He was such a jackass. No, he was more than a jackass, he was a pathetic fool, the one cold-hearted bastard that nobody wanted around unless they're the president.

Graves sighed, he had been looking for Medea all over the damn place, he had gotten himself lost in the large place and had somehow ended up on the roof of the building. The director growled as he continued to look around, panting as he went into every room he could, bumping into aurors and even heading into the bathing chambers where the women were.

That they have bathing chambers is was something that Graves could never understoond .But that's not important, what IS important at the moment is finding out where his hunter could possibly be and checking to see if she was safe or alright.

'She better not be with that damned Italian asshole or so help me god.' Graves thought bitterly as he ran, it had gotten dark; the stars in the cloudless sky began to shine as the air became more chilled. Graves hoped that Medea did not go out into the market place, who knew what would have happened to her. And if anyone did anything to her he would make their lives miserable.

He had lost the hunter once, and he was not about to let it happen again.

Graves passed by the secretary of the President, who squealed at the sight of him but sent him a confused look when he just passed her by fast. Graves would have rolled his eyes and continued running, but he really wanted to find Medea, so he stopped and turned towards the girl, staring intensely at her.

"You there! Where is Ace?" He asked in his usual tone of voice.

She just stood there, staring back at him in slight confusion, as if trying to comprehend what the other had said. Mentally face-palming himself, Graves sighed and rolled his eyes. "Medea. Where is Medea Ace? Medea." He began, trying to dumb down what he was saying. She stared at him with a smile.

"Medea?" She asked. This time, Graves actually face palmed himself, god some women could be so stupid at times. She simply sighed and nodded.

"Yes, Medea. Where."

This time Graves was pleased that the woman had actually understood him, she made a soft 'Oh' sound, before frowning sadly and shrugging her shoulders, shaking her head. He sighed in frustration and just turned, leaving the girl behind to go search for Medea, hoping to find her.

Alone.

Without that bastard Stark.

As he ran, he went into an open area that looked much like a garden. The cool breeze was welcoming to him; he was sweating due to all the running, looking for his little hunter. As he sighed, the exhausted male began to walk around said garden, his boots feeling the grassy area underneath. The garden was comforting and calming, something he was in desperate need of at the moment. Heaving yet another sigh in sadness and loneliness, the director continued walking about, feeling bad for the first time in a long time. He had never intended for Medea to cry, he didn't even expect himself to talk her in such a bad way, and now look what he had done, he had made the one person he has ever had a romantic interest for cry and possibly hate him for life.

Graves knows that something is terribly wrong even while Newt and President walk toeard him. He can read it in the posture of her shoulders and the stiffness in her scarce movements.

H can't see her face but all color has drained from Newt's face and his mouth looks very small. He can see that hhis hands are shaking as they stop in front of him.

"Miss President, Mr Scamander?" He asks, wiping his palms against his thighs.

The woman wrings her hands and stares at her fingers, slowly shaking her head.

Graves' breathing quickens and he swallows.

". What happened?" His voice sounds hollow and dull.

She raises her head and locks eyes with him. Clenching her fists, she takes a deep breath before she speaks.

"Medea is gone, Director."


She came to slowly; her head pounding and groggy. A groan tore past her lips and she panted heavily, her eyes opening just enough to take a peek at her surroundings.

It was dark; the hard floor beneath her her first clue that she definitely wasn't in her own bed. Despite the nearly pitch black, she was aware of the small space. There wasn't enough light for her to see just how diminutive the room was, but she could feel the walls closing in around her. The nauseating smell was the next thing she became aware of, that of dank earth, sewage and something akin to rotting meat. The scent flooded her senses, making her stomach scream in protest while provoking her impending headache into a full-blown migraine. She groaned again and allowed her head to fall back against the dirt floor.

A sudden sequence of images flashed through her mind, though none of them distinguishable and her eyes fluttered shut at the on slot of pain they caused. Despite the physical reaction, she struggled to remember where she was and how she'd come to be there, but her memory remained a blank slate. Her brow furrowed at this realization and she frowned.

She couldn't remember anything past that morning. A hazy memory of getting ready for work claimed its rightful place, though that was as far as she got. Why the hell couldn't she remember?

