section7mfu | Caught in the Spider's Web - Part 6

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

Prompt word - ledge
Prompt colour - gold
Word count - 840

Jaw clenched tight, he takes a gun from one of the fallen guards and hates the way the weight drags his arm down. Like any predatory animal, Angelique will leap upon any hint of weakness, he knows this.

The gun is something familiar, a comfort, a crutch in a world that is so much more bleak than it was before. He might tell himself he is no assassin, but it is a part he has played before and will again, and he cannot deny the shoe fits.

(It is not truly assassination when the reasons are so personal. They call that murder. He knows this too.)

Angelique watches him, her eyes contemptuous slits. “Ready?”

He nods. “Of course,” he says and he follows her up the stairs.

They see no other guards. It is the middle of the night – through the window he can see cold stars shining down. And after all, even THRUSH has to sleep.

Fuller isn't sleeping. They check his bedroom first of all – Angelique leads him straight there, and a knife point of dread and incredulity creeps through him at the realisation that he might actually be contemplating killing a man in his sleep – but the bed is empty. Unslept in.

“He can't be far,” she says and Illya wonders.

He feels himself slip, pain and exhaustion creeping through the cracks of the shield the drug has given him. His hand is flat against the wall, blood smeared across the gold-embossed wallpaper.

Angelique is watching him. “We can split up,” she says and he suspects she is leaving him behind.

It does not matter. She walks away to the right and he pushes on through the rooms to the left, passing a study with the contrast of an elegant antique mahogany desk amid the latest computer banks crowding the walls; and a music room with a baby grand piano, sheet music just waiting to play. The door at the far side is ajar. He steps closer, peering through the gap.

The room beyond is lit only by firelight. Fuller sits on a low chair, gazing into the fire, red light and shadow cast upon his face, and it is only Illya's imagination that makes him look so demonic. The gun is ready in his hand, a comfort, a crutch, a promise.

Deliberately he lets the door swing open with a bang and he waits for endless seconds as Fuller startles to his feet, turning, and in the moment he sees Illya their eyes meet and they both know what this is. What this means.

He does not say a word. He will not shoot a man in the back, but that does not mean he must offer explanation.

And now he is standing on a narrow ledge between what is right and what is just. He can justify this killing all he likes as being for the sake of the mission, to keep THRUSH from realising their code is compromised. He knows this is personal, and though he is a pragmatist, he knows motives matter...and he does not care.

His finger tightens on the trigger. A shot rings out and blood blossoms across Fuller's shirt.

He did not fire.

Numbly, he watches as confusion dawns in Fuller's eyes, and it seems as though an age passes before he pitches forwards, first to his knees and then to the floor, the light fading from his eyes.

He looks across the room. Angelique stands in the other doorway, pearl-handed pistol in her hand, a smile of satisfaction on her lips.

“I had him,” he says evenly.

“Did you really think I was going to let you take that shot?” she demands scornfully. “He was mine to kill.”

Anger burns through him. Napoleon is dead, and now revenge has been snatched away from him. He has pushed himself to this point – to the brink of everything he stands for! - and to have the kill stolen from him..... The gun is still in his hand.

They stand there, the two of them, for a long moment, in frozen tableau, guns aimed squarely at each other's heart.

Truthfully, he longs to pull the trigger. The anger is bright and fresh, buoyed by grief and torture, and it would be simple to take it all out on her. It takes oh, so much effort to push it all down, to remind himself that what matters here is that Fuller is dead....and that Napoleon would want Angelique to live.

He lowers his gun. She does the same and he wonders if she faces the same struggle, wonders if she is reminding herself that Napoleon would want Illya to live as well. All they have ever had in common, after all.

“He is dead,” he says, and perhaps it doesn't matter which one he means. “Come. Let us plant the explosives and get out of here. I'm sure you wish to be as far from me as I wish to be from you.”