SAINT
(a Shadowrun character scene)
by Dru Pagliassotti

The TV stuttered as Rebecca listlessly switched from channel to channel, and Saint ignored it, checking the time.

He'd been in a strangely ecstatic mood ever since Interstate had told him the data from Dragonetti's apartment had been secured.  Even the paranoid decker's dire warnings and Ham's muttered foreboding hadn't been able to dampen his spirits.  Rebecca had a chance; that was what had made him jest while his two friends nervously looked over their shoulders.  Death?  He'd been expecting to die either way.  If Rebecca lived, he assumed Aztechnology would eventually come after him.  And if Rebecca died ... Saint felt the familiar twist in his stomach at the thought, even though he was certain now that it wouldn't happen.  Because if she'd died, there wouldn't have been a reason in the world not to get blind drunk in a small, sleazy hotel he knew of where nobody would call Docwagon if they heard a single gun shot from one of the rooms.

It would be romantic to say that he couldn't remember how many times he'd come close to killing himself, but as a matter of fact he could remember all five times, vividly.  Drunk nights, sober nights, playing with the semiauto in the bar or in whatever doss he'd found himself in for the night, the smell of gun oil mixed with old alcohol and stale cigarette smoke.  The last time had been the night he'd seen Setty's brains spattered all over the side window of the truck.  He might have done it then, driven by disgust for the lifestyle he'd chosen, except for the girl in his living room with her strange story, stranger acquaintance, and lack of options.  And like it always did, the impulse had faded over time, leaving him a little emptier, clinging a little more desperately to the belief that someday he'd have a reason to keep on living.

His fear of death had burned itself out slowly, along with his magic, sending the last chill down his back when he'd found himself and Setty tied to an altar in the center of a coven of necromancers.  It had died then, along with the larger part of his ideals.  Or if not then, it had certainly drowned in the cheap booze he'd lived on for the next eight years - years he'd staggered down countless alleys in the Barrens, slept in countless gang territories, been mugged, rolled, beaten, but never killed; as though death were waiting for him to have a reason to live again before tapping his shoulder in a silent reminder.  Even when he'd started shadowrunning, it had simply been a choice of preferable ends; killed pointlessly in an alley versus dying for some sort of cause.  Saint hadn't ever expected to live as long as he had; still wasn't sure why he hadn't been killed after his capture and ostensible "death" at the hands of Fujicorp.

Fear of death?  No, that wasn't the problem.  He would have preferred to live, but there was something vaguely reassuring about knowing the end would be coming soon.  The only regret he felt about his impending death was its probable effect on Rebecca.  And Rachael.

Rachael — now, that was an entirely different matter.

Saint slumped deeper into the depths of the battered couch, reaching out for the side table, fingers sweeping over empty air.  Damn.  Habit.  This morning he'd gone through the house resolutely emptying every bottle into the sink, knowing that by sunset he'd be unable resist taking a drink if even one drop of alcohol remained in the apartment.

It had taken a few days to settle things, days he'd swung between elation at the "angel's" promise that Rebecca would live, if he were willing to die, and depression that he wouldn't be able to enjoy her new life himself.  He'd surprised her, the first evening he'd returned, with a big hug and a lie that the doctor had said everything was going to be fine with the operation to remove her cyberware.  She'd laughed, blithely unaware of how grave her condition really was, how improbable her survival had seemed.  All she knew was that there was a complication that made it necessary to have her cyberware removed; and that's all Saint would permit Ham or Dr. Arhill to tell her, for her own peace of mind.

As if admitting to the angel that he considered Rebecca his own daughter had broken down some sort of internal barrier, Saint had found himself more at ease with her over the past few days, caught himself lapsing into silence, watching her, setting everything about her to memory, just in case ... in case he might have a chance to remember, when he paid the second half of the price for her life.

Saint glanced at her as she stopped on a channel, attention caught for the moment.  So much to do.  He ran a hand through his hair.  A lot grayer, these past few months, he thought absently.  He'd expected to have to face Human's wisecracks about it, when he'd returned to Team Eight-Ball.  Not now, though.

