I never expected this to come out like this. I've been kicking this idea around for a while but honestly never expected this to be the end result. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy. :)

"It seems that it is madder never to abandon one's self than often to be infatuated; better to be wounded, a captive and a slave, than always to walk in armor." - Margaret Fuller

Title: To Walk in Armor

Pairing(s): Dirk/Jake, slight DaveJohn

Universe: Assassin AU

Warnings: Mentions of suicide, major character death

Disclaimer: Homestuck belongs to Andrew Hussie

You met for the first time in Spain, in the middle of the summer. You pressed him against the wall in a dark hallway, three floors below the office of a wealthy tycoon who was scamming money and pissing off some very important people, a knife to his throat and a knee between his legs. A droplet of sweat trickled down your neck, settling in the crook of your throat as the other man carefully uncocked his pistol.

"I think…" He breathed, his hands carefully raised. "We can work out an agreement here, old chap."

You examined him for a moment, his dark hair as it fell over his eyes, and the half smile he was offering you, as if he knew what you were going to do before you did. You stepped back and flipped your knife, sliding it carefully into its sheath. He'd sighed, rubbing his throat with relief.

"That's better." He stuck out his hand. "Jake."

You took it warily. "Dirk."

He shook your hand cheerily. "Well, pleasure to meet you, Dirk." His grip was warm and firm, and he smelled like the outdoors and you had no idea how to handle this strange creature in front of you. "But I'm afraid I must leave you here. Orders you know, can't leave anyone connected to the fellow upstairs alive. You seem nice, so hate to do this, chap."

He moved faster than you could react and next thing you knew, you'd woken up outside in the sunshine to a screaming woman cursing at you rapidly in Spanish for sleeping on her stoop. You got by with a slurred apology that you're pretty sure was half in Italian and hightailed it out of there.

=L=E=A=V=E=T=H=E=F=U=C=K=I=N=G=P=A=G=E=B=R=E=A=K=I=N=Y=O=U=P=I=E=C=E=O=F=S=H=I=T

You carried that memory with you, of his smile and the way he'd so easily brushed you aside like your years of training and practice meant nothing, and your pride smarted for revenge, for an even playing field where you could make him feel just as off kilter as he'd made you feel.

You got your chance in New York City, a few months later, tailing a human trafficker who had kidnapped the wrong ambassador's daughter and drawn the worst kind of attention – yours. You were keeping an eye on your target when he walked right past you and slapped some money onto the bar and ordered a drink.

It took you a moment to place the profile before a wisp of memory of the hot Spanish sun settled in your mind and you knew this was your chance.

You slipped up next to Jake at the bar and, placing a hand on his knee, told the bartender in a smooth voice that you would be paying for this fine gentleman's drink.

You felt rather than saw the surprised tension ripple down Jake's body and you smirked. The bartender placed Jake's drink down with a well-practiced motion and you reached out and picked it up, smelling it.

"Interesting." You all but purred, loving the look on Jake's face, a mixture of surprise and interest, his pupils blowing out as you tightened your grip on his thigh. "I didn't peg you for this kind of man."

You sipped the drink and Jake found his voice. "And what exactly did you peg me as, my good man?"

You noted, with no small thrill of victory and satisfaction, that his voice seemed a bit strangled.

You put his drink back down on the bar and turned around without a word, disappearing into the crowd as you returned your attention to your target, feeling accomplished for the evening.

If you'd turned around, you would have noticed Jake staring after you with a strange expression on his face. You would have noticed the tilt of his head, the way his fingers were curled tightly into the fabric of his trousers, the tension in his jaw.

You would have noticed, with a thrill of unease, that he wasn't blinking as he watched you walk away.

You would have noticed. But you didn't turn around.

=L=E=A=V=E=T=H=E=F=U=C=K=I=N=G=P=A=G=E=B=R=E=A=K=I=N=Y=O=U=P=I=E=C=E=O=F=S=H=I=T

The next time you saw him you were working a job in Budapest, slipping poison to an up-and-coming socialite with ties to an extremely powerful crime boss. You were deep undercover, dressed as a waiter in a party with too many people with too much money. As you slipped a tray of crystal glasses under the nose of your target, you spotted him, standing in the shadows with his gaze fixed squarely on your face. You kept your features impassive as he met your eyes, holding your gaze for a moment before turning on his heel and vanishing up the stairs.

It took you less than a blink of an eye to decide to follow him, abandoning your tray and slipping through the rich and the fake as you darted up the stairs after him, feet silent on the plush carpeting as the sounds of the party faded away to a dull drone of meaningless jargon.

You caught the movement of the shadow in the thin strip of light shining under the first door to your left and carefully you eased it open. Movement flashed and there he was, pressing you against the wall, his breath harsh as the door slammed shut behind you.

"I can't stop thinking about you." He rasped into your ear and you closed your eyes, mind flashing back to lonely early-morning hours when his voice was the only thing in your ears as you brought yourself to the edge.

"Me neither." You whispered.

The dam broke as Jake made a strangled noise and surged forward, attacking your mouth with almost vicious endeavor as you melted against the wall, scrambling to return the favor, tearing at clothes, your probing fingers seeking ways to make him come undone.

=L=E=A=V=E=T=H=E=F=U=C=K=I=N=G=P=A=G=E=B=R=E=A=K=I=N=Y=O=U=P=I=E=C=E=O=F=S=H=I=T

It happened again in Tokyo, and then again in Buenos Aires. It almost happened in Amsterdam, but an ill-timed fire in the basement of the apartment complex next door sent that particular opportunity up in smoke. Now that you started paying attention, he seemed to be everywhere – the assassin with the lilting accent that seemed to be able to charm the scales off a snake while slicing open its belly. You heard whispers in bars, on the streets, in syndicates and in the circles of the higher ups, and it made your stomach twist when you thought of how you knew what his face looked like as he hit the edge of ecstasy.

