The penthouse was eerily quiet as evening settled in. The silence was only punctuated by he incessant tick of he clock on the mantle and the soft rhythmic thump of Nico slicing vegetables for dinner. She'd insisted that Ces let her feed him. And that they stop at the docks for fresh fish and first pick of the morning's imports. Based on the jovial familiarity of the dockworkers, that seemed like something she did fairly often. 

Interestingly, his new wardrobe had been unloaded from the car alongside the food with a stubborn persistence. But were left upon the bed in a marked, mournful silence that was uncharacteristic of the brunette bombshell. 

Everything else in the house was meticulously organized. Everything in its place. Such that his small pile of bags and boxes - strewn across the guest bed in spite of the perfectly tidy dressers and armoire nearby - stood out like a painfully sore thumb. Nico, for her part, refused to so much as look at them. Scuttling away from that half of the house as if the air here were mustard gas. 

"You should... uhm... get... I mean, you can... yeah...." there was a long pause. Wherein she kept her gaze glued to the Milanese tile. "M... make yourself at home, ki...... Cesare,"  Not only had she winced at almost calling him 'kid' again, but she spoke - only - to the damn floor. 

Whatever had happened in that alley, the woman he brought home wasn't the same one he'd left with that morning. 

"Dinner will be ready shortly. Feel free to use the tub if you want. Mio è tuo... and all that jazz." 

What's mine is yours? 

What did that mean?? Hell... what did 'comfortable' or 'at home' even mean in the context of his growing wardrobe? Or, for at matter, in her presence? 

He was afforded plenty of time to contemplate the answers as she disappeared to the kitchen. Focusing on those poor, poor veggies like they'd personally insulted her dead mother, she left him to his own devices amidst the dusty, untouched furniture and pile of new things on the bed. 

Left to his own devices... What were those devices doing? - staring at her... Wondering, watching, waiting... Worrying. Multiple times he went to ask, went to speak, but continued to fall silent as no words would even fall from his lips, no sound gurgling in the back of his throat trying to escape. He certainly felt "at home" here, seeing as silence was all his home was. Though at least the rhythmic chopping and clock ticking gave him some semblance of shared space.

Finally sighing in what felt like defeat, Cesare turned to the suits on the bed... As much as he didn't want to, simply because he didn't want to take his eyes off her for worry of whatever was holding her down finally breaking her, he knew he needed to bathe before trying on those nice, "new" suits. Even if they were just the loaners for now. So to the little privacy screen he went, drawing the warm water for a quick rinse at least.

While the tub heated and filled, he turned back to look in Nico's direction, finally mustering enough to call out...

"Thanks for everything today, Nico... Means a lot to have someone I feel like I can trust."

Maybe that would break the icey wall he'd butted against since the alley - she'd hardly said anything fully coherent since that point minus "Shoes"...

"It's - Well..." he stumbled over the words a bit. "I like it here. I like your company. It's a comfort I didn't know I wanted or needed. But this place? This home you've made? It's great - I'm jealous, ta be frank. Wish I could stay here foreva, ya know? Though I figya you'd get tired'a my ass pretty quick," he tried to chuckle, again still hoping to break that ice again...

But, as he spoke, he slipped back behind the screen and prepared to step into the bath.

The chopping stopped. Silence broken only by the soft march of the clock as seconds turned minutes; Nico staring blankly down at her own, unmoving hands. 

Tick-tick-tick...

No words. 
No breath. 

Tick-tick-tick... 

No answer. 
No movement. 

Tick-tick-- CLICK. 

The sound changed. Or rather, something was added to it. Soft and hesitating, at first.
A single step. And then another. And then another. 

Click-click-click... 

Her heels echoed off the tile as the silhouette of her shadow passed the little partition toward his room. Her breath shook with the weight of unshed tears as she paused in the 'doorway' and simply stared at the collection of Things. The telltale signs of presence filling the long-void space. 

His vantage from the tub made it difficult to see her. But he'd easily hear the protesting moan of a rusty lock, followed by the soft 'click' of it opening. A shaky sigh. Then, the mingled scent of faded cologne and cedarwood as a door hinged open somewhere in the space. 

She didn't speak. 
She barely breathed. 

Even after all this time, it felt as if she exhaled even a little, she'd blow away the last fading proof of what had been... that it had been... and that it had been real. 

Standing at the open armoire, she froze for a long moment. Her breath hitched at the scents as her fingers tenderly grazed the still-starched fabric of what was once a freshly-ironed pinstripe suit with touch so feathherlight that it almost seemed she was afraid it would disintegrate. 