He'd worked quickly but quietly, doing what little he could to ensure that Rebecca would be taken care of after he died.  Setting up a new identity for her and Rachael with Interstate's help, reserving a hotel room in their new names in a better part of town so she could recover outside of the Barrens, transferring most of the rest of his money into a single credstick Rebecca could use and leaving it in the hotel safe for her, along with a list of phone numbers in case she needed help - people he more or less trusted:  Interstate, Mano, Roxanne, Ham, Nicolai.  People who might be able to help her out when Aztechnology began sniffing around.  A sealed note in her box, telling her to check in the safe, just in case he didn't have a chance to tell her himself.

He'd asked Ham to see that she got to the hotel after the operation.

"Why?  Won't you be there?" the irascible street-doc had demanded.

"That depends on whether or not I have to lead Aztechnology off the trail," Saint had hedged.  "Or whether or not they've already killed me before the operation's scheduled to take place."

"What makes you think I'm going to be around?" Ham growled.  "Get your specialist to take care of it.  I've been thinking about taking an extended vacation."

"Ham, I don't trust my 'specialist.'  I'll ask him, of course, but ... I'd really feel better knowing you'll make sure she gets there all right.  Please?"  Saint caught Ham's eyes, holding them steadily.  He could afford to plead; he'd given up on dignity a long time ago, and he knew his desperation made Ham uncomfortable.  The doctor scowled and folded his arms over his chest, finally muttering something that sounded like reluctant, grudging assent.  Relieved, Saint smiled.

"Thanks.  I owe you one."  Although I don't think I'll get a chance to repay you, he thought to himself as the street doctor stomped off, looking annoyed.  He took the hotel room voucher from the pocket of his stained and rumpled jacket and placed it, neatly folded, on Ham's desk.

That was last night.  He'd sat down with Rebecca and told her as much as he thought prudent about what to expect during the operation.  She hadn't seemed too worried, no more alarmed than she'd been when she'd had the cyberware put in.  He hadn't dared say anything that might make her suspect that this operation would be any out of the ordinary, although he'd told her they'd stay in a hotel until she recovered.  She understood.  She'd been moving from place to place since coming to live with him.  She trusted him to arrange things.

Damn!  Saint swore again, standing.  He had the jitters, wanted a drink.  Craved a drink.  For a moment he glanced at the trash, wondering if maybe he hadn't thrown all the bottles in the alley, if maybe there'd be a bottle in the trash with just a little scotch left in the bottom ... he dragged his eyes away.  No.  He wasn't that desperate.  This was something he had to be sober for.

Angels.  For all his Roman Catholic upbringing, Saint thought he could understand Arhill's irritation with the breed.  Death?  That was the easy part of the bargain.  It was the first half that bothered him. The half about telling Rachael how he really felt.

Angels. Love. Bastards.

The last time he'd talked to his ex-wife, she'd slammed the door in his face.

He felt his stomach tighten as he checked the time again.  He wanted to catch her when she was off work; he didn't dare spend more than a few minutes in Grisly's, near all that booze.  Rebecca looked up from Cybercop, who was blowing someone away in a somewhat off-color spray of blood.

"You look like you're going on your first date," she teased.  "Except you aren't dressed up enough."

"Thanks," Saint said, distracted.  He'd told her he was going to see Rachael.  Knowing her, she'd already drawn her own conclusions; and they were probably fairly close to the mark, he thought ruefully.  "I'd just as soon not get mugged on my way there."

"You could have shaved," she said critically.  He gave her a half-grin, amused by the incongruity of he, a shadowrunner, being chided by this young lady.  She rolled her eyes and went back to the TV, giving up.  Between her not-so-subtle hints, the angel's command, and the damn Dweller's insinuations, Saint was beginning to feel like there was some cosmic conspiracy at work to bring him and his ex back together again.  Old wrongs, he muttered to himself.

"What?"

