London felt...eerily calm.

In recent memory, she couldn't remember a year where Christmas, or worse, New Year, wasn't marred by death and destruction of some description. Yet 2025 had bled (okay, poor choice of words) into 2026 without a news broadcast about someone being beheaded and tossed into a crowd, and she could scarcely believe it.

Quiet before the storm, though. She knew better than to assume these people were finally starting to act like...well, people.

Kathleen had finished up her Friday night evening shift at the club, and was spending her usual post-routine half an hour with the French before she would eventually depart. They didn't seem to be on edge. Then again, maybe it was hard to tell on edge from fucked up when they were on that much cocaine.

The doors to the club opened, though, and a small group of men wandered in. Familiar, though she didn't think it was because they were frequent patrons of the place. One of the Frenchmen gathered around the table seemed to bristle, as if he, too, sensed familiarity. Then she spotted one. A Russian.

"Is this about to be a problem?" she murmured to the French who seemed to be gearing up as though they thought it might.

She'd brought six men and Lahav, who stood next to her at the back of the group. Viktoriya could feel the woman's body coiled tight like a spring, ready to intervene should someone come close. It tugged the smug smile on her face into a grin. The grin widened even further when she saw the recognition on Kathleen's face.

"Oh boo, are you finished for the night already? I was hoping to catch your last dance. I've missed watching you Kathleen."

The men moved as she did, making their way out of the entrance and into the heart of the club. Viktoriya counted just as many Frenchmen as her own, not missing the white powder strewn across the table, along with traces of it on their person. Drugged up but only slightly less dangerous in that state. She wasn't stupid enough to underestimate them. Still, her men were fully sober and ready to have some fun.

Vika stopped about ten feet away from Kathleen's table. The rest of the club was winding down, if not already dead in certain spots. A quick survey told her this was the only French group present, the rest consisting of local Londoners. Those few were making their way to the door as quietly and as quickly as possible. Apparently her reputation preceded her.

"You look well Kathleen. I can fix that, if you like."

Étienne wasn't drinking, he'd been too tired and he'd promised to be the designated driver of sorts to the girls. Even if things had been quiet, when there were quite a few of them left at the club, the Vixens always seemed on edge. And so he always took on the role, to make sure they felt safe.

Though just as he was about to start urging everyone to wrap up, he felt the commotion, to which he stayed quiet. Observing the situation.

Russians, of course.

Putting his hand on Kathleen's back, he shot her a quick glance, gently urging her to stay calm.

"I'd stay where you are." He shot the Russian a glance. If they've marched in like this, they've obviously had a plan. Russians were nothing more than predictable, only moving when they were certain they've had something in place.

Of course, the woman didn't listen, which prompted Étienne to shift si his back was protecting the Vixen. "One more..." She did, move one step and with a quiet merde, he pulled out his gun, pointing at one of the Russians closest to her in the head. "Please, at least have some manners. After all, you're a guest here." He didn't bother with the retaliation, as he felt shit who was dirtying the club's carpet was on a mission.

It wasn't a condemnation. Not in the slightest. Varden would have paid good money to see Étienne pierce that smug troglodyte's cranium; he'd probably have even helped clean it up afterward. Earning Cecelia's ire by attacking first wasn't exactly at the top of his priority list, however, and the relationship between the French and Russians had become...complicated of late.

Best not to complicate it further.

The assassin got to his feet, buttoning up his jacket as he stood tall.

The others might've been drinking. Might have been high as a kite and still drawing lines. Étienne and Varden rarely made such mistakes outside of French territory these days, though, and it was for precisely this reason.

"I'd suggest you keep your threats to yourself, Ms. Kurylenko," he said simply, taking a step toward them. Varden glanced back only briefly to make sure that Kathleen was still seated behind Étienne, before returning his attention to the cretin collective. Decidedly did not have the patience for this, tonight. "Wouldn't want to cause a scene."

"You're a hard man to get alone these days." Odile had all but walked through the door, her dress picked purposefully, as she always did when she found herself in Varden’s presence. Dark, restrained, sparkling to represent that she was never ordinary. Bold, she guessed.

