jianhuo | (no subject)

It's been too long, to the point of frustration, to the point where she's wondering if the years on the island have made her lose her touch. More than once Saffron has wondered if she should just give it up, if she just needs to admit to herself that she doesn't have the magic she once had out in the black that spurred her marks to be on her inside of ten minutes, as she'd told Mal once upon a time. She's never had to work this long to get what she wants.

She's been wondering, but tonight, it's like it's all finally sliding into place. She and Molokov have been together the better part of the afternoon, strolling in the park, enjoying a nice dinner, going out dancing. And now that evening's turning into night, she can feel it - that spark, that sense the time is right, the feeling she used to get back when she did this for a living that let her know all the pieces were falling together. Saffron's noticed the way he's been looking at her all night, the way he silently claims ownership by slipping an arm around her in public, by keeping her close as they dance.

She's holding her shoes in one hand as they move off to the side in the low-key club where they've been dancing. She's been making sure to stay close to him as much as possible, as if she can't stand to be too far away, and now she slips in beneath his arm, her own curling around his waist as she stands facing him, pleasantly buzzed. "It's getting warm in here, Alexander," she murmurs, nuzzling against his neck.

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This would pass. Molokov kept reminding himself of this over and over but it was difficult to remember this with each blow. He wanted her to stop and leave him alone and he was on the very threshold of begging her to so.

A part of him wanted this, yes, but a larger part was determined to keep what little pride remained to him. He could outlast her. He was going to outlast her.

The only disappointment in all of this is that Anatoly will probably never know. Saffron isn't sure of whether he would approve of what she's doing for him, but she also knows that he deserves this revenge, should be taking it himself, but she wasn't about to pass up the chance to take it for him. And for herself, as well.

She punched him in the sternum hard enough to leave him gasping, then wrapped her hands around his neck again, leaning her weight on them.

This was perhaps the lowest point in Molokov's life. The death of his sister, Sergievsky's defection - these had all been terrible things but he had still had a desire to live, a drive for revenge.

Now? Now he just wanted this to end - whether because he had slipped into unconsciousness or something more final.

He shuddered at the return of Helen's hands around his neck and tried to keep still. If he gave up... if he gave up, perhaps she would finish this.

However she pleased.

He couldn't care any more right now.

Saffron can see it in his eyes, the moment he gives up. She'd hoped he'd have fought it a bit longer, held out defiantly against her attack a little more. But she's satisfied she's gotten her message across to him, and that's what matters.

She kept her hands on his throat until she could see him slipping away. Then she released him abruptly, punched him hard enough to send him the rest of the way into unconsciousness, and slipped off of him, leaving him naked, handcuffed and blacked out.

Slipping quickly into her clothes with a practiced ease, Saffron took a final look at Molokov, at her handiwork, and gave a cold, humorless smile before walking out of his apartment and heading home.