"I said I'm going.  No wild parties while I'm out."  He smirked as she gave a long-suffering sigh.  For a moment he stood staring at her, smile fading, wondering when he was going to die.  Tonight, after he'd spoken to Rachael?  Would he get a chance to see Rebecca again?  He'd set an envelope next to the statue of St Jude for her, in case he didn't return.  Telling her what to do, who to call. The angel hadn't told him when his life was going to be demanded of him.

"Don't look so worried," Rebecca admonished him, standing to give him a hug.  He held her a moment longer than necessary, fighting back a sudden panic, a sudden lump in his throat and burning in his eyes.  Dammit, he swore at himself, releasing her, don't get cold feet now!  Besides, you don't know when you'll die.  It might not be for days yet.  Weeks.

The angel could have told him.  It would have made things easier.

"Call me if you're not going to make it back tonight," Rebecca said with false innocence as she yanked his lined coat straight.  She laughed at his disapproving frown, and dropped into the abandoned couch.  "'Bye!"

"'Bye," he repeated, forcing himself to turn and step out the door.  Rusty hinges squeaked as he closed it behind him and locked it.  Rebecca was terrible at remembering about security sometimes.  He pocketed the keys, shoved his hands into his coat pockets, and began the long walk to Grisly's.

About halfway there Saint paused in the flashing light of a neon bar sign to concentrate a moment, making sure that his astral mask was tight.  Another block and he turned up an alley that his thermographics told him was empty, leaning against the wall to shapechange.  Bloodstained handkerchief pressed to his nose, he hawked and spat, leaving a crimson stain on the pavement.  He turned back on the right street a block later, tucking in his shirt and straightening his coat, a scruffy-looking elf trying to clean himself up after a brawl.

The pounding headache spellcasting gave him had begun to fade by the time he got to Grisly's, and he tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket, wincing slightly as he pushed open the bar door to a din of cheering and loud music.  A pool tournament, in its final minutes.  He gingerly made his way through the crowd, dropping his gun off by the door, and slid into "his" seat at the bar.

"What c— oh, hi," Rachael said, turning and recognizing the spell-persona he used here.  Saint gave her a weak smile, still a little sick from the spell.  "I'll be off in a few minutes."  She jerked her head toward the pool tables with a resigned look.  "The game's running late."

"Okay."  He rested his arms on the bar, not really interested in the game.  He'd played once or twice, with Eight-Ball, before he'd had to murder him....

Ceramic clinked, and he smelled the sharp scent of coffee.  Rachael gave him a curious look as he started, then recovered, picking up the cup with a grateful nod.  He'd simply told her he needed to talk to her.  She probably thought he was going to ask for money again.

I should have brought flowers, he thought, the hot drink bitter in his mouth.  I should have taken her out to dinner.  Suddenly a thousand doubts assailed him.  What the hell am I doing, he thought desperately.  I should have talked to Human, to Roxanne, anyone!  The same old fear.  I can't do this.

He'd always been poor at showing emotion, always trying to hide behind a show of nonchalance, disaffecting himself.  He could admit that to himself now, admit that he preferred avoiding his problems to facing them.  Hell, he'd avoided his problems for eight years with the help of the bottle.  And before that, with his work.  He realized that now, with the bittersweet benefit of hindsight.  It was why he wouldn't allow himself to drink tonight.

But it sure as hell didn't help him figure out what to say.

Rachael glanced at him again, and he automatically took another sip of the coffee.  She frowned slightly and went back to counting the money in the till.

Oh, hell, he thought miserably, I'm going to fuck it up again.

He'd fucked up terribly back when they'd still been married, when he'd gotten a little too involved with his work to notice that she was feeling neglected.  And when he'd seen her with another man, he'd blown his lid.  Done the wrong thing.  He should have talked to her, gone to counseling, tried to work things out.  But he'd jumped to conclusions and challenged the man, blaming the "rival" for her withdrawal, instead of himself.  And he'd paid - God, he'd paid, with his magic and his marriage and his self-respect.