The tiniest hiccup of an unvoiced sob shook through her chest as she turned away from it. She couldn't bring herself to take them out. 
Not yet. Still not yet. 

Instead, the soft hiss of hangers being slid down a closet rod whispered across Ces' steaming bathwater. The flutter of fabric stirred the whorling mist into small eddies. 

Click-click-click... 
Not heels this time, but hangers. His hangers. Being placed in a space where they could belong alongside the rest of her secrets. 

Click-click-click... 
The sound of freshly soled laofers being placed against a wooden riser. 

Click-click-click...
The sound of drawers being opened and rearranged. Of toiletries being set atop the dresser. 

She still SAID nothing. 
And yet, in that simple act, she said everything -- she said the only thing she could. 
She opened a door -- literally -- and metaphorically in that icy wall... that kept Ces out. That kept the pain in. That held her whole world together. 

For him, she opened the door... like an unspoken invitation. A plea, even. 
Ask. Stay. Please. 

The sounds from behind the shade were, to say the least, interesting as Ces sat in the relaxing warmth of the water, his hands in his hair, the soap frothing. He was deathly still, nary a breath, as his frozen self listened carefully to the sounds - unfortunately, the soap masked the armoire's scent from him. But, he could tell she was making room and shifting things around.

"Niiiii? You a'ight out there?" he dared to finally call, almost certain he'd heard a noise that sounded like a glitch in her poised perception; a huffle caught before it could release.

No answer.

"'Ey, Nico?" he called a second time before dunking his hands into the warm water, rinsing the shampoo from them, and standing to grab a towel to wrap around his waist. Stepping out of the tub, he tucked the towel's edge so it held itself up and moved around the screen to look at her; soapy shampoo bubbles still popping in his sufficiently lathered hair.

"What's goin' on, Ni?" he prodded as he stood there dripping water over her floor, even if he was conveniently covered. It was almost comical, shampoo in his hair, towel around his waist, water droplets falling on the floor - if it wasn't for the sadness she held in. Though for whose sake she did so, he couldn't tell.

Nico froze. The sound of that single syllable slipping through her like ice with a cutting familiarity -- though it used to come in twos. 

One hand pressed to her lips, marring her fingers with a crimson stain. She didn't turn, not at first. She didn't want the ache to... to infect him somehow. To change the way he looked at her. People always looked at her differently once they knew. 

_{"I'm okay,"} she whispered softly; arms wrapped around herself as if she could physically hold on tight enough to keep herself together. It was a skill that was second nature now. When she was alone... and there was no one else to see. 

"I... uhm..." For once, the poised polyglot didn't know what to say. Instead, she simply gestured at the open spaces. Doors and drawers vacated to make room for him; suits tucked into the armoire alongside others... a lot of others... very nearly in his size.
(With just a little tailoring..... no. No, no. Now was not the time.)

A sad, self-deprecatory chuckle escaped her in a huff as she turned back toward the kitchen. ... and then froze all over again. 

He was a comical mess of concern. Dripping and sudsy with a head full of bubbles. And yet, she froze. 
Her voice hid away like a shy child. Colour rushed to her chest and cheeks as her gaze followed the droplets of water that trickled down valleys of his chest like tiny rivers; pausing here and there to memorize the topography of his scars. 

Her lips moved, silent, like a fish out of water. No words rose to their crimson gate. No sound gurgling in the back of her throat, desperate to escape. Only a single, trembling breath - blushing and unblinking. 

"Th... th... the t... tile. The tile gets k... kinda... dangerous when it's wet," she finally managed to deflect. "You... uhm...  you should rinse your hair before you get s... soap in your eyes." Finally, she remembered that she was supposed to look away. Her gaze fell to the reflection of the puddle that pooled around his feet... and then snapping sharply to... literally anywhere else. "D...d...d..d.d....inner," she waved, whipping past him toward the kitchen in a fluster. "Dinner will be ready soon." 

Without another word, she 'left' him there (as much as one could leave when the whole space is one room). 
The sound of rhythmic chopping returned to the room as she left him with the new view of 'his' now-orgnized room. 

He laughed. Cesare outright laughed, gently and almost dotingly, at her stuttering mess as she flushed. But, he took heed of her warning about the floor, slowly and carefully turning to tiptoe back to the warmth of the bath...

And then froze...

Slowly, Ces looked over his shoulder at all the room that had been made in that "extra room" for him. A small smile, not a smirk or a grin but a smile, crept over his lips before he hurried back to the tub. His warm bath, a comfort in a tense place (even if it wasn't tense at or because of him), was hurried along so he could dry off and put it on...

