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You never cared for keeping your hands clean—for the rules and customs and reputations you were meant to uphold. You have always been, ostensibly, an enemy of the people.
You’d always imagined that it was rather evident, your amorality. You’d never really tried to hide it. Such would've been pointless, as far as you were concerned. But, apparently not—considering how Lebanon stares you down with wariness or disgust or something approximating it when you demand your sister’s whereabouts from her.
She tells you, bitterly, you think, that she’s never seen you treat anything quite as seriously as you are this. You’re sure you have, decades and centuries ago when you’d thought the rest of them were anything but snakes, but that is beside the point.
You tell her that you really, truly do not care because you are not here for her and that you are here for your sister and it has always been about your sister. Everything you’ve ever done has always been about your sister.
She refuses— because of course she refuses, gets in the way again and again and again like she has nothing better to do. Perhaps she doesn’t, knowing her. (Do you?). (Does it matter?).
Your only option (or, well, you don’t exactly mind wasting an entire security network on one woman, but you doubt your higher-ups or your boss would appreciate it very much and getting yourself off the mission is about the most counterproductive thing you can do) is to insist, or to go looking yourself.
You take it upon yourself to do both, naturally. You keep an eye out for any properties you recognise when on patrol, for a pair of horns in the corner of your eye. And Lebanon continues to refuse, time and time again, when you demand—
until she doesn’t. And maybe it takes a few threats on your end, but when was that been off the table for any of you? You know she isn’t taking them at face value, anyway.
You wait in a dingy, half-collapsed apartment for Palestine; seated cross-legged on the floor, across from the door.
You have to see her. You haven’t allowed yourself to think about it for more than a few minutes at a time and you’ve let yourself forget how ugly everything is without you by her side. You have to see her.
You hold your breath as you wait, hoping that every rare pair of footsteps that pass by are her and ending up disappointed every time.
She’ll come by, eventually. You’ll wait however long it takes. You have no choice but to wait.
She isn’t gone. The mere thought of it is both doubtful and nigh treasonous. She isn’t gone. She’ll be here soon. (If she’s gone—the only person who knows you, the only one who truly cares for you, who raised you and held you and always, always forgave you—then what are you to do? Then what are you?
It’s stupid and you don’t have to consider it. You don’t want to consider it.)
The door creaks open, and there are horns in the corner of your eye.
Your memory has never served you very well. There are very few things you can remember from your many years around—the older the event, the fuzzier it gets. Once, some two centuries ago, a soldier you’d been stationed with had called you an amnesiac over it.
Most of your memories are secondhand, you know this. Events you do not remember being a part of described to you by someone else. The ones that are not, have always been of or including Palestine. You don’t care to question it. You don’t care to question her.
You mutter to her about a promise from five or six millennia ago—a secret that you were meant to keep, one of many—and apologise for breaking it. You don’t want to sully her reputation. She just holds your hand a little tighter. Doesn’t try to tell you anything. You hope that means forgiveness.
You exhale shakily when she raises a hand to your eye, and you don’t complain about how it sort of hurts when her fingers graze the lining of your socket. She hadn’t gotten the chance to inspect it the last few times you’d seen her. Neither of you mention how you shiver when they prod a little further than you imagine—but do not really believe—is generally acceptable.
She pulls away before anything starts to bleed, leaving you feeling oddly cold about it, and signs something that takes you a few more moments to register than you’re keen to admit to (it’s not that your sign is bad, your head just feels more full of cotton than usual—). Something like it wouldn’t have killed you to be apart for a little longer.
You’re not so inclined to agree, for once.
You don’t think Lebanon lives here, with Palestine. You don’t think either of them live here, really. You still see her standing not far from the door on your way out, eyes narrowed at you like she doesn’t trust you, like you’ve overstayed your welcome. The feeling is mutual, you think.
You know you’re the better one for Palestine, regardless of what little miss perfect thinks. Palestine’s never hidden her preference, at least in front of you.
Your vision’s bleary and your head sort of aches, walking back to base. You miss her already. You should’ve asked her to come back with you, told her that this was a safer—more secure—shelter.
You sigh and smooth your uniform back out. Maybe next time.
(Surely there’s a next time.)