He was many things. Killer, planner, observer, ironer of socks. And he was also a man.

Most of the time, the wiles of women did not effect him. But all men have their moments and objects of weakness. That night was one such moment, and Ms. Savoy made a good object.


It was a union of mutual interest. She was, for the time being, grounded and needed the support. He needed a way to put his mother's nagging letters to rest. It would make working together easier, and there were certain other benefits they could obtain by it.

Plus, She was carrying his child. It's what you're supposed to do in a situation like that, right?


She thought it was funny to re-arrange the kitchen. He thought it was funny to throw her cigarettes away. She thought it was funny to take his right cufflink. He thought it was funny to use her tarot cards as coasters. Neither laughed too much.


He remembered standing outside the bedroom door. The doctor had just left, telling him it was a boy on his way out. He held his hat in both hands as he listened to the soft sobbing noises and her tired voice singing what he would assume was some Cajun lullaby.

It would be another hour before he went in.


He was the mirror image of his father. Dark hair, slim build, blank expression. He stayed by his mother's side at all times in public, then retreated to his room when they were home. Nico taught him how to fish. Asa taught him Poker.

Serafine called him Jean, Mordecai called him John.


He was sitting at the kitchen table when she sauntered out, dressed in a scanty party gown. She was fixing her make-up in the reflection of the kettle as she told him she was going out for a bit and not to wait up.

"What's his name?"

She paused at the question and looked over at him. Slowly, she gave him a knowing smile and walked out the back door.


This one was a little tougher than the last one. He had shot both shins and still it was trying to run. He calmly followed the blood trail into the alley, careful to avoid getting anything on his shoes. He stopped when he was a few feet away from where it was panting and shaking in a heap.

His mouth twitched a touch as he reached into his jacket and pulled out the gun. "I suggest you should learn whose wife you are sleeping with before you decide to take the adulterous route."

The eyes staring up at him bulged and blood smattered the ground as it manage to splutter, "B-but how- H-how did you find out-"

"Hm? Oh." He cocked the gun and aimed between the eyes. "She told me."


She was waiting for him when he got home. The look in his eye when he glanced at her told her everything she needed to know.

She smiled the knowing smile again, because they both knew what they were doing. He never said he loved her, so she had found a creative way to have him express his adulation. In a few months when she needed to be reminded, she would find some other poor fool to pawn in their little game.


The air in the car was tense. She looked from Mordecai staring out in front of the road to Jean positioned symmetrically in the middle of the backseat. He was looking at his lap so she couldn't see the bloody lip and black eye that adorned his six-year old face.

"...Perhaps you would like to explain why you thought it was impervious to attack that boy?" Mordecai's face remained expressionless, but his voice was colder and sharper than ice.

Their son didn't move at first, then held his head up. "He called you a psycho."

"Well, as rude as that was, I'm sure there was a better way to deal with that during school-"

"And Mother a Backwoods Whore."

There was a silence. Two pairs of eyes fixed onto the driver. He seemed unfazed by the stares as his mouth twitched slightly. He gave a slight glance to the backseat.

"...We should have your Uncle teach you to uppercut properly."

Serafine couldn't help but grin at her husband. Jean didn't share his mother's expression, but he did seem to perk slightly. She turned around, humming a Cajun lullaby to herself.


It was a curious ordeal, walking onto his porch and finding his old partner hobbling up the walk. The glare was still on the one-eyed man as it always had been, but it was accompanied by a smattering of newer scars and relevance.

Mordecai raised a brow. "I would say this was a pleasant surprise, Viktor, but I can't imagine any other reason for you to want to see me except to kill me."

The Slovak stopped at the bottom of the steps, looking him dead in the face. "I came to speak about your... Vife."

The brow quirked again. "What about her?"

"She's Dangerous." The tone was flat. "To everyone... especially you. Vhat you two do... Is not right. You need to be careful vith that one."

Mordecai's lips pursed slightly. Was Viktor trying to help him? After what had transpired between them last time? Perhaps he was doing it out of some sort of obligation for their old friendship? Or perhaps he was actually, in his aging and aggrieved state... being sincere?

How quaint.

He stepped down the porch steps. "Well, I am a little nonplussed by this, even from you and your sentimentality. But I have an inquiry-"

He stopped next to the large man's shoulder. He placed a hand onto the hilt of his pistol and glanced up. "Do you think many people would take relationship advice from a man who's been in love with an underage girl for years?"

Viktor froze. Mordecai sniffed and kept walking. "I thought not."


There were small moments, far and between, but they were there.

Like the night she awoke to find him standing above her. He had blood splattered over his jacket and vest, his hair was disheveled, and his gun was still smoking in his hand.

She blinked a few times, but didn't say a thing. He stayed silent too, green eyes looking solemnly into golden ones. Slowly, he set his gun on the nightstand. He removed his glasses and placed them next to it. He pulled off his jacket and unbuttoned his vest, slipped off his tie and loosened his shirt, all the while never taking his gaze off her. She watched him lie on the edge of the bed and rest his head on her chest. She shifted to accommodate him, a hand reaching up to stroke his head slowly. He didn't move, submitting to her gentle touch.

"Sing to me." He said quietly into her shoulder. Her thick voice sang the lullaby he recalled hearing the day their son was born. He closed his eyes and spent the night in peace that only these small moments brought.