(One of) The last suit(s) he'd ever wear...

Standing in front of the armoire and staring at his suits all hung so neatly, he debated... WHICH ONE TO PUT ON?!

Ces pawed through them, over and again, humming lightly at each before he decided on the dark blue for their dinner - simply because it seemed the most appropriate for the moment. They weren't going out on the town after all. So black seemed overkill.

Socks, skivvies, trousers, white shirt, buttoned, tucked, suspenders, tie, blazer with a single button, cufflinks... All donned, in that order. Then, his shoes. After dressing, he turned to the mirror and modeled for himself, frazzled hair making him frown. Brush - check. A little pomade? Check. Hair - corrected.

NOW, he looked in that mirror and grinned. She'd done pretty well in matching this suit out for him, and damn if Barty hadn't NAILED IT with the adjustments. He twisted and turned, looking at himself from every direction before finally nodding and spinning to approach Nico.

With his heels clicking lightly across her - or was it "their" now? - tile floor, he cleared his throat for Nico's attention. Standing there, tall, toned, and well-dressed, he grabbed his lapels and waited... "Well?"

The sharp blade of the knife fell and snapped through the plump shaft of a thick, blanched carrot as Nico sliced it into manageable rounds. 

Click-click-................. 

Everything stopped. In fact, Nico was fairly certain that even the clock up on the mantle held its breath, never again to move from remembrance of this moment. Her hands stilled. A soft rush of breath parting her painted lips as - for the second time in as many hours - she simply stared. 

She looked like a proud mother at prom... and a stunned date... and like she'd seen a ghost. All at once. 
Her dark brows knitted together in an unfiltered flinch. She FLINCHED. 

Words, Nicoletta. Make words. She chastized herself in her head. But none came. Instead, she simply gave a dumbstruck little nod. Or, well, several actually. The motion continuing like a runaway train once it started. Uh-huh. 

"G... good," she managed to croak, "It's g... It's good." 

She was still nodding. 

Quietly, she slid over to the stockpot that sat boiling on the stove and dumped the carrot slices in. "Barty outdid himself." 
She continued to work her magic on the bubbly, creamy stew. Unable to keep her gaze from cutting his way every now and again. 
The resemblance really was striking. 
In that moment, it made her pause and consider whether she ought to feel guilty. 
... she always felt guilty. It was the only GENUINE emotion she'd felt in years. Well... until very recently. 

"It's... uhm... it's a little agrestic, but I made gnocchi and ratatouille. I... uhm... I hope you like... some of it," Nico blushed as she turned away to begin plating the food, "We can probably still catch the sunset, if you want. Or... uhm... or I can set the table down here if... if you'd like to practice a proper table setting?" 

She looked sad still... Distraught and sad, but somehow cheerful all at the same time. It was truly remarkable the way she masked what bothered her - and how brilliantly the pain shone through for him. Did she know he could see it? She had to know. She had to understand, if anything, from the moment he'd stepped out of the tub with soap still in his hair, that he could tell she wasn't right. And more importantly, that he cared and gave a crap (and some) about what she thought, felt, and harbored. But if she couldn't tell, he'd do what he could without outright saying it so bluntly, to prove he was safe for her...

Ces smiled, a gentle chuckle escaping him before he stepped closer and finally grabbed the nerve to place a hand on each of her shoulders...

"Nico, I don't care what we do for dinner, or where... As long as I get ta have dinner wit'chu, that's what means somethin' to me, capisce?"

He gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. "But, I do like gnocchi -and- ratatouille. Grew up on that shit. Reminds me of good times an' happiness. Kinna like now." With that, he stepped back and pulled out a cigarette, walking over to the edge of the room and peering downward to the streets below as he lit his cigarette.

"Tomorrow, these streets is gonna be introduced to a new me, an' that's thanks ta you. Ain't no one else 'sides Frankie -" he paused for a moment, completely frozen before shaking the feeling away. "Ain't no one 'sides Frankie ever really gave a shit enough 'bought me ta make a difference. But yous did. So. Thanks an' all." Cesare looked over his shoulder at her as he placed his cigarette between his lips and puffed, hands slipping into his pockets.

"Means a lot ta me, y'know? So, howevas I can pay ya back, yous lemme know. 'Cause yous made a friend fa life. A partna fa life." He shot her a wink.

Like recognizes like. The guilt and grief in her instantly understood the grief and guilt in him, however briefly it showed at the mention of his mentor.

