× tess × ♀ × 27 × czechia × ✨would make love to a genetically engineered emotionally suppressed assassin ✨ inbox open - no promises - @sharpfamily = companion blog with @tea-withjamandbread -- ♥️♥️♥️ "The real Aesop Sharp is the friends we made along the way." - tea-withjamandbread https://www.pillowfort.social/Subject-13
Agent 47 is free - free of Providence, of ICA, free to be himself. It's time for him to learn how to live with that.
Agent 47/Reader
Hullo! So this is not really a ship fic yet, merely the first meeting. But I plan to write follow-up fics. As it stands, this is something of a glance into 47 and his psyche following the fall of Providence. Enjoy!
How Not To Forage (7.5k words)
Agent 47 ran. He felt the cool autumn air lap at his warm skin, heard only his own rapid breaths and the rhythmic falls of his feet against the forest floor.
Truth be told, he wasn’t really an ‘agent’ anymore.
The ICA had been disbanded almost two years ago, by his own hand no less, his and that of Olivia Hall. Thousands of sensitive files, hundreds of contracts and clients, dozens upon dozens of employees - agents, handlers, heavies, analysts - and the only two of them that were able to vanish without a trace were himself and Diana Burnwood.
Right after that whole mess, as well as the sacking of old Arthur Edwards following his sudden bout of absolute amnesia and putting Diana in his place as the Providence’s Constant, 47 thought he was just about done with this sort of life.
—
He had to lay low for a while, obviously so, but for the very first time in his life, he actually didn’t mind being a bit idle.
Diana had been very smart - though that hardly surprised him after more than two decades of the two of them working together.
Mere days after he had dispatched of Edwards, he received an unmarked envelope, brought to him by a very bored looking employee of the hostel in a small Romanian town where he’d taken refuge after making his way off that train. He barely managed to cough up enough money for the hostel, but since he managed to fix their TV and do some maintenance on the leaky plumbing, the owner allowed him to stay a few days.
In the envelope, there was a mobile phone, one that he recognised as a similar model that Diana would use - a hundred times more secure than anything a civilian would get in an electronics shop. He wasn’t surprised when he found there an encrypted file with the instructions on how to gain access into a new banking account, one with enough money to set him up for a long time. The rest of his life, really, however long it would be.
That same day, he fully paid the hostel’s owner for his stay (with a little extra as a means of thanks), bought himself a train ticket, and left the town behind.
With his finances back, the former agent took the now infinite amount of free time he had, and used it in a way he hadn’t had the chance to do before. Travel without a target waiting for him at his destination. Do some sightseeing without any documents to pilfer from a restricted area. Sleep with the knowledge that there’s no job waiting for him the next day.
In a way, it was unsettling. The longest he’s ever been out of a job like this was twenty years ago, when he spent long, quiet afternoons tending to the tomatoes in Sicily, only occasionally disrupted by padre Vittorio and his kind words. And this time, there was no hard work every day nor a friendly priest to get his mind off things. Not to mention he had way more things to think about now than back then.
He didn’t stay completely idle, of course.
Humans were creatures of habit, and, as it would seem, he was one of them too.
He remained active like he’d always been. Each day he’d hone both his body and his mind, keeping up with the discipline that was imprinted into him since he was a small child - stuck among others like him and ruled over by a sick bastard who’d call them his sons, but treat them like lab rats.
His days began with a shower, a long, fast paced run around wherever he was staying at the moment, then breakfast. Some days he mostly just exercised his body, others he made use of some shooting range he’d looked up the day before. Not only shooting, but also weapon maintenance, dismantling and reassembling, cleaning.
He had to admit, a part of him did miss his Silverballers - flawlessly crafted, expertly maintained, effective without fail - many of the weapons he came into contact with at the public ranges had their little kinks caused by misuse and less than perfect maintenance, and they simply didn’t feel quite as right in his hand as his iconic firearms.
He wasn’t certain whether he’d ever use them again. As far as he knew, ICA was truly and well gone, and he wasn’t exactly lining up to fall in with yet another employer just yet.
Still, it didn't hurt to keep himself in the most optimal shape in the meantime.
In terms of his mind, well, he’d indulge in some recreational espionage...
