Chapter Text
Gwen barely serves half of her sentence, in the end.
The world is more preoccupied with the zombie hordes ravaging the Americas than the lowly criminals rotting away in Europe’s jails, so she keeps her head down, does her time, and when the time rolls around for her parole hearing, there’s no one there to speak against her and her very expensive lawyers. Interpol is preoccupied with the inter-agency task force focusing on protecting the borders from the infected, so that keeps Delacroix away, and it’s not like the release of a jewel thief gets more than a few column inches when Vancouver is getting overrun by the undead.
“Time to go, Miss Starr,” Guard Keller says on a grizzly Thursday morning, looking as bored as she always does.
Gwen stands, flexes out her fingers, and flashes the guard a smile. “Thank you,” she says, because it never hurts to be polite.
Keller’s expression doesn’t change, and she gestures sharply towards the door.
Gwen swaps her prison uniform for the clothes she was wearing when she was brought here, getting changed in a tiny, cramped room behind the visiting room. After all this time in trainers and jumpsuits, actual clothes feel strange against her skin. She pulls them on slowly, savouring the sensation, the softness of the wool, the smooth ripple of the silk.
The black suit she was sentenced in. A white blouse that’s now crumpled and a little musty. Flat shoes, scuffed at the toes. A coat with a rip in the hem that definitely wasn’t there when she handed it over on the way in.
Then again, that was years ago, now. Maybe her memory isn’t quite as sharp as it once was.
“Hope you enjoyed your stay, Gwennie!” Guard Dupont quips, a cruel smile twisting her lips. “Come back anytime. We’ll keep your space open for you!”
Gwen doesn’t rise to the jibe, just smiles and nods.
The sky is grey outside, heavy with cloud. A few puddles glimmer on the tarmac, rainbowed with oil from the leaking prison transport. It’s cold, the first bite of Swiss autumn in the air, but not the kind of cold that speaks of Christmas and snow and long, dark nights spent with the people you love. It’s the kind of cold that hangs off your shoulders, that weighs you down, that deadens your senses and saps your will. The car park is dreary, edged with barbed wire. The cars are dull and lifeless.
It’s the most beautiful fucking thing Gwen’s ever seen.
The doors to the prison close behind her with a soft thud.
Gwen closes her eyes, breathes in fresh air, bitter with petrol and sharp with roadsalt. A faint breeze rustles her hair, tugs at the lapels of her coat, the collar of her blouse, and she’s not dressed for this weather, no, she was sentenced in May, she’s not dressed for October.
She breathes, head falling back, and feels tears pricking at the backs of her eyes.
Eight years.
“Gwen.”
Eight years is a long time, but Gwen would recognise that voice anywhere.
She opens her eyes, all the breath sucked out of her lungs, and feels her heart shatter in her chest when she sees him, curly blond hair, bright eyes, tall and lanky and padding towards her across the tarmac in an awkward half-run, half-walk, his grin unsteady, his lips pink, his cheeks flushed with the cold.
“Sebastian,” she says, the name punched from her gut, and he comes to a halt barely a foot away from her.
Sebastian blinks at her, then his lips twist in a rueful smile. “ ‘Sebastian’,” he echoes, shakes his head. “Yes, Sebastian. Hello, Gwen.” He pauses, gazes at her with the softness she remembers, the softness that she has remembered in the dark of the night on so many dark, dark nights. “I know that you said that you would find me,” Sebastian says, his words all coming out in a rush, “but in fact it seemed more expedient for me to find you. Given that you have, well, been in the same place for quite some time now.” His smile slips, just for a moment. “And I have been in many different places. Many, many different places.”
“You came to meet me,” Gwen says, a little obvious, a little stupid. “You came here. To meet me.”
“I did,” Sebastian says, brimming with emotion. “Of course I did, Gwen.”
And there it is, swelling between them again, that connection, that bond.
Contrary to what anyone might believe, Gwen hasn’t spent the last eight years pining after Sebastian Schlencht-Wöhnert. She hasn’t written lengthy journal entries about him in the margins of the books in the prison library, hasn’t composed poems in her head about him during yard time, hasn’t doodled his name in the mashed potato they served in the cafeteria. For one thing, she’s really not sure it would have fitted. She’s not a child, and really she didn’t even know what would happen when she got out, didn’t know who he would be, didn’t know who she would be.
Eight years is a long time.
But here he is. And she has missed him.