"Barty used to... bring us food. Sometimes. When he came to visit." Us. Not 'me' but US. "I... uhm... I always imagined that... if I had parents, their cooking woulda been that kinda food. So... uhm..." 

She was quiet for a moment, still hovering around the stove. "Did you know that there's a word for feeling homesick about somewhere that never existed? ... 'hiraeth'. I... I dunno if it makes sense or not, but... these always kinda tasted like that to me. ... like if I had those kindsa happy memories." 

A lingering glance settled on him. Her expression tensed and then relaxed each time it flittered away and swung back again. As if she were somehow acclimatizing herself to the new sight of him. 

'Partner'. 
The word sliced straight to her core as cleanly as one of Flaco's knives. And, for once, she didn't try to hide it. 
Of course, he could see it. Just the same as she could see his. So hiding it was only insulting, really. 
She never meant or wanted to insult him. 

Thoughts raced behind her dark eyes as she stared into the middle distance for a long moment in contemplation. Then, with an almost gossamer determination, she turned and crossed to the fireplace. 

Click-click-click... 
The spark of a pilot light snapped to life, catching the hiss of natural gas with a soft, popping WHOOSH. 
In the light of the fire, silent tears glistened on Nico's cheeks. How long had it been?? 

She didn't offer an explanation as she turned away. Instead, she simply held up a finger in wordless promise of an explanation if he could but give her a moment. An unvoiced plea for patience and indulgence. 

Slowly, she stripped the comforters, throws, and pillows off both beds. Quietly arranging them into a neat little nest in front of the fire. 
Childlike. Not the romantic kind. 
Then, she returned to 'his' room. Gingerly fetching a small gramophone from atop the armoire before wandering back to place it ever so carefully on the mantle. Cradling it as if - of all the finery and forged treasures in the house - THIS was her most prized possession.

Click-click-click... 
The canister whirled to life, the soft melody of Rhapsody in Blue melting into the steady flicker of the fire.

Still, no words interrupted her silent stream of consciousness as Nico carefully gathered up their plates, their glasses, the bottle of chilled champagne, a cushion or two from he chaise lounges strewn about, and carried them one by one over to the fire. 
He's said what and where didn't matter so... 

Slowly, she inched her way to his side. No boldness in her approach this time. 
She wasn't performing for him in that moment. 

Her fingers twitched - almost imperceptibly - as she reached for his hand, hesitating. Too much. Too soon. Too intimate. Instead, her grip came to rest lightly around his wrist with a beckoning tug. Drawing him, guiding him, timidly over to the fireside. 

"I'll... uhm... I'll t... I'll tell you mine if... if you tell me yours?"
She finally muttered. Voice barely above a whisper as she settled into the blankets and nudged a plate of ratatouille toward him. The fire lighting a secret kaleidoscope of warm honey and amber in the depths of her dark eyes as she stared up at him expectantly. 

What, exactly, she was expecting was unclear... even to her. But, if noting else, it was obvious -- she was ​​​​​​trying. That alone had to count for something. 

Led to the fireplace, Cesare couldn't help but smile at her. Even in her sadness, he could see her beauty and radiance... His shoes were kicked aside, and in an almost child-like fashion, he clambered into the blanket nest and cozied in. His plate of ratatouille was lifted into his lap as he nestled down, cross-legged. His blazer was unbuttoned and slumped off to a nearby chair, and his tie had been removed - that collar button undone for added comfort. He enjoyed the silence for a moment as she awaited his answer, even stealing a bite of the food. And as soon as that taste exploded in his mouth, that initial flavor of home, his eyes alit with a sparkling grace, reflecting the flames as they hissed and roared.

Even in the sadness that colored his cheeks and etched his frown, his eyes were alive​​​​​. "So..." he began, still half-chewing that first delectible bite. "I was around... three, I think? Four at the oldest... I don't remember all too much about my parents. Just stories, and some photos y'know? Anyways, as tha story goes, my pops refused ta do some work for a fella - got'em in some trouble. Fella had a lot'a pull in tha city."

He sighed gently, adding another bite to his mouth and chewing before continuing. "So pops, in trouble, goes an' meets up with this shady-cat, gets himself in it bad, but this fella wanted a reason ta roll on tha chump was pressin' my pops. So, pops helped'em out with'at... Got killed in tha mess that followed it - which brought tha first guys to our house. Whole line needed ta be cleansed, if ya follow."

He shrugged, as if that didn't bother him, knowing he held a black hand.

