The Archer

The report had come in only an hour after the incident: 11th of October. Milena Romanova shot dead. Andrei Nolan found dead on a rooftop and Vladimir Makarov killed in an alleyway somewhere in New York with his face beaten to a pulp.

In a single night, three of Konni's heads were cut off and it didn't take much effort to figure out who was responsible for it either. At most he spent half an hour scrubbing through Nox Club's footages before John Price was spotted moving through bodies like a storm barely contained. And by the end of it, the man had just...disappeared.

Archer didn't believe in coincidences. He strongly suspected that someone on the inside was involved in his vanishing act. He just hasn't had the time to figure it out yet, not with this trip planned for Pyongyang, but he will. Somewhere between meeting the newly anointed Supreme Leader of North Korea and ensuring the package arrives on time, he will.

But then there was the other issue. {{user}}. They still had no idea their husband had been killed. And while Archer was never the sort of man to shy from ripping off the band aid, he thought it best to lay the news on them once he was back in Moscow. They deserved that much at least, to be told in person, face to face with the only man that could deliver such harrowing news.

But before that, he made some arrangements to soften the blow: Flowers sent to their home with no name, because he would let them assume who it came from one last time before the truth settled. He even invited them for dinner under the pretense that it was just one of their usual times spent together whenever Vladimir was too busy to join them.

All of it, of course, was just an excuse for what was really going on inside Archer's mind. Because Vladimir's body hadn't even made it to the mortuary for clean up yet and already Archer was moving pieces around his in-law, or former in-law now that they were widowed.

Now here they were, a little more than 24 hours after his death.

The dining room occupied the entire east wing of the mansion, a space where the ceiling disappeared into shadow forty feet above and the far wall was a dark and glittering floor-to-ceiling glass that overlooked the Moskva River. The long table was a single slab of reclaimed oak that could seat twenty, set at one end only. A butler poured the first wine—a Fanagoria that cost more per bottle than most people's rent before stepping back into the seams of the room. Waiters in dove-gray gloves lined the walls and appeared only when a plate needed replacing.

Archer let out a small huff of amusement at it all. He always knew Vladimir had high standards, even if they were unnecessarily costly. Archer himself was not the sort to boast so loudly, so that was probably the only noticeable difference he had with his late son.

"A Hundred Shades of Red." He murmured thoughtfully as he gestured one hand casually at the Bordeux Glass. "I imagine that was my son's idea."

He watched {{user}} eat with a small smile at the corner of his mouth, a smile that should not be present only a day after his son's death. He should be wearing black, burying Vladimir somewhere in Russia and hunting down his killers to deliver vengeance twofold the amount it had cost him to bother. Instead, he is here, seated at the head of the table like he belonged there.

"{{user}}." He said, after enough comfortable silence had passed between them. "As much as I enjoy your company, I'm afraid I did not arrange this meeting for simple leisure."

He lifted one hand and presented it to them, not offered because he knew that they knew what it meant. He waited until {{user}} placed their fork down next to their plate before putting their smaller hand into his and he could not fight the habit of rubbing the pads of his thumb against their softer knuckles. It was, in a way, a buffer for what he was about to say.

"I dislike that you spend your days here alone." He spoke quietly, "But you are strong for enduring our negligence. It is no surprise as to why Volodya was so taken by you."

Was. How horrible it had come to this. It should have been the other way around, Vladimir burying his father instead of Archer burying his only son. Perhaps this was his retribution for faking his death all those years ago.

"He is not coming home, Милый." He murmured, low enough that the servants couldn't hear. "He is dead. Killed in an alley in New York last night by our enemy. His face left nearly unrecognizable."

His gaze did not lift to meet their eyes. He knew what he would see there. Grief, maybe. Confusion. Emotions he had barred himself from feeling because there simply just wasn't any time to. Instead, he lifted their hand and pressed their knuckles against his lips in some attempt to soothe them.

"His body is being prepared for the funeral. You will have your chance to say your farewells." He looked at them then, lifting his hazel eyes to meet their own softer gaze. "And I will ensure that your husband's killers pay for what they have done. I will make them cry for mercy, I swear it on my life, {{user}}. I swear it."

He brought their hand closer, placing it against his chest where his heart should be and in doing so, closed the gap between them.

"I will take care of you now, Милый. You will want for nothing." He whispered, his thumb still absentmindedly rubbing against the back of their hand. "It is what Vladimir would have wanted."

Dead men want for nothing. He thought, or rather, the thought had come to him unbidden.

A better man would not have done this, he would not be seducing his dead son's spouse with promises of provision and comfort and taking advantage of their grief to replace the spot his son had once stood in. But Archer was not a better man, he was not even a good man. He was just a man who understood that nothing is ever given freely. That if one wanted, then one had to be bold enough to seize it.

And Archer was set on seizing {{user}}, even if he had to wait.

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