Every man had a weakness. Interesting- how when we say we have a "weakness" for something it means we love it, not fear it. We don't say we have a weakness for snakes; we say we have a weakness for chocolate. Keats had seen men destroyed by what they love: drinking, gambling, doing drugs, chasing power.  And he'd known his own weakness for as long as he could remember: women.

There was nothing on God's green earth like a woman- especially a woman in motion. There was an electricity there that could power the world if someone could find a way to bottle it. It kinda did power the world, if you thought about it. Keats thought about it quite a bit. He was thinking about it now as he walked the streets of Detroit. Winter had finally been cast back to the void; spring was here, summer was fast approaching, and women who'd bundled themselves up for months took their first cautious steps into the new season, exposing their skin to the warm light of the sun.

Keats ran words through his head as he ambled, in no hurry to reach the bank. "The female form.... it attracts with fierce undeniable attraction... I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor, all falls aside but myself and it, Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, and what was expected of heaven or fear'd of hell, are now consumed"... kind of ironic, coming from Whitman. An attractive woman in her early forties glanced at Keats- he didn't avert his eyes until she returned his smirk, rolling her eyes. He passed a group of school girls, 17 or 18- far too young, but a smile and a raised eyebrow left a trail of giggles and whispers in his wake. A woman in her early twenties approached, either engaged or newly married- but he nevertheless won a begrudging grin. One needed to develop a coterie of smiles: wry, earnest, harmless, fiery, playful. It was the chase that he loved, the thrill of never knowing who would turn the next corner and walk into his life and the challenge of figuring out just what combination could crack the woman in his crosshairs.

Yes, life was good. Business was good, and he'd earned his place. His skills, though far from perfect, were improving under the expert tutelage of the more veteran members of Black Rock. He'd had reservations... difficulties accepting some things when he first began this line of work, but he'd hardened his heart and moved on. He had a family, a group of friends, for the first time- and a real purpose. He also had enough money to buy anything he wanted to drink and a seemingly infinite number of new, exciting, and beautiful women to share those drinks with.

Imagine his surprise, when it all ended in a single pause between the anvil strokes of his heartbeat.

***

Bank lines. There was nothing worse than bank lines. Wait- airport lines. God damn people taking forever. Fill out your goddamn deposit slips in advance. Keats thought about publicly executing the next person who wrote their deposit slip after they'd waited in line for 10 minutes, but decided that Don Hayes would most likely not approve, even if he sympathized. He kept his eyes to the floor, so as to avoid glaring at people and making the time pass slower. He noticed a blonde making a withdrawal out of the corner of his eye. Maybe he'd introduce himself after-

"I can help the next customer in line."

And that was it. He was finished. The game had ended. He never even had a chance to raise his shield before she'd grabbed his heart and squeezed. His green eyes looked over from the blonde- who was now as forgotten as the dirtiest, poorest son of a bitch who ever lived in Ancient Rome- and met her brown eyes. And he just froze. Time occasionally slowed like this for him during a gunfight, but it didn't feel this... warm. Wait, was he poisoned? Did he drink something? Oh my God...

"... sir?"

Her face looked like each individual part had been chiseled by a Renaissance master who'd dedicated himself to perfecting a single facial feature, before their work was all combined. Her eyes were warm, bright. They danced, they glowed. She smiled and he felt every cell in his body simultaneously combust. Why was she smiling? Who cared. As long as she didn't stop. She was laughing- the light, delicate ripple of her laughter wrapped him up like a blanket.

"Um... hello?"

"I. Hello."

Keats shuffled to the counter, dropping his gaze so he could think, retrieving the envelope from his jacket pocket. He looked up and was lost again.

"I... I have money."

"Well, congratulations. Would you like to maybe deposit that money here?"

Her voice teased him. He was making a fool of himself- but she wasn't mean. You could hear the smile in her voice. Keats ignored the deposit slip already filled out in his pocket as he reached for a new one. God damn it. Take a breath. What the hell is wrong with me? He leaned forward and tried to focus, carefully pressing the pen into his deposit slip until he realized she smelled like flowers, and off his mind went again. He could hear the grumbles behind him. Is that what made everyone take so long? They just fall in love with her? Did I just say I fell in love with her? Shit.