Saint felt his face burning, and took another sip of coffee.

He wasn't even self-possessed in his daydreams, that was the irony of it.  Even in his daydreams, he'd find himself groping for the right words.  Saint knew it wasn't because he was stupid; at least that would be a real reason.  It was simply because he was a failure, in his personal relationships as much as in his career.  Even in front of the angel — fidgeting, on the spot, uneasy with the truth.  He should have stood there calmly and admitted his real feelings, like a man.  Instead he had to hem and haw, buckling under to the spirit's pressure, forced to 'fess up. 

Cheers broke his reverie, and Saint looked up.  The game was dispersing, the winner ambling over to the bar for a victory drink.

"Okay, last call, everybody, last call!" Rachael shouted over the chatter.  There were groans and shouted replies as everyone crowded the bar.  Saint clung to his spot, watching as she efficiently began filling orders.

He'd been avoiding the whole problem of emotions for a long time, he thought grimly.  First by getting drunk, then by pretending to be a callous shadowrunner, and when that didn't work, by using the excuse of endangering friends to avoid them.  The Delian lesson.  Keeping his distance from Media, from Rita, from Rachael; hell, even from Jasmine and Rebecca, although at least with them he'd felt safe in showing concern, a trace of affection, because they were in the shadows with him.  No.  Be honest.  Remember, that's why you're here?  He drained the coffee.  Okay, honesty.  Because they were young.  Not dangerous.  There was no threat he'd have to open up to them, because they were kids, and adults didn't have to admit their emotions to kids.  Right?

Saint set the cup down and rubbed his forehead, wondering if Rebecca knew he cared about her.  Loved her.  Or was he playing the same game all over again?

If I live through tonight, he promised himself, I'll tell her I love her, too.  I'll tell her I wish she was my daughter.  Will that offend her?  Does she still love Dragonetti, after all he's done?  I wonder.

Shit.  His stomach tightened as Rachael took his cup.  People were beginning to set their drinks down, get ready to go.  Almost time.  Oh, God, let me do this right.

He took a deep breath, resting a hand on his wrist to keep it from shaking.  The last patrons drifted out, saying their goodbyes to Rachael and the rest of the employees.  She waved in the doorway, then firmly locked it.  Saint watched as she and the others began cleaning up, ignored.  He'd been here a few other times.  He didn't know what Rachael had said about him.  The others probably thought he was her new boyfriend.

Jesus, what if she has a boyfriend?  He firmly quashed the thought.  It wouldn't matter.  Even if she told him to get lost, it wouldn't matter.  All that mattered was telling her how he felt.  Getting rid of that particular weight on his soul.

Except he knew it was going to hurt, hearing her calm voice telling him that she didn't feel the same way, that he should go now.

He watched as she directed the others, got Grisly's ready for the next day.  When had she gone to work for Grisly, he wondered, and how had she gotten the job?  He should ask her, someday.

There won't be a someday.

She still looks good.  A little heavier, but that was okay, she was always too thin anyway, and Saint was hardly in his prime, either.  She'd come through the years in better condition than he had; without the grey that was beginning to noticeably streak his hair (damn Aztechnology and their unholy experiments with Rebecca, anyway), without the lines that years of alcoholism and poverty had left around his eyes and mouth.  She looked older, yes, more careworn, but then, it hadn't been easy for her either, had it?  And his attempts to make it easier had just backfired — too little, too late.

I'm going to fuck this up.

Wouldn't the rest of Team Eight-Ball laugh at me now!  But I'd rather face Human's piss-poor aim with grenades and a half-dozen toxic spirits than Rachael's scorn again.  Physical pain's easy to deal with.  It's the emotional pain I don't need.

Shit, what I need is a drink.  Saint ran a hand over his face, feeling unfamiliar curves, and yanked it back down.  That was always uncanny.  He took a deep breath.  Christ, you're forty-three, and on a bad day you can feel every year of it etched in your bones.  You can deal with this maturely.  The angel was right.  You should have done this a long time ago.