It was yet another thing he’d simply do to make sure his skills stayed in perfect shape. Every now and then, he’d sneak someplace, listen in on some conversations, mind the small details he’d see around him, make up little profiles on the people he’d meet in his head. Not that he ever did anything with his information, not that he’d even write it down or get back to it ever again, after he was happy with the amount of things he learned. It wasn’t really anything to mention in the first place. Some extramarital affairs, some cosmetic surgeries kept secret, a petty theft here, a little tourist scam there. Nothing that would really concern him beyond a subtle rise of his eyebrow, and even that was a rare occurrence.
Until one day.
He, frankly, didn’t expect one of his little bouts of recreational sleuthing to lead him straight into the rabbit hole it did.
It was a rather beautiful day in Thailand, warm but not hot and humid, and he just finished yet another set at this small public outdoor gym. It was nicely tucked away at a shady corner of a park, and other than him, an elderly gentleman using one of the less strenuous devices, and a young lady jogger who’d he see pass by every now and then, there was truly nobody around.
47 wiped at the very light film of sweat on his brow and took several deep sips of cold water from his bottle. His heartbeat and breathing slowed down within only a few seconds, and he was yet to feel even a hint of fatigue following his workout. His eyes smoothly slid over the area around him.
Just as he turned to place his bottle back on the ground and start another set, however, he caught a glimpse of something that made him pause.
He could just see where the park ended and the streets of the city began, and from his position, he was able to see a dark little alleyway. Two men stood on each side, and from their demeanor, 47 could tell they were making sure there weren’t any passersbies for whatever reason interested in going through the alleyway, their hands out of sight in their pockets, but most likely concealing weapons. They didn’t look nervous, nor did they look like they were in any great haste to have whatever was going on in that alley concluded swiftly. In fact, from what 47 could see, given he was quite a distance away from them, they looked very nearly bored.
47’s eyes searched in-between them, trying to distinguish just what were the two thugs protecting. He was expecting a drug deal, in most likelihood. That or some other illegal merchandise being handed over.
But instead, it turned out to be a young woman who was in the midst of getting dragged somewhere by a third man, one whom he hadn’t seen before. And she wasn’t happy about it at all, arms flailing about in an alarmed manner, feet trying to brace against the ground in an effort to get her footing back and flee.
The former ICA assassin stood rooted to the spot, considering what he should do.
It truly wasn’t any of his business. There was no contract, nor was there any revenge to be had. And 47 has never perceived himself as a vigilante. Not really, not even despite the fact that Diana handpicked every contract she ever sent his way and ensured that those whom he slayed were dragons rather than innocents who invited the wrath of the wrong people. Even Providence was more about revenge than anything else. Revenge for his very creation. Revenge for what they did to Lucas and him. And what they forced them to do to Diana.
He should’ve walked away. Should have picked up his bottle, and gone back to the hotel he was currently staying at.
Instead, he walked forward.
—
His body was built to overcome extreme conditions with ease, be these conditions tied to combat, survival, stress, or even something as mundane as weather.
And yet, 47 did feel a second or two during which gooseflesh formed on his skin, though it was hidden by several layers of clothing, as he stepped out into the snowy forest, his breath visible before him.
He had done a lot of thinking in the past few days.
—
What happened in Thailand started more as a moment of curiosity than anything else. Maybe there was a twinge of longing for justice in the feeling, but 47 didn’t let himself really notice it too much. After the distressed girl was free to run, hopefully as far as possible, and her assailant groaning into the dust on the ground and spitting teeth, 47 asked questions. What he honestly expected to find was nothing more than a gang of local goons, who probably ran a small ring of prostitution, maybe drugs.
What he ended up finding instead was a syndicate that operated all throughout and outside the city, one that was spreading its filthy tentacles even deeper into the country.
It was then that the figurative wool was pulled from his eyes.
47 couldn’t say he expected the fall of Providence to be the thing that would change the world for the better. It was, in a way, but he supposed he should have been more of a realist. Just because Providence was not the top dog anymore didn’t mean there weren’t any lesser players, groups of people who were now free to try and claim some of the power left behind by the organization.
He thought about Lucas… his brother. For Lucas, Providence had been about revenge - and he never pretended that it was anything else on his part. Indeed, Lucas Grey had, in his play, employed people who were not much more than terrorists. Criminals. The sort of people 47 would be hired to get rid off. And hired he was indeed.