"So's this guy," another bite of the food, "Mmm, this is good, Nico. Really good," he grinned. "So's this guy... Frankie. He's with tha shady fella my dad meets that wants at th' first guy... Frankie shows up as these guys is loadin' tha house. Bang, bang, bang - bada bing, bada boom, all threes of 'em is dead. Unfortunately, sos is my ma, bless'r soul. But me?"

Cesare set his plate aside and rolled up his left pant leg, pulling his sock down. There was a light, light, old scar on each side of his calf. ".22 calibre straight through my little leg. Only shot that even hit me, I guess cause I's was so small then. That, an' my ma had fallen over me."

His sock was pulled back up, and his pant leg rolled back down before he grabbed his plate again. "So Frankie takes me an' gets me outta there, then torches tha place 'cause, well, it's bad business for anyone ta see that. Dragged tha other chumps in there as well before so four bodies were found, and it'd look like a hit gone wrong, not a small war." He shrugged.

"Basically, Frankie raised me. I would help'em out, but he did what he could ta keep me outta trouble. Then, he started talkin' bout wantin' a free life. One where he weren't always lookin' over 'is shoulder, y'know? One where there weren't... Nights like that one, where he found me. An' you's an' I both know, that ain't how that life works. There ain't no out... Not one that leaves a family safe. So - I..." He finally set his fork down on his plate.

"I did Frankie an' 'is family a justice - you seen all that from up here, tha stagin'. Lookin' like a muggin' gone wrong. An' leavin' a body for a funeral without more death... Lettin' 'is family, 'is little ones at least have a dad ta bury, for some closure, y'know?"

It'd be hard to miss, the water refracting the light in his eyes as small trails snaked down his cheeks. "I did'm a favor. Tha last favor he could'a ever had... It was a favor... A favor..." He was like a broken record, attempting to convince himself it was right, that he'd made the right choice. That it was, indeed, a favor...

Nico quietly set her plate down and - with all the watchful vigilance of approaching a wounded animal - carefully maneuvered herself behind him. "Eat your dinner," she cooed softly, giving his plate a little nudge. Partly as a distraction, but also because food was comfort. Working slowly so as not to startle or coner him, she nestled herself around him until her small frame supported him like a chair and then slowly worked her fingers through his freshly cut hair.

The movement felt like a memory. As if this were something she'd done a hundred thousand times. Intimate and familiar. Meant to be calming. But she couldn't possibly know the images in his head. 

"If anyone got wind, there'd be no funeral. Depending on his rank, there'd be no family. That's how it works. You didn't do him a 'favour'. You gave him honour... where none would have been left otherwise. You did him a kindness. ... you repaid a life debt by ensuring his lineage survives. With peace and dignity. "

For a long moment, she merely lingered there. One cheek rested against his shoulder blade as she listened to the sound of his heartbeat; struck by the aching nostalgia that simple sound ripped from the keening depths of her memories. 

"I... uhm... I came up with a k...." Nico's voice hung on that word, "With a kid. ... a boy. About my age - at least we thought, seeing as I don't rightly know my age. His name was Luca. ... Luca Pelligati. He was..." 

Ces would feel her head shake. The rustle of her curls against his shirt momentarily drowned out the hiss of the fire as she fell at a loss for words. "... He was everything. We raised each other. We were the closest thing either of us ever had to family. We were... inseparable. He was my best friend. He... He was my partner. ... the only one I've ever had." She said the word with full weight and emphasis. And yet... the space was clearly and sharply delineated. Separate rooms, separate beds. Separate lives. 

"Back before Flaco was big shit... or... grew the balls to delude himself into acting like big shit... They both worked for the man who used to own this building. When... when I... did what I did... Luca got caught in the crossfire. He... uhm... He cut a deal with some locals on the beat. To flip on some of the upper structure. So that... so that no one would be coming after the rest of us, y'know?" 

She was still running her hands through his hair. Hollow and robotic. As if she were somehow on autopilot. 
"He was supposed to serve a short sentence and come home... we were gonna pack up and run. Barty was gonna help us disappear. ... cuz he and Barty had... they had 'arrangements'. But the day we was supposed to pick him up... he just... he never showed. I waited and waited. ... and waited. But... it was like he just vanished​​​​​​." 

The softest sniffle escaped her as the gramophone slowed to a stop, "The cops didn't do much. Said their end of the deal was done the second they let him walk. Nobody cared about a pansy streetrat snitch anyway, y'know? They just said he'd left with the rest of our crew. And... a few days later... I got his watch in the mail. All bloody, wrapped in a handkerchief. Smashed so... it stopped on... onnn... So it... So it st...stopped... it stopped on... on that..." 