"Ready to go?"  Rachael lifted her eyebrows as she pulled on her coat.  Saint realized his mind was wandering.

"Hmm?  Yeah.  Sure."  He slid from the barstool, straightening his coat, picking up his pistol from the weapons check by the door and sliding it back into his shoulder holster.  A pissant weapon, but given the angel's sentence of death, he didn't really figure it was worth packing any heavier metal.

They walked in silence through the streets, screeching brakes, distant music, far-off shouts too familiar to bother them as each remained lost in their own thoughts.  Saint caught her glancing at him, realized he'd been staring.

"So, what's wrong?" she asked, seriously.  "Is it Rebecca?"

"Huh?  No, not at all.  In fact, I think she's going to be all right."  He looked away from her, down the street, intermittently lit with sputtering streetlights and garish neon signs.  He smiled suddenly, looked back at her again.  "I really think she's going to be all right."

"Then Dr. Arhill can help?"

"Yeah.  We, uh, had a long talk a couple of days ago and worked things out.  He isn't my vote for the most trustworthy man in Seattle, but I've heard he has a sense of professional honor and keeps his end of a deal.  That's all I need, right now."

"And the price of the operation?"

Saint felt his good mood slip away slightly, clung to it.  After all, Rebecca would live, that was the important thing.  What was one old drunk to that?

"We haven't talked about it, yet.  I'm not too worried, though.  A few of the Team have volunteered to help me out if I need more money.  I mean, I haven't gone into details about Rebecca's problem with them, but they..."  he shrugged.  "A few of them seem pretty sympathetic."

"Did the doctor say exactly what the problem was?"

"Yeah, he did, but I couldn't really follow it."  Saint shrugged.  "Something to do with the genetic experiment she was involved in.  I don't care, as long as he can get that damn cyberware out of her before she dies."

"You haven't told her how much danger she's in."

"No."  They turned down Rachael's street; not a good part of town, but not a bad part of town, either.  On the edge of the Barrens.  "It wouldn't do her any good to know."

"You don't think she has a right to know that she might die?"

"She won't die," Saint said vehemently.  Rachael gave him a surprised look, eyes wary as she pulled out her keys.  Embarrassed, Saint looked around, vision flickering from lolite to thermographics.  A few people around, nobody who seemed threatening.  Still, he let his fingers linger near the front of his jacket, a mute gesture to warn off would-be attackers. 

The door clicked, and Rachael flipped on the lights before opening it more than a crack.  Saint's eyes compensated at once, although she blinked a few times, glancing inside before turning.  There was nobody inside; it pained him to see her make that habitual check.  He'd hoped she would spend the money he'd given her on a safer apartment, a better neighborhood.

"So, did you have anything else to say, or was that it?  I'm glad the doctor says Rebecca will be all right.  That really is good news."  She turned on the doorstep, facing him.  Saint forced himself to meet her eyes — useless gesture, as if she could see any emotion in gunmetal cyberware, anyway.

"Yeah.  Yes.  If you don't mind ... could I come in?"

"No ... I don't mind."  She opened the door wider, but he briefly shook his head, letting her enter the apartment first.  Just in case someone decided to open fire.  Habits.  She latched the door behind him, drawing the chain.

"Do you want some more coffee?" she asked, walking into the small kitchen. 

"Please."  He took a deep breath again, trying to relax, and strolled into the living room.  Her place looked more welcoming than any place he'd ever lived, even the house he'd rented with Rebecca for almost a year.  His places always looked temporary, empty of the memorabilia and art that made a home.  The few things he'd bothered to carry with him through the years in the Barrens had been lost when he'd "died."  He remembered his promise to send her some art from France.  Broken, of course.

Rebecca said Rachael still cared about him.  Loved him, dammit.  The Dweller suggested it, too.  So what's the problem?  This shouldn't be so hard.

