Chapter Text
It’s midday, Wilbur thinks. Midday– a perfect time to die.
Of course, Wilbur has no intentions to die, none at all. In fact, his only goal in life is simply not to die. This, however, can often be a problem.
Wilbur thinks he may have made an itty, bitty, tiny mistake signing that contract all those years ago. It’s one that has tied him up, literally, and tried to murder him many, many times.
Oh well. It’s what an agent does– that is, survive assassination on the daily– and it’s what he will do for the rest of his life, probably.
Right now, though?
Right now Wilbur wants a goddamn coffee.
He’s positive he’ll collapse dead or something if he can’t get a single drop of caffeine into his system in the next five minutes. And that just can’t happen.
So here Wilbur is, stepping into a rather quiet coffee shop, door jingling cheerfully, right down the street from his latest ‘assignment.’
Is it stupid, incredibly against company protocol, and uncomprehendingly dangerous for him to leave his tracks completely uncovered? Maybe. But if Wilbur’s being honest, he couldn’t give more of a shit. He needs his coffee, and he needs it now.
He eyes the patrons carefully as he stalks up to the cashier. No one seems suspicious. He does, however, catch the eye of someone sitting to the left of him. They hold his glare, bright blue meeting brown, but Wilbur is way too tired to be participating in a staring contest with what looks to be a literal child. So, he turns away and greets the cashier.
Wilbur’s pretty sure he gives the barista a heart attack with his grumpy attitude and very specific grande all black with one teaspoon of honey order. He watches her scurry away, amused. He would give off a frightening aura, huh.
Sitting down in a little booth at the corner of the shop, Wilbur slumps into his seat. The window gives him a nice view of the opposite side of town, effectively placing him in a blind spot. Great.
The satchel at his side sits heavy, rubbing against his thigh uncomfortably. It’s a reminder that yeah, there’s some important nation-saving drives in there, he should probably check in with HQ. But no. Coffee first. God knows he deserves it for the shit he goes through.
Wilbur mindlessly swipes through his watch like it’s a phone, attempting to follow protocol as his head begins to throb. He seriously can’t do this right now. Where is his god damn coffee?
Before Wilbur can complain like a dick, someone slides wordlessly into the seat across from him. Wilbur’s head shoots up, hand reaching towards his pocket where he knows his pistol rests.
He pauses.
Blue eyes. That stupid kid from earlier.
Wilbur raises an eyebrow. “Can I help you?”
The kid only glares at him, eyes scanning Wilbur up and down, almost mockingly. Taking them in, Wilbur decides they’re quite gaunt for a fella their age. Wrinkled button up, too. Unkept.
He clears his throat.
“Uh. Hello? Can I help you?”
“…Why’re you dressed like that?”
Wilbur sputters, hand tightening around the strap of his bag. “What the hell does that mean?” The kid huffs, and crosses their arms.
“It means that you look stupid as fuck in that fancy get up.” They’re smug, in the way they lean forward, hand flapping out to emphasize their words. Wilbur scoffs.
How dare this fucking child insult his favorite coat and turtle neck. They’re perfectly plausible, not even fancy! It’s not like he’s wearing a tuxedo or some shit. Who would wear a tuxedo when they kill people for a living, anyway? It would be such a waste. God, the audacity.
“I’m going to pretend like you didn’t just say that, yeah kid? Now scurry off before I actually get upset.”
Wilbur fully expects this kid to yelp, tail in between their legs, and run off– maybe even call for their mother. He does have a mean scowl, after all.
Instead, they lean back into the booth the exact same way Wilbur had earlier. Wilbur’s eye twitches. The kid absolutely seethes.
“I’m not a fucking kid.” They kick at Wilbur’s shins below the table. “Asshole.”
Wilbur doesn’t even try to stop the violent onslaught to his tired legs, nor scold them for calling him such horrendous names. He settles with tuning them out. He’s too goddamn tired to care.
Wilbur groans, head lolling towards where he hopes his coffee is being made. All he wants is a sip of fucking caffeine– just a sip! Why must he suffer like this?
“Are you listening to me?” The kid asks, except they're pubescent so their voice shatters halfway through their sentence. Their attempt at growling is amusing, too, if not slightly embarrassing. “Hey bitch! I said I’m a man, not a kid. You take that back, eh? I’ll clart you!“
“Jesus fucking christ! Fine, yes, I understand, you’re a man. Can you leave me alone?”
“Nuh uh.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“… But why though?”
“Why not?”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Wh– Oh for the love of God.” Wilbur’s hands shoot up in defeat, before they drag across his face. He can’t even be mad at this point. All of his emotions have been drained from his soul. He needs caffeine. “Alright, what’s your name kid?” They give Wilbur a nasty look, to which Wilbur rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Bud.”
The kid hums, obviously pleased with the outcome. “It’s Tommy, big man.”
Wilbur huffs, and stretches an awfully fake smile across his face. “Okay, Tommy. Why don’t you head back to whatever filthy hole you crawled out from and leave me alone, yeah? I have some very important business things to get done.”
Tommy scoffs, opening his mouth, probably to say something extremely offensive, before he shuts it. He stares at Wilbur intently– and yes. Wilbur has stared down the barrel of many guns, but nothing is more frightening than when a child looks at him like that.
“What?” Wilbur almost-chuckles nervously. “Cat got your tongue?”
“Uh. Dude, there’s a red dot moving on your forehead.”
“A what now?”
Wilbur’s smile drops. Slowly, his eyes slide to the right, and yeah, those are some very dapper men. Tuxedos and everything. His line of sight trails up slightly, right where that electrical wire meets that building and– double yeah, a sniper barrel sits hidden in an array of potted plants lining a balcony, just below the wire. It’s aimed right in his direction. Oh fun.
Wilbur shouts and dives for the floor, arm reaching across the table for Tommy.
“Everybody get down!”
Then the windows explode.