Gwen reaches up, her heart brimming over in her chest, cups his cheek, his skin cool beneath her palm, leans in.
Something unfamiliar flashes in Sebastian’s eyes. He catches her hand, steps back. “Ah, Gwen, there is someone you need to meet,” he says, squeezing her fingers, letting her go. “And there are many things I need to tell you.”
Humiliation darts through Gwen’s heart. She balls her fingers, drops her hand, tearing her wrist from his grasp. “Of course,” she says, forcing a smile she doesn’t feel. “Yes, of course.” She hesitates, looks up at him, sees the joy and the yearning and the trepidation in his expression. It’s like he’s lost, too. Like he’s hurting just as much as she is.
Sebastian clears his throat, frowns, then sighs. “Come on,” he says. “It is cold, and we have a hotel room for you that is rather nicer than this… place.” He looks up at the hulking prison behind her with distaste, a grimace twitching his lips. “Yes, definitely nicer.”
Eight years. Gwen can’t expect everything to be the same after eight years. “Is there a minibar?” she asks, smiling as much as she can manage because it’s not his fault, it’s not his fault that he’s different and she’s not. “I’ve not had a damn drink in eight years. I’d kill for a mojito.”
He grins at her, beamingly wide. “There is a minibar,” he says, nodding. “There is also an excellent bar bar where they will make you anything you ask for. It is an excellent hotel, and I think you will like it.”
“Does it have a double bed?” Gwen asks. “And a room that I don’t have to share with Sylvia Allendorf?”
“I do not know who Sylvia Allendorf is,” Sebastian answers, his voice softer, “but I am ninety-nine point nine percent sure that you will never have to share a room with her ever again.”
Gwen arches an eyebrow. “What about that point zero one percent chance?”
Sebastian shrugs. “Nothing is ever certain,” he says, cocking his head. “No matter how impossible the situation seems, there is always a chance, slim though it might be.” He smiles, a strange, hollow expression. “But that is a story for another day.” He pauses, hesitates, and all of a sudden Gwen can feel the gulf between them so keenly it hurts.
His life has gone on. Hers has been stopped for so long that she barely remembers how to start it again.
She takes a breath. “So,” she says, breaking the silence, offering an olive branch. “Tell me, Sebastian. Who is this person I need to meet?”
“Ah, yes,” Sebastian says. “Well, in fact—and I now realise this is a bit strange, although I was nervous this morning so did not really think about it that much, which may have been a mistake—well, actually he is here now.” He clarifies. “Well, not right here, he is not hiding behind me. For one thing, he would not fit. No, he is in the car. He is waiting in the car.” He grimaces a little. It’s almost endearing. “I believe he wanted to give us some space to talk, but, you know, the front of a prison is not exactly the best place for an in depth conversation.”
“No, I don’t think it is,” Gwen says, then studies him, frowning. “You said ‘he’?”
Sebastian blinks. “Yes, I said ‘he’,” he confirms, nonplussed.
Gwen isn’t quite sure how to phrase this. “I thought…” she says, then trails off, steels herself. “I got the impression,” she says, slower, “that this person you wanted me to meet was… a romantic partner?” Humiliation stains the back of her throat, bitter and hurting. “Because you didn’t kiss me,” she says, her voice flatter than she meant it to be. “That seemed to be the subtext there.”
Sebastian’s face is very, very still. “That is correct,” he says, careful and rather stiff. “He is my romantic partner. Is that a problem?”
Gwen realises what he’s asking in a second. “No,” she says, shaking her head, and Sebastian’s expression lightens. “No, of course not. I’m just… surprised, I suppose. You never mentioned…” She trails off again, the ingrained urge to be polite leaving her at something of a loss.
“Being attracted to men?” Sebastian asks with his customary bluntness. “No, I suppose I did not.” He smiles, the expression lopsided. “But, then again, it is not as if we really spent much time together, did we? And I had other things on my mind at the time.”
“The Ring Cycle,” Gwen says, nodding. “Your descent into criminality. Double-crosses and betrayals.”
Sebastian’s gaze is heavy and yearning. “And you,” he whispers.
Silence hangs between them for a cold, October moment.
“Please,” Sebastian says eventually, his smile small but genuine, and he gestures across the chill expanse of the car park. “This way.”
