

Up.

To your.

Elbow.

And you wince at the last one, so close to your chest, forcing you to hold your arms close and squish yourself to remain halfway upright.

If you felt exposed before, now even the jumpsuit can't hide how naked you feel before him.

As you look up, trying not to let the situation get to you even more, even focusing your thoughts on how this will help the others - you really try to keep it together - looking up, you don't have to be half as knowledgeable on the human condition to know you're not the only with problems here.

Berlin? He can't help himself. He shifts.

Shifts again.

Bends then straightens his knee still harsh against your leg and hip.

Then his hand moves.

Then his arm.

Not just a fidget.

It has reason.

His arm stops and then continues, almost a jitter of a movement - then strain. Closer. Ever closer to you. Steady, but harbouring too much effort to remain so.

First, he only hovers. Hovers above the highest zip-tie. Eyes back at you, checking.

You wince as he connects his touch with your jumpsuit and pushes in to feel your skin.

You follow Berlin as he trails a finger from the very top of your forearm to your wrist, remaining on your pulse. Even climbing just under the cuff to connect skin to skin.

And he...smiles to himself. Not an evil or cheeky smile. It seems...true. He's smiling like he found something he'd lost a long time ago, glistening in the mud, touching it to make sure it's real.

Your pulse quickens, and he smiles further until his expression resembles someone knowing and calm.

Just as you'd expect him to switch, to hurt you, to lay his cards on the table with a winning hand, you silently brace for the pain and give him no satisfaction in your eyes. But Berlin wraps his hand around your bound wrists, seeing the contrast of his large palm easily fitting right over them.

Shielding. Caring. Gathering warmth and giving it to you.

Or is he playing with you still?

He seems entranced. You didn't have to study body language to notice his stiff legs relaxing on command, or the way he's shielding you from the door even as he's playing up the scene.

Every movement he made seemingly in tease let him end up in such a position that should anyone come in, gun or knife, they'd have to go through him thrice before they got to you. And your own eyes soften at the realisation.

His murmur is soft, almost unnoticeable against the tender hum of machinery above you.

"Such a gentle little thing you are, Manhattan."

He pats your wrist, as if to play down the gesture. Play down the entire evening.

"Out of place. Out of time. Tell you what."

He straightens as much as the desk will let him and clears his throat, momentarily avoiding your eyes.

"Knock once for 'yes', twice for 'no', three times for 'help'...and..."

His voice goes low, so low you have to lean down to hear him. Berlin's eyes form those cheeky coinslots you've learnt to avoid, eyebrows lowering with his words...

"Four times for 'I love you, Berlin.'"

This time you actually try to smack that unapologetic grin off his face, and he catches your bound hands into his again.

So you merely use your fingers and what you still remembered from sign language to spell out the letters 'F', 'U', and you don't get any further before he sincerely throws his head back and laughs.

Truly laughs.

Tension seems to have averted him, and as he leans his head back to you, face thoroughly entertained, he grabs your cheek in a little patronising gesture - but the thought behind it seems true, as does his inability to not touch you or your skin for more than a few seconds while hiding behind control or dominance.

"Rest, little Jackdaw. We have a long night ahead."

And he lets go, shifting, slowly sliding out from under the desk and leaving you alone with the soft hum of an electrical current in your ears.

❥❥❥

The shadows grew longer.

The transmitter remained silent.

Berlin hadn't come back yet.

You didn't realise how cold you were until his legs weren't at each side of you, and the tension keeping you in a state of overdrive was replaced by faint worry and numbness.

Is he alright?

Why do I care?!

He looked so...wondrous when he laughed.

In another life, it would be...lovely to see him laugh like that.

Shush.

You close your eyes and lean your entire body down into a foetal position, hands to your chin, bound arms able to rest a little. The plan seemed good on paper, but in the flesh? Not so much.

The waiting is always the worst.

You almost drift off, visions of birds free to roam and fly on your mind. The spot on your wrist pulsating with touch no longer there.

You'd kill to be...

Noises.

Your eyes flick open.

It's dark, almost too dark to see. Your eyes adjust. You see familiar shapes and try to move, but hear voices. Hushed voices. Too many voices.

Your heart starts beating.

No, this is too soon, where's Berlin? He wouldn't leave you here, not like this, not like...

The door clicks open and you jump. You try to adjust your breathing before you suffocate and try to breathe as soundlessly as possible. But the door closes again, and you hear steps walking away.

What the hell is going on?!

Your intercom buzzes close to your ear where you left it before this ordeal.

"Manhattan?" The distorted voice hurriedly articulates. You begin to speak before you realise you can't. So you softly knock once, disturbing the quiet atmosphere just a little.

"Oh for..." the voice trails into the background as if the person lowered the transmitter away from their mouth. You only hear echoes.

"You cannot be serious!...He left her there like that? None of this was the plan, none of it, this is just fucked up and stupid! I'm not gonna let that piece of shit treat her like that, for nothing, for no..."

Stronger now, as if the receiver was back at the mouth of the speaker:

"Manhattan, stay put, don't worry, we can solve this a different way, I'm gonna…figure it out..."

You knock twice.

It's too late.

He'll get hurt again.

And your eyes close in frustration and sadness - the inability to articulate now dragging your mind through the trenches - and knock twice again.

No.

Don't.

Too late.

And God knows if something happens, you're not going down without a fight. If only to finally deliver that slap that is owed.

The static crackles again.

"Are you alone, Manhattan? We can see the group dispersed and there are too many people. The darkness isn't helping."

You hesitate, then knock twice.

The receiver catches a breath followed by a short sigh. You're probably projecting worry into it to feel better about yourself, you wonder.

"Two people about 30 metres away, the rest of the group circling the stairs and coming that way. It seems like a combined group. Stay put. I'll…intervene in case he inevitably goes haywire again. You're gonna be OK, alright, Manhattan? OK?"

You knock once and huddle down again, tears falling down now. It was almost better when you felt no damns were given about you.

The receiver doesn't click off immediately. You hear arguing, you can make out hits and heavy steps, and things being tossed about.

"I said he'd sink this entire thing, I said so. Hole in the hull, that's what he is, I said it..."

And it clicks off.

You shuffle and feel a fire rising in your chest. This is unfair. This is wrong. He abandoned you. You're going to get hurt. And now Denver will too. And all of this for no other reason than a power trip?

No.

No.

You silently lift your body, shifting through the gap and poke your head up. Your tied hands ruffle through the table surface and finally land on the object you knew was there.

A lighter.

You found it a few days ago when looking through drawers. You bring it to yourself and hide it with you. Next, a pen. You knock down the sharpest pen from your notes and gather it in your hands.

You think of trying to find some pure alcohol just to make sure you’d have a fire to stand on…

But the door opens. And your heart stops.

You close your eyes.

Steady your breath, but it comes out hurried.

Voices.

Steps.

Shuffles.

Ruffles.

❥❥❥

It happened fast.

Pulled out from under the table, kicking back, first a pocketknife at your throat, then realisation.

A man argued.

The other man opposed.

Neither took off the tape nor cut the restraints.

Your vision blurred. You tried to look to the one who seemed kind.

He avoided your eyes.

"One for one," the other man said.

"How can we be sure she's with them?"

"The director said so. She fits the description. Maybe they went crazy on her too, doesn't mean we can trust her. We could send a message. Leave it loud and clear."

You didn't even shake your head.

Tired. So tired.

Tired of hoping people weren't like this.

Tired of realising the people who were supposedly the bad ones treated you kindly, while the normal ones were speaking of how best to ruin you and desecrate what's left.

Like scrawling a crude letter.

Is anything as cruel as a normal person, you wonder.

"I don't want to watch," the younger man says.

"Then go stand guard outside the door."

Footsteps away.

You blink the tears away.

It's...so...easy, you think as your fists tighten.

It's so easy to be kind.

It's so pathetic to be like you. Weak. Exhausting. Pathetic.

You straighten your back against the table and breathe in shakily. The man grabs at your throat.

So easy, you think as you leap and try to straddle his legs with yours, squeezing for dear life, trying to gain the upper ground and lock him in with limbs you still have. But the desk isn't that tall, the space that wide, and you fall backwards as his hand connects with your face and scratches down. Then pushes it back leaving it pulsating and you stunned.

But your legs don't let go.

Your legs don't let go.

