#blancpre

As if she had heard him, she hummed something inaudible under her breath, but clearly did not wake up from her slumber.

She rarely did.

Walking over to the desk, Gérald calmly put away the letters and the lodger that he carried, continuing on to the assassin he had come to cherish beyond words. Daring to brush a wayward curl from her face, he closed his eyes halfway as the by now familiar warmth bloomed in his chest.

”You are working much too hard, Aveline... Will you ever learn?”

His words were naught but a mumble, a plea that he knew she would never listen to. How he wished another life for her, one that did not include murders and hardships: this dangerous double life that would doubtlessly claim her life one day. Perhaps his as well.

No, certainly his as well. For when she died, a part of him would die with her.

Drawing a deep breath he carefully nestled his arms in underneath her, trying to make sure that it would balance out once he straightened. Only once he was certain that it would he braced himself for the weight and lift her up, wanting to have her rest in an actual bed rather than the questionable comfort of an armchair.

Aveline sighed at the shift of position, but as through a miracle she stayed asleep. Even as he turned to carry her to the bed her only actions were to prop her head against his shoulder, hum contently to herself, and keep dreaming.

He smiled faintly at the sight. The feeling of having Aveline in his arms was a dual one. Heaven and hell. Not only because he lacked the proper muscle mass to feel confident in carrying her around, but also because it made his heart ache with all the more vigour. Her smell mixed with each and every one of his breaths, her warmth a soothing balm next to his slightly colder body temperature.

Gérald knew nothing as bittersweet as the closeness he felt when carrying her the short distance between the armchair and the bed.

Despite the disadvantages he walked carefully, rather taking it too slow than too fast. Taking his time, rather than risk dropping her or otherwise wake her up — she needed the sleep, so badly. If the bureau was the one place she felt safe enough to doze off, if he was the only person who was allowed to carry her the way he did without her waking up, ready to defend herself at a moment's notice, then he would bit back the less chivalrous sides of his affection a thousand times over.

”Careful now,” he mumbled to himself as he manouvered around the office, keeping a close eye on the furniture. The last thing he wanted was to walk her into something.

However, Aveline must have heard him, as the next thing she did was shifting in his arms, resting her forehead against his neck instead of his shoulder, mumbling as she did:

”Always careful, monsieur...”

At first Gérald's heart skipped a beat in panic, luring him to believe that he had woke her up, and he froze where he was. But as the seconds passed and Aveline made no more inclinations that she was awake or even aware of what she had said, he slowly relaxed anew — and his heart beat harder for other reasons.

As Aveline's forehead nuzzling against his neck.

Swallowing discreetely, Gérald resumed his attempt to get her to a bed without waking her up, wanting nothing more than to put her down so that she may get some proper rest — and him some reprieve from the flutter in his chest.

Having reached the bed, he carefully put her down, always gentle and attentive to make sure that she would not be disturbed from his motions. Especially as he near toppled over when said motions had the weight shift without him being properly prepared for it.

Gérald prayed that the flutter of her lashes was due to a dream, nothing else.

Straightening up anew, he arranged the last details — such as putting a blanket over her to keep her from freezing — and took a step back. Giving himself a moment to make sure that she was comfortable, he then drew a breath.

”Rest well, Aveline,” he said softly, and turned to leave just as the corner of her lips curled into a miniscule smile, as if she was not asleep at all.

”Monsieur!” she feigned a gasp, feeling the tug of her lips as she fought not to break into laughter. His tone implied just how confident he was in her skills, and she could accept what few taunts and teases he threw at her, if nothing else because she loved hearing him confident enough to speak them. ”I am appalled! That is no way to speak to a lady.”

”Then it is lucky that I speak to the Lady, not just any lady,” he replied without missing a beat, the voice clearly containing a wry smile. ”There is an open window on the floor just above you. Use that and head for the conference room down the corridor. You'll find your target there.”

”What would I do without you, Monsieur?” she mused, a tinge of satisfaction settling like an ember in her chest at his responding soft laugh.