Irritation settled over her then, and her eyes reopened to the darkened room. With a pained grunt, she pushed herself into a sitting position, her forehead creasing at the effort. Ignoring the wave of dizziness, she tested each of her limbs, relieved to find nothing broken or otherwise injured. Instinctively her left hand went to her head, and she winced as her fingers combed over something wet and sticky. Blood. Although not an inordinate amount, it was her own and suddenly the headache, dizzy spells and memory loss had reason.

Refocusing, her gaze swept over her surroundings. From what she could tell, there wasn't anything else in the room with her, save for the dirty blanket she sat on. Even more perplexing was that there didn't appear to be a way in. Or out, for that matter.

The slight poke of panic introduced itself to her gut, though she quickly squelched it. She was a cop; trained to be ready for any situation that might arise and she wasn't about to abandon that knowledge now. At least not until she knew exactly what she was facing and how she was going to get herself out of it.

With a huff of determination she rose to her knees, giving herself a moment's pause before she lumbered to her feet. She swayed from the movement and reached out to steady herself using the wall behind her. In doing so her foot got caught up in the blanket and sent her back down. She landed on her behind with a loud thud, and began coughing at the cloud of dust she'd kicked up. Her head throbbed and she couldn't hold in the moan as the blinding light of pain raced through her.

Clenching her teeth, she pushed aside her aches and climbed to her feet again. This time she remained standing and managed a smile at the victory. Unconsciously her hand fell to her waist in search of her gun. She was more than surprised when her fingers closed over the cool metal, not expecting to still be armed.

Her hopes rose but quickly fell as she removed the weapon from its holster only to find it void of any ammunition. A pang of something she refused to acknowledge shot through her and she sighed. She wasn't used to being unarmed in what she perceived to be a dangerous situation and it wasn't a feeling she particularly enjoyed. Still, she didn't reholster the gun; deciding that if worst came to worst, she could use the butt of the gun to do some damage. It was better than nothing.

With the Glock in one hand and the other pressed against the wall, she felt her way around the room with unsteady steps. Her chest tightened when her hand came in contact with something steel; the contrast to the dirt wall startling. Blindly she ran her hands over it, searching for some indication she could escape when she brushed against the unmistakable shape of a doorknob.

Tightening her hold on the gun, she took a deep breath and tried her luck. The round object turned easily under the pressure and she cautiously pushed the door open only to find herself staring into a pair of unfamiliar eyes, red with anger and animosity.

"Hello, Medea."

Shit.


"What do you mean she is gone?" Graves screams as he pins Newt on the wall with a help from his magic.

"Sir"

"Percival calm down"

"She is not at home" Newt wails trying to get Graves to let go.

"Then where is she!" Graves snarls furious, his eyes glowing white.

"Where the fuck is she?" Graves asks, eyes burning white, his magic making the room turn chilly.

Everyone in the room turning face Graves and Graves is sure if he could smell their emotions he would smell fear. In its purest form. The panic in the Aurors eyes telling a lot to the director.

"He found blood on the floor" A calm voice said behind him and he turned around, narrowing his eyes at the blonde witch.

'Well, at least he released Newt.' Everyone thought, too shocked to move.

"What?"

Tina and Queenie ran toward Newt glaring at the Director.

"Newt, sweetheart are you OK?!"

Graves pauses a moment to watch as Newt nods, and Tina gives him a smile. It's sweet, and yet it makes Percival's heart ache. He continues down the hall, ignoring the sinking feeling in his chest. It isn't too late for him and Merlin. It can't be. They will find Medea, and Graves will tell him, and they will finally have their chance. Finally.

But she wasn't love him back.

Why?

Was he at fault?

Perhaps he had been too smothering; too distant. Too quiet; too loud.

He had never been in lo before.

He doesn't know if that's an accurate term to describe their relationship, but it would have to do. Someone asked him to describe her to them once, and all he could say was 'bright'.

He meant it, though.

Bright like the way her cerulean eyes would twinkle in the light when she looked at him. Bright like her many smiles; bright in regards to her intelligence, that Seto secretly applauded. Bright when the stage lights focused on her.

She was a light with her voice to guide him.

When he confessed his love for her , had the same look on her face that Graves suspects he has at all times when looking at her. Love and care but also the eyes of Medea was full of fear and hesitation. All the pain, the blood and the fear in her soul ,tt made him wonder just who was pulling Medea's strings and how they'd gotten her to dance.