Her breath was hot against his back as she exhaled a shaking breath through the starched fabric of his shirt, "So it stopped on his last moment." She breathed again, forcing herself to make good on their deal. He'd told his. She was going to tell hers. Come hell or high water. "There was some coordinates scratched into he underside -- Mulholland Dam. Y'know... out at the reservoir."

Nico paused and breathed. Gulping down her dignity as tears stained her cheeks... and his new shit. "Flaco got out the same day, and I know he and a couple of the other lads had some contract work out that way around that time. So... I figure I know well enough what happened. And why. What I don't know is why taunt ME about it. ... and now he's all set up like he's the king of Rodeo. Carving, just like you said. And I can't help but wonder how much c... carving..........." 

The blankets rustled quietly as she shoved away from him, standing to pace slowly over to her dresser. 
For a moment, she rummaged through the contents. A few unmentionables fell to the floor at her feet before she crossed back again. Bare feet whispering like a lifetime of secrets before she held a tiny treasure out to him -- a golden, oval locket, delicately engraved with forget-me-nots. "I'll understand if you decide to leave. It's... I... I know how... I mean... I didn't mean... I just...  I... I won't be mad. I promise. And you can keep the suits," she whispered, pressing the little time capsule into his palm with a bittersweet smile. Still sniffling softly.  

A confusing statement at first, surely. Until he opened it and saw the picture inside. 

Her story rocked him to the core... Cesare sat there in silence, staring at the picture in the open locket like he was looking in a mirror, like looking at a younger version of himself. Of course, there were differences, but the similarities were astronomical. He was still, unmoving, hardly breathing...

Leave? She'd said he could leave, right? She wouldn't hold it against him?

Slowly, Cesare pushed himself up from his comfortable seat in their warm blanket nest, still staring at the picture inside. Is this what she saw when she looked at him? Is this why he felt his presence was both a curse and a cure? His feet found his shoes and slipped inside them, then a hand reached for his blazer... His tie? It was slipped into the blazer's pocket.

With his food left on the floor and her, probably staring at him and aching inside, watching him prepare himself for departure, Cesare turned for the door.

Click-Click-Click - his heels tapped across the hard tile floor as he inched closer and closer to disappearing from her view, perhaps from her life... But when he paused in front of the door, he looked back.

"Get your keys an' c'mon, Ni - we's goin' for a ride."

Even in the distance he stood from the burning embers, and the shadows etched across his face from the flickering flames, she could see the flickerings of fire in his eyes. The locket was pocketed as he stood there looking back at her, vengeance roiling off his shoulders like a wave. "It's 'bout time Flaco learns a really... really... important lesson. Ya don't -fuck- with my family."

There it was, exactly as she had expected... 
Shoes, blazer, tie. He took all the things of value and readied to make his exit. 
It hurt more than she thought it would. 
And she silently cursed herself for the stupidity of hope. 
She should know better. Family didn't really mean family in This Thing of Theirs. It was just another pretty euphemism for violence and pain. 

Quietly, Nico gathered their plates from the floor. The taste of 'someplace that never really existed' still heavy on her lips as they parted with a single, soft huff. It was the only tell. The only release she'd give herself. 
She'd do the dishes. She'd put them away. She'd lock the armoire and the wine cabinet. She'd leave out a place setting for one... like old times. And the world would move on. Endlessly spinning in its lonesome dance. Just as it always did. 

Nothing ever changed. 
Maybe that was a bittersweet comfort. 
Both in life, and in This Thing she was - and always would be - alone and utterly inconsequential. 

Click-click-click...
She closed her eyes and turned her back against the sound of him leaving her life. Refusing to watch him go. 

But the clatter of the elevator gate didn't follow. 

That absence... and his invitation... finally goaded her to turn. And she saw in he shadow of his exodus, not an empty goodbye or a repulsed abandonment but fire and vengeance.  

A whole new kind of ache crept through her body like a fever. The infection of which took root as she moved, slowly and half dazed, to fetch her keys. A soft gulp her only reply as resignation gave way to a ravening, all-devouring hunger. 
The slow sinking of the elevator felt like a gradual descent to hell. She felt he must be an Enochian Watcher choosing the fall, perhaps. Or else their meeting was some Divine Comedy... and he her Virgil.