When it came to Diana, 47 wasn’t so sure. She must’ve craved for some sort of revenge as well, he supposed. For her parents. Her little brother. Her very childhood. And yet, a part of him knew that, unlike Lucas, revenge wasn’t her only motivator. There were two more; her own want for justice, and, in an equal measure, 47 himself. And where this realisation might’ve, previously, unsettled him, perhaps even prompt him to ask her just when she became quite so sentimental, now he had to admit, even if only to himself, that he was rather grateful for that. For her affection, her loyalty, even when he felt he deserved neither.
And the realisation he came to was that the lot of them all sacrificed a lot to reach their goal. Diana and he sacrificed their future with the ICA, the one constant both of them knew for decades. Olivia sacrificed her safety in her efforts to aid them. Lucas, he sacrificed his very life.
And to make all these sacrifices to take down one bogeyman, just to let another one take its place didn’t sit right with 47…
A few days after his afternoon at the park, 47 watched the television in his hotel room. Footage showing a nasty fire of some warehouse building was playing, while one of the news anchors reported the freak accident. Several lives lost after a building caught fire due to faulty wiring, no foul play suspected.
The girl he saw in that alley that day was safe, and on her way away from all this.
And so was he - the next day, 47 was sitting on a plane.
—
He followed the signal his phone was leading him towards, his boots leaving deep imprints in the pristine Norwegian snow, his breath turning into mist with every exhale. The forest around him felt tranquil, the quiet only occasionally disrupted by the rustle of snow falling to the ground from the trees, the rhythmic drumming of a woodpecker’s beak against a trunk, and, of course, his own footsteps.
47 was near certain the pointing arrows on the display of his phone would not lead him to Diana herself - it was difficult for him to imagine her staying cooped up in the middle of nowhere like this for a month, much less whole year - but he was completely sure he’d find a way to get in touch with her.
The GPS pointer had been pre-installed into the phone itself, and he, out of curiosity, turned it on the very day he received that unmarked envelope. Diana could have, just as easily, put her direct contact information into the phone. Instead, she gave 47 a choice - he could seek her out, if he so wanted, but he could also, just as easily, never open the app ever again. If 47 chose to, he was allowed to forget everything and start anew.
The former agent exhaled in a huff of fog and inwardly shook his head.
It did take him a year, but as he made his way to where the point was pointing him, he found himself glad for the choice. For the very ability to make it.
Because now, as the small, seemingly abandoned cabin came into his view and the phone in his hand gently beeped to signal that he’s reached his destination, he found himself not only content, but also mildly excited.
It was good to be back.
—
However odd it was to not live constantly on the move, for his belongings not to be limited to whatever he was able to fit into a suitcase, to come back to the same place after a finished job, what was even more odd was how quickly 47 adapted to it.
The house was brand new, constructed in a very timely, efficient, and secure manner. It was majorly thanks to Diana, who knew a company that would, for a sufficient amount of money, ask no questions and tell no tales. Hidden away, isolated, secure, pretty much self-sufficient, and enveloped by the peace and quiet of central European woods, whereas his previous (and now current) occupation often led him to metropolitan areas where he was surrounded by people.
Having the option to return somewhere quiet and safe like this, it was a respite 47 didn’t ever think he’d appreciate this much.
Most of the rooms were still more bubble-wrap and boxes than furniture, but he didn’t really mind, because when he did have some free time and the willingness to go fetch himself something new to fill all the space with, he found a strange kind of contentment settle over him. The items he chose, be they as small and simple as a house plant, or as large as the leather sofa he was still unsure as to how he managed to get it out of the car and all the way up the stairs and into the room he deemed to be an office, were all special to him in the way that it was he who chose them. Because they appealed to him. Because he took a look at them and decided that they are something he wanted in his living space.
For a man who was now living two lives rather than just the one of a tool, a living weapon with no real home, 47 felt rather comfortable with how things were.
It was good working with Diana again - there was comfort in hearing her voice in his ear as she described the leader of whatever crime syndicate they were in the midst of currently disbanding. This time around, when he was able to, he actually found himself replying to her occasional quips.
His working days were, as always, filled with disguises, the thrill of the chase, the inspiration where a wonderfully complex scheme presented itself to him, and the quiet satisfaction when his plan worked out exactly as he envisioned. The feeling of accomplishment when an entire net of crime syndicates lay untangled and scorched at their feet.
