I want her to put her hair in a ponytail and field stitch a stab wound in my abdomen while telling me not to make such a production out of it whenever I scream in pain and then when that's done I want her to get me pregnant
got my wisdom teeth out a little while ago and worked on this for a couple days straight because i couldnt think of anything else but food and diana burnwood
agent 47. your target is little timmy bippins. he is five years old. he kicked over my awesome sand castle at the beach last week. bean his dumb apple sauce skull with your dual pistols 47. mush him
47, extremely serious: Okey.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
My first (published) Hitman fic! Short and sweet, hope you like it!! (Full fic under the cut.)
If you asked Diana and 47 about the state of their relationship (strictly professional, thank you very much) they would tell you about how their communication, trust, and loyalty have kept them alive. But…
It started off pretty innocuous, Diana was busy all the time and 47 was rarely at his computer, but 47 soon noticed a habit Diana was forming.
Instead of contacting him when, say, he was available, she would wait until his availability icon was red to message him.
The information that she would be reserving were often crucial details of the target's schedule or minor changes to the location’s layout. She once called him at 10 pm to discuss whether or not their target’s cat was a Manx or a Norwegian Forest Cat. They were both incorrect, it was a Maine Coon.
Eventually, 47 learned to expect a Diana-specific delay on his conversation quota for the day. He found that on the days Diana didn’t contact him after hours he was left moping around whatever safehouse he was stationed to that day, checking his computer after every notification sound, only to find an automated email from the Agency; “Renew your subscription to Guns Weekly!”
While Diana sat in her office, sending emails and private messages to her agent with complete disregard for time zones, her thoughts wandered to him.
47 was not often at an Agency location, and when he was, he was usually called in to do weapons testing or to update his chart with accurate measurements and information. If he had any actual work to do, he opted for his sparsely decorated cubicle or a random table, sorting through files and responding to emails from nervous IT employees following a line of questioning about a recent erasing of the security camera footage.
When 47 truly had nothing to do but wait around for his next meeting, he found himself wandering towards Diana’s office. Coming out of her trance, she huffed a laugh to herself and eyed the chair in front of her desk.
The first time 47 had strolled in, he had noticed the lack of seating and opted to steal a chair from a nearby empty room and position it in front of Diana’s desk while they talked about final touches on their plan for their next mission. When he left, he returned the chair.
Every subsequent visit, the chair made its way back and forth between the rooms, never staying in one place too long. If it did, she might have gotten attached to it. She curses the dent it leaves in her commercial-grade carpet and the eyesore it is when 47’s not in it.
At some point in their career, they left the room together, leaving the chair behind. Ever since, it’s stayed there, awaiting 47’s return (and Diana has to admit, so does she.)
The irritants had subsided into subtle reminders of each other. 47 responds to emails from Soders with a professional attitude and an under-the-mask venom, wishing he was telling Diana that he likes the new plant she put in her office, informing her that it’s known as the Autumn Zephyr Lily, and that they’re commonly found in South America. She’d tell him she’s always wanted to visit Argentina, and he’d reply he hears the wine is good.
When Soders sits in Diana’s new office chair and crosses his legs, leaning back and teasing her with slight jabs about her loyalty to her agent, she asks if that’s not the point. Soders backs off, but she knows what he means. She can feel a fire burning inside her at the sight of literally anyone else sitting in that chair. She knows it’s territorial and irrational.
In different continents, but under the same moon, they wonder if the other one misses them too.
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