ORIGINALLY WRITTEN: June 2024
SUMMARY: Ever since the initial reversal of the conditioning Agent 47 had undergone at the hands of the Institute, he has struggled with the cost of remembering. All the lives he's taken. All the lives he's ruined. Even that of his closest accomplice, who has given him so much without the expectation of anything return; he hates it. He feels guilty. And, unknowingly on the date of her family's death, he apologizes to Diana for everything.
'The gun never wonders whether it is on the side of good or not, son. It merely acts.'
'The gun doesn't remember, doctor.'
'Nor should you. That's not your job. While you're remembering things? Remember what happens when you let them affect you. Remember Minulescu. What happened there because of you.'
—
Flashes of decades' old violence came to 47 in turbulent waves. Would consume him briefly; overtake his senses until he found himself fixated on whatever happened to be before him. Muscles wound tight every time, fists idly clenching and unclenching as he lost himself in the coursing sensations. Lost himself in the increasing frequency of these moments. Ever since 6—Lucas. Ever since Lucas had helped him remember the depths of Providence's reign of terror, he'd been unstable. Emotional.
He was no longer a gun. He was human.
And sharing this new safehouse with Diana certainly did little to help ease him into this new skin of his. There were so many with her alone. All the times their work has pushed and pulled one to their extreme. Her faking his death through a spur of the moment betrayal. Him fulfilling the contract put on her life when she'd saved Victoria from the ICA's clutches—from a fate akin to his own. Her turning on him once more to get him close to the Constant. They had their own secret language, and none of it was a betrayal in the true sense. They always knew. But it was never any of those moments that stuck with 47; that haunted him. Instead, it was the moment neither had control over. A contract both him and Lucas fulfilled; the hit on her parents. The impromptu construction of a remotely detonated bomb, secured comfortably amidst the vehicle's engine. The combustion alone would have set it off, surely, though it was much simpler—much more fun, according to the older of the duo—to press the button themselves. And so they had. Left her behind in a flaming pile of ashen rubble and broken sobs.
Sunshine settled upon rich, reddened strands as the woman found herself working from the comfort of the couch, laptop secured on the nearby end table as she idly typed away. Shone upon her just as it had through the thickets that hung over the rows of gravestones. It caused the agent's breath to catch in his chest. Created pause as he tried to task himself with his usual routine whilst his handler tasked away at whatever it was she found herself up to. The swift unlocking of the door. Silent footsteps traversing down to the basement. Gloved hands finding themselves cusping his weapon of choice as he'd practiced. He didn't need to practice. He was a master of his craft—had been for a long time. It was simply the only way he knew how to pass the time, and time had passed. One hour, then two, then several. When he'd finally found himself wandering back upstairs, the safehouse was quiet as it was prior.
Diana was still at the couch, though it was clear she had found herself occupied with many things. Her laptop was set aside on the table. The common room smelt of toasted bread and sweet jam. The air was humid as he'd passed by the stove to retrieve a glass from the cupboard, then he saw the kettle set aside with discarded tea packs. As he turned to fill the glass from the sink, he saw the handler flipping through... a book? No, it was too big to be one of her normal reads. Soft brows knitted as he studied the glossed pages as they turned. Slender fingers paused as he'd silently entered her peripheral. Sat his glass upon the coffee table before sitting on the cushions just beside her. The album's cover closed with a soft sound, concealing the well-preserved photographs of a family long lost.
"Everything alright, 47? You seem to be deep in thought." Her voice was steady, though quieter than usual. Softened.
And she was right. He had been deep in thought. He was; no amount of distractions could press down the heavy guilt weighing on his conscience. His lips pressed together in a terse frown, vibrant blue eyes unable to lift themselves from the deep grain flooring.
"... I'm sorry, Diana."
The apology did little to dissuade the bubbling feelings that had begun to rise as she reminisced over the photographs. It had been an impromptu inspection, spurred by a quick glance to her weekly calendar and realizing what the date had been. Days had often found themselves blurring together in this line of work, though this time of year had always lulled to a grinding halt. It had been decades now, but it didn't sting any less. Especially upon learning the truth behind that fateful day. So she simply shook her head, attempting to force down those feelings with a little humor.
"For what, 47? You've nothing to apologize for." A coy smile that didn't quite reach her eyes appeared. "Unless you've gotten up to something without my knowing."
"I... remembered an old job. One before the ICA." Hesitation. An odd thing to see from 47. "... Your parents."
Right. She had assumed that was where this conversation was going, even if she desperately wished it weren't true. A part of her always wondered if he remembered what he'd done. Wondered if he'd felt anything if he had recalled the day. Did he regard it as any other job? A simple mission; nothing more, nothing less? Did he view her differently upon realizing that it was her family? Her hands unconsciously moved, filling the silenced air with the subtle shifting of fabric as they slid the album closer. Her arms compensated for the movement, almost cradling the object as if it were living. To her, in a weird way, it were. The last remnants of a past long lost to her. She sighed.
"47, I don't—I don't blame you for that. You were just... it... that was Providence's work. Their contract. Whatever information they fed you, it surely wasn't enough to make a judgment call—"
Covered arms were careful in the way they moved to close the space between them. A calloused hand rested on the other's arm, giving the opportunity for her to withdraw if she'd wished. Yet she didn't. Instead, a gentle hand came to rest on his, inviting the affections. Coaxing him into a slow, warm hug in which he was briefly hesitant to return. Afraid to, as deep down he wasn't quite so sure he wouldn't hurt her. There was no reason for him to, but considering the things he's remembered... He was afraid it was instinct. His nature. Yet, as she always seemed to be, she was not afraid. She welcomed whatever outcome would come to her. Should he end things once and for all, she would not blame him. Should he choose not to, she would not blame him. Still, though, she couldn't help the waterworks as she'd eased against him. As she leaned into his timid hold and allowed her face to rest against his shoulder as emotions came to overtake her, too.
She couldn't help the breathy laugh that revealed her cracking facade. "Damn it, 47. I had no intentions of crying today, you know."
A small smirk. The upward tilt of his tone. "I know."
The moments that passed felt so minuscule in the grand scheme of things. Yet, to them, they were momentous. A sign of the better future that would come; a closing chapter that neither knew they had still needed to see the end of. 47 had began to rub Diana's back as she cried, slow and rhythmically. Soothing.
'This is your gift. Your gift and your curse: Touching lives, only by ending them.' The echoing voice of the Warden breached 47's thoughts. No. That wasn't true. Not anymore. Not in the way he intended it to be.
'This is your gift. Your gift and your curse: Touching lives, only by ending them.'
"47?"
Curious blues found themselves trained on his handler. He didn't say anything, but she knew he was paying attention as she withdrew from their embrace. Brought her own hand to reach and gently touch at his cheek.
"Thank you. I... I forgive you."