And, at the house, his pristine suits and bespoke sets of garments got replaced by items a bit more suited for the… homely environment. Having two full walk-in closets allowed him plenty of space for both home and work clothes without having to sacrifice either.
And as he sat down at the large table in the open plan living-dining area, in front of him a plate of food he prepared only for himself, rather than for someone to whom he’d be slipping whatever poison was needed for the given occasion, he found himself thinking about Grey again.
“Maybe it’s time to think about the future. You have to face the possibility that there’s no going back,” Lucas told him back in Dubai, after Stuyvesant and Ingram were dead, and this time for real. It felt like a lifetime ago. And, in a way, he had been right. There really was no going back, especially not to the ICA, nor, fully at least, to the life he had led before the mindwipe serum antidote. Before he and Lucas reunited. Before Paris, even. There was no going back to what he himself was like before all this.
“Who will you be without a score to settle?” were among the last words 47 ever said to him in return, in Dartmoor, mere hours before he laid his life for 47. Lucas knew the younger man was ready to start firing at the Cicada soldiers, though it’d be a suicide, so he made sure 47 wouldn’t have a reason to. And after that there truly was no going back.
And yet, as he sat there, in the clean house, a place he could see himself even calling a home, perhaps he should have given that same question to himself back then as well. Because who was he now, really? He felt the same, yet oddly different. Like he’s always been who he was now, the parts of himself he was now aware merely hidden away under Ort-Meyer’s conditioning and his serums.
He wondered if this was the future his brother had in mind for him.
But he was certain he’d be glad 47 had the privilege of choice.
—
Agent 47 ran.
The uneven terrain of the forest floor was a welcome added challenge, and, though he’d never utter a word of it to anyone, the first few times he went for these sprints through the woods around his house, especially if it was still a bit dark in the morning, he did hit the occasional root with a foot, which caused him a bit of a stumble. Now however, months after choosing this place as his permanent safehouse, he was quite certain he had every stray root and stone committed to memory, and found it quite easy to hold his quick pace even on the precarious terrain.
Every now and then, he’d raise his left arm to take a look at his fitness tracker, see the distance, the time, his BPD. His rapid breathing was loud in his ears, the beat of his heart quick and rhythmic, his footfalls even quicker.
The movement became so automised, the surroundings so familiar, he didn’t bother focusing on the way in front of him for the split second it took to check the fitness tracker.
But a split second was all it took.
With a loud ‘oof’, he made full body contact with something solid, yet not nearly solid enough to be a tree, as it crumpled right underneath the force and weight of his body, with something that sounded quite a bit like a shocked and pained yelp.
Within another split second, he was tumbling down to the ground, partially over the solid mass he just ran into at full speed. For a few moments, all he did was stare at the forest bed, at the dark crumbled dead leaves gently covering patches of dark green moss. But then…
“Ow…” came from somewhere half to his side, half underneath him, and he finally had to admit to himself something he strongly presumed; he had just literally run someone over.
With a quiet groan, he managed to roll a bit off and get his two hands underneath him in order to push off the ground and onto his knees. He saw her immediately.
There was a young woman lying on her back on the ground, eyes screwed shut hopefully in more shock than pain, looking a bit out of sorts. Though, he supposed, he couldn’t really blame her for that at the moment. There were leaves tangled in her hair, and the yellow beanie she’d been wearing had been pushed nearly entirely off her head. To her right, he saw a woven basket partially filled with mushrooms. It would seem it had, previously, been fuller, but now a large portion of her findings lay broken and mangled over the forest floor.
Well, a small victory was that neither of them landed directly onto the basket, because that would’ve certainly made the already unfortunate situation even worse.
The former ICA agent stood back up on his own feet. “Are you hurt, miss?” he asked, even as he assessed her with his eyes for any potential injuries.
Finally, she opened her eyes to look up at him, and it was clear that she was a bit dazed from the collision, as she took a few seconds before actually replying to his question: “Um, I don’t think so. At least I don’t think anything’s broken…”
She looked at his hand that was now extended towards her for a second or two before accepting it, and letting herself be pulled up on her feet with a strength and speed that would’ve surprised her more had she not felt like she’d just been trampled over by a bloody race horse just now. Still, the speed with which she switched her position from horizontal to vertical made her head spin, and her brain imagine little stars moving around it in a circle.