Keats stopped and placed the pen down. He slid the half completed, error filled slip off to the side and pulled the one he'd written before from his pocket. Whatever, hopefully she'd just go with it. He tried to focus on the place in between her eyes, since direct eye contact seemed to shut down the circuit between his brain and his mouth. Once he got going, he was able to smile. Had his mouth been open that whole time?

"I'm... I'm going to start over. My name is John Keats. I was planning on depositing this money, but I've found a much better use for it- taking you out to the nicest dinner you've ever had."

Her eyes evaluated him.

"Also, if you tell me that you're married or you're engaged I'm probably going to just leave here and walk into the ocean."

"... we're in Detroit."

"I know. I'd be tired by the time I got there- and hopefully I'd have given you enough time to change your mind. Also, you should know I can't swim."

She laughed. He was in. And he was never the same. 

***

Being head over heels in love is one of those things that everyone wants for themselves, but they never really want to talk about when it comes to someone else. So he kept it quiet. It was his secret, like telling someone else might jinx it. What was he supposed to say? That seeing her body in the moonlight had made him say "I love you" without thinking way, way too early? That she felt the same way? That he loved how she could fall asleep on his chest in the middle of a conversation? These things didn't interest other people, but Luciana Rossi was a universe contained in one person and he threw his whole self into loving her. The days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months. A blur- but the happiest time of his life. When they first started dating he'd wake up in the morning and stagger to the bathroom and, as his brain slowly cranked into gear, perceiving the world around him, a smile would break out on his face as he remembered that she was in his life.

Luciana Rossi was the light that illuminated his world. But there was still a shadow.

"John, you're a good man. You're smart- we can find you another job. Something honest. We'll move somewhere else. Start over."

"This isn't the kind of job where you put in a two weeks notice and walk away. When you've risen as high as I have, you only go out in a coffin. There are no other options. And besides, I can't leave. I don't want to leave. I have responsibilities, a purpose, people who depend on me- a family."

"I can be your family. We'll start a new family. Somewhere far away."

"It's not that easy, Lu."

"Won't you even try?"

The Conversation, as they each called it, happened regularly as the weeks stretched into months. One night, they had killed a bottle of wine together and Luciana was crying. Keats looked at her, closed his eyes, and spoke quietly.

"Fine. I'll try it. I might get killed, but I'll try it."

The plan was to present WillHayes with such a large gift, and to make their case so eloquently, that the Don would have no choice but to grant his request to leave with Luciana. Perhaps the boss would send Keats away to do some work for him, and he'd just never return. Perhaps he'd have Keats fake his death. Certainly, it could never get out that Keats just walked away. Or maybe WillHayes would calmly stare him down and tell him no. Maybe there'd be a bullet for him. Who knows. But hopefully it wouldn't come to that. The gift to the Don had to be big enough to win him over, and there was only one way Keats saw that happening. It took two weeks of persuasion to get Luciana on board. Finally, she caved.

They arrived at the bank together, after a week straight of planning. It was lunch; the bank manager had an important meeting off site. Keats was prepared for anything, with his gun at his shoulder and his knife in its scabbard, hidden on the back of his belt. Luciana went in first, as Keats said a brief prayer and waited in the parking lot. When the allotted time had passed, he grabbed a custom briefcase designed for maximum storage and strode into the bank. He walked confidently, as if he was bored, before flashing his forged credentials at the teller, an older woman, next to Lucia. 

"Bank examiner, Ma'm. I'll need to see the vault and check your books, please."

He said it like he was ordering a pizza.

"Why- we weren't aware of any-"

"That's why it's an inspection, Miss."

"But my manager isn't even here."

"He's not needed for the first part of the inspection. When the first stage is finished, I'll make an appointment with him for tomorrow morning to discuss the results. And I do need to remind you that recent Federal regulations prevent the hindrance of an bank examiner during an inspection."

Flustered, she opened the door. She asked Luciana to take him downstairs, of course. Poor Edna had been complaining about her arthritis for the past month, and there was no one else around. The rest was easy. Luciana had the key from the bank manager's desk, and within 10 minutes the vault was open, the briefcase was full, and Keats was on his way out the door, reminding Edna that he'd be calling to schedule an appointment.

Keats drove home quickly, stacking the money on the kitchen table. As soon as Luciana walked in, he popped the bottle of champagne.

