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[Archy lets her go. She doesn't need him crowding her right now. He had told her that he'd take care of it and that is true. However, it's the lads who are doing all the heavy lifting. It's one of the good things about being the leader of the gang, he hasn't had to lift a dead man in quite some time. Not that he minds getting his hands dirty, but that does strain your back after a while.

What Archy does instead is wash the blood from his hands. After that, he goes into Rosalind's bedroom. He's been here a few times, enough that he knows where to look for her clothes.

By the time Rosalind emerges from her shower, her living room is transformed. If a cop walked in right now, he wouldn't be any the wiser. There's no body, no blood, no gun. Anything that had been displaced in the struggle is back where it belongs. All of the men are gone. Archy waits for her in the chair she had been sitting in when he arrived. In his hands, he has a dress of hers, a very flattering green number. He's also picked out shoes to match.]

[She's sensible, Rosalind is. Sensible and practical, cutting through any soppy emotion with a steel knife. There's only so long she can stay in the shower feeling sorry for herself; soon she pulls herself together. She opens her eyes and turns off the water and gets a towel, because life moves on and she's being stupid. No more shaking, now, and she digs her nails into her palm until she gets her way.

(It helps that she doesn't regret it. It helps that it's more the physical action and the legal ramifications that scare her more than any questions of morality. He attacked and she retaliated; there's nothing more to it).

Rosalind listens at the door, making certain the others have left, before emerging, a towel wrapped tight around her. The flat is spotless, completely so, but what makes Rosalind pause in surprise is Archy. He looks so normal, expression neutral and one of her dresses in his hand.]

Is this part of your usual clean-up routine as well?

[But she comes close, holding out a hand for it.]

[He smiles when Rosalind emerges, something a little softer than usual. It's partially to keep her at ease, but mostly it's just the sight of her in her towel, red hair wet and clinging to her shoulders, that pulls his lips into the grin. It's easy for him to forget the blood dripping down her skin just a little while ago. The smile becomes more wry after her question.]

I mean, I think blue's a better color on me, personally...

[He stands up to hand her the dress. Archy gives her the shoes as well. His hands linger near hers.]

But otherwise, yeah. Because this, darling, is what we call establishing an alibi.

We're going out.

[Not a question, but a confirmation of fact. They'll go out and . . . what? Pretend they'd been out, something like that? Rosalind frowns, annoyed at herself for her slowness. This sort of work isn't her usual forte, no, but she's not an idiot. And yet her brain behaves sluggishly, making connections far too slowly.

Because while Archy might be able to forget the blood, she can't, not so easily. Her home is spotless, the body gone, the blood washed down the drain-- but still she feels it dripping down her face, sees the man's head explode in her mind's eye.

With a little sigh she takes the clothes and heads into the bedroom. She changes quickly, not wanting to be alone, not allowing herself to linger on her thoughts-- and then emerges. If she presses against Archy a little more than usual, that's only to be expected.]

Where to, then?

[He nods, willing sympathy out of his expression because he cannot imagine that is what she wants right now.]

That's right.

[It isn't until after she leaves the room that worry works its way onto his face. Her behavior is very un-Ros-like. Whoever did this to her would be facing a world of hurt. But that is for later. He's already got men sniffing out any potential leads at the moment. Tonight, his focus is on Rosalind.

She emerges, and she is beautiful. Archy is glad to let her press herself against him, and he wraps a tight arm around her shoulders.]

Well, we have some options. A late dinner. There's a couple clubs I know where the acts are decent enough. What do you think would be best?

[Archy holds her door open for her. He's purposefully engaging her opinion, not only to give her agency in the situation, but because while dinner is his go to, he doesn't know if she has the stomach for food right now.]

Dinner sounds fine.

[She answers absently, barely realizing what it is she's saying. Rosalind holds herself tightly as they walk to the car, body so tense she's nearly shaking from muscle strain. Even in the car she holds herself apart, fingers curling and uncurling in her lap, face composed into a perfect neutral expression.]

[They walk together in silence to the car. Archy doesn't wear his turmoil like Rosalind. He is still where she vibrates. He's done this too many times. Archy always tried to avoid spilling blood when he could. It's a wasteful endeavor, it's how men got put away, and it's just... unnecessary. The keyword, however, is tried. Sometimes there isn't any helping it. This clean up is old hat. This cover up is routine.