47 watched her face carefully for any signs of pain or hint at a more serious injury, even as she let go of his hand and, almost absentmindedly, started dusting herself off from the leaves that clung onto her parka and jeans.
“I apologise,” he said then, voice neutral, “I wasn’t watching where I was going and didn’t see you.”
“Oh, no worries - the fault is entirely mine,” was her immediate reply, her eyes sort of jumping between him and the area around them, as if she’d just realised where she was, or was looking for something, “I, uh, I didn’t hear you at all, I had my earphones in, and I tend to listen to my music a bit too loudly, and I’m not really in the habit of wearing only one earphone in when I’m in the forest, because, uh, as you can imagine, there aren’t that many cars here that could hit me and such. Though, I think I’ll reconsider this habit of mine from now on.”
She was rambling on, even as she finally found what she was looking for with a soft ‘aha’. She pulled a small black earphone from among the leaves and held it triumphantly, before fishing an earphone case out of her pocket and plopping the bud into it, its twin joining in soon after.
It was then 47 noticed her face was a bit more red than it had been a few moments ago - mostly from the blood that was gently seeping out of a small cut at her temple.
“I’m sorry,” were her next words, and they prompted 47 to tear his gaze away from her injury to her eyes in mild confusion.
“What are you apologising for? I am the one who ran into you.”
“Well, uh, you’re right, but I was unaware of my surroundings, and I can’t imagine running into people at full speed is very comfortable for either party. Are you alright?”
“I am,” the assassin agreed, and it was the honest truth. In his life, he already suffered a large number of injuries. Most of them minor, but also some that nearly cost him his life and put him out of commission for days and even weeks. This encounter? It didn’t even qualify to stand among the smallest ones. He wouldn’t even bruise. “But you’re not,” and with that, he pointed at her still bleeding temple.
Her hand, as if on its own, flew right to where he was pointing, fingers prodding at the cut. She hissed through her teeth as she pulled her hand back to look at the crimson staining it. “Oh, well,” she gave him a little wry smile, her attitude fairly cheerful despite her situation. As she raised her hand again to touch the cut, 47’s voice cut in: “Don’t touch it, you’ll get debris into the wound…”
Her fingers stopped mere centimetres away from the injury, and she blinked up at him, before gingerly dropping said hand again: “Right. Yes, right you are.”
There were several seconds of silence so pronounced, 47 could probably hear a pine cone drop on the other side of the woods. She seemed at loss for something to say, and apparently wasn’t quite sure what to do with herself now.
Had their collision been only a minor bump, 47 would have been at least a mile away by now, only stopping to utter a swift apology before leaving the lady to her mushrooms. However, seeing as not five minutes ago the pair of them were sprawled down on the ground, and she was now acting a bit confused as well as bleeding from the head, the hitman felt a certain level of responsibility.
He wasn’t the type to sigh. If he was, maybe he would have, but, the way things were, he merely tugged at his crossbody running bag until it came loose around his body and he could reach for the zipper.
“Do you have a handkerchief? Or at least a tissue?” he asked as he fished a bottle of water out of the bag.
“Uh, yes, I think I do, hold on,” she said quietly, her own hands digging into the large pockets of her parka. A few seconds later, she pulled out a full pack of paper tissues and offered them to the stranger standing next to her.
47 took out two of the tissues from the pack, before placing them back into her hand. “If you would please hold your hair away from the cut,” he instructed as he titled the now open bottle bottom up slowly. The young woman watched his hands move with great care and control, making sure the tissues were damp with the water, but not soaking wet. When 47 was happy with their state, he looked up to find her holding her hair away, just like he’d asked her.
“Are you a doctor or something,” she asked, a little awkwardly, because the looming tall stranger who quite literally took her breath away and made her see stars a few minutes prior (and unfortunately, for all the wrong reasons) suddenly invaded her space again, his large gloved hand holding the tissues close to her face, and his almost unnaturally blue, icy eyes, boring into her with an intensity she was largely unused to.
“Or something is about right.”
47 carefully but effectively dabbed at the cut, clearing the already drying and crusting blood away, before moving the damp and swiftly reddening tissue lower and over her cheek, keeping an eye on the microexpressions of her face. Luckily, the cut itself was not at all deep, and it’s already stopped bleeding, but it was clear she was still a bit shaken, and she did take a rather rough tumble.