And you shuffle in terribly clumsy movements with purpose, with purpose, until your fingers touch and gather the small object into your palms.

And you grip it in both bound hands together and put all the force in a single straight movement.

So easy, you try to aim for an eye but plunge the pen into a neck halfway.

Stillness.

Thrashing but stillness.

Then the blood slowly circles the round shape and bubbles up, sliding down the smooth blue surface, even in the dark.

So easy, you try to think, as you pull it out in one sharp movement and the geyser of dark copper splashes at your face, your jumpsuit, your bound hands. Which you push down against the man's mouth so that no noise, gurgles nor cries, comes out.

He's a dark blur against the ground; your tears fall and mix with the sickening stench of iron and cut off breaths. Your heartbeat pulsates through your ears and threatens to take the rest of your consciousness, but it all feels like a blur. So cold. Frost on your back. Heat in your cheeks. Sickness numbed down in your chest.

So easy to be kind.

You collapse on top of the slowly writhing body, which has begun to space out each twitch just a little longer now.

You listen to a heart beating slower and slower.

You force your arms to slide their hands away, hands like those of a stranger. Barely connected. Cold. Bloody. Foreign.

The sound of footsteps following an open door forces you out of the numbness into pushing the body away and bracing against the heavy flat surface with your back - but you're tired.

So very tired.

Shocked.

Desperate.

Numb.

Covered in blood that didn't have to be spilled.

What have you done?

Aren't you the worst of all now?

Wasn't it so easy to be kind?

You try to find the pen again, but the thought makes you sick. The adrenalin is depleting itself. You can't bear to touch the object again. And what use would it be? This was luck.

Nothing but luck.

So you close your eyes. Wet cheeks growing cold. Cold stinging the wounds you don't believe you have.

You wonder if the birds are still asleep or waking up.

A shaky breath in.

A suffocating breath out.

Body stiffening, you try to at least be at peace with whatever happens next.

Until a voice, quiet and level, simply echoes through the room:

"Manhattan, knock for me."

And there was a world of placid acceptance shielding a corpse of things left unsaid hiding behind each syllable.

❥❥❥

"Manhattan, knock for me, or I'll burn this place to the ground and skin whoever is left alive."

The voice trailed off, the harsher the promise, the more forceful its steadiness. You must have imagined the rage drawing a quiver out of it towards the end, but the next sentence, still in place, solidified it.

"Please knock for me, Manhattan."

The voice turned into a whisper on your name.

He wasn't asking you anymore. He was asking the darkness to tell him he's mistaken.

Begging the silence to assure him he's wrong.

And you spoke with it.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

The change of air was immediate - loud steps, flurry of the jumpsuit's fabric, the sound of pulling and laboured breaths hidden under a cracking demeanour of calm. You felt the weight leave from under your body, at least the physical one. Your legs cramped around nothing, and you leaned back, huddling your legs that would listen, feeling sick, numb, and...betrayed.

Silly, silly Jackdaw. He told you all along.

Dirty, not with the dirt.

Desecrated, not by the blood.

Pitiful, not with the state of you.

And you knock again, three times. Almost unnoticeably. For yourself. Hands huddled to your chest, the joint touching the wood behind your shoulder.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Like the echo of a tolling bell.

You do it again, slower this time, suffocating the last knock into nothing.

Just to remind yourself how fruitless a little “help” could be in a place like this.

You don't even see his face, just the redness of his shape. It all blurs with the darkness, then sudden contrast. He pulls you out by the legs in a smooth albeit forceful movement and tries not to touch you - as if you were delicate and an object barely holding on to be kept together all at once.

You hear him asking if you're hurt, you feel harsh hands all across your jumpsuit, checking the zip, checking for tears, checking for exposed skin. You feel a palm ghost your neck and touch your skin.

It lays on your neck and listens to your artery.

It warms the place that you tore from the other man.

His hand relaxes there. As if the sound of your pulse was a gentle symphony to the man leaning above you.

Softly, so softly until the fingers curl into subdued rage does he brush your cheek, and you see only darkness and feel force - arms on your back and your face in fabric, you realise you're being held and the harsh push on your head is a chin rocking with you so as not to hurt where your face stings and pulsates.

"I'm here. Little Jackdaw. I'm here."

You remain in that embrace, unmoving. Feeling nothing.

You weren't, you wish you could even think to say, you weren't.

Berlin's throat rumbles against you, though the words seem more strangled than his usual self.

"Let me get this off you. One, two, three, alright, little one?”

You hardly recognize this tone, this intonation. Who is he reassuring, you wonder.

“…Arms. Mouth. Suit."

You register yourself nodding, more tears falling. Your hands began to shake as if on command at hearing they're about to be touched.

Your arms followed.

Each zip tie was cut, but your hands didn't change position nor rest.

The tape came off, but you didn't feel any motion to speak.

Only when Berlin laid his hand on your cheek, the one not in pain, and looked you directly in both eyes...only then did your face turn to a grimace of pain and realisation. Tears falling, but no sound coming out. Eyes feeling nothing but a cold fire drowning your thoughts the more they saw the verification in front of you.

He looked away, undoing the zip of your suit slowly.

His voice was matter of fact, quiet, but slow. As if the words were climbing over a meaning they couldn't voice out.

"I need to check if you're hurt anywhere else. I'm sorry about your face, Manh---. I’m sorry about your face."

On instinct and as if someone returned your ability to move, you immediately kick at him to push the man away. Wordlessly, you give all your strength into getting away from him.

And Berlin matches you, quietly, elegantly, without brutishness.

But he effectively grips you, holds you so tight you can't move your limbs, and when he feels your strength falter, climbs on top of you, putting your legs in a vice and pulling your arms apart to each side of you, one by one.

But he never hurts you. He doesn't squeeze your wrists, he doesn't cramp your legs, he uses enough force to keep you down - and as you try to move against him, you realise it too - enough force to keep you down and tire yourself out. Not enough to hurt you.

Slowly, your arms rest against the floor, defeated. And Berlin's grip grows gentler as they do. Until he's resting against you. Holding, not gripping.

Slowly he lets your arms go and straightens, just enough to have space to undo your jumpsuit.

"Just..." he articulates clearly, putting effort into each syllable, "checking..." the zip starts going down and your chest heaves, breath quickening but no voice still - Berlin lays an open palm on your ribs and squeezes softly around your body, just under your breasts.

Around, then down. Letting you breathe with his hand. Pushing down to help you breathe out. Breathing with you and alleviating the hand on every breath in.

"...where it hurts."

His other hand leaves your wrist and slides into the jumpsuit from the other side, the sudden warmth enveloping the other side of your ribs, sliding down from your armpit to your waist and holding by the hip, before sliding up again.

Berlin repeats the motion and watches you carefully, even in the dissipating darkness, for any twitch, any gasp, any indication of damage. As he slides all five fingers down from your neck, across your chest and down to your tummy, he rests and notices a few twitches but nothing alarming.

Just you tightening your core or shivering if he finds a tender spot, or a place you didn't want him to touch. And he doesn't linger. Merely marks the spot with his fingertips and moves on.

He then unzips the suit down fully, leaving you in tights and a tank top under it, and begins to unzip his own.

As the man shuffles the weight of fabric off each shoulder, you begin to writhe under him again, fully starting up the attack mode again. Berlin merely smiles a sadder cheshire smile and stops the motion while pinning your eyes with his.

As if he wishes it weren’t this way but continuing nonetheless.

"Shh, Jackdaw. I'm not like that. Your jumpsuit is covered in blood and dirt. You're going to get cold the moment the shock wears off. You're going to get cold and...feel alone. And we can't have that. Knock for me if you still can't speak."

You do. Once. Against the floor.

"Good," his lips curl into a closed smile and his hands resume their motions. His eyebrows are low, concentrated, but calm. His eyes move in the near darkness with the accuracy of a needle.

More nonchalantly, he adds:

"Denver's outside, we have a few hours. They directed the rest on a wild goose chase; they'll tire themselves out."

You don't answer and avoid his eyes again.

Pretending to care now won't change a thing.

Not a thing.

Or…?

His voice circles your senses, the hint of genuine warmth getting right under your skin and leaving you helpless once more…Because in that one sentence, he almost conveyed what you needed from the moment the blindfold went over your eyes:

"Now, come here."

