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♞ Vash Zwingli was normally not a person that went against protocol or rules. In fact, he was perhaps the best person to have followed protocol. He represented protocol, law, and order. He was the person who stood and protected the rules. He was a dutiful sort of person, and so, what a strange occasion it was for him to break such a mindset. He would break orders for once.

He, and his colleague Donald, was specifically ordered off the investigation, for very specific reasons concerning personal and emotional connections concerning the investigation. And for those specific reasons, he felt even more justified to continue the investigation solo. He didn't exactly discuss the decision with Donald. And anyways, even if Vash did, Vash was pretty certain the two of them weren't going to get along when it came to working together this time around. They saw this from different perspectives and had different reasons for disobeying orders.

They were the first to encounter her and the first to let her go. They simply couldn't tell who it was at the time, but there was a feeling. They both agreed there was a feeling to such an encounter. A feeling that Vash couldn't let go of, a feeling that caused him a reasonable amount of doubt. He encountered her again in the Pub they had first locked lips, though there was a distance in her eyes this time around. She wasn't the same person that had challenged him in the Pub a long whiles ago. She, Aoife Saoirse O'Neill, was dead, and in her place was another woman. One whose mercy was gone, whose allegiance was for another, and who knew no love for one who held a considerable amount of love for her. But remember, Aoife is dead. They told you that a year ago. She had been dead since you parted ways in Paris. That was the last night you had her in your arms.

He had to keep reminding himself of that, hat his only missus was meant to be duty, his mistress honour. Aoife was dead and an order was an order. Ultimately, he decided to forsake orders and go on the pursuit for the one who called herself Angel, perhaps for the hope that Aoife was still somehow there, that she, who was always a fighter, fought and survived. But she made it quite clear she knew nothing of you and she had not a feeling for you.

He went with his investigation solo, perhaps somewhat less clear-headed than usual, a bit more irritable. He went with an emotional force, which drove him unlike anything he was ever hit by before. Perhaps it was the desperation of there being something left to save. He was on the go and found extra time to map movements and sometimes follow the Angel investigation. He had, upon occasion, been able to follow her personally, to stalk her, almost reaching her time and again. She assumed the dark haired, blue eyed persona of Angel often enough, but it was perhaps those moments when she was Caitlin when he felt he was closer to finding Aoife. With hair kissed by fire, eyes green as the Emerald Isle, the only separation was the ice in her eyes, the coldness of her voice. She was now perhaps aware that Vash was following her movements, perhaps even figured this was all on his own initiative, and MI6 wasn't supporting him any longer.

His hunt had lead him to an address: Cadogan Hotel, a place that was almost ironic. Cadogan was scandalous as it was luxurious. It was frequently a place where some of London's cream of the crop would bring their mistresses to — and it was the place where he and Aoife had first made love. From what he had picked up, a woman by the name Caitlin Murphy had checked into Room 715 a few days ago — the very room Vash had spent his romantic rendezvous with Aoife. In this, he hoped perhaps Aoife had left a message to Caitlin. A message that said the memories were still there. Somehow. It was perhaps request unconsciously, but it was significant enough to have a reasonable doubt.

He had decided to climb his way to the room, in hopes she would be there. If she wasn't there, he would drop some cash to stay in a neighboring room. He had worn attire that would blend him in the feel of the hotel — business attire, black tie. The only difference would be the fact that he had a gun hidden on her person. Even if she was Aoife, she was danger, and Vash was still an agent. He had a hope that she wouldn't go on the defensive, that she would be reasonable, though that was asking for much when it came to the fact that he was a threat for pursuing her. Why do you even bother? Didn't you learn to give up after Amelia? Or accept that Aoife is dead? You idiot, you never let your feelings die when she died. You love no one, you greedy bastard. Let's keep it that way.

The elevator doors opened and he released a long, drawn breath. Let's get this over with, shall we? Let her die like she did in the obituary and in the death certificate. Bury her for all you care. He stepped into the elegantly carpeted hallway with uncertainty. He was a man who never faltered, never faltered. Please let this pain end. If you are still somewhere in there, Schätzli, please, please end this pain. Let me let you go. The sign directed him left. He turned the corner, retaining composure, keeping the stoicism he had adopted. His brow fell into the permanent crease (she always commented that he probably should stop with that or face premature wrinkles) as he mentally prepared for finding the door and probably having to break into it (with Iain's patented one-key-fits-all).

715. He saw the door was slightly ajar, and he would not have to abuse his access to MI6 equipment. And so it goes. He opened the door slowly, only to quickly notice the room that they once consummated their relationship was completely trashed. The sheets were strewn about, the vase of flowers had been broken, red roses scattered throughout the room. The phone hung from the chord, and two wine glasses were smashed upon the ground. The window was open, the curtains blowing like a bride's veil with the breeze. He stepped forward, hearing the crunch of the glass beneath his Italian leather. He was silent awhiles.

"Chérie... Ês-tu ici?" he asked, his voice trembling as he said the word he thought he would never said again. He couldn't think in English as he called again. "Ês-tu... Ês-tu ici? Nous etions ici ensemble autrefois, tu te souviens?"

MADE BY VEL OF GS