He glanced back at her.  Rachael was pulling coffee cups out of the cupboard, the oversized, bright ones she had always liked when they were married.  With reprints of famous works of art on them.  Saint swallowed hard, remembering when he'd broken one of her favorites one night, coming home drunk.  A Matisse?  Had that been it?  He'd been trying to make some coffee, burned himself, and it had broken on the tile kitchen floor.  He'd hidden the pieces in the trash, thinking she might not notice the next morning.  Asshole.  Of course she'd noticed.

When had they bought them?  Before they were married, or after?  He should be able to remember that kind of thing.

"Here."  Rachael handed him a cup.  He looked down at Van Gogh's blazing stars and churning midnight winds.  She had a Monet.  Maybe that had been who she'd liked.  He wished he could remember.

"Thanks."  He warmed his hands on the cup's sides a moment, obscuring violently twisted cypresses, then sipped.  Strong.  He wouldn't get any sleep tonight.  Not that he'd expected to, really.

"So, what is it, Saint?  And can't you drop that spell?  It makes me nervous, seeing you like that."

"Oh — sorry."  He hastily let the spell slip away.  At last shapechanging into an elf didn't require stripping.  He felt a sense of relief as he felt the spell vanish.  He could vaguely remember a time when it hadn't been a dull ache to keep spells active.  "I forgot."

Rachael eyed him, settling into an armchair.  He wondered what she saw.  Not the man she married, that was for certain; not some twenty years later, the magic burned away and replaced by cold metal.

He sat on the edge of the couch, setting the Van Gogh mug on the coffee table.

"This operation of Rebecca's ... we had to get some data before Dr. Arhill could analyze her.  Very valuable data.  We stole it."

"Saint, stop.  I don't know if I want to hear this."

"You have to."  He looked up at her.  "Please.  It's important."

She reluctantly subsided, but he could see the caution in her eyes.  She knew about Delian, too.  He risked her life each time he talked to her.  He hoped the heavens wouldn't be that capricious tonight, though.  Not when he was talking to her at their bidding.

"A lot of people have died already who've seen that data, and the corporation it belonged to ... when it learns that it's been compromised, it's not going to stop at anything to get the information back.  It'll kill anyone who's seen it.  Anyone involved in the operation that data made possible."

"So you're going into hiding again," Rachael said emotionlessly.

"No."  Saint shook his head.  "I'm not.  Not now.  But as soon as this operation is over, it's going to get very dangerous for everyone who's been involved.  You, me, Rebecca, the doctors who've helped her, everyone."  He leaned forward.  "I've had false identities prepared for us — "

"Saint, I'm not going to spend my life running from a corporation!"

"Rachael, please — "

"I have a job I happen to like, friends — "

"Rachael, they'll kill you!"  Saint lowered his voice as she stared defiantly at him.  He closed his eyes a moment, getting a grip on himself.  "Rache, it won't take much looking around to figure out who helped pay for the operation ... and you've been seen with Rebecca before, not to mention with me.  I don't think my 'death' is going to fool A-this megacorp for very long.  It isn't safe for you be here any more."

"What if I decide to take that chance?"

"It won't be a chance.  It'll be a sure thing.  Please, Rachael," he pleaded, "just drop out of sight for a while.  Maybe the whole thing will blow over and you'll be safe ... but if it doesn't, you and Rebecca need to go somewhere else, start a new life."

"What about you?"

"I'll — "  Saint stopped on the verge of the lie.  Honesty, wasn't that what this was all about?  But there was a limit to how honest he could really be.  He tried again.  "I'll join you, if I can.  But I'm going to be the first on their hit list."  He looked away from her, at an old print on her wall that he remembered from when they'd been married.  "I'll do the best I can to help, I promise.  But if something happens...."  He glanced back.  "I'd like to know you two were safe.  And Rebecca will need someone she can rely on, while she's recovering from the operation."

"So you're asking me to drop everything for you ... again?"  Rachael's expression was unreadable as she sipped her coffee.