Shifting her pace just the slighest, she was able to grab hold of a hook protruding from the scaffolding, not hesitating even once when running in a wide arc only to push herself off the edge. For a moment the only thing between her and certain death was the wire that kept the hook in place: below her merely eight hundred feet of nothing but air and a few protruding beams from the scaffolding.

Chilly night air swirled around her, tugging at her clothes and backpack, until she twisted in the air — getting one second of looking down at the hundreds of thousands of lights from windows and street lights, making the city below look like a night sky — and landed one storey up from where she had been. The risk itself made her giddy, jolts upon jolts of adrenaline surging through her body and driving her on.

The thrill always excited her, always pushed her to test her limits.

”What was it that I said about being 'reckless'?” the other's voice stated dryly in her ear, and she snorted on a laugh.

”Don't be like that, Monsieur. This was the fastest way.”

”There was a ladder about fifty feet ahead of you.”

”No fun, and I would have had to backtrack. Now, open window?”

”It should be just ahead. Please spare my poor heart next time? I was about to get a heart attack when I saw you make the leap.”

”Don't you have faith in me?” she teased, quickly locating and heading towards the indicated window.

”You are reckless and stubborn and make way too many impulsive decisions. Of course I have faith in you.”

Rolling her eyes, she still admitted that she preened at his confirmation of faith. While she knew very little about the Monsieur, she had come to trust and respect him over the years, and his praise meant a lot to her.

It was remarkable how much someone's voice and choice of words could tell you about the person behind it.

Entering through the window, she made sure to recover a sliver of calm and attention to more than her thrill seeking tendencies. Her words lost some of their teasing hints and her motions, albeit smooth and graceful still, slowed and became silent.

”I'm in.”

”Good. You remember your instructions?”

”Clean kill, no witnesses, stay by the door so the cameras won't catch me on tape.”

”Couldn't have said it better myself. Don't worry about the cameras in the hallway: they're dummies. Communication's out until you're back outside. Don't leave me hanging.”

”Hanging would be my job, right?”

”Indeed. See you in a few, Lady.”

The line went dead and she drew a deep breath. Whilst convinced of her own skills, and grateful for getting to do her job in silence, the first moments of quiet always left her a bit lonely. She had gotten used to Monsieur's voice in her ear, and despite how they never held the line open during the actual kill due to safety and her concentration, she still missed it.

Moving through the corridor she let herself be swept away into the sounds of soft humming from electronics, of the ticking from a clock on the far side wall, of the faint remnants of fish from the kitchenette she had passed, the feeling of the wall-to-wall mat underneath her soles. And in the midst of all that, she focused ahead, zooming everything else out. The door to the conference room was ajar, two dozen feet in front of her, a silent clatter from a computer's keyboard disturbing what silence that could be had.

Reaching the door and glancing inside gave her enough sight to locate her target. Eyes on the screen and suit jacket over the back of her chair, the blonde woman paused her writing just long enough to correct her glasses and tap one nail against the surface of her desk before returning her fingers to the keyboard.

Lady drew one deep, slow breath, listening closely. Only when she was certain that no one else was in the door did she lift her gun, aimed, and fired.

The woman dropped to the floor with only a faint thud to tell about it, and Lady turned to leave without a second's hesitation. It was no more than a minute before she was back out on the scaffolding, heading towards the ladder this time — she had to show some respect for Monsieur and his heart, after all.

She had only just stepped out on it when there was a white noise in the earpiece, followed by the soft voice of the Monsieur.

”No trouble, I hope?”

”None. In and out without a sound. I am heading back down.”

”That's my Lady: elegant and deadly.”

”Flatterer,” she half chided, half purred.

”Only for you.”

It was impossible for her to contain a smile at that. Later, when she would have returned to her apartment and long since ended the playful banter that she somehow always managed to tangle up in while speaking to the Monsieur, said smile would still play on her lips. It would follow her through the shower, and the hastily made midnight snack, as well as through the preparations for the following day, all the way into bed.