He lifts you into his arms, out of the bloody suit, and holds you to himself. Gripping under your legs and resting your head on his large shoulder. You inadvertently curl your fists into his shirt, only now realising how exposed he is too. And you burrow into Berlin's chest as he carries you to a cleaner surface, lined with fabric and makeshift things to ease the harshness of the ground.

And he lays you down, on your side and slowly sinks behind you, until his body is laying against yours, softly touching. Knees just barely rested against your bent legs. Waist barely hinting at contact with your lower back. Chest just brushing your bare shoulders.

You try to not shift into him, remaining absolutely paralysed. Shivering softly. Sobs beginning to form in your throat but unable to get out.

You feel a strand of hair lifted from your shoulder, away from your neck, and a soft mutter from behind you. It reverberates through your back and touches your chest, and your fists curl on air as if on instinct.

"Would you like to know what you said in your sleep, Jackdaw...what you agreed to?" The deep whisper rests upon your ear, no sarcasm or cheek.

You knock once.

Berlin chuckles softly and continues, voice a low murmur warming your neck.

"I asked, would you like me to hold you? And you..."

You knock once and hear the smile in his voice.

"...you said yes."

you met seoul years ago at kim il-sung university, where you both pored over books in the dim library, her rare smiles lighting up the gloom.

she was brilliant and smart. you always thought her mind was a maze of ideas. however, you noticed the sadness in her eyes, the way she flinched at certain questions.

it wasn’t long before she confided in you about her stepfather, the warden of a brutal prison camp, a man whose cruelty left marks on her body and soul.

your anger made your blood boil, but you held it back. you knew that she wasn’t ready for you to act. you wanted to protect her, to tear down the monster who hurt her, but she asked you to wait.

sometime weeks after her confession, she told you about berlin (or jungho). he is a prisoner in her stepfather’s camp, a man who’d been there for years since he was a child.

seoul met him during her forced visits to the camp, where her stepfather paraded his power. berlin was different... aka defiant, and cunning.

the north korean saw something in him, a spark of rebellion that mirrored her own. when she couldn’t take her stepfather’s abuse anymore, she came to you, her voice steady but desperate.

“he’s going to start a revolt,” she said of berlin, “he’s planning something, and i need your help to get him out.”

you didn’t hesitate. the plan was reckless...sneaking into the camp, navigating its barbed wire and armed guards, all to free a man you’d never met.

seoul’s trust in you, and her quiet plea was enough for you. the night of the escape was chaos, the air thick with the threat of gunfire. you and seoul moved like shadows, your heart pounding as you disabled a guard, your fists quick and precise.

berlin was ready when you reached him, his eyes glinting with a mix of surprise and respect.

“you’re barcelona?” he asked, voice low. you nodded, adrenaline surging.

the three of you along with other prisoners fled through the dark. the camp’s alarms scream behind you, until you reached a stolen van that carried you to vladivostok.

in that gray, sprawling city, your strange triangle took shape. you competed with berlin for seoul’s heart, though you’d never admit it.

you’d see her soften when he spoke, and it stung. you countered with small acts by remembering her favorite tea, listening when she needed to talk.

however, berlin was relentless. jungho's challenges pulls you in despite yourself.

somewhere along the way, you fell for him too, his audacity and fire matching your own.

to outsiders, you were cold with your sharp words and glares towards seoul and berlin suggesting hatred. in private, seoul’s touch lingered on your arm, and berlin’s gaze held a warmth he rarely showed.

you were bound, the three of you, by something deeper than words.

when sunho, berlin’s brother, found him after years apart, the heist came into focus. in a cramped seoul apartment, sunho laid out the plan...to take the korean mint, to rewrite the rules of a fractured nation.

seoul was in immediately, but as an outsider and not once of the people going inside of the mint.

she turned to you, her eyes searching.

“you with us, barcelona?” she asked with her voice a quiet challenge, “try stopping me,” you replied, and her smile was a rare gift.

you were a fighter honed by necessity. your punches landed with precision, your movements are too fast and fluid.

“damn, im reminding myself to never fuck with you,” tokyo said, catching her breath after witnessing you taking down two officers, your knuckles stinging.

that was when you rescued tokyo from the police. afterwards, getting nairobi’s son was another battle. you fought alongside tokyo and seoul, disarming guards at the unfamiliar mansion with ruthless efficiency.

honestly, your body could be classified as a weapon.

you and seoul were a unit, your trust unspoken but absolute. yet there were fractures.

during a heated moment back at the hideout, planning an escape route, you snapped at her over a detail.

seoul's eyes flared, “you know i love you barcelona, so if I were you I'd stop saying stupid shit,” she hissed, her voice low but fierce.

you rolled your eyes, hiding the warmth her words sparked, but they stayed with you.

berlin was the wildcard, his plans brilliant but dangerous. before the heist you clashed often, your stubbornness meeting his arrogance.

“you’re too reckless, barcelona,” he’d say with his tone mocking, “and you’re too damn cocky,” you’d fire back, but his smirk held a challenge you couldn’t resist.

seoul watched, her expression unreadable. however, you knew she felt the pull of both of you just as you felt it for them.

the escape was a desperate gamble, you, seoul, and berlin running through the mint’s caves into drain, the air damp and suffocating.

seoul’s hand brushed yours, a fleeting reassurance, while berlin’s voice urged you forward.

“keep moving,” he said, steady and sure.

emerging into the open air felt like a miracle, the korean evening skies fill before you.

all three of you stood together, the heist’s success sinking in as you witness the crowd of people catching the dollar bills in the air.

later on a quiet rooftop, the city’s lights flickering below, you found peace.

the heist was done, everyone on your crew was safe, and some of the money yours. berlin held seoul’s hand, their fingers laced, a quiet intimacy that made your heart ache.

berlin's other arm draped over your shoulder, pulling you very close, and you let it happen, his warmth grounding you.

seoul’s free hand found yours, her grip firm.

“we pulled it off,” seoul said, her voice soft.

“we did, indeed,” you replied, your throat tight.

berlin chuckled while low and warm, “you two make it hard to stay serious,” he said, a rare crack in his mental armor.

you stood there, berlin’s arm around you, seoul’s hand in yours, a triangle of love.

you roll over, the thought of getting up tugging at you. jae’s been fussy lately, his tiny lungs testing your patience, and you’re used to jumping into action.

before you can swing your legs out of bed, berlin’s voice echoes in your mind from last night, firm and warm: “tomorrow, you rest. i’m handling everything.”

you’d protested, insisting you could manage, that you didn’t need a break. berlin, with his sharp eyes and that stubborn streak forged in the camps of his rough childhood, had been adamant.

“you’re the best mother to our boy,” he’d said, his hand brushing your cheek.

“don't be stubborn and let me do this for you, okay?”

this is two years after the heist that changed everything. berlin traded the hard life for diaper bags and lullabies, pouring his heart into the family he always (secretly) dreamed of.

you surrender to the quiet, letting sleep reclaim you. it’s the kind of deep, unbroken rest you haven’t had since jae was born, each breath pulling you further into a dreamless haze.

hours later, you wake again, the sun higher now, painting the whitewashed walls of your corfu home in golden hues.

the house remains still, no wails or hurried footsteps.

you pad to the bathroom, the terracotta tiles cool under your feet, and step into the shower. the hot water cascades over you, washing away the tension in your shoulders, the constant hum of responsibility.

for once, there’s no jae crying, no need to rush.

you linger, letting the steam envelop you, your mind drifting to the life you’ve built here...far from the mint, in this sun-drenched corner of greece.

dressed in a loose black linen dress, you wander to the living room, where the open windows let in the breeze and the distant sound of waves.

a note sits on the kitchen counter, berlin’s slanted handwriting unmistakable: “stay put. we’re out adventuring. love you.”

you smile, picturing him with jae in the stroller, probably charming every passerby in the village with that roguish grin. you settle onto the couch with a cup of tea, the silence a luxury you hadn’t realized you craved.

the hours stretch, each one a gift, and you let yourself simply be...not a mother, not a partner, just you.

the sun is dipping low when the door creaks open, and berlin steps inside, jae dozing against his chest in a soft carrier. your heart catches at the sight...berlin’s dark hair tousled by the wind, his eyes bright with pride.

he’s carrying a bouquet of wildflowers, their colors vivid against the muted tones of the room, and a paper bag that smells faintly of your favorite meal.