What's different is who he's doing it for. What's different is that Rosalind has never had to do this. She, normally a pinnacle of stoicism, trembles at this new and awful situation. And Archy, supposed pinnacle of efficiency, can't make it stop. He wears calm, but it is false. Anger rolls through him, slapping against his innards like waves. He needs to do better.

He lets her go in first, so he can lean over the passenger window and let Turbo know where they're going. When Archy slides in, the divide is already up. That man knows how to take a hint. For a few moments, they ride together in silence. Archy taps the foot out of Ros' vision very slightly. He isn't able to keep completely still. He very much wishes he could be out shooting someone or stringing them up, it feels like a much more effective use of time than grabbing a bite to eat. But there isn't anyone to string up at present. And Ros needs him, even though he's rather useless right now. Her wringing hands do not escape his notice. Eventually, he takes one in his own. He holds it firmly, thumb stroking over one of her fingers.]

If you... want to talk.

[It isn't the smoothest of deliveries. Archy can use charm until he's blue in the face, but he's never much had to be comforting. For her, he can try, but she's such a unique woman, he doesn't even know if that's what she wants of him.]

[She pulls her hand back-- but only so she can scoot over, curling under his arm, legs drawn up beneath her. Tucked under his arm, she rests entirely against him, body relaxing ever so slightly. His offer-- stilted, but genuine-- is appreciated, but neither of them are the type of people who can simply talk.]

Tell me. The first time you killed someone.

[Had he been so horrified, reeling in shock? Or had he simply shrugged and moved on? Either way, it hardly matters-- she just needs to hear him, his voice, low and familiar, distracting her from the whirl of her thoughts. He could talk about anything at all, really, so long as he didn't stop-- but now that she's asked it, she wants to hear the answer. Not some postured, macho response she might get from other men, but the truth-- or as much of it as he'll give her, anyway.]

[Archy makes room for her, gathering her up under his arm. He considers her request while she makes herself comfortable. Archy does his best to hide a discomforted grimace. He can't pin down his reaction at first, but then realizes that it just isn't a thing he talks about. It isn't guilt that prevents it from being discussed, but simple self preservation. You don't talk about your crimes. You most certainly don't talk about your kills, period. Braggarts get thrown behind bars faster than anyone in their business. Archy runs a tally of the people he's ever told the story. He could use one hand to count them and have fingers to spare, and it's with a strange jolt that he realizes that all of them are now dead.

Archy tries very hard, harder than anyone would ever know, to keep the work as bloodless as possible. He considers Rosalind's form, so small and curled up against his side. It's moments like these that nearly convince him it's a worthless pursuit.

He strokes her hair, the strands having a soothing effect on him. He turns his head so his lips are pressed to it as well. He can speak softly like this, as though the world has shrunk to suit them and everyone else is gone.]

I was still running packages at the time. This was early into my career, at least when I was taking it seriously. Most of the junkies knew not to bother with me, I'd give 'em what for if they tried. I was working for a real kingpin type at the time, no one wanted to fuck with him or one of his. But they're stupid, junkies. And this one... well, he just didn't care. He needed that fix, you see. That hit was more important than me, my boss, and everything else on the whole damn planet. So he come at me when I cut through an alley.

[Archy leans against her just a touch heavier.]

Tried to shake him off, but he wasn't having it. Suppose I didn't look like that much of an threat. I was always tall, even then, but I was still pretty scrawny. Was just nineteen. But the git didn't think I'd be armed.

Then again, I didn't think he'd be armed either. Load of good it did him, he would've been better off without the piece.

[Is this the detail she wants, he wonders. Ros has yet to stop him, so he carries on.]

You did the throat last, didn't you? [He could tell by how the blood spilled. Archy would later muse on the oddity of knowing that.] Smart. I shot the throat first. Horrible mess. Pulled the trigger a few more times. Tried to go for a head shot to make him drop but I missed and almost blew off my own bloody skull with the ricochet. After that, I--

[He has to pause. It's been so long, he needs to dig to remember what he had done next. Rosalind's behavior brings him back to his own sheer terror. It's been so long since a kill made him feel like that. Since anything made him feel like that.]

Christ, I got sick on him.

[He scoffs at himself, the night coming back to him so sharply that he could even taste the dinner he had then coming back up.]