"Not for — okay, yes."  Saint raked his fingers through his hair.  This wasn't going well.  "Partially for me, because I don't want to see you get killed.  But partially for Rebecca, too.  She likes you, Rache, and, and I think you like her too, don't you?  She'll need you if anything happens to me."

"How nice of you to care," Rachael said, with the delicate irony she was so good at wielding.  Well, if she was good at self-defense, Saint thought painfully, she'd certainly had a reason to learn.  Shit.

"I do care."  A deep breath.  "Jesus, Rachael, can't you tell that I still love you?  I don't — " why was it getting so damn hard to talk?  He cleared his throat, voice hoarse.  "I don't want anything to happen to you.  I'm scared to death that something will."

Silence.  She stared at him, face impassive as her fingers curled around the Rouen Cathedral.  Saint couldn't stand that mute, accusatory gaze.

"I'm sorry.  You probably didn't want to hear that."  He ran a hand over his face, feeling — dammit! — like an adolescent again.  Didn't these things ever get easier with age?  "But it's true."  He couldn't look at her, didn't dare, afraid he'd lose his nerve.  Damn that angel!  "I made a stupid mistake years ago, and I've been paying for it ever since.  I do love you, Rachael.  Don't you see, that's why I don't ever dare to visit you.  I'm as afraid as hell that somebody will find out how much I care about you, and — and hurt you to get back at me."  Now he had to look at her, find out if there was even a glimmer of understanding in her expression.  "I'd do anything anyone asked, to keep you safe; you know that, don't you?"

She wouldn't look up at him, staring into her coffee.  Her hair hid her face, and he couldn't tell what she was thinking.

"This is a fine time to tell me, now."

Too little, too late.

He was past worrying about dignity.

Saint abandoned the couch, crouching next to her armchair.

"Rachael, please.  I'm sorry."  He reached up, touched her hand.  Her fingers were warm from the coffee cup.  "I should have told you years ago.  I'm just a fuckup.  I'm sorry."

"You are a fuckup, Jack."  She looked up, and he saw the first tear spilling down her cheek.  He felt something twist inside of him and tugged the cup from her hand, before she spilled it.  She wiped her face on the back of her sleeve as he set the Monet on the table.  "Why now?"

"Because ... because I had to."  Saint knew it was true, that it went further than purchasing a spirit's aid.  Had the angel known that?  "Because I died once without telling you, and I don't want to die again without you knowing how I really feel.  I want you to know I'm sorry for fucking up our marriage, and for taking so long to find you again, and for being such a sorry drunk for all those years, and ... I don't know.  For everything, I guess."

"Oh, Jack.  I love you, too.  I wish I knew why."  She gave him an unsteady smile, fighting to get control of herself. She had always hated to cry in front of people.

"You — " Saint couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't sound inane.  He reached out and took her hands in his, rubbing his thumb along backs of her hands, then gripping them tightly.  He wasn't feeling that far from tears, himself, and there was nothing stupider than crying with gunmetal cybereyes.  It was relief from stress, he told himself.  Too much happening in too short a time.  Yeah.  Like hell.

For a moment Rachael squeezed his hands back, then released them, tugging away from his grip.  He let her go and she rubbed away the few tears that still threatened, then smiled again, a little less unsteadily this time.

"For God's sake, get off the floor.  You remind me of when you were proposing."

"Well...."  Saint shrugged awkwardly, pulling himself back up.  She moved her coffee out of the way, and he sat back down on the couch ... closer to her, this time.  He lifted his own cup and took a sip to steady his nerves.  He still felt shaky.  But the hard part was over ... wasn't it?

"So, is that what you came over to tell me?" she asked softly, to break the growing silence.

"Yeah.  Yeah, I guess so."  He set the coffee down.  He wanted to take her hand again, but he wasn't sure he should, didn't want to upset this brief truce.  "I'm scared, Rache.  This is serious danger.  I'm really afraid for you, for Rebecca...."  For everyone else involved, he thought.

"You didn't just tell me you loved me to convince me to go into hiding, did you?" she asked.  Saint gave her a startled look, saw that she was half-joking, half-serious.  Did she really think he'd stoop that low?  What did she really think of him?