And when she lay on the verge of being claimed by sleep, she would find herself already waiting for her next assignment. Not for the thrill of danger, or any sort of satisfaction with taking lives or stealing from whoever it may be, but for the knowledge that Monsieur's smooth, encouraging voice would accompany her through it all.

The haste with which she left the bed almost had her stumble on the first step, still half drowsy from her recent sleep. A low hiss slipped over her lips from feeling the cold floor against her bare feet, but nothing detered her from getting dressed: her fingers nimbly working around the many clasps and strings and buttons without thought or hesitation – it was second nature.

It was long ago that she lost count on the number of times she had put on her current outfit.

Stepping out on the roof outside her window chased away the last remnants of sleep from her mind – a cool breeze whisking at her hair and spurred her to move forward. Her body fell into routine without coaxing or thought: one foot in front of the other, a miniscule adjustment of her hips, chest or legs and she darted around chimneys, across the gaps between houses, speeding over the roof tops just like a playful child would run along the streets below her.

It was a toxin: a sweet toxin of adrenaline, the kick of knowing that one faulty step could send her to a fall that might result in severe injuries or even death. The thrill was as needed as it was dangerous – it sharpened her mind and heightened her senses, making her see every crevice, every wobbly board, every rope, every slippery spot. She had to, or that fall would claim her. The knowledge should make her slow down, she knew that, but now she merely pushed forward, craving the alertness and the shift in focus. Goal in mind, fine, but the road there served well as a mean to forget the chill in her bones and the faces lurking behind her cornea.

Which of course meant that it was much too soon that she landed on top of the roof of the bureau, sighing to herself as she silently lowered herself onto the porch and headed inside, wanting the bed that they had installed for days when she had to take a quick nap and could not do so at home. She had not had to use it lately – she did not want to remember why – but there were those nights... The nights with nightmares, when she had to flee the house. Those nights when the bureau was the only place where she felt safe enough to return to some kind of slumber, gaining a few previous hours of rest.

Letting out a yawn she removed her hat, throwing it onto the hat rack and settled with giving it a dark glare when it fell off and landed next to it instead. Shaking her head she turned to remove some of the more unnecessary garments, knowing that there were no reason for her to lie fully dressed in her assassin gear and be annoyed by chafing weapons or – God forbid – prick herself on her own poison darts.

She had only been lucky that Gérald had been there to sort it out when she had last done that.

”Hello?”

Eyes widening in an instant and gun in hand before she knew it, she spun around, aiming at the sound. To have let someone sneak up on her from behind? It was a novice mistake, and no one would get enough time to live and tell the tale.

The very next second she cussed at herself.

Hands halfway up into the air, Gérald stared at her from the doorway, frozen in place with his entire attention on the muzzle of the contraption in her hand.

She lowered it quickly, trying to ignore the shame she felt for having made yet another novice mistake and not recognised Gérald's voice at once.

”Mon Dieu, Gérald,” she mumbled, trying to smooth over the incident. ”I'm sorry, I did not see you there.”

”I just got in, and-” He paused himself, blinking as he took a step forward: ”You came back? Aveline, is something wrong?”

His voice, ever so gentle and caring, brought a faint smile to her lips despite how she was far from wanting to do so.

How was it that she always forgot that Gérald had that effect on her?

”Non, I am alright, I was just-” Pausing herself, she drew a deep breath and pressed the palm of her hand to her eyes. The burn of previous tears lingered behind them. ”I could not sleep in that house.”

”Of course.”

Gérald, ever the gentleman, asked no further questions – and Aveline could not have been more grateful.

Or so she thought, until she heard a clatter of the writing pad being put down hastily, and then rushed steps heading her way, followed by his hands carefully resting underneath her elbow and around her waist. The touch was ever so light, but supportive, and she had not known how much she needed it until it was already there.

”You are pale as a ghost, Aveline,” Gérald mumbled with great concern beside her, and helped her over to the bed. ”I worry about you.”