Just-- all over him. I was shitting myself, Ros, never been so scared in my life. Ended up just leaving him there, didn't know what else to do.

Then for ages, I was convinced I'd get found out because they'd ID me from my sick. ... I was kind of an idiot at that age.

[It's strange to imagine Archy at nineteen. Stranger still to imagine him so out of control-- scared, helpless, terrified at being caught, so sick from what he'd done that he'd thrown up. At least, Rosalind thinks, she hadn't done that. Cried a fair bit, but the gore itself hadn't thrown her, not that much.

But his story makes her feel a bit better. Why, she wonders. Why should hearing Archy's reactions make her own feel more justified? Perhaps because it points towards a favorable conclusion. Archy had reacted the same way, and now he's fine, perfectly all right with taking a life if he has to. And so soon she'll be all right, just as he is. Hypothesis, evidence, and conclusion: everything boils down to science, sooner or later.

Not that she's quite all right yet. Still, Rosalind huffs a laugh at his last statement-- not quite light-hearted, but fond, fond and weary all at once.]

The things I've made, the people I work with-- I'm not so stupid to think my actions have had no effect. By proxy, I've most certainly killed people before. But--

[But, but, but there's such a difference between writing a formula and pulling the trigger. Between knowing you've made a deadly concoction and seeing a man's head splatter across your wall.]

I ought to have expected this. This kind of reaction, I ought-- it was stupid, not preparing myself more for this.

[Archy presses a kiss into her hair when she laughs, pleased that he was able to at least provide that for her. If he's the butt of the joke, that's fine. He had been an idiot at nineteen, it's only fair.

He has to consider what she says. She's completely right, as she tends to be. Archy himself had to learn how to be okay with being an indirect cause of mayhem. He trained the lads to the best of his ability, but that included advising on when to use their guns. It became more true after taking over, and there's something more unsettling about not having it directly on his hands.

Archy pulls her in even closer, arm around her tight.]

First all, no one's prepared for it. Ever. You could've read every book, went through every scenario, and you still wouldn't be ready. I definitely wasn't fucking ready. Thought I'd be alright with it if it was someone trying to do me in. It ended up being just that and I... well, I wasn't alright.

Second-- [The hand holding hers clutches it with more strength. He pulls back, but not far, just enough to be able to look at her.] Proxy is a different beast. Everyone's guilty by proxy if you look hard enough. Man, woman, child, everybody has an affect. Some they can predict, some they can't. You just have to do right by you.

And you did right tonight, Ros. [He kisses her forehead.] You bloody did. And now I'm gonna take care of you, alright? No one's gonna know, and no one's gonna try again. Or they're gonna answer to me.

[He means that. And he means himself. Someone takes a crack at the woman in his grasp again, and not one man in his squad will have a chance to do a thing before Archy personally rips his throat out.]

[She knows, deep in her heart, that she needs to be stronger. That no one takes a woman seriously if she falls to pieces, especially in the criminal world, especially after something so common as killing another person. She needs to keep her cold mask on, to pull away and shrug and act as if this is nothing at all. And she will, in time. When they face others, when this is dealt with, when anyone but Archy is around, she'll be calm. She'll be cold.

But Archy is different. Archy has been different since the very beginning, and so it makes sense that in this, too, he is allowed more than others are. He'd respected her from the start, calling her Dr Lutece until she'd allowed otherwise; acted entirely professional until she'd made the first move. He's not some sexist fool who finds emotion indicative of weakness. So Rosalind curls against him, eyes closing, and lets her expression melt into something more vulnerable. His words wash over her, soothing in their sound logic. No one's prepared for it, and that above all soothes her. She isn't being weak; she's being normal. This will fade.

But-- I'll take care of you, he says, and for just a moment her expression cracks. She looks stricken-- just for a moment, her eyes widening, darting about his face as if to check the validity of that statement. But he doesn't seem to be lying, nor teasing-- and so, warily, with a little exhale, Rosalind settles back down against him.]

All right.

[She says it breathless-- and once he kisses her forehead again, she presses back against him, fingers curling idly against his shirt, hiding her face from view. He doesn't care, she tells herself, but there's only so defenseless she can allow herself to appear.]

How many times have you walked someone through this?

[It's a weak joke, and she still doesn't look up-- but she's trying.]

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