“Thank you,” she said when his hand finally retreated, and he crumbled the tissue up, seemingly happy with his work. “Don’t mention it,” he replied before looking around, his gaze falling onto the still overturned basket by their feet, “I’m sorry about the mushrooms.”
“Oh. Please, don’t be,” she said, now with a little smile on her face. She bent down to pick the basket up, her eyes also taking in the scene around them. She smiled again: “I can always forage for more. But this time, I think I’ll try and do a better job of being aware of my surroundings. I’m sure the wildlife won’t mind if the ones on the ground are a wee bit worse for wear.”
The hitman gave a non-committal hum, before another moment of silence stretched before them.
“Do you live somewhere nearby?” he asked after a while.
She looked up at him, the expression on her face something between confusion and mild suspicion: “Why do you want to know?”
“Because you hit your head on the ground hard enough to bleed,” 47 explained patiently. He didn’t blame her for being wary of him in the slightest. After all, here he was, a 6’2” stranger who pretty much steam-rolled over the poor woman less than 5 minutes ago. Still: “and while the cut itself is shallow, you could still have a concussion. Walking long distances or driving with even a light concussion is… not ideal. You could experience nausea, disorientation and confusion, and that is the better outcome.”
Her eyes stayed fixed on him, and he could almost see her weighing her options, even as it was quite clear her mind was still a little blurry around the edges. In the end, it must’ve been blurry enough for her to decide to take the risk and bet on him not having any ill intentions with her, rather than risk getting sick or lost on her way home.
She sighed: “I don’t live too far - just in the village.”
The former agent nodded. It was about three kilometres of walking, it shouldn’t take them all that long to get there, provided she truly doesn’t get sick on the way. “I’ll accompany you,” he said, “or, if you feel too uncomfortable, I can only walk you to the nearest road and call you a taxi to take you the rest of the way.”
The young woman considered his offer for a few seconds. Then she shook her head: “The nearest taxi service is based twelve kilometres away, it’d take them at least forty-five, forty-seven minutes to spare a car to dispatch to here. Not to mention their fees are, frankly, ridiculous…”
47 started opening his mouth to say that he’d cover the expense, but then thought better of it and closed it again. She was right, it’d probably take more than 45 minutes for a taxi service to dispatch a car to their location, if they even bothered to send one, seeing as the distance she needed to cross was this small.
“Shall we?” he asked instead.
—
They walked the first few minutes in silence, the only sound being their shoes along the forest floor and the dead leaves scattered around. 47 threw occasional covert glances in her direction, just to assess her state. She walked without a problem, and didn’t seem to be getting nauseous or disoriented. Her basket was hanging by her side on her wrist between them, her hands deep in her pockets.
“I think I might have seen you before, in passing,” she said after a while, looking in front of her, “by the little greengrocer’s shop? Though I figured you were maybe a tourist on a hike. Are you from around here?”
The assassin walked with his hands held in loose fists, like always. If her question affected him in any way, he absolutely did not show it. “I live a few kilometres in another direction,” he answered truthfully. He had no reason not to - after all, she had no reason to attempt to seek him out, and the chances of them meeting, even in passing, were quite slim, “I prefer to keep to myself.”
Instead of questioning his fairly vague answers, she gave a quiet chuckle: “I suppose I can understand that.”
Another few minutes of near silence passed. If he was to be honest, 47 would’ve been perfectly fine with spending the rest of the way in this silence - he wasn't exactly a chatty kind of man. However, he could also tell she was a little bit unnerved from the lack of any conversation, especially seeing as she was probably still wary of him. So he racked his brain for something conversational to say.
“Do you often go foraging for mushrooms?”
She breathed a little sigh, apparently quite glad to fill the slightly awkward silence: “I do, around this time of the year. Not just in this forest, but all over, I suppose. I do give most of all I gather away though - I’ve still got some leftover frozen and dried mushrooms from last year atop on what I got this one. Luckily, nobody can say no to a nice bolete or parasol.”
“Managed to poison anyone yet?” was out of his mouth before he was able to think it over.
47 always claimed he had little sense of humour, which was something Diana fiercely disagreed on. She did admit to him she rolled her eyes at the quips he’d sometimes say to his targets on a semi-regular basis. This might have not been the best thing to ask a woman who was clearly unsure of what to think of him.