Even worse was the feeling that they would soon find out and it wouldn't pleasant.

A hand falls on his shoulder, a small squeeze follows.

He looks up and into Giselle's dark brown eyes.

Her eyes are on him, they are soft and understanding but Graves detects a hint of sadness in them.

"I am late? I am soo sorry Giselle I forgat it"

She laughed, but not at all merrily. Athena shook her head, "Bit's ok Percival. After all you have more important things to do. It wouldn't have worked."

"Giselle," his voice broke and eyes watered. He tried to take a step towards her but stopped when she moved away. His eyes looked away in shame.

"How long have felt this way about her?" Graves' heart clenches. He squeezes his eyes shut when he feels tears build up again. He shakes his head, trying to deny it, begging the Italian Auror not to do this now, not here.

"I don't know what you are talking about."

The hand on his shoulder, moves up and down, rubbing his shoulder slowly. "Percival."

She sighs beside him, dropping her hand from his shoulder and then walks away.

He knew it would happen. He should feel more pain than he does at that moment.

Something rolls up before him and knees' come into view. He looks up and see's Giselle sitting there. She swallows thickly, taking in a deep breath as she reaches for his free hand, taking it into her. Graves look at their hands feels how her skin feels against his. He waits for the excitement that he always feels when they touch but he finds it gone...

He tries to recall the last time he felt it. He is sure he felt it when they started their relationship, it was the first thing he remembers. But when did it stop?

"Percival" She starts. "I'm not blind, okay? I can see the way you look at her and right now, need your friend. This hurts but me know we can't be together, not after this, and night I'm going to be crying my eyes out but I need to say this, for both my sake and yours."

He stares at her. He can see the tears she is trying so hard to hold in and he wants her to stop. He didn't want to hurt her, he never wanted to be a reason that caused her pain. He never wanted it to end like this- with tears and pain.

"Love doesn't come easy. We both know that. We also know that when you find someone you love, you grab onto them, you grab onto that love and you never let go. You love her, Graves. You love medea and you need to find her. ."

Graves opens his mouth but she cuts him off with a small shake of the head.

''She loves you to in her own meanfull way!''

She sniffs, her dark eyes glistering with tears. She stands up, her shoulders set back and her posture strong. She cups his cheek and presses her lips against his temple.

Graves closes his eyes, feeling his heart crack just a bit.

"We are going to find her and you going to tell her how you fell," She finalized.

"Thanks," Graves concluded.


Medea's central objection was that tape hurt like a son of a bitch when it got ripped off, and also, Minoy appeared to have very few hesitations when it came to various torture techniques.

Moran was known to MI6, as was Moriarty. The latter was the true point of interest; Moran was more of a hired gun, without very many of his own decisions. Nevertheless, he had managed to abduct MI6's Quartermaster, and was relatively adamant on keeping him for the foreseeable future.

"My dear beautiful hunter," , as he targeted everything below Medea's waist. Apparently, her hands and arms were still preferably going to be used for killing, which translated to open season on every other part of her body.

Medea wasn't going to do a damn thing Nimoy asked, but it was nice to know that she'd still be able to work when all of this was over.

She was unconscious as much as her body, and Nimoy, would let her. She could taste blood in her mouth, tricking down the back of her throat, and tried to concentrate on that rather than the bruises and various cuts that peppered her thighs and shins and knees and feet.

Medea listened to Minoy calling her beautiful and mine, with the type of passion that made Medea wish for Graves. She was late, she was very fucking late, and she didn't know what to do with herself while she tried to survive the onslaughts of an absolute psychopath.

Well. Psychopath, and true sociopath. Her former lover evidently felt nothing in the way of actual emotion, showed absolutely, disconnected dispassion in every aspect of what he was doing. He, conversely, was utterly psychopathic. He delightedly settled opposite Medea, tone playful as he explained what he wanted, abruptly collapsing into breathtaking anger before soaring back into giggling lightness.

"Now now, little hunter," the man grinned, fingers trailing along Medea's injured thighs in a way that was rife with implication; his voice dropped, dark eyes seeming wholly black as he leaned further in, Nimoy cinching something around her throat, Medea's eyes bulging, seeing nothing but him. "I think we need to talk."