“happy mother’s day,” he says, his voice low, that familiar edge of mischief softened by something deeper. you start to stand, but he shakes his head, setting the flowers on the table.

“eat first. i’ve got jae.”

he moves with quiet confidence, carrying jae to the nursery.

you hear the soft creak of the crib, the low hum of a lullaby in korean, a habit from berlin’s past he’s passed to his son.

you unpack the meal, the aroma filling the kitchen, and sit at the worn wooden table. each bite is a small indulgence, the flavors rich and comforting.

the house glows with the warm light of dusk, the world outside fading into the rhythm of the sea.

berlin returns, his footsteps soft, and you look up to find him watching you, his gaze intense yet tender.

you rise, drawn to him, and he meets you in the middle of the kitchen.

the kiss is slow at first, then deepens, a rush of heat and longing that reminds you of the fire that’s always burned between you. your husband's hands cradle your face, fingers tracing the curve of your jaw, and when you pull back, breathless, he murmurs, “happy mother’s day,” his voice a low rumble.

you smile, your chest tight with gratitude.

“what you did today… it was everything. i didn’t realize how much i needed this, how much it helped me.” your words are quiet, but they carry the weight of your heart, the relief of being seen.

berlin’s eyes soften, and he pulls you close, his arms a steady anchor.

red jumpsuits and dali masks swarm in, guns drawn, voices sharp.

at the time... tokyo’s shouting and rio’s hacking cameras. meanwhile berlin who is tall, cold, and a north korean ghost, takes control.

you’re shoved with other hostages, heart hammering, but you notice his hand shake, a flicker of weakness.

you’re trained to see these things.

the robbers want 4 trillion won, printed fresh.

they make hostages dig a fake tunnel to fool the cops while moscow carves the real one. you’re tasked with patching up scrapes and calming panicked workers since the hostages were aware of you being the only nurse on shift that day.

berlin watches you while taping up another hostage's deep arm scratch, his gaze heavy.

“you don’t flinch,” he says, voice like gravel.

“habit,” you mutter, wrapping a bandage.

berlin doesn’t look away.

some days drag.

however, inside of the office room where only the criminals stay, berlin stumbles mid-argument with tokyo. the man's face is pale, body seizing.

berlin's illness aka helmer’s myopathy, strikes hard.

denver and nairobi come down to the hostages dorm and drag you upstairs. they're all screaming, but you’re moving.

“chair, now!” you snap, easing him down.

your fingers find his pulse, erratic but there.

you grab a sedative from the mint’s kit, steady his breathing.

“look at me,” you say, your hand on his.

berlin's eyes, clouded, meet yours. he’s still.

the man is back on his feet by night, but he’s different with you.

“you could’ve let me die,” he says in a quiet corner.

“I didn't. i’m not that cruel,” you reply, meeting his stare.

“pity,” he says, but there’s a spark in his eyes.

after that, you’re his shadow.

he gives you a spot to sleep, extra rations, no shovel duty.

hostages glare, but you don’t care.

you’re surviving.

misun’s surgery changes everything since it expedites the bond you were growing with berlin. she is dying from the bullet in her leg, and denver is ordering you and rio to operate fast, with no anesthesia, just enough to keep her alive.

the woman's screams echo as you dig out the bullet, your hands steady but your stomach churning. you stabilize her, but when it’s over, you’re shaking, scrubbing blood off in a corner of the mint.

you’re livid.

berlin ordered denver to shoot her in the first place. misubn's pain is on him.

the man finds you, his steps quiet but sure.

“you’re upset,” he says, like it’s nothing.

you don’t turn, water running red in the sink.

“you think?” you hiss.

“you made me cut into her while she was awake. she was begging and this would not have happened if you never ordered them to shoot her.”

he’s closer now, berlin's warmth at your back, “it was the only way,” he says, softer.

“she’d have died.” you whip around, eyes burning, “there’s always another way. you didn’t care.”

berlin's gaze doesn’t waver, but it softens.

“i care more than you think,” he says, and it’s too honest, too raw.

you turn away again, stubborn, but he’s not done.

“you think i wanted her to suffer?” he murmurs, his breath warm on your neck.

“we needed to teach you hostages a lesson when it came to disobedience. at least she is alive. everyone else wanted that, just like i want you alive.”

you freeze, heart racing. his hands hover, not touching, but close.

“you’re not heartless,” he says, “and neither am i.”

before you can snap back, his lips brush your neck, a soft kiss from behind. your breath catches, anger fraying.

“forgive me,” he whispers, smirking against your skin.

“you’re an asshole,” you mutter, but you’re leaning into him.

he kisses your jaw, slow, deliberate.

“and you’re stubborn,” he teases, turning you to face him. his eyes are warm, daring. you kiss him, sudden and fierce, hands fisting his jumpsuit.

he matches you, all hunger and heat.

when you break apart, he grins.

“forgiven?” you roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself.

“for now.”

the heist frays and berlin’s furious, outing jeon yongsu, his old camp torturer, on live feed.

at some point he tells you about kaechon, the camp that broke him, his mother’s body in the river. you tell him about endless shifts, a lonely apartment, a silly dream.

“cyprus,” you say, staring at the mint’s ceiling.

“I have always wanted to live there. its so much sun, sea, with no chaos.”

he laughs while soft, “i’ll keep that in mind.”

tension spikes when youngmin tries to rally hostages. berlin notices and steps in front of you, gun up.

“try it,” he growls at youngmin, who backs down.

later, you snap at him.

“i’m not fragile.” he leans in, voice low.

“never said you were, but they don’t touch what’s mine.” your breath catches.

you don’t argue.

the final day’s a warzone. bullets rip through the mint as the task force storms in. berlin and tokyo guard the vault, the team scrambling for the sewer exit.

he grabs you.

“with me.” you nod, pulse racing.

the detonator’s busted and someone has to stay.

“not you,” you hiss, gripping his sleeve.

however berlin grins, “for you, i’ll live.”

pig balloons flood the square with cash, chaos masking your escape. you follow berlin through a manhole, slipping into the sewer’s dark.

“you’re crazy for a nurse,” he laughs, pulling you along. you reach the professor’s train, the money loaded, the team alive.

you’ve won.

on the train, berlin pulls you close.

“cyprus,” he says, voice soft.

“you and me.” you smirk, “say you love me first.”

he scoffs, but his eyes betray him, “not a chance.”

you kiss him, and he matches you, all fire and need. you both know the truth.

cyprus is golden. you love watching the.waves lap the shore, and berlin... jung-ho now since he told you his real name on the train ride... rests beside you.

the man's illness is managed, thanks to you.

you’re not a hostage anymore, not a nurse on duty.

you’re his, and he’s yours.

“is this worth it?” he asks, fingers tracing yours.

“yes, it is,” you say, smiling.

You were just supposed to fill in for a friend.

That was it.

As you punched card after card and heard the machine beep in reply, you thought you'd manage a few more hours of this.

After all, you were just filling in for a friend.

Your mind wandered to earlier this week when you were leaving the campus.

❥❥❥

You sat on a bench with a coffee and something to eat and noticed arguing in barely hushed breaths.

You didn't listen, only threw a few more bites at the little dark jackdaws fighting for each crumb.

"You're impossible."

"And you didn't have to threaten them! Christ, what is wrong with you?!"

"Less than is right with you, keep your voice down."

"Or what, you'll threaten me too?"

"I don't need to threaten things that consistently fuck up. Calm down."

You tried not to listen.

You really did.

You tried not to look up.

You could discern one voice was faster, younger, and more pointed.

The other...slower. Older. More level but still, volatile right underneath the surface.

The larger bird was hopping around the smaller one, pretending to be done with its meal. Blue eyes pinned on the bread.

The voices got closer.

"Oh, now you're going to run to the Professor, tail between your legs? Was the big nasty man too mean to you?"

"No, you're a hot-headed hole in the ship's hull and you'll sink the entire bloody thing!"

The small bird tried to enjoy its meal but the larger one took it from its beak the moment its head looked up at the commotion.

You didn't look up.

"Alright, then learn to fucking swim you---"

Just as the voices got loud enough for you to thoroughly study each feather before you for sheer will to not appear to be listening, they stopped.

For a moment nothing but the scuttle of little talons and pecks accompanied your heartbeat. The dark birds were joined by a pair of dark shoes that turned your way.