"Of course not."  He succumbed to temptation, reached out and grasped her hand.  "You know that."

"Because if you did, if this is a joke — "

"What do I have to do to convince you?"

"Tell me the truth."

"You've already heard it."

She met his eyes steadily, searching his face, as though she could probe past the blank eyes, find out what was going on in his hardwired brain.  Saint wished for a moment that she was a mage, could mindread him and convince herself of his honesty that way.  But if she did, there was so much else she'd learn, things he'd rather she never found out about him....

"If I do this, go into hiding, how long are we talking about?"

"I don't know.  Really.  Months, years ... there's a decker with the Team who knows what's going on.  He'll contact you when things get too hot, or when they cool off.  I think he'll be in hiding, too."

"What about you, Saint?  If you mean what you said ... if you really do love me ... I think we have a lot to talk about."

"Rache...."  He leaned forward, taking her hand in both of his.  "I'll be absolutely honest with you.  If I live, I'll go into hiding with you and Rebecca.  I'll do what I can to protect you.  I may not be able to stop running the shadows.  There's things I still need to do, like find out who killed Arnold Trump, and why.  But I'll do my damndest to work with you."

"Why can't you quit shadowrunning?  You can't tell me you like it."

"No.  You're right.  Sometimes I hate it.  But I'm not sure I could stop, at this point.  There are too many people out there who want to kill me, and I'm just going to have to keep running away or fighting until they stop, or I get killed, whichever comes first."  He didn't want to argue about this.  It didn't really matter, although he couldn't tell her that.  "We can talk about it.  It'll be one of the things we'll need to work out."

"Saint...."  She sighed, resting her free hand momentarily on his.  "Jack.  I really don't want to get pulled into the shadows with you.  I've had to deal with you dying once.  I don't think I could stand constantly waiting to hear the news, never knowing."

"If I die, there won't be anyone to protect you.  Or Rebecca."  Saint saw her begin to bridle at the thought of 'protection,' and hastily amended his words.  "Rache, I'm absolutely serious when I say it's dangerous.  Please.  Just for a while.  Will you take the new identity and travel with Rebecca while she's getting better?  I'll join you as soon as I can.  It'll just be temporary, until we're sure A- the corporation hasn't found out about us."

"And if they have?"

"It'll be longer than temporary."

She sighed.

"I need time to think about it."

"Not much time.  Please."

"I'll call you tomorrow, all right?"

"All right."  He let go of her hand.  "But be careful, all right?"

"I'm always careful," she said, with a crooked smile. "You're the one who died."

Saint stood, unable to answer.  Oh God, he thought to himself with a chill, watching as she picked up the cups and took them to the kitchen.  Maybe Arhill was right.  There's something incredibly cruel about this.  When I die this second time, for real....

All of the sudden death seemed even harder than it did before.  Yes, Arhill was right.  The spirits of the upper planes had a twisted sense of humor.

"I'll call you tomorrow," Rachael repeated, walking him to the door.  She seemed a little uncertain, glancing up at him.  Saint wished he knew what she was thinking.  "Okay?"

"Okay."  He stopped in the doorway, looking intently at her.  Was he going to die on the way home?  He needed to fix her face in his mind.

"What is it?"

"Nothing."  Ouch.  Try again.  "I do love you, you know."  Before she could realize what he was doing, Saint leaned forward and gave her a fleeting, brushing kiss.  Wired reflexes.  She didn't have time to react.  He wanted to do that, at least, just in case he did die tonight.  "Take care of yourself."

"You too, Saint," she said, frowning slightly as she watched him step outside, disturbed by something in his manner.  He waved slightly, then pulled up his collar and began to walk down the street, hearing the door shut and the locks click behind him.

Well, this is it, he thought, feeling strangely at peace.  I really am living on borrowed time, now.

He pulled out his bloodstained handkerchief as he walked back toward home, looking for a place to shapechange.