The Wet Work Artist

There were a lot of terms for what he was. Killer. Assassin. Hit man. Hunter. But the most ironic of them all was wet work artist. Could killing people really be an art? Wasn't art something that was beautiful? He couldn't imagine the pressing guilt of being responsible for the end of people's lives as beautiful. Or maybe art was pure feeling. In that case, killing couldn't possibly be an art. Killers were supposed to be hollow, emotionless shells who thought only of completing the mission. They weren't supposed to feel. (Not that it ever stopped him). Yes, the term wet work artist was most certainly an ironic one. And the irony, he thought, smiling wryly to himself, was why he liked that term the best.

Zach walked down the semi-crowded street on Christmas Eve, accompanied by no one. (There was no one he wanted to be with, anyway). He hadn't decided to go with the Baxters that Christmas break. (He was no one's pity case). The weather was cold, but he was warm. (He had gotten a new jacket since he gave his other one to a certain Gallagher girl. His Gallagher Girl). And hands in his pockets, he strolled down the main street of The Middle of Nowhere, Nebraska.

Admittedly, yes, it was a bit stalkerish. But in a really good way, because he only had her welfare in mind. Lately, keeping her safe had been all on his mind, (not that he wasn't losing hours of sleep over her before).

So, yes, he had followed the alluring pull of her to Nebraska that Christmas. Not that he had anyone to spend it with.

One could ask, why Zach? Why should a seventeen year boy have no one to spend his Christmas with? Wasn't this the time to reconcile with the family, in the true spirit of cheer and giving? Well, see, that's the thing, he would answer, he didn't want to reconcile with his family. But it wasn't much of a loss. They were never very religious anyways.

Nebraska, he found, was shamelessly religious, though. Nativities were on nearly every yard, along with colored lights and reindeer and other more commercial aspects of the season. Somehow, though, the balance made him feel happy. Or maybe it was just knowing that she was probably happy right then.

Oh, he knew where she was. At her grandparents' house, probably laughing along with them, having a grand old time, despite recent events that would have devastated any normal person. Lucky for her, (and him because, frankly, his sanity relied heavily on hers), she wasn't just some normal person. So he pictured her with her family, (and Joe, who had joined her and Rachel to the farm), and she was smiling and happy and whole. And he allowed himself to hope that maybe, just maybe, she was missing him.

Around him, people were happy, smiling, laughing with their families. People dressed up as Santa rang bells, reminding people that the season wasn't happy for everyone, and dutifully, many kind souls made donations to the poor. He half smiled at the gestures and tossed in some money, telling himself that it was just to blend in, because assassins weren't allowed to take pity. That led to failed missions.

He allowed his mind to wander to his mother, a dark path that he didn't let himself think about often. He thought about the life she thought she had planned for him. The life he thought that he was going to have until he met Joe, who taught him that there were other ways to live. (He taught him other things, of course). Ways of life that didn't involve mindless murder for its' own sake. Of course, he would still be responsible for killing a few people, (it came with the career path), but it wouldn't be his job. He wouldn't let it be his job.

He thought of Cammie, who had already killed someone. In that awful moment out there in the woods, when Bex was about to be killed, it was the hit man who was killed. And Cammie had done it. Later when he had asked her why she didn't let him kill the man, she said she didn't know, that couldn't even remember doing it. But he had seen what she hadn't said. He had felt it in the way that she tried to heal from that day. He knew that the only thing she wouldn't have done to save her best friend… was wait. And he understood because he would never wait a second trying to save her life.

He tried to stop thinking so darkly, because he knew where his next thoughts were headed and he did not like them. Cammie was happy, so he should be happy.

As he wandered around the small town, (attracting no attention of course), the temptation to go and see her got stronger. Even a glimpse would be satisfactory; the best Christmas present someone could give him. And not just because it would be the only Christmas present he'd ever gotten.

So standing on the corner of a street, surrounded by people who all had real families to go home to, he made a wish, which was unusual for him, because assassins weren't supposed to want things, but he made the wish all the same. He wished that someday, he might have a family to go to at Christmas time, people who genuinely wanted him at a place that he could really call home. And he also wished that one of those people could be Cammie, the girl who was happy right now, but maybe-just-maybe could be a little happier with him there.