"We shouldn't argue here."

No, you shouldn't, you really shouldn't, Mr. Sugar-on-hot-coals-voice, you think.

The voice seemed to calm down and coat itself in honey to slow down. The jackdaws looked up and resumed pecking. You threw another piece at them trying to pretend your heart wasn't beginning to race.

"In fact," the older voice said, "why don't you go get yourself something nice, let the dust settle, and I'll apologise for the ruckus."

You heard the smile in the voice, but there was an edge. Impatience coated in a resolute firmness to keep things in line. You hear a sigh and a pair of steps leaving you. But not the shoes invading your field of vision.

Silence.

It made your heart leap. But no, not today. You brushed your skirt and inhaled, steadying your own voice.

"OK, little ones, I think I have a lecture I should be at, have a nice one."

You begin to lift but the shoes close the distance.

One by one.

You finally look up, gripping the edges if the bench just a tad too tight.

Up along the fitted trousers, the strong hands, the neat blue fabric reflecting the afternoon light.

Up.

Calm down, calm down, calm down...

It hits you right between the eyes.

The tanned face of a man with dark hair combed back, dark eyebrows, eyes like coal trailing his gaze across and into you. He catches your look and holds.

A small Cheshire grin, polite eyes, and a well-polished suit stand before you – harsh hands in front of him firmly clasped as if he were simply resting on the heels of his shining shoes with not a care in the world.

As if you were the last one to hand in the assignment and you were about to get absolutely...

Oh, there was something in those eyes. Something that spoke of carnage left after the fire had burnt straight through. Coated in a sweetness that you were pretty sure neither of you believed in.

The blank blue eyes of the birds looked more honest than his, still, you looked down again, apologetically. You began to mutter.

"I was talking to the birds, I'm sorry. I'm leaving now," you explain and try another covert situation avoidance.

But he doesn't move.

You feel trapped, even as people walk by, and try to think to be polite about simply leaving. It shouldn't be so hard. It shouldn't.

He doesn't move away, but his body doesn't seem to be able to stay still. You see it in the sway on his heels, in the way his knees are perpetually shifting their weight.

You look up again, his head cocks to the side and that self-satisfied smile shines through for just a second, before returning to something vaguely polite.

His eyes smile into a gentler expression.

"I'm so sorry miss, I feel the need to apologise for the intrusion." He doesn't move as he shifts his eyes to the two birds running around his shoes looking for the bread he walked over.

You smile inadvertently and he continues.

"And for disturbing your companions."

He seems ardent at catching your eyes, a silent demand of 'look at me when I'm speaking to you', but he doesn't voice it. He's expecting you to play along.

You don't.

"It's alright, just...could you stop walking over their meal? Please?" You gesture to the birds and don't meet his eyes; his gaze is piercing you through and through.

Somehow, you feel more naked than you ever felt talking to a fully suited person. And somehow, those eyes narrowing into what should be a calming expression just feels like a ruse.

"Oh," he whispers in sudden genuine surprise, stepping back from you and you exhale, not realising you played quite a good hand yourself here...his voice is still polite, but there is effort now. And something genuine you can't put your finger on.

"Once more – my apologies. You seem to care a great deal about the little ones."

You nod and finally look up again, now that there is some distance. What is it with suited people and shiny shoes that sends you so far off the cliff?

His eyes didn't change. They're pinned on you, studying you. Each time he discovers something seemingly new, you notice a small movement – not quite a tick, just a slight change of rhythm. His smile is smaller, still there. It slides into one corner of his mouth, as if biting back a particularly sharp jab. His hands are no longer clasped at his midsection, he's began fishing in his pocket.

You watch every move, trying not to look nervous as you tuck a strand of hair away from your eyes. It falls right back.

As he takes out a packet of cigarettes, sliding one into his mouth in a single motion and lighting it, never taking his eyes off you, you sense the same disquiet the smaller bird did as it hopped a distance away. The big one is nowhere to be seen.

The man pulls on the cigarette slowly and you avoid his eyes.

"Would you like to tell me your name, little one?"

You begin to stutter and gather your things to leave immediately, cheeks the colour of roses.

"Th--that's incredibly--"

The soft chuckle didn't escape your senses and you once more look up to tell him something not as polite.

"Oh, I'm so sorry miss, " he smiles into the smoke leaving his lips, fingers softly cradling the cigarette as he gazes down at you. He bends his knees, slowly closing the distance between you and finds your eyes. His voice is kind, soft, and almost patronising in its innocence now:

"I was talking to the bird."

Before you can answer and before the blush goes down, he simply leans on his heels and rests closer to the scene before him, taking another drag – careful not to cover your little companion in smoke.

"Look at you, pretty little thing, aren't you..." he rests his cheek in his free hand, head at the level of your knees, "such a sweet little dear unable to see what's right in front of you."

The bird cocked its head to the side, one blue eye watching the intrusion before it hopped between your ankles, either expecting bread or shelter, but the stranger didn't move.

Only smiled into his cigarette, a chuckle like honey off hot coals reverberating quietly. His eyes never leaving your feet.

"What a pretty little thing you are, running for refuge right into a larger beak."

You finally manage to speak.

"It's going to be alright, sir, just a bit shy. Jackdaws are terribly brave and equally as hot-headed. But not dumb. You're just scaring them a tad. The larger bird won't hurt it."

You smile the sweetest of smiles, not playing his tune, perhaps if you pretend to be dumb, he will lose interest and leave you alone. It worked for the birds.

But he leaves the birds and raises his eyebrows at you.

"Perhaps they're more clever than I thought, who wouldn't hide between..."

Suddenly, he gets up again in a quick, sharp movement as you hear steps coming closer. Steps and a voice from before.

"Please tell me you didn't."

Silence. The older man purses his lips and looks around nonchalantly.

"I didn't."

A young man with long brown hair and sharp features looks from him to you, and you must have looked a sight, because his voice is once more angry and his demeanour pointed.

"You apologised?" He extends an open-palmed hand at you, "you apologised and this happens?!"

"Rude," you mutter under your breath and get up to leave.

A hand in the air stops you without touching you.

"I did. We discussed birds. She's quite a lovely young lady who cares quite a bit. Top of her class, too. Or so I’ve heard. Hmm?"

Alright, who poured ice down your neck.

"No."

The young man looks at you again, then back to him.

"NO."

"I'm just saying, we could use a mediator..."

"We're leaving. I'm sorry miss. I'm so sorry." The young man turns on his heel, the older man left to gaze at his back.

He brushes his pockets and bends down to you.

"Lovely to meet you, miss Jackdaw. Sorry for the intrusion." He smiles, but there's no warmth to discern in there. He smiles at you like he knows you. Like he knows the next steps you will take, the next bird you'll feed, and the next time you will inadvertently meet.

"What's your name?" You ask, trying to level his eyes with yours, voice steady. You don't like the fact that he seems to either lie about knowing something about you or actually know a tad too much about you. You need ammunition.

The man widens his close-lipped smile.

"Call me Berlin."

"Really?"

"Mhhm. And what's your name, little miss Jackdaw?"

Your eyebrows shoot up. Oh. He knew what he was doing. He knew it the entire time.

You try to keep a polite smile, not letting him get an inch in just yet. But your brain is a scramble.

"Manhattan."

He chuckles to himself more than to you, and gets ready to leave.

As he's walking away from you, he stops, taking one more drag seemingly lost in thought.

He looks back at you, and finally, you see a person behind those eyes.

And you freeze and burn all at once, understanding the birds running for shelter immediately.

"Clever," he hums into the air and begins to walk away.

❥❥❥

You were just supposed to fill in for a friend.

And now you're blindfolded.

And terrified.

And God knows you're going to kill her if you get out alive. Double kill her if you don't.

Stuck right next to a person who won't shut the god damn hell up. And now there are heavy footsteps marching towards you.

No no no no no.

"Excuse me...?" You hear the shaky male voice next to you, and it takes everything in you not to elbow the presence in where you expect his ribs to be.

"Yes, my director friend?"

That voice...

Oh no.

Oh no no no, you're imagining this, you're imagining this, you're imagining thi--

The shoes stop right in front of you.

For a moment, all that you can hear is your heart in your ears and your breath until a deep voice breaks the silence.

"Oh my."

A quiet, deep laughter emanates before you.

"My oh my oh my."