”There is no need, Gérald, it was just a nightmare.”

Aveline tried her hardest not to let it slip through voice or manners how affected she had truly been. How it had been merely one in a series of sleepless nights, of twisting and turning in her bed. Or how the hardest bit – the one that had affected her the most – was not the nightmare, but the loneliness afterwards. The lack of steps, of a hushed voice speaking soft words, lulling her back into the real world.

A world no less frightening, but far easier to handle.

”You need to rest,” Gérald spoke softly, giving her elbow a gentle squeeze before letting it go entirely.

The wave of instinctual and overwhelming terror that replaced his touch shocked even her, and when she shot out and grabbed his arm to catch his attention it was not a conscious decision.

Even so she held his gaze and blurted out:

”Stay with me? Until I fall asleep?”

The surprise on Gérald's face spoke a language of its own, and it was only due to months and years of working close to the man that Aveline's resolve stayed strong enough for her to not withdraw and apologise. She trusted Gérald.

If she could not trust Gérald, then she would truly be alone.

Staring at his face as she were, the shifts in his expression became almost like a painting: she saw how the lines of his features shifted, his thoughts racing behind his eyes, slowly slotting into place and it all softened back into the caring, considerate man that she had since long learned to treasure greatly. The tense muscles in his arm loosened under her hand as he turned back to her, placing his free hand over hers, hugging it.

”Of course.”

The words brought relief that she had not known she needed: her shoulders slumped, her neck relaxed, and throughout her body tensed muscles loosened up slightly, allowing grace and movement to return to her limbs.

She could have kissed him.

Drawing a breath, she reluctantly loosened her grip around his arm, to instead pull her boots off and lie down under the covers. While it spelled disaster – if nothing else due to the heat – she needed the feeling of being covered, the pretence of a cocoon.

As soon as she had settled in, however, her eyes were drawn to Gérald again, seeking confirmation on that he was there – that he was staying. Seeing him have moved a chair to the side of the bed, sitting down on it with the same soft expression as before, she smiled faintly and allowed herself to take some deeper, slower breaths, confident that he would be there.

The bed had only a portion of the comfort that the one in the mansion held, and the room little of the beauty of her bedroom, but it held warmth. It held safety, in more ways than that it was defendable against attacks and break-ins. Aveline did not know how or why it was, but she was certain that this was her home more than the mansion would ever be again. This bureau, with its nooks and crooks and dust and memories – and Gérald.

Always Gérald.

A soft hum trailed its way to her ears, making her smile faintly. It continued into a string of words, a melodic tune, soothing her whirling thoughts and wrapped her earlier terrors in a blanket, fogging them from sight. A lullaby, lulling her into trusting the velvet darkness again.

Opening her eyes just slightly, she watched Gérald, a book on his lap that had drawn his gaze, but his lips moving to the words of the lullaby, shaping them with the same care as he shaped the numbers in their lodgers. His fingers rested over the pages of the book, and for a moment she got lost in observing them. The nails and nailbeds, the long, slender fingers, the shifts in pigmentation, the skin as it crossed from his fingers to the back of his hands. The scar she had once caused through an unlucky accident including a sharp blade. The slim wrists, the slight bump of his wrist bone, the lace of his shirt resting against the skin.

Trailing upwards with her gaze towards his face anew, she could not help but smile.

”I did not know that you could sing, Gérald,” she mumbled, watching in delight as a faint band of red spread on his cheeks, the song gingerly coming to an end.

”I can stop, if it bothers you?” he said, eyes wavering slightly, making her smile anew.

”It is beautiful,” she reassured him on yet another mumble. ”Please, do not stop.”

His responding smile was enough for her to feel her own cheeks become a tad bit warmer, although she decidedly told herself that it was due to the duvet in combination with her remaining outfit.

As Gérald slowly returned to humming, then singing lowly, Aveline allowed her eyes to close and merely listened. Letting the words and tunes lull her deeper, until her breaths slowed and deepened on their own, she finally let go of the last sliver of caution and fear.