Then he smiled a little sadly, because he didn't believe in wishes.

He jolted out of his sad, wistful reverie to realize that he had started walking again, directly towards where he knew Cammie was. Oh, well, he thought to himself, it was going to happen eventually. He told himself that he would only look at the house, and if she was outside he would see her and get his Christmas present. And at the time, he had every intention of carrying out this plan.

But of course, it wouldn't be the first time he was leading himself to give into temptation. Not going with the Baxters was, coming to Nebraska was, and allowing his feet to take him anywhere was. (He should have known they'd take him to her).

Although the road to the farm wasn't at all populated (he was surrounded by farmland), he had no trouble blending in, seeing that it had gotten dark after leaving the more crowded main street. (Of course, crowded was a relative term, because it was still in the middle of nowhere).

No, he definitely wouldn't have a problem going about unnoticed. His biggest problem was stopping himself from giving into her pull.

Finally, he could see the house at a distance, and his heart twisted at the thought of her being right there. The house was small and quaint, and he could instantly see why she liked it there so much. It was the poster house for a home.

The house wasn't surrounded by much, just a small barn and a complete sense of openness. Around him, he could see the entire horizon that looked like a huge bowl with the whole world in it. The sky swallowed up the Earth, of course, dotted with stars and sprinkled with airplanes, and he could already feel himself getting attached to the feeling of complete freedom. He could run in any direction, and he didn't have to hide because there was no one to hurt him here.

But he wasn't stupid enough to really believe that.

He wasn't stupid enough to believe in much of anything.

Suddenly, he saw a bit a movement from that house. Whether it was by instinct or by the actual want of a cover, he dropped to the ground, not making a sound. Cammie came out, and he couldn't help but smile. He'd gotten his first ever Christmas present.

But the day wasn't done with granting wishes.

He saw her moving about stealthily, but completely unnecessarily, because the Circle did not even know that she was still alive. Still, it comforted him to know that she was still being cautious, watching her back, protecting herself. It was something he could never seem to do right.

He watched as she slowly climbed up the barn to its rooftop, and she lay down. As he watched her watch the stars, he could imagine her bliss. She was surrounded by the people who loved her most, and she was up high, (one of her favorite spots to be), and she was looking at the most remarkable display of beauty by the sly that he had ever seen.

As he got closer to the barn, (staying out of her line of vision, of course), he kept on watching her, wondering what she was thinking about. Was it her family, who lovingly awaited her inside? Or of the Gallagher Academy, and all of the people she missed seeing inside of it? Or maybe she was reflecting on the last semester's events, and anticipating what they would have to do this semester. What they would have to finish this semester.

Whatever it was, Zach came to a halt as he got even nearer to the barn and realized that she didn't look happy. Actually, she looked pretty miserable to him, who had spent the last two years learning how to read her barely-there facial expressions. But there in the dark he could see that she did not look like she was enjoying herself in the slightest.

He realized that it had never occurred to him that she would be unhappy this winter break. He'd always thought that being with her grandparents was a good time, when she could let go of her stressful spy life and be almost normal. But it was obvious to him that she wasn't happy, so he decided he should intervene.

Yes, it was against his original plan. But in all fairness, he had also planned on her being at the very least content with her life; so really, he was just sticking to the plan.

Was what he told himself.

He climbed up the barn, not making a sound. He didn't alarm her, which he was proud of because he knew that she had been alert that night.

She was laying down on the slant of the roof, and he was on the other side watching her, trying to figure out what could be wrong.

What she did next ensured that he would never breath properly again.

Her eyes were open and staring at the horizon, where the Earth meets the sky, but in the next moment they fluttered close, and she threw her head back. For the first time he realized that there were tears in the corners of them.

"Zach," she whispered softly.

Should I be working on my story? Yes. Do I have writer's block? Also a yes.

And I figured that the best cure for writer's block is writing, hence… this two shot.

Thoughts? I'd love to hear them.

-Angel