You try not to flinch as you feel a hand, rough, but not harsh, grip your chin and force you to look up.

It studies you. Brushes your chin and jaw without making it feel rude nor beckoning. Simply for a better look. Function. With a hint of amusement.

Control, you note.

For a moment, there is only silence.

Silence and your beating heart.

Then the chuckle resumes but cuts off, just as the hand leaves your face in one sharp stroke away.

"My dear little Manhattan, how did you manage to fly all the way over here?"

"Err...what?!" The confused voice next to you mumbles, but the steps are already walking away. Getting faster and more pronounced as they dull into the distance.

"Fuck," you whisper, shaking in your shoes. Cheeks red and chest shaking, unable to take a deeper breath.

"You know him?" A shoulder bumps into you and you feel the hot breath positively dampening your neck.

"No!" You hush back, "I don't! Be quiet."

"Are you one of them?" He doesn't shut up.

"No!" You hiss back, "Christ, be quiet!"

"That’s enough!" A younger female voice echoes from above. And you rest on your heels and stay still. Still as the eye of a bird.

Heavy steps resume and you finally get divided into groups.

❥❥❥

As you are able to discern faces now, you think perhaps you imagined the whole thing. The larger gentleman won't stop looking at you. Eyes like that of a lizard. Always darting.

You try to talk to some girls around you, just to make sure you're not all alone here.

But none of you have a clue what's going on.

You don't know whether to keep to yourself or join group for protection, but the matter gets decided for you.

You get divided into further groups, blindfolds on once more as you're guided to your stations. Only, a bit late, you realise you're being separated and led upstairs. A door closes behind you and hands grip each of your shoulders, pushing you forward. No touch without objective. Simple mechanics. Different than the hands you remember, and hate yourself for the realisation.

His hands are now familiar to you.

You think to explain, bargain, barter, but keep your mouth firmly shut.

Your blindfold gets taken off slowly and you're left looking at a young man, the same young man you remember from the park. He looks stern, but apologetic, until you notice the gun on his shoulder in sharp contrast to his red jumpsuit.

"Err...thought we'd keep the continents together." He says, as if nothing was too out of the ordinary, "just be here and watch over some screens for me. I'll explain later. OK? I promise this wasn't planned but we did discuss a need for a mediating presence if things go belly up. Is that alright...? I mean, shit, I meant...look, just do your job and shout at me if something looks weird."

You don't quite know how to absorb any of this and only look at the screens around you. Cameras, rooms, people, all of it before you.

"Continents...together?" You hush out finally, looking directly into the sharp face with hair in a firm bun.

He tries to smile, but it gets stuck and he grips the gun.

"Denver. Manhattan. I think they're kinda close."

You begin to smile as you lean across a desk, gripping its edges, the smile growing into a desperate laugh.

"I'm such an idiot," you breathe, "why don't you just shoot me? Why have me of all people watch over other people? I couldn’t tell you a single in-group out-group factor if I tried. I nearly got kicked out of my last exam because I was trying to be nice to people! My supervisor said my voice puts people to sleep! I can’t help you!"

"Huh?"

His genuine confusion, the scene, the fact that it all seemed like a bad misunderstanding just a week ago...it broke something in you. Your smile breaks too.

"Sorry, I just can't seem to stop fucking up. There. The park. Now this." Your voice cracks into tears, finally able to fall for sheer blind hopelessness.

"Hey, you didn't fuck up, not yet...he did, and it wasn't planned, I promise. I should have pushed him into the pond when I had the chance." The hint of softness gets to you further.

"But now, just watch those screens and shout for me if anything seems weird. I'm right here or around the corner. Oh. And you're being watched. Don't try anything funny, ok?"

You only give him a tired look and nod. The camera above you, you notice, keeps steady. A red light blinks at you.

One thing you notice on the screens that makes you calmer is the fact that you can see him. You can see him, so he's not anywhere near you.

"Denver?" Your own voice feels foreign in your throat.

"Hmm?"

"Why are you being kind to me?"

The question seems to have stopped him in his large shoes and you see his face visibly try to gain a stoic, uncaring expression.

"Some of us were taught manners," he shrugs, voice level. "And I thought I'd undo some of the damage Berlin--"

You visibly wince before he continues,

"Some of the damage you've had on top of this whole thing."

"Thank you, Denver." You try to smile. "That's very kind."

❥❥❥

You weren't sure what the deal was, what was going on, and why you weren't with the others. It was explained to you, over the next few days, that you are to simply watch and document, notice, write down, evaluate, and discern – keep files, try to predict, note everything. Be on call if something goes awry.

But it felt odd. You weren't special, that much you knew. You weren't treated like one of either sides – just somehow something that's barely not not-in-the-way. You didn't even have a jumpsuit.

Which would have been very handy since you managed to spill tea on your sleeve and burn your hand the first morning here.

Another thing that kept you alert was the camera. Each time you walked around the room, left the station, or simply rummaged through draws; the camera moved. Perhaps you were imagining it, but every time you walked by a reflective surface, the screens slightly buzzed. Just a flicker of movement in a corner monitor.

Once, you were pacing the room, and you felt slight panic rising in your chest – panic of missed lectures, friends, worried loved ones – and you undid your shirt. Just enough for your throat to be visible, which you held instinctively to shield the beating vein and to feel you’re still alive. Still breathing.

The screen behind you went black for just a moment, but you could have imagined that. Surely. It made no sense otherwise.

But you tried to reason. To turn bad things into bearable.

You liked the static. It felt calm. You liked the dark. It felt safe. You preferred the ground, less cameras and more field of your vision should someone come in.

But you didn't like the little red light all night, you didn't like the fact that each time you looked at the screen, he was there. And if he were near the camera, he'd look into it. Then go back to talking to someone else or simply back to his duties. But sometimes, he’d linger closer to it. Look up. And your breath caught again. Looking like he knew. But he couldn't. He couldn't. You’re being paranoid.

Until...

It was dusk. Your intercom had been eerily silent the last couple of hours, so you slowly slid to the floor and your makeshift bed made of clothes and some couch cushions you found, and slid under the table for extra privacy. As you waited and got not reply nor discontent, you began to take off your shirt and skirt. Just as you were going to unhook your bra, a voice sounded through the intercom and froze you in your tracks. You peaked out just enough to remain decent and quickly checked every screen – still dark, no commotion.

No him.

Silence.

Then Berlin’s voice sounded through the crackle. Soft, as it was with the birds, trying not to startle yet...

“Little Jackdaw...” you hear him murmur in the crackle of static. “Are you still awake?”

You do not respond. Merely go back under the desk and rest your back against its confines. The silence stretches but is anything but empty.

“I was wrong about you,” he muses.

You don’t reply, but huddle your knees closer.

“...I was wrong about the birds. You didn’t find your way here and they did know what they were doing. Hiding from me. Running to you. You must have known exactly what you’re flying into and still did not...skitter away. Little Jackdaw, little Jackdaw...is it true you sleep with one eye open?”

You breathe into the silence, your own voice feeling like trespassing. But still, you speak into the darkness.

“I didn’t want to come here. It was all a mistake. All of it. Unless you have something pressing, leave me alone, please.” Softer, far softer, you add: “I didn’t want any of this to happen.”

His voice replies, faintly amused. But not bored.

“No one ever does.”

You exhale slowly, ever so slowly and feel...both more alone and oddly comforted – perhaps he wasn’t wearing a mask, perhaps he was being genuine. Perhaps he also had trouble sleeping. You immediately slapped the thought out of your head, knowing your mind is likely trying to grab onto anything to ground itself and find safety. But still, your voice is soft, your demeanour gentle.

“Berlin?”

Silence.

You half sleepily, half still caught in that calm oddness the conversation brought with the dusk, muse back at him.

“I feel like I’m playing a plywood violin each time you make yourself known.”

“Does feeling me threaten to break your strings, little one?”

You let the silence speak to his mistake.

"Or perhaps you wonder whether you'll bend or break for a tune that won't linger."

At least he didn't make the reference you thought he would at this hour and in what still counts as privacy.

But he does say one more thing that loops another little opening in your armour and stabs.

“One thing I have to give your critiques, Manhattan.”

The static chuckles with his quiet contentment.

“Your voice really does put me to sleep.”

You don’t know whether it’s a compliment or a very sharp jab, but you do not reply, and the intercom remains silent for the rest of the night. The realisation hit you in the morning – he’s listening even now.