However, to his great surprise, his question actually got an actual giggle out of her.
“Gosh, I would hope not,” she finally turned her head towards him with a smile, “I’d like to believe my knowledge on mushrooms is thorough enough not to actually poison anyone. But,” she inclined her head, “there are some poisonous ones around here. Now, obviously I needn’t be warning you about the redcaps, since those are kind of obvious with how they feel about being consumed, but if you do decide to do some foraging of your own, well, just be safe.”
47’s lip twitched the tiniest little bit: “I possess rather extensive knowledge on the poisonous mushrooms in this area myself. I should be just fine.”
“Good to know,” she replied, nodding her head. A bird’s chirp came from somewhere above them. “I suppose,” she said, voice a bit more pensive now, “I just like being out here, you know? Fresh air, the smell of the forest, the whisper of a stream carried on the wind… It’s calm. Pretty.”
It was 47’s turn to fall silent for a while. He’s lived in this area for a few months now, and he did indeed appreciate its calm from the very beginning, but beauty, well, beauty and the perception of it was still something he was in the midst of getting familiar with. It wasn’t really that he didn’t know how to appreciate the visual qualities of things; after all, he never really hid his appreciation for a well fitted and sewn suit, or an expertly designed and manufactured weapon. He also had an affinity for small animals, especially rabbits, something he only understood not long back, when the memories of his childhood pet lab rabbit came floating back. And there was something very strangely appealing about the silly yellow rubber ducks.
He supposed it wasn’t that he was blind to beauty, but perhaps he’d been dismissive towards it, especially if it served no purpose for his missions. He didn’t let himself focus on it.
Now, though, as he walked side by side with the woman who clearly held their surroundings in high regard partially because of its beauty, he decided to take the time to look around himself. Properly so.
The first thing he noticed was a yaffle perched vertically on a tree’s trunk, its verdant feathers making it blend into its surroundings very effectively, save for the red cap on its head. Spooked by them, the bird leaped off the trunk and flew away, alternating between flapping its wings and gliding through the air elegantly.
The air smelled of moss, pitch, and dead leaves, still damp from the rain that rolled over a few days ago. They were close to the road, but 47 barely even heard the occasional car driving down it, the dense woods by it muffling the sound of wheels on slightly worn asphalt. The sky above them was pale grey, sun hiding somewhere among the clouds, unwilling to grace them with its presence. He could see the toadstools she mentioned now, their white speckled red caps shining bright among the muted greens and browns.
“I suppose it is,” he finally agreed.
The rest of the way was mostly spent in silence, this one seemingly less uncomfortable for her, and by the time they reached the edge of the village, a white sign announcing its existence there to whomever travelled on the road cutting through it, 47 was nearly certain his worry that his companion might have suffered concussion during her fall was unfounded. Still, he accompanied her as she walked down the main street before turning to one of the smaller ones.
Soon they stood in front of a little house - not new, not exactly old either, but quite well cared for, if the, by the looks of it, quite recently reconstructed fence was of any hint. She turned to face him, a little smile on her face. “Thank you,” she said, a little awkwardly, “for, uh, making sure I got home safe…”
“Don’t mention it,” he was swift to reply, “I apologise for running into you again.”
She waved her hand dismissively: “Oh, well. Happens. At least we both have a funny story to tell our friends, I suppose.”
“Sure,” was all 47 said to that. He supposed the only person he could really call his friend would be Diana. Maybe Carlton Smith, when he wasn’t being an utter liability and a pain in his side, which was about 95% of the time. Not that he’d tell any one of them a word of what happened.
Neither did he ask the woman standing before him whether she had anyone in the house that could keep an eye on her for the following 24 hours, just to make sure she’s alright. Partly because she herself didn’t call anyone to come and get her following the collision itself, and because he could see no signs of life in or around the house, and partly because he was aware such a question may seem intrusive.
Instead he said: “I think you should be alright. But if you feel like you’re starting to get sick or the dizziness returns, don’t hesitate to call an ambulance.”
She nodded: “I’ll keep that in mind. But I think I’ll be alright too - I do feel much better already.” Her gaze then fell to the basket of mushrooms still in her hands. And her eyes lit up: “Hey, actually - would you like some of the mushrooms? I can put them in a paper bag for you. I wasn’t lying when I said I had more than enough. And since our crash was my fault too, and you went through all the trouble of getting me home safe, I figure it’s only fair.”