The car he leads Gwen to is sleek and elegant, a classic dark maroon finish that gleams less dully than the other cars parked around it. There’s music coming from inside, what sounds like smooth jazz, and when she glances sideways at Sebastian, she sees a tiny, unconscious smile curling his lips. He strides ahead of her, opens the passenger door, leans down and says something she doesn’t quite catch.
The man who unfolds himself from the driver’s side isn’t what Gwen expects. She doesn’t really know what she was expecting, if she’s honest, but she has an image in her mind of, well, someone rather like Sebastian. Gangly and awkward. A bit clumsy, fairly uncoordinated. Sweet and affectionate, his emotions written all over his face. This man…
Well, this man is certainly not that.
He’s broad, shoulders square and bulging biceps barely contained within his clearly expensive cashmere jumper. His beard is neatly trimmed, his edges are perfect, and his eyes are full of a warmth that Gwen doesn’t really know what to do with. He’s very handsome. He’s not the kind of man she would have pictured Sebastian falling in love with. “Hi,” the man says, voice deep, American accent thick like honey. He comes around the bonnet of the car, extends his hand to her. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“And I have heard absolutely nothing about you,” Gwen answers, taking his hand, shaking it once. His grip is firm, his handshake responsive, and she thinks that his fingers squeeze around hers ever so slightly before he lets go. “But I suppose that isn’t that surprising, given the circumstances.”
“Gwen, this is Mr Vanderohe,” Sebastian says, hovering to the side of them, more than a little awkward. “Mr Vanderohe, this is Gwen.”
“Call me Van,” the man whose name is apparently Vanderohe says, his lips twisting in a faint grin. “Deet’s the only one who calls me Mr Goddamn Vanderohe, and I’ve been trying to get him to switch it up a bit for nearly two years, now. It’s a bit of a mouthful.”
“There is a ready alternative,” Sebastian interjects, “but you are too afraid of Miss Peters’ reaction to let me use it.”
Vanderohe shoots Sebastian—who he just called Deet?—a glare. “You saw the fucking Christmas card she sent us,” he says. “That woman has a messed up sense of humour.” He turns back to Gwen, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he smiles. “But I think that’s a bit beside the point right now,” he says. “Nice to meet you, Gwen.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Van,” Gwen echoes. She has so many fucking questions right now, but all of a sudden she’s just overwhelmed. This is too much, too fast. Her heart is bitten to the quick with all the emotions she’s been doing her best not to feel for eight bloody years. “If you two are done arguing,” she says, arching an eyebrow, retreating into poise and composure, “might I suggest that we get out of here? I would really quite like to put as much distance as possible between me and this… place.”
“Yeah, I can imagine you would,” Vanderohe says, his voice a little gentler. He turns, opens the back door of the car, gestures her inside. “Take a seat. It’s a fair way back to Lucerne, but there’s a blanket and a travel pillow in there if you want to get comfy, catch a few zees.” He offers her a smile that’s almost sly. “I’m driving, so you don’t have to worry that Deet’s gonna drive you off a cliff.”
“Mr Vanderohe, I heard that!” Sebastian protests.
“I believe you were meant to,” Gwen says, offering Vanderohe a small smile in return. She ducks into the car, sinks into butter-soft leather and delicate stitching. Deet? she thinks, confused. Like the insect repellent? – and then says, “Thank you, Van.”
“You’re welcome,” Vanderohe says, nods to her, and closes the door.
The sound is deadened inside the car, high-quality soundproofing doing its job impeccably, and it’s warm, too, the heaters running on full blast. Gwen watches, her hands clenched in her lap, as outside the car Vanderohe turns to Sebastian, says something she can’t make out. Sebastian wavers for a moment, his lips twisting in an expression of unmistakeable unhappiness, and then he slips into the front passenger seat, looks back over his shoulder and tries to smile at her.
She tries to smile back.
Vanderohe gets in. “Alright, folks,” he says, all charm and cool. “Buckle up. It’s a long drive, and no, Deeter, you’re not allowed to pick the music this time. I’m not listening to another four hours of Ed Sheeran.”
Deet is short for Deeter? Gwen thinks, snapping her seatbelt into its buckle. What an odd nickname. – and then, as the engine starts with a purr, as Sebastian bickers with his American boyfriend, as the grey sameness of the prison slips away into her past, she thinks, Not Deeter. Dieter.
Ludwig Dieter.
The name he gave himself.
The name she gave him.
All of a sudden, Gwen can’t quite catch her breath.