And he’s...taking note.

❥❥❥

Another day, Denver was helping you learn the last of the ropes regarding your position. And you saw Berlin speak to someone off camera. Though you were listening, taking note, writing things down – your eyes strayed.

Just to make sure.

Just to be safe.

The angle, the lighting, it was too coincidental. And he turned slightly. Not looking at the camera, not looking at you. Just shifting, and his body language...it stilled.

“You really shouldn’t look at him like that,” you hear Denver behind you, “he’s not a big fan of being seen while not controlling the gaze.”

You inhale and apologise, only to yourself muttering that perhaps he shouldn’t have done what he did in the park – and then what he did while you were blindfolded – but you kept the night conversation to yourself.

“Perhaps he shouldn’t have stared like a wolf in a freshly cut suit, but I understand and won’t do it again. Sorry.”

As Denver was leaning next to you, half watching the screens and half watching your meticulous notes, he raised his brows in understanding and looked directly at you. No malice, not quite warmth. Just information and something you couldn’t quite understand just yet. Then he winced.

“He remembered you, Manhattan. That’s not a good thing. Berlin remembering someone is...kinda like corrosion deciding it wants your tools. Yours specifically.”

He said nothing more and you only flickered an eye to the screen, just to make sure he’s still in place.

Berlin smiled. Not at the person beside him.

At the camera.

❥❥❥

One of the female people in charge walked you down a hallway, guarded by each side, when a man walking in the opposite direction bumped into you.

You lost your balance momentarily and straightened, almost doing the exact same to the next person walking right behind him. You avoided the red suit only to look up and freeze even as you laid foot after foot.

"Clever girl."

The whisper echoed behind you, and you turned on instinct, never stopping. The man who bumped into you disappeared from your field of vision as he grabbed his shoulder and led him into a sharp turn.

You kept walking.

You found yourself in a room that looked far more intricate than your station. Maps, plans, all laid out.

They're either fine with killing you or they trust you, and you weren't sure you liked either option.

You tried to focus on the women present, and tried to find Denver, but he was talking to an older man. In another life, you’d find it quite endearing. They barely lifted their eyes as you got in, and the red-suited woman nudged you forward.

"Why isn't she in uniform?" The woman chewing gum asked, arms crossed, measuring you up and down. You wanted to wince. But didn’t. Only bowed your head slightly.

"Where the hell is Berlin? He called this whole thing." The younger man who you only just noticed huddled at a laptop asked no one in particular and went back to his screen.

"I'm sorry, I...didn't get a chance to change, no uniform, I didn't want to ask, sorry--"

"It's not on you, Manhattan," the woman chewing stopped and sighed. "Berlin said he'd take care of it. Where is he?"

Denver looked at the screen of the younger man and raised his eyebrows.

You don't react, but try to help: raising your arm everso slightly as if asking for permission to speak, you level your voice.

"I...saw him walking past us in the hallway and take a sharp turn right, if that's any use. He was leading someone else by the shoulder."

Denver exchanged a look with the older man, and the young woman who led you here gripped her gun and left without a word. Denver looks up at you, likely realising you're terrified.

"Manhattan, those folders of yours are proving useful."

More matter of factly, he adds: "We have a situation downstairs that's getting out of hand. Be ready. But so far, nine times out of ten, those evaluations and strategies seem to work at keeping people calm and covering our bases. Almost."

"Almost?" You speak up. The older man looks at you, studying you before speaking. Wary, but warm.

"Your notes on Group 3 were a bit shifty, half the reason for the situation. Name’s Moscow, by the way."

You smile and offer a handshake. The firmness of his calms you down a tad. But the softness is short lived, as the young man at the laptop shifts.

"What is she even doing here?" He gazes into the and monitor sighs, "she's not part of this, she's a hostage. What's she gonna do, fling some ink from the printers around and ask us to analyse a blot? Analyse how screwed up each of us are since we're all here?"

"Leave it alone, Rio," the man who introduced himself as ‘Moscow’ says, "it's alright."

He looks up at you and continues, slightly softer. "the man was unpredictable and pulled something again. Hard to expect. Feigned a situation, hurt another hostage, turns out it was a ruse. Well, the other two hostages pulled into it didn't know, and now they're not speaking or eating or reacting to anything but a gun in the face. Which we do not condone."

You look towards him, settling on remaining quiet but to the point.

"Which one was it, sir?"

You raise your brow, now intrigued and disappointed in yourself. You thought you had everyone covered. Every nook and cranny taken care of. Group 3 was volatile, but you thought they wouldn’t go through with it. Enough buffers to absorb the explosion. Obviously, you were wrong.

Before Moscow can answer, footsteps and a sharp push forward present the last two people missing. The young woman, who did the pushing. And Berlin, hair dishevelled and a blank look in his eyes to accompany a rather neutral frown.

As he notices you, he looks into your eyes and a smile lifts his cheeks, though he appears colder the harder he gazes, and looks away nonchalantly as if you weren't even there as soon as you register him back. You see him lift a hand to push through his hair and comb it back; you look straight back at your shoes.

"Finally, where the hell were---is that blood?" The woman with the cat eyes and gum stopped chewing, motioning at Berlin's arm. You follow her manicured fingers. She was right. His knuckles were blue and speckled with red, purple between the bones. He clenches and undoes his fist, as if theatrically studying it for the first time.

"Just a situation." He blinks at each face except yours. "All good."

“We talked about your ‘situations’, Berlin. You’re supposed to be in control. Isn’t that like your whole thing? I swear if you hurt another hostage...”

You never thought you’d hear a man growl, but that’s what came out of Berlin’s throat. Low, annoyed, clearly offended – but eerily level.

“I only taught someone some manners regarding what they can and cannot touch. Now, if we’re done with the schoolboy scolding, have you told her yet?”

The woman chewing gum shakes her head and looks away. Moscow sighs, Denver rubs his temples, the young man addressed as ‘Rio’ finally stops staring into the screen and leans back in his chair with a vaguely smug look, and the young woman behind Berlin looks directly at you with not an emotion in sight. Before she can speak, a self-satisfied chuckle tumbles out of Berlin’s throat.

He walks toward you slowly and begins to lift an arm to your shoulder, but you flinch in the direction of the older man and Denver. He doesn’t seem to notice at first, and if he did, he ignored it. This time. His dark eyes find yours and stare into you, head craning from one side to the other to leave no room for avoidance.

“Perfect. Then I'll do the honours. Well, Manhattan, we need you on the inside.”

“No one will trust me,” you unnoticeably shift away from him so his arm is resting on air more than you, and he notices. Oh, that small tick and tiny head motion from side to side, like a disappointed parent watching a child run into traffic. He rescinds his touch entirely, blinking slowly into the distance behind you with that small, ever-present smile in the corner of his mouth that looks like it feeds on tension and contentment all at once. Only now, it's turned into a rather disapproving mask.

“No one will trust me,” you repeat, “I don’t have a uniform, I haven’t been in any group, and I’m an outsider to them. There’s no way in hell they’ll say a word if I walk in.”

The cat-eyed woman purses her lips and nods, Denver keeps his hand on his chin, and Berlin somehow looks more smug than before. Moscow clears his throat.

“Yeah, about that. Nairobi, can you handle it? I need to speak with Berlin on some security matters.”

He looks directly at the man next to you.

“Outside.”

❥❥❥

“Please no. I understand, it’s a good idea, but please let me say this without any judgement.”

Nairobi sighs.

“Go on.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Look, lady, I get it. I really do. But there’s no other way right now and like it or not, he’s still in charge.” She looks to her side, arms crossed. “Emphasis on ‘not’.”

“I’m grateful for being treated the way I am, I understand it’s not easy---”

“Please save the holier-than-thou attitude, Manhattan, I’m not your client.”

She looks at you, judgement seeping from her posture before continuing:

“The others have assigned groups, Oslo and Helsinki need to be underground, Moscow wouldn’t be able to handle the commotion if more people turned up, Rio’s in charge of every electronic device in here, Denver – though I see you making eyes at him – doesn’t feel up to it alone either and doesn’t need any more violence today, thanks to you, and Tokyo and I need to be elsewhere and actually do our jobs.”

The gum pops in emphasis.

You stop and your mouth doesn’t utter another word, though you wish to protest at least three statements in that sentence.