Accompanying the dress were red diamonds. Statements, as she often made when she wanted to make an impression. Odile was off to a socialite event in a few hours, and she'd dressed early to make sure she had enough time for this.

"Promise not to keep you too long," The gift lay neatly tucked away in her bag. Modest in size, impeccable in wrapping. It was her forte, after all. Odile was a self-proclaimed master gift-giver. "Consider this a Christmas courtesy."

The Frenchman took a step back to allow her through the door, before shutting it quietly behind her; along with it, the bitter cold that was currently enveloping the city. How she hadn't caught her death outside in that dress of hers was beyond him... and yes, that'd be his excuse for the way his eyes lingered a little too long.

"A Christmas courtesy, hm?" Varden lifted an eyebrow in amusement, before leading her into his kitchen.

The flat was small. Ridiculously so, given his wealth, some might argue. It was filled to the brim with expensive art and furniture that seemed better suited to someone living the high life in a sprawling mansion, but Varden never really had been the showing off type. Unlike her, he was decidedly underdressed; a rare sight for most, to see him trade a suit for sweatpants and a plain t-shirt.

Varden poured them both a glass of wine. Handed it over to the beautiful blonde, before taking a healthy sip of his own. Brief the visit might have been, but that wasn't an excuse to be a poor host, after all.

"Not that I don't appreciate an impromptu visit from you, Odile, but I thought you were attending that gallery opening in Chelsea tonight? What brings you here?"

Send me Ⓐ and my muse will rate yours:

Attractiveness:

repulsive || hideous || ugly || not attractive || unappealing || not unattractive || meh || no preference || ok || mildly attractive || nice looking || cute || adorable || attractive || pleasant on the eyes || good looking || hot || sexy || beautiful || gorgeous || hot damn || would tap that || perfect || godlike || holy fuck there are no words

Personality:

grating || irritating || frustrating || boring || confusing at best || awkward || unreasonable || psychotic || disturbing || interesting || engaging || affectionate || aggressive || ambitious || anxious || artistic || bad tempered || bossy || charismatic || appealing || unappealing || creative || courageous || dependable || unreliable || unpredictable || predictable || devious || dim || extroverted || introverted ||  egotistical || gregarious || fabulous || impulsive || intelligent || sympathetic || talkative || up beat || peaceful || calming || badass || flexible

How likely they would have sex with them:

not if they were the last person on earth and the world was ending || fuck no! || never || no way || not likely || not sure || indifferent || I’m asexual || maybe || probably || it depends || fairly likely || likely || yeah sure || yes || would tap that || hell yes || fuck yes! || wishing that could happen right now || as many times as possible || we are already having sex

Level of Friendship:

never in a million years || worst of enemies || enemies || rivals || indifferent || neutral || acquaintance || friendly toward each other || casual friends || friends || good friends || best friends || fuck buddies || bosom buddies || practically the same person || would die for them || true friends || my only friend ||

First impression of them:

I hate them so much || I don’t like them || I don’t trust them || they annoy me || they’re weird || I’m indifferent || meh || they seem alright || they’re growing on me || truce || I think I like them || I like them || I’m not sure if I trust them || I trust them || they’re cool || they’re genuine || I think we’re going to get along || I really like them || I think I’m in love || oh fuck they’re hot || I love them

Current impression of them:

I hate them so much || I don’t like them || I don’t trust them || they annoy me || they’re weird || I’m indifferent || meh || they seem alright || they’re growing on me || truce || I think I like them || I like them || I’m not sure if I trust them || I trust them || they’re cool || they’re genuine || I think we’re going to get along || I really like them || I think I’m in love || oh fuck they’re hot || I love them

How good of a kisser:

worst kisser ever || terrible || bad || awkward || just okay || alright || pretty good || good || makes me moan || excellent || exciting || oh god they’re good || I dream about it || fucking amazing || absolute perfection || we haven’t kissed

Seeing Varden's familiar face gave her face a much-needed smirk, the frown lines in her forehead receding as she sipped the end of her own drink before reaching out and taking the one offered from him. She was both pleased to see him and also wanted to smack him for participating after everything he'd been through. But he was a big boy, he could handle himself. Didn't mean she had to like it.