You wondered only once what his face looked like when he killed.

=L=E=A=V=E=T=H=E=F=U=C=K=I=N=G=P=A=G=E=B=R=E=A=K=I=N=Y=O=U=P=I=E=C=E=O=F=S=H=I=T

You got the chance to see it yourself about a year later, after Naples, Istanbul, London, Dublin, and Copenhagen, when you dropped silently into a room on the top floor of a hotel in Oslo only to find him standing over a man with a look on his face that you knew instantly would overshadow every other look you could bring to mind.

You knew the kid on the ground – Egbert, a new recruit to your particular line of specialized work. You'd taken a bet only last week whether or not the kid would last the month. You were going to be out some money.

Jake unclipped the silencer from the end of the pistol and stowed the gun back in its holster as you stared down at Egbert's lifeless face, his eyes huge and vacant below the single clean shot to the forehead.

"Friend of yours?" Jake's voice was cold and you forced yourself to look up at him.

"I knew him." You wet your lips as Jake nudged Egbert with his toe, nose wrinkled. "He liked to give a dollar to the homeless guy in the alley near his building."

"He came at me. Tosser." Jake snorted and wiped his hands on his jeans. They were flecked with blood and you felt your stomach twist in a way it hadn't since your first job with Captor down in Tijuana. Captor had blown a guy's head clean off and you'd hurled in the bushes. Now Captor was dead, blown away a couple years back down in New Orleans and you were standing in a hotel room in Oslo, feeling like your stomach churn like a newbie just realizing what kind of blood was staining your hands.

Jake grinned at you and you felt like you were gonna be sick.

=L=E=A=V=E=T=H=E=F=U=C=K=I=N=G=P=A=G=E=B=R=E=A=K=I=N=Y=O=U=P=I=E=C=E=O=F=S=H=I=T

It all came to a head in Madrid – of course it would be Spain again. Somehow you'd always know that's how things would end. You got the text at twelve thirty-seven from a blocked number signed as things were always signed from your brother, with a smart ass remark and an inside coded joke that no one could possibly replicate and three hours later, you were in Madrid, standing in front of an old building and worrying that you'd let Dave back on the job too soon.

He'd fallen off the map for three months after Egbert was killed, refusing to answer any sort of messages and covering his tracks in the way of trained professionals who didn't want to be found. You'd let him have his space, confident he'd surface eventually.

He did, showing up out of the blue in Sacramento with a new tightness to his jaw and a coldness in his eyes that you had never seen before.

He said he was gonna hunt down that bastard if it was the last thing he did.

You listened to his revenge scheme and then, excusing yourself, went outside the little bar and dry-heaved into the bushes until your throat was screaming.

Standing now in the middle of a sunny Madrid courtyard, you look up at the old building with a knot of dread in your stomach and the strange feeling of finality in your chest.

It takes you less than a minute to find them, Dave and Jake squaring off against each other in an empty room with worn out carpet that used to be nice before the rats had chewed through it. Dave is chewing on a cigarette angrily, his jaw tight.

He never used to smoke.

The sight makes you want to cry.

Jake looks unruffled, staring down Dave with a cool air about him, his gun steady as his nerves. You look between the two of them and feel angry and helpless.

"Dirk." Jake's voice is low and smooth. "Should have realized you'd be here. This kid's got your stance."

Dave spits the cigarette onto the carpet and cocks the pistol he's holding. You can see his hand shaking and know he's too worked up, too emotional for this.

You know what you have to do.

You suppose you've always known.

The gunshot echoes loudly through the little room, splitting into your skull with the force of a hammer as a body hits the floor with a thump. You open your eyes, not really sure when you'd closed them to see Jake shaking his head.

"Bad luck today, old mum." He murmurs and you force your eyes to your brother's body eagle-sprawled on the thin carpet, his eyes glassy beneath his crooked sunglasses. Blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth and you feel the world rush out from under you.

Jake holsters his gun. "Probably for the better though, honestly." He said airily. "He couldn't have been very hap—"

This shot is even louder , you think, if that's possible, and Jake hits the ground before he's finished speaking, his mouth open and a look of faint surprise on his face. You lower your gun, feeling numb as the stench of blood soaks the air. Sirens sound faintly in the distance and you move on autopilot, crossing to Jake's lifeless form and searching it quickly, not thinking about how you used to know every plane, every contour of the body beneath your fingers. You find the matches you know he keeps in his breast pocket and stand, crossing the room to your brother.

You slowly crouch down and touch his cheek, saying a silent goodbye as you slip his favorite sunglasses off his face and close his eyes. There would be time for mourning later.

The sirens are getting closer.

You cross back over to Jake and strike a match, staring into the little flame for a moment before dropping it onto Jake's chest. His shirt catches fire instantly and the body begins to burn. You turn away and strike another match, tossing it easily onto the curtains. They flare and begin to crackle as you strike a third match and toss it near the doorway.

Smoke begins to fill the room. You stand over your brother's body and strike a fourth match, closing your eyes and dropping it onto him. The flames leap high and you turn away, not able to watch your baby brother's body burn.

The sirens are shrieking now, echoing around your skull, rattling against your brain.

With numb fingers you strike a fifth and final match, dropping it at your feet. The flame sputters as you cough, tears spiking your eyes as the smoke thickens.

You draw your gun and close your eyes.

Thanks for reading, guys. I'd really like some crit, if possible - this was a bit of a new writing style for me.

Cheers!

Pom

PS. As far as the page breaks are, that was the result of me struggling to get to accept my page breaks. I may have gotten a little frustrated.