The world started swimming, breath rasping and painful, Medea unable to form words even if she wanted to.

At a gesture, the pressure lifted. Medea sucked in air, head spinning. "Talk to me," Nimoy ordered, grinning, eyes glinting.

"Fuck you" Medea snarled at him. Or tried to. It came out slurred, but she thought the message was clear.

He remove the blood from her cheek.

Leonard Nimoy doesn't like to get his hands dirty.

He likes cleanliness, order. He likes every little lackey in their proper place, every little hair tacked down and accounted for, all his suits pressed just so, and every last factor in his knowledge.

But.

But one little thing he didn't expect to happen, happened: He found her.

On occasion, he does, however, get his hands dirty.

When he has a spy to interrogate, when he has people on his tail (although nobody ever truly gets to him, not quite), or when he personally feels the urge to do a little crime himself (for his own benefit, usually; something to get him something in return, like a precious item or money or publicity). These are examples of times when he does soil his hands a little, if only to live up to his reputation.

After all, he simply cannot make the threats he does without making good on some of them, can he? Why, if he didn't, he wouldn't very well live up the name he's built for himself, would he? And he can't have that. People need to fear him.

But not her.

Sometimes, he fantasizes things going another way.

Kidnapping Medea. Drugging her so she won't know where she's going, won't be able to fight back. Tying her up. Stripping her. When she wakes, leaning up against her, touching her, nibbling her lips, cutting a gentle line down her throat and slowly licking the blood away.

Telling her, "All's fair in love and war, babe; and boy, do I love war. And ours has been such a darling little war, too."

Wouldn't fully rape hrr or beat her, though. It would just be a power-play, a humiliation thing, a demonstration.

To show her who runs this business, and how he's gotten in the way. To prove how easily Leonard could shove Medea out of the way. To prove that he could hurt her. To show that, were they to join forces, this could be a good thing for Medea. This could be something he could enjoy – the plotting of crime; evading the MACUSA, the government; watching all the marionettes dance; being with him – were she e to give into it.

But this fantasy is only a fantasy. edea would never go for it.

She's on the side of the angels, and angels don't cave in to the temptation of the devil. Divine power; they are not mere humans, mere mortals. But they play on opposite ends.

And it's tragic, really, because Nimoy likes Medea. She's the only intellectual equal Nimoy has ever met, because even Gellert is on another level than the pair of hunters .

He put the blade flat against Medea neck, running it over the skin making sure he didn't cut her just yet. The criminal's eyes dark and clearly not bored right now.

"Beg for your life Mefea"

He pulled off the material in her mouth, but the woman stayed quiet, simply just starring at the man threatening her with a pocket knife.

"Nothing? Not one word for the king?"

Leonard jokingly pouts, but once again in that moment br had an idea, out of pure curiosity. Pulling the knife away he grabbed the gun from his pocket, licking his lips and pointed it at her .

"See people find a gun scarier than a knife, which doesn't make sense because I knife hurts way more. I find a knife more fun, messier."

He almost purred at the ideas running through his head.

"Won't beg for your life, what about mine?"

He now pointed the gun at his own head. Leonard's eyes burning into hers's, both hunters knew he'd do it,he had no real passion to live his full life, simply make his mark on the world as an unbeatable criminal that could only ever be defeated by himself. Mesea eventually looked away, she didn't want to see him kill himself once more. This made Leonard laugh loudly.

"Oh, you care about me! How sweet?"

He got very excited about this.

"Beg for it Mefea!"

He grabbed his face with his free hand making him look at him, gun still pointed at his own head.

"Beg for my life!"

She stayed silent, hee eyes saddened by the sight.

"Beg!"

He was growling now, squeezing his cheeks making his lips pop out a little bit, He forcing her to maintain eye contact now.

"BEG FOR MY LIFE!"

"No…"

Finally, she spoke, he grinned and pulled his hand of Medea's cheek and lowered the gun from his own head. They maintained eye contact with the hunter, big wide amused grin on his face. He bit his bottom lip, letting the silence go on for as long as he wanted it too. Neither looking away, neither backing down to this stare down. He decided to take advantage of this situation, he closed the gap and kissed medea with no warning at all.

Medea's eyes widen with shock as sbe felt the criminal's lips against her own.

"I have an idea"