'Killer'. Something in the back of her mind reminded her. And as she reached for his hand, she relished and reveled in that recognition with a twisted elation entirely at odds with her outward guileless grace. 
She said nothing, of course. Those weren't the kind of thoughts you put words to... even in their Life.
Instead, she simply handed him the keys and let him tug her out the door.  

The car was about the only thing that wasn't silent on the first part of the drive, but as Cesare passed Rodeo Boulevard, he huffed out. "Want my bat... An' maybe some oil. Kerosene, or Vitriol... Either'll do."

It didn't take long to get to Honest Pawn, just off of Hollywood Boulevard. Pulling the car in and killing the engine, he looked to Nico. "You wanna sit here an' ruminate in silence? Or you's wanna come in an' find you'self a good weapon? Got a few in'a back that folks don't generally get tha pleasure'a buyin', 'less they's got tha right... manners," he settled on. And, without further waiting, he pushed his door open.  If she followed, it was her choice.

Cesare headed directly for the door, key already in hand, ready to unlock it. Pausing, he smiled over his shoulder at her and slipped inside. Joining or not, he continued and walked right through the store, directly into the back office. A light switch on the way illuminated the entire store, where all manner of items were arranged in the room; anything from antiques to books, weapons to tools. Honest Pawn had it all...

Nico sat for a moment and peered through the door into the lighted shop, chewing her lip in contemplation. 
There were a few moments in every person's life that defined them. Not just changed them, but rewrote the fates left available to them thereafter. Who they could become... and who they could never be again. 

For Nico, this seemed like one of those moments. 
She had a decision to make -- about who she was. ... or rather, who she'd allow herself to be shaped into. 
Her past had already left its mark. There was no erasing that. No going back. No un-becoming.
The Nico Luca had known would never walk through that door. She knew that, like a weight in her bones. But she wasn't that girl anymore. Flaco had forced her to become something different. The second that watch stopped, she could never be that girl again. The only question was... would she let Flaco shape her into a victim? Or allow Cesare to sculpt her into an instrument of vengeance and ambition? 

From inside the store, he'd hear the telltale 'click' of the Rapide's passenger door opening. Her steps barely made a sound against the concrete alley... or the hardwood floor. She was almost deathly quiet as she moved through his space for the first time; as ephemeral and evanescent as a ghost. 

"Show me..." was all she offered as she entered the back room; palms held out delicately in solicitous deference. 

Cesare looked up from where he was at his desk, nodding gently. "Only if you's is sure, Nico. I'm already a killer - I don't reckon you's is. But, I'll help ya do it an' do it well."

First off, a small box was brought up and set on the table. Inside it? A multitude of more like what she already possesed. Blades, of all sorts and sizes...

Then a second box, inside a few snub-nose .38s, and two .357s - Smith and Wesson Model 27s. ".38'll do ya good. 'Specially in th' close range we'll be. .357'll - do more damage, but tha kick on that gun's gonna leave ya wide open afta every shot until ya get used ta it. An', in a gun fight, ain't when ya wanna be gettin' used to a heavy recoil." He shrugged, taking one of the said Model 27s and slipping it in the back of his pants. "They's all loaded with five shots, six for tha mag's..."

Then came the big toys... Colts, Thompsons - this shop had them all. Even with the Model 27 .357 Magnum revolver, Ces took two Colt 1911s and slipped them into a harness holster hanging on a coat hook behind him. Then grabbed his trusty bat and set it on the table.

"Ya got choices, darlin'. Whatever ya choose, I'll be there wit'cha, an' Falco's gonna pay for all 'is shit. Tonight."

Nico canted her head to one side as she listened. Her brows knit in deep contemplation and consideration. Not of IF, for that decision had been made the moment she stepped out of the car, but of how. Quietly, she paced the small room, her fingers trailing over each option, feeling the bite of the cold metal, the texture of the grips. She passed over the .357s entirely. A rational and calculated choice. But then, she passed over the .38s as well. Pausing, instead, at something sleeker that caught her eye on the back wall. 

"What about this one?" she asked softly, pointing with only her eyes at an FN 1922 that rested snugly in a velvet-lined glass-top case. Whether she realized it or not, the lass had a type. The pistol was sleek. Elegant. Almost lanky in comparison to his 1911. It would fit well in her small hands and seemed, somehow, a good fit for her 'style'. To boot, it had three pre-loaded magazines in the compartment beneath the display case and a verified duty record. It was a gun that had already tasted blood. That had stood the trial of field use and still fired like a well-oiled machine. Or... at least that's what Frankie said when he finally put it away.  