***

Keats woke up the next morning in a hotel room, blinking. They'd done it. Now it was time to see if the plan would work. Even Don Hayes would be impressed by this haul; it was more than Keats had made cumulatively over the past several months. Sitting up in bed, he grinned as he saw the clothing strewn around the room: his gun and knife dangled haphazardly from the door handle, her shirt was tossed over the phone on the nightstand. 

But his smile fled his face as he saw Luciana. Her eyes were red; she'd been crying all night.

"John... I can't do this. It's wrong. We shouldn't- we can't...  just steal like this. It's wrong."

"There's no other way, Luciana. We've talked about it. And we pulled it off! No one got hurt. He took her hand in his. And we got even more than we expected! We'll be able to start over. A new life."

She shook her head, crying again.

"There's another way, John. The only way. We've got to give the money back. You can make a deal."

"We can't give back the money, Lu- we already took it. They're not just going to let me walk away if I bring it back and say sorry."

"What if you gave them something? What if you helped them?"

Keats felt his entire body go cold. Numb.

"John, what if you helped them arrest Will, Via, all these people you've told me about? They'd have to let you go then. And we could be together. It's the only way!"

She leaned his head against his chest as Keats stared blankly into the wall.

"John, this is the right thing to do. It's the only way."

He leaned his head back; it hit against the headboard and rested there. 

"John?"

"Luciana. You know that can't happen. I swore an oath. It's who I am. Just... lets talk about this, okay? I need to take a shower. I need to think. Then we'll talk"

Keats stood, slipping his pants back on as he walked out of the room. What the hell was he going to do? He knew Luciana well enough to know that she wouldn't change her mind now. He heard it in her voice. What was the way out of this? He needed to talk to someone about this. Via. She was smart, and she liked him enough to perhaps understand how his heart had gotten him into this mess. Keats had picked up the phone in the kitchen, preparing to dial the number to Via's private line, when he heard Luciana's voice already speaking.

"- need to talk to an agent immediately. Thank you, I'll hold. Just make sure they know how important this is. Mention the bank rob-"

Keats felt the phone slip from his hands, swinging in the air. He stood there, in the fog, for what seemed like a long time, before rushing back to the bedroom and speaking quickly.

"Luciana, hang up now- we need to talk about this."

She was sitting on the bed, the other sheet pulled up to cover herself, holding the sheet together with one hand and the phone in the other.

"Luciana. I am begging you. Hang up the phone."

She looked at him, brown eyes shining with tears.

"This is the only way, John. I know this is so hard for you, but you'll thank me for this. I know it. It's the right thing to do."

"Luciana, please.  Hang. Up. The. Phone."

She looked pained, conflicted, and there were tears in her eyes. Slowly, she shook her head and broke eye contact, shifting so that her naked back faced Keats from across the room. Keats could only hear the sound of his own breathing until Luciana finally broke the silence.

"Yes, I am. Agent Brennan? I have information for you. WE have information for you. Have you ever heard of an organization called Bla-"

The gun went off in his hand. He didn't even know how it got there. A second shot. Her body slumped forward against the headboard, facing away from him. There was a small voice in his head that tried to speak, saying that it was the only way, that she knew everything, that she'd never change her mind. This voice was quickly drowned by a sea of overpowering silence. He pulled the phone cord out of the wall, not wanting to look near her and take it from her hand. Sticking the gun in his pocket, and ignoring the empty holster hanging from the door, he dressed quickly with his eyes clenched shut. If he saw her face, he knew he'd most likely take his own life. He didn't feel it; his brain just provided that information objectively. He left the room with the briefcase, leaving the "Do not disturb" sign on the door behind him.

***

Sometimes our brain shuts down to protect us. Keats was like a machine- his head was entirely empty. Arriving at the Black Rock HQ, he'd dropped off the briefcase for WillHayes and Via, along with a note that stated he needed to leave town on business and that it was an emergency- but that this briefcase should make up for the inconvenience. He left the gun in a special room on the way out- it'd be melted down before the end of the day. And Keats would be gone.

***

The first flight that left Detroit was heading for Los Angeles. The quiet- the stillness of mind- ended when he was in the air, somewhere around Wyoming. He heard her voice. Her laughter. He saw her smile. His heart was being continually torn, and he ultimately just accepted that this was a pain he would live with for however long he lived. 

