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58.
That’s… quite the age, isn’t it?
Especially