Her smirk became a little wider at his question. "God, no. I think it's no secret how annoying I find the man. He even knows it. Our 'relationship'," she rolled her eyes, "is tenuous at best." Her smile faded a bit. "Was a little surprised when I saw your name, though. How did Val take it?" She asked taking a sip of champagne, her not so veiled attempt at mentioning her dislike of him being hurt again. God forbid anyone realize she actually cared.

How did Val take it? For a moment, the man silenced himself with a lengthy sip of the bar's best cognac. What exactly was that supposed to imply..? Varden lifted an eyebrow as he made a noise; somewhere between a humourless chuckle and a clearing of his throat. Without a doubt, the Commandant had other things on her mind tonight than his match up with another member of the Organization.

Lara either had a inexplicable chip on her shoulder when it came to Olivier, or she was on board the 'Varden is old' train that'd been following him all damn night. It felt a little like he'd been put out to pasture when the reality was, there was only one person on the list he'd have a second thought about going toe-to-toe with, and he'd been robbed of that particular rematch.

"Better than she took news of Yves' match up, I'm sure."

"Hey-" Lisette hands him a glass of cognac, "-I have good money on you," she says, sipping her sparkling water from its flute, "Don't disappoint me, old man,"

Unfortunate.

"Old man? If I didn't have such a massive ego, I'd throw the fight on account of your audacity. When have I ever disappointed you, Lisette?"

Reaching out for the jug of water by his side, Elaina filled the cup and passed it to him. "While your voice is sexy like that, I think it's better if you lubricate your chords. You still have to command things once you're out and about." Because he was going to be getting out of there. She was going to make sure of it.

The idea of Elaina of all people fawning over him left the Frenchman with an amused smile; this, punctuated only briefly with a 'seriously, though?' look at her comment about his voice. People seemed to forget about this side of her. Maybe, she just never let them in close enough to see it. She and her sister had been alike in so many ways, yet different in so many more. Noa would've already slapped the patch where the gunshot wound was and asked if it hurt, throwing her feet up on his bed a moment later... Varden missed her terribly. And perhaps that was why the gratitude he had for Elaina still being there was overwhelming.

Varden had finished the water—God forbid he argue with her about anything right now—and placed the glass back down on the bedside table. And he could feel her moving closer, and wouldn't have fought that even if he'd had the energy. The words hit him hard. 'I'm not going anywhere.' An unreasonable statement, given the world they lived in, the people he'd already lost, and yet he wanted to believe it. Her. Elaina lingered. Longer than he'd been expecting her to, and so he took his opportunity; free hand reaching up to gently cup the face so close to his.

"Is that a promise?" He echoed her quietly, thumb brushing beneath her lower lip.

Before she had a chance to lie, Varden closed the minimal distance between them, drawing her into a kiss. Emotions were running high, and perhaps that was why it felt different to all the times they'd done it before. The prospect of giving that any consideration was lost as his fingertips trailed down the soft skin of her neck, urging her closer... Until the sound of his door flying open forced him to pull away with a look that absolutely could've killed the man standing before them.

Yves didn't look remotely apologetic about his interruption, and it earned an irritated glare from the man in the bed. Talk about fucking timing.

Hearing that Varden was at the centre of what happened, along with Laurent in a coma, when able, Maria made her way over to the hospital. Her first stop was to check on Laurent, needing to see him herself, her heart dropping to her stomach seeing a man who she considered a friend laid lifeless in a bed, sent a new rage through her. She was tired of seeing the people she cared about hurt.

Maria gave a gentle knock on Varden's hospital door before stepping in, azure hues glancing around the room before they land on the man in the hospital bed. It felt strange seeing him there. A soft smile on her lips, she closes the door behind her.

"I had to make sure for myself that you were fine."

Of all the now many visitors that'd come through his door, Varden hadn't expected a Vixen to be amongst them. Well, maybe he'd hoped for one. Still, he couldn't help but smile as she stepped into his room, an eyebrow raising as he awaited an explanation for why she'd gone out of her way to see him of all people. Laurent, he would've understood, but he wasn't exactly the most notorious for frequenting the place.