***

Several hours later, he was staring at the Pacific Ocean, trying to lose himself in the rhythm of the waves. It was his responsibility. He'd loved her. He had been too proud or stupid to realize that he couldn't drag her along, couldn't get her involved. And he'd lost everything because of it. 

He could imagine her walking along the beach, her hair blowing in the evening wind, watching the sunset with him. Joking about working off their late lunch. 

She was dead. And he'd be dead soon enough in his line of work. It was freeing, in a way: not caring if you died. 

The best part of him was dead already. The light had been extinguished and the fading glow would endure until it inevitably sank into darkness. Keats let himself fall backward on the sands of Venice Beach and drift away to sleep as the sun set, but he did not sleep well. He never slept well again. 

Oceans have a way of speaking to sadness. Grief can seemingly grow in strength as one listens to the repeated crashing waves, and one can also feel the seas  draw their grief out to the depths like so many ripples over the water. Keats had been walking the beaches of California for quite a while. He knew that Will and Via would understand. He didn't tell them the entire story of how he'd had to kill the person he loved most in the world, but they knew enough to understand. Via had sent him back a long letter, telling him to take his time. 

His suit was gone now, replaced by the tan, canvas clothes of those who walk the beach and lived in the open air. A short beard protruded from his face, matching his increasingly unkempt hair. How long had it been? He didn't know. Less than a month, since he'd only seen one full moon in his time on the west coast. 

It was a warm spring day when Keats saw the group of bodyguards. He couldn't help but smile. He wondered who had come to talk him back to Detroit? Don Hayes, no doubt, had too much business to handle. Perhaps Via would come herself; they'd always been close, ever since the day when she'd plucked him from the streets and recruited him. Perhaps Brigid, there to spur him into action with a philosophical reflection. Or Ewiv or HenriDucard to challenge him and tell him to get his shit together. Perhaps Sofia, to appeal to his better nature. Or Hiems, who was probably the only man alive with a shot at persuading Keats without a word. Even thinking about his new family slightly warmed the heart of Keats. He'd given up everything for them: his love, his soul, his chance at a happy life. He would let himself be persuaded- but he'd talk whoever Will sent into buying him dinner first.

His smile faded as he realized he didn't recognize any of the bodyguards. What the hell? New muscle? His confused expression remained as Maria emerged from a cafe and locked eyes with him. He'd been writing letters to Maria for a while now; their correspondence was a nice distraction from his usual business. That she was here in person meant only a few possibilities. 1) She was in love with him. 2) There was a war between their families. 3) WillHayes had been killed. 

All three were technically possible. A month ago he would have been smirking and joking right now about option number one. Instead, his faced drained of emotion as he clasped his hands in front of him. Didn't want to bodyguards to get nervous. The only thing he'd kept from his previous life was his knife, fastened at his back along the rope that served as a belt. 

Maria calmly approached him. She looked tired as she pushed a rogue strand of dark hair that had drifted in front of her face. Her hands were in the pockets of a light jacket and he could feel her eyes evaluating him. Eventually, she spoke.

"We need to talk."

She tilted her head toward the beach and Keats followed her, standing there a long time. The crashing of the waves drowned out their conversation. Passers by may have wondered why this well dressed woman was indulging this seemingly transient man in conversation, especially as he stood staring into the ocean for long stretches. He looked out for a long time, hands laced behind his head- seemingly rendered immobile in the space between the loud crash and the gentle pull of the surf. 

What do you do when you sold your soul to the devil? Most of the stories mentioned regret later in life. But this soon? A month ago he'd killed his love- and now the family he'd done the deed for was gone. Perhaps he was cursed. He thought, again, about ending his own life. It was a thought that would reoccur to him many times over the next few weeks. Something stopped him, though. He knew that Will and Via wouldn't want that. He could almost hear their voices intermingling with the sounds of the shore. The best memorial to them would be a life lived well, even if he wasn't remotely ready for that at the moment. 

Eventually, he spoke more with the Don who'd approached him. He dropped to his knee for a moment, speaking earnestly to her, before standing and following her back to her car. He walked like a man who hadn't used his legs in days, stumbling. He stared out at the window in disbelief, taking one last look at the ocean as the car pulled away.