Only a small bow and a ‘sorry’ as you nod in acceptance. She looks you over again and her shoulders visibly fall as she relaxes and sighs, leaning against the railing.

“No, I’m...look, he’s been acting weird. If you ask me, something’s bothering him and he’s like a child who can’t find the last puzzle piece that ruins everyone’s day until he does.” She leans into you, gaze still sharp, but not angry.

“Let him have his puzzle piece, his little plan, all works out, he leaves you alone. Boom. Jackpot.”

You’re not sure you agree with any of that, but feel you have no choice.

“Will the cameras be on at least?” You ask, weary. Nairobi nods and blows a bubble.

You feel the sound of it bursting coincide with your sense of hope.

❥❥❥

This was the most idiotic plan you could imagine.

But it made sense.

That was the worst part.

So far, you thought you'd enjoy the calm before the storm. You made more notes, added new information and rewrote Group 3. As you were writing down strategies to employ to help the two shocked hostages - one boy and one girl - the door clicked open.

"Denver?"

You didn't look up. Blind hope got you this far, you weren't letting anyone pry it out of your cold dead hands.

No reply, only steps closer.

A weight on the back of your chair which creaked in response.

You wince, exhale softly as if worried to disturb the air, and stop writing. You check the cameras one by one, darting, hoping you'd see Berlin in one of them. The sound of leather squeezed far too hard for comfort replied for you.

"Try again," the whisper to your right beckoned, and you turned sharply in the other direction.

"P...please excuse me. You. Scared me."

"Perhaps try not lying to me, Manhattan. Lie to yourself if you must. But not to me."

"I'm not...I'm not lying to you. Sir. I don't know what you're talking about." But your voice betrayed you more than your grip on the pen that shook your fingers.

And the hand suddenly everso slightly touching your hair was enough to make you gasp.

Berlin chuckled and pulled away.

"You've neglected yourself, little Jackdaw...let me help you get it out of your face."

"I'm good, Berlin, sir."

He chuckled again and rested his weight on the back of your chair. You must be imagining the faint whisper back, mostly to himself - tasting the word. Sir.

"Oh, I know you are. But you seem to have some trouble looking at me. Still blindfolded in that little head of yours?"

"I'm good. Berlin. Sorry. I. Didn't mean to be so..."

He almost sounded like he didn't hear you and the cold nonchalance in his voice sent shivers down your spine.

A single finger helped brush a strand of hair off your collarbone and onto your back, neatly, carefully, never straying.

"Tell me to stop."

He leans into you; you can feel his breath on your ear but still - he doesn't touch you directly. Your heart is in your throat.

"Do you know what I'd do if you asked me to stop?"

You hear him smile as the sentence concludes, and you squeeze your knuckles on thin air. Your heart is now pounding out of your chest, and you try desperately not to look at the screen in front of you because his reflection would drive you off a cliff.

But you don't reply. Only swallow hard.

"I'd stop," he states, pulling away as if he commented on the weather and nothing more.

"But I'd never forget that you wanted to say 'yes'."

As if mulling over the thought while you're left paralysed and shivering, not looking at him, not responding, the coolness returns to his voice. But there's a hint of enjoyment in it now. Like he managed to pry open a door just enough to get a finger in.

"Put it this way, Manhattan...if you don't turn around, I'll make sure you're suited up one way or another. Which will it be, little Jackdaw?"

You exhale and push the pen away.

And you do turn around. Slowly, in your chair. You turn around and your eyes get snatched by that stern, ever watchful face, fully controlled but for the smile constantly tugging at his mouth. Self-satisfied. Lethal. And so, so false.

A bob of the head and an expression that seems to say 'there, was it so hard?' to which you'd gladly reply positively.

He's bending above you, fully shielding, resting on the back of your chair with one hand gripping its leather, the other at his side holding a red bundle.

"Go on. Take a good look. You're allowed."

"I'm..."

"Good," he finishes the sentence for you and turns his eyes into momentary coinslots, almost mocking you.

"Though I'm starting to doubt that."

You look at the camera above you. Somehow, its red light is now the most reassuring presence in the room.

He follows your gaze.

"You talk in your sleep, Manhattan."

You don't reply.

"Quite the conversation. Do you know what you said when I responded?"

You shake your head and hypnotize your notes again, seeing the same letter for the fourth time.

"Yes, little Jackdaw. You said 'yes'."

"To what?" You can't bear the tension and almost snap. Berlin merely drops the bundle in your lap, still smiling to himself.

"Get dressed."

❥❥❥

At least he left the room for you to do so. Though you struggled with the zipper with your shaking fingers, the question plaguing your mind.

What had you agreed to in your sleep?

Could he see you, if he could hear you?

As you pulled it up and gathered your hair out of your collar, you gazed at the room again. And fear began to creep up on you, even as it should have been calming to be alone again.

What if the plan goes wrong? What if you...mess up? What if they do? What if you get hurt? He won't protect you...you're an asset, not cared for.

You're an asset.

Not cared for.

With resolution and coolness in your voice, you address the room.

"Clear."

You don't say "decent" because you don't want him to latch onto anything you're saying and use it as ammunition. Berlin seems too good at that.

The door clicks open, and Berlin walks back in, two strides to be right in front of you. Measuring you up and down.

"Good, Manhattan. You did good."

As if wondering whether to tease you or remain stoic, he brings up his arm again - the same gesture you avoided in the more crowded room. This time, you don't flinch. You won't give him the satisfaction. Only nod - giving permission.

Still in control.

His hand brushes your collar and softly tugs at the top of the jumpsuit.

"You look better this way, Manhattan. Out of uniform."

You see it in the way his face is more...animated now, and this time he isn't trying to catch your gaze. As if lost in thought. His finger gets a bit too close and his knuckle brushes that tender spot on your throat you were holding the last time you felt so paranoid.

You inhale sharply, but he doesn't pull away. The cheshire grin growing more serious seems to repeat his sentence:

Tell me to stop.

And you don't.

He caresses it, softly, up and down, as if worried he'll disturb the precious thing. His knuckle guides up to your chin and lifts your head up to his.

"I'm almost sorry for what I'll have to do to you, little Jackdaw."

His lips curl.

"Almost."

You exhale.

No, you're not.

You came up with this.

You're going to enjoy it.

And I hate you for it. And I hate myself for not wanting to say...stop.

But he seems to feed on that. On planning ahead, being in control, making people submit without knowing they did so - teetering on the edge and only noticing air grow fast around their face once they're about to hit the bottom.

It takes every muscle from your shoulders to your neck to keep calm, to not look into those eyes, to not give into your actual feelings that are spurred by fear and desperation and...need.

The jumpsuit feels suffocating.

Break for a tune that won't linger.

With sincere tenderness and genuine worry, you instead simply ask:

"Is Denver alright?"

And you might as well have slapped Berlin across his smooth face.

Without changing his expression, he mouths the sentence back to you, as if in disbelief that you'd ever even think of asking.

“Is…”

He steps into you, you step back.

“Denver…”

He forces his other leg into your space; your thigh hits the table.

“Alright…?”

You instinctively try to grab the edge, but he grabs your wrist first and pushes your hand down. Before you can retract it, he grabs your other wrist and pins it to the table.

And as he leans into you, to your side, lips almost touching your ear, you feel him.

His chest.

His leg.

His breath.

Even his heartbeat through his neck.

And they're all.

So.

Steady.

He's not losing control.

Now you've got a reason to be terrified.

"My little Jackdaw," he whispers to you, as if reading you a fairytale, "do you really think it wise to tease someone who is going to have you tied up at his mercy for the better part of the night, while knowing every little corner of this room that the cameras don't reach?"

Berlin pulls away and leans into you directly now, so close your foreheads could touch.

"Or was it on purpose, because that's what you want?"

He cranes his head to one side, exaggerating his words while his expressions remain frozen. You remember the same instinct that made you wince, that made you see what the birds did when they ran for shelter to you.

"To be broken, taken, bent and tried - so you don't have to witness your own carnage...To lose control. Silly, silly, silly Jackdaw."

He gazes at your neck, throat, quivering lips as if pondering to himself – and only smirks as he straightens your collar again, brushing a strand of hair away from your neck.

Berlin’s fingers twitch and make contact with your skin again.

"Because once you give it to me, I won't be able to stop."