Nico stared at it longingly... almost lovingly. Like she shared a kinship with the weapon. 
She phrased her choice as a question. But it was clear by the way she eyed the pistol, her mind was made up. 
The only decision now... was whether Ces would allow it. Or rather, if he could bring himself to allow it. 

Cesare turned to the glass case, staring at it for a while. "Ya know what?" he smiled. "I think Frankie'd be honored. Heh."

He slipped over to the case and opened it, grabbing the clips and the gun itself, to bring it over for her. Setting the items on the desk before him, he nodded to her. "This one ain't too bad to shoot. Not much blowback, kin'a like my 1911s." He thumbed to the shoulder harness hanging on the hook behind him. "An', nine-round magazine," he tapped the clips on the table beside it. "Jus' slam that puppy in, jerk all'a'way back on tha slide, an' start squeezin'... It'll keep firin' every squeeze 'til ya outta bullets. Last one -should- trap tha slide back sos you can drop tha used clip an' slam another in, then flick this leva hea, an' you's'll rack tha gun back ta firin' position."

He grinned, demonstrating each component to her as he spoke. "Anyways, hold it, hold it up, gets a feel for it, an' don't be afraid ta fire at Flaco an' 'is blockheads, ey? Even if ya miss, it'll still send'em fa cover, which gives us time'a move closer."

Nico smirked... his kind of smirk... before dropping the magazine and ejecting the round in the chamber. 
She knew enough to know enough... apparently. 

Then, without warning and wearing the most shit-eating grin he'd yet seen from her, she did as instructed, raising the empty barrel to mercilessly and unapologetically flag him. Her aim not far off center as she grinned...
Behind the barrel, almost imperceptibly (to anyone but him), Nico shivered - simply and silently - at the feeling of aiming AT someone. A throbbing tremble of electrified horror rippled through every muscle; her hold tensing around the pistolgrip as her eyes danced. 
Even empty, there was a power in that motion that thrilled and alarmed her all at once. 

Those raven-dark curls bounced and rustled as she bobbled her head side to side. Not bad, not bad at all. 

With an almost eerie, robotic ease, she reloaded the mag and slid it into place with a palming 'click'. 
"Holster?" she asked, simply and curtly, patting down her outfit. Nothing she had would fit a weapon this long. 

Placing it down on the desk, she slid it away from the other weapons with a territorial possessiveness. No taksies-backsies. That pistol was hers now. And the look she shot him silently threatened as much as she moved away to look over the melee options.

Another utterly wicked smirk played across her crimson lips as she skeptically slid a set of serrated brass knuckles over her dainty fingers. 
They were just a hair too large - enough that they'd cause undue damage to those delicate, unscarred hands without proper wrappings. 
And, again, it seemed she knew just barely enough to know enough. 

"Can you make these fit?" she cooed, taking an obvious liking to the vicious weight in her palm. A solicitous smile - all too keen and saccharine - beamed up from her gleefully innocent face as she held the barbarous devices out to him. "Please?"

Ces blinked as she flagged him with the pistol, and he frowned - amused yet unamused all at the same time. "Rude," he chuckled out playfully before tossing a jacket holster by where she sat the pistol. "Ya jacket got an' inside pocket? Or ya can slide that in ya clutch there. Either ways, ya got a holster."

He went back to loading his clips and pocketing them one at a time before sliding the last two into the 1911s. And that was when he heard the plea. Turning to see what she was asking about, he paused for a moment and blinked, then looked up at her. "Those? Yous want them knuckles?" he laughed. "You's really tryn'a slay my heart, ain't'cha?" There was a wink that followed. "Think I got some gaskets that'll fit'em an' ya fingers... Otha than that, we's can wrap ya knuckles. But that'll make'em obvious you's comin' for a fight. Not that tha bat on my shoulder won't do tha same." He snickered. "But really, pickin' out my knuckles." His head shook with a smile. "Don't worry darlin', I got like, six different pair, an' them serrated ones ain't even my favorite. Secon' favorite, but not tha favorites."

He opened a drawer that held multiple little, rubbery rings. "Find ones'at fit ya fingers an' in tha rings. See if any work. If not, I'll wrap ya good."

Another drawer opened, and he pulled a second set of knuckles, similar to the serrated ones, but with just four heavy spikes - one on each knuckle. "These here is my favorite." Cesare grinned a bit. "Anyways, try an' fit some'a them gaskets first. Otha'wise, we'll wrap ya."

His knuckles were pocketed for the time being as he started to pack up, readying for their two-man assault on Flaco's crew.