Stepping into another hospital sent a shiver down her spine. A constant déjà vu that seemed to loop in her life. There would never be an end to visiting those that she cared about when they were caught in the lives they were, each time feeling that dread hit her.

Ayda stood outside his room, taking a deep breath to keep the emotions at bay, giving a gentle knock before she opened the door. A faint smile on her lips, relief hitting her at the sight of him laying in the bed.

The voices in her head grow silent and for the first time, since the incident, she felt like she could breathe. "Hey, I hope you don't mind another visitor."

It was good to see her well. Whilst most of his concern had been directed toward his daughter, after dealing with the tally of French lost, Varden had wondered whether she had been clear of the situation when it'd unfolded. Seeing her there, seemingly unscathed—physically, at least—offered some degree of relief.

"Sorry I never made it to dinner. If I'd have been able to call, I would have, but obviously..." With a quiet and humourless chuckle, he pointed a finger in the direction of his right side; the gauze covering one of the two gunshots that'd put him here in the first place on clear display. But then he was looking at her again. Had he put her in danger, too? "At least tell me you weren't nearby when it happened?"

Delphine had been on high alert since the attack on her people. She'd been sending out feelers, hoping that they would come back to her with answers. The who was clear-- The Russians. But who specifically was what she wanted to know. She didn't normally like to get her own hands dirty, but she could make an exception for the asshole or assholes who perpetrated this act that put so many of her people in the hospital. That is, until she made them pay in a way much worse than that later on. But it would do for now.

It had taken her a moment to come see Varden. They were close and when she'd heard from Yves that he was awake and talking, unlike Laurent, she'd been immensely relieved. She didn't stay away because she didn't care he'd made it through, but because she cared so much that her heart hurt to think about it. He was one of the only people she could let her guard down for and almost losing that type of friendship had rattled her, truth be told.

As she walked through the hallways, guards at her back, she pulled her coat around herself and crossed her arms, poking a head into his room before stepping in completely.

For a moment she simply stared at him, her eyes taking in the scene before her. "You're so lucky you're not dead," she said, only a hint of a smile settled on her features. She wasn't the touchy feely, emotional type.

Of course, the Frenchman couldn't have begrudged her absence, even if he would've been disappointed not to check in on her. The attack on their people had been bold. The perpetrators behind it, obvious. With Oliver still in Porto Velho, Delphine was sole decision maker in London, and thus, suffered all the weight of deciding how to proceed bearing down on her. Prioritising was important.

Perhaps that was why seeing her looking right back at him as he acknowledged someone at his door had taken him by surprise. Enough to draw a genuine smile that'd been uncharacteristically rare since he'd awoken.

"It's good to see you, too, Delphi." And that was the truth. Any other day he might've teased her back, but on this one, Varden didn't have it in him when he'd so nearly been robbed of the opportunity to see her at all.

After a moment attempting to gauge her intent, he nudged his head in the direction of the chair beside his bed in silent, hopeful invitation. Maybe she had no intention of sticking around, maybe she didn't have the time, but when it came to the people he cared about—the woman before him settling somewhere near the top of the list—Varden would take every opportunity. Because he had learnt long ago how quick they could slip through his fingers when he didn't...

"You look exhausted. Talk to me," he said softly, shifting slightly in his bed in an attempt to face her more comfortably. "How are you holding up?"

"Are you fucking serious. Everywhere I go, you fuckers are crawlin' around like we've got an ant infestation."

There was no denying the sound of the words catching in her throat and she even held on a few moments longer to give her a moment to compose herself. Val took the seat next to his bed once she was sure she wasn't going to burst into tears.

"I saw Sylvie. Strong girl you have there Varden. She must get it from her mother." If banter was the only way they were going to keep things together then so be it. Still, Val's smile faltered. "When did it become so dangerous to walk down a street together?"

The comment about Sylvie had him chuckling quietly as he settled back into the bed; a movement that was absolutely protested by his body. That didn't stop him from affectionately tapping at the tattoo that took up most of his chest, though, Marine's name right in the middle, slightly faded but still very much with him after all these years. In more ways than one, he supposed...

Take after her mother? That she fucking did.