47 raised his hands a little in a motion of gentle refusal: “That’s alright, miss. I don’t mean to impose.”
“You are not, I promise,” she replied, her smile widening. Suddenly, she outstretched the hand holding the basket, “please, hold this for a pinch, I’ll be right back.”
Before the assassin could say another word, he was holding the basket, and she was swiftly walking through the fence’s gate and towards the house.
47 had half a mind to simply leave the basket right in front of the gate and make his retreat before she returned, but a part of him told him he was being ridiculous if he was willing to take on a hostile compound of mercenaries armed up to their teeth, but run away from a young woman with a basket of mushrooms. So he stayed, holding the basket in front of him as if, instead of fresh looking mushrooms, it contained live grenades.
She returned in maybe two or three minutes, a brown paper bag held by the handle in her hand. 47 didn’t say anything as he watched her carefully transport all of the mushrooms from her basket, still in his hold, into the bag. “There,” she said when she was done, took her basket back and placed the handles of the bag into his hand instead.
“Are you sure you won’t miss these?” he tried one more time, voice perfectly neutral.
“Yes, yes I am,” she confirmed, before taking a step back. “Well, uh, it was good meeting you, even if just a wee bit… unconventional, I suppose. See you around.”
“Thank you. Goodbye,” 47 nodded and turned around to take his leave. The gate of her fence closed behind him noiselessly, and though he didn’t look back, he could just make out the sound of her walking away as well, back towards her house.
He didn’t run the way back into the safehouse, opting for a swift walk instead, quick enough to to elevate his heartbeat, but not quick enough to make the contents of the bag he was holding toss around too much.
When he finally reached the large house, the sun had become heavy and was dipping lower towards the horizon, its golden glow gently mirroring off the cold dark waters of the lake. A cold breeze picked up, and sent little waves over the lake’s surface, their sole disruption an occasional fish leaping up in an attempt to catch some insect, sending ripples around itself.
47 slowly made his way around the outside of the house and towards the front door. He used his free hand to pull his phone out to check the security system in his home, but quickly found that the house was the same as he left it earlier today. Some of the exterior cameras did capture movement, but 47 swiftly identified all of it as animal activity.
Still, as he unlocked the front door first using a key, then tapping a code into a concealed keypad, he momentarily strained his ears to listen for any sign of another presence in the house.
Then, when certain he was completely alone, as he should be, 47 finally closed the front door behind him and placed the bag on the ground in order to take off his running shoes. As with everything, he was meticulous about their maintenance, using a previously prepared rag to wipe off a bit of mud from the sides, before putting said rag on the ground, clean side down, and placing the shoes upon it to dry, so that he could brush away the rest of the dirt later.
His beanie and jacket were left on the hanger, along with the cross-body bag he emptied of its contents, before he made his way over into the kitchen. He placed the bag of mushrooms on the counter to be dealt with later, and slowly walked upstairs to undress, put his clothes into a laundry basket, and have a quick warm shower.
Thirty minutes later, he was wearing one of the sets of soft clothing he deemed sufficient for home use, and standing in front of the now empty bag and a little mountain of mushrooms on the kitchen island. He carefully checked each one to ensure all of them were as edible as the young woman said.
She wasn’t lying about her knowledge of local fungi, that much was clear. In front of him was a neat little collection of bay boletes, porcini, parasol mushrooms, and a couple of bovine boletes, all clean and healthy, their stems neatly trimmed. While the way he got the mushrooms was, indeed, very unconventional and strange, 47 truly couldn’t complain. Maybe he’d use some for a stew, then dry the rest of them for future use.
Happy with his plan, the assassin put the mushrooms into a large bowl, and placed them into the refrigerator.
Finishing the last drops of water in his bottle, he stepped closer to one of the large windows in the living area, and watched as the last few rays of sunshine gently kissed at the now once more calm lake, their colour now considerably more orange than before, bathing the world around him in a warm light. He could see a red squirrel scamper into the woods from where it was sitting somewhere to the right of the porch. And high in the sky, he could already see the first stars shyly make their presence known.
It truly was quite pretty.
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Thank you so much for reading. If you liked the story, I'll be very grateful for feedback. You can also read this story over on my AO3 ❤️
blakekathryn
theartofmadeline
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