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Part of her expects Bert to know the moment she sees her.
It's instinct, is the thing. In Sam's memories, Bert always knows everything. She knows it's not true, that it's never been true, but she can't shake it anyway, can't shake the trembling in her fingers, the tension in her shoulders, the pit at the bottom of her stomach.
She'll see Sam, and she'll know. She'll stop, and she'll look at her with those sharp, sharp eyes, and she'll know. And then she'll tear her apart, the way she deserves.
It's almost a relief, the perspective of it. A relief, because it would mean no longer having to hold this inside of her chest, no longer needing to breathe around it, like she's struggled to do for a fucking decade. It's that idea that lets her get out of the car, walk towards the prison. It's the end of the charade — the end of ten years of pretending.
Except it isn't.
It isn't, because Bert gets out. She steps up to her, and she stops, and she looks at her.
And then she smiles.
When Bert reaches for her, Sam reaches back. Clings to her, with all her strength; feels her arms around her, solid, and steady, and real. Hides her face, whilst she can.
And when she can't anymore, she smiles back, ignoring the way it cuts at the corners of her mouth.
*
"You're living on the side of a mountain in a goat herder's hut, making tomato moonshine, to… make sure life isn't too easy?"
"Yeah. Suppose I am, yeah."
"Why?"
And isn't that the fucking question.
*
She can do this; the words loop in her head as she drives them to town, a useless litany. Useless, because it doesn't matter, what she can or can't do. She has to do this; has to be there and stare Bert right in the face, like it doesn't hurt, like it doesn't feel like sticking her hand in an open flame.
But then again, Bert's always been a flame she's liked burning herself on a little too much.
*
"You're very zen."
She clenches her fists under the table. Digs her nails into her palms hard enough to feel the sting, to know she's on the edge of drawing blood.
"It's been ten years. People change."
*
"Bet you a euro."
Anger flares, deep and lashing and red hot. Sam clenches her fists, suppresses a snarl, because no. No. Ten years, ten fucking years—
She did what she did for a reason. She did what she did because it was meant to be the end, was meant to stop the madness. A wakeup call, a smashed firealarm before they'd both end up dead. It's why she did it, why she sacrificed everything. It was meant to be over.
But here's Bert, grinning and posturing, with that light in her eyes, and Sam's heartrate picks up, and fuck, fuck. Even without the clusterfuck of everything's that's happened, Sam's never been able to say no to her, and Bert knows it, has never shied away from using it.
It holds truer now than Bert can ever know.
*
"You need to remember who you are."
"I know who I am." Oh, but she knows.
"Yeah." Bert's eyes are so sharp they hurt. Sam holds her breath. "You're no fun anymore."
*
"I want to do one last job with you before I die."
And there it is. There it fucking is, because that's always what this is about, isn't it? One more job, always just one more job, until it'll bring them down, until it'll fucking kill them, until Sam had no choice but to make the call she'll regret as long as she fucking breathes.
It was supposed to be the end, but of course it isn't. It isn't, because here's Bert, fucking dying, and still with that light in her eyes, that smile on her lips.
And here's Sam, traitorous heart racing, anticipation lighting up, until it's all she can do to remind herself — like pressing on a bruise, like sticking her fingers in an open wound. Remind herself what she's done. Remind herself who she is. What she is.
It works. For now.
*
She's barely even surprised when Bert throws herself into the car and tells her to drive.
It's instinct that takes over, her foot on the gas, her hands clutching the wheel, fury flooding her system, mixing with adrenaline until she can't tell them apart. Bert's cheering, with her money and her fucking gun, and Sam's going to have a fucking aneurysm, because she can't do this. She can't, she can't, she can't — how did she ever think that she could?
*
Except there's no hold up — but there is a job. Of course there's a job. It would be bad enough on its own, but then it's Bert, as close to pleading as she ever gets.
"Sam, I don't just need any partner — I need you."
And it's real, and it's earnest, and it's not right, because Bert is so sharp, so far ahead of everyone else, always; but not this time. This time she looks at Sam and she sees her friend and her partner, and fuck, Sam's going to be sick.
She can't do this.
*
There's something almost comfortingly familiar about this: fixing her messes, doing damage control in the wake of the disaster that is Bert. She gets rid of the matador costume, and then she goes for a drink. Then another.
It doesn't help, not really. But then again, what could? What could possibly help, when she is so angry she feels like her skin is too tight, like her lungs are too small? When she's so furious that she can't even tell who she's angry with — Bert, or herself?
She knows what she has to do. Has known from the start. There's no point in trying to fix things after they happen; all she can do is try to forestall disaster before it's too late. And that's all she'd be doing: keeping things together before they can go wrong, because there's no fixing what's already been done. That's all this is. It is. It is.
(It's nothing to do with Bert, so alive despite everything, grinning at her, out of breath, cheeks flushed, their hearts racing in tandem.)
(It's nothing to do with the flutter of adrenaline in her fingers as she worked her knife into the bullring's lock, so impossibly familiar.)
(It's nothing to do with the wind in her hair as she drove them away, the asphalt rushing by underneath them.)
Yeah. Nothing to do with any of that.
She downs another drink. Maybe, in time, she'll start to believe it.
*
"How's that a good deal for me?"
"Because you know you can trust me." The words burn, acid in her mouth, but it's the kind of hurt that feels good, that mixes with the churning, seething anger that she can't shake, that she can feel all the way into her fingertips.
Bert sits back in her chair. Meets her gaze. "Is that so?"
Sam doesn't look down. She lets it hurt, the way it's got to, the way she deserves.
This won't be like last time. This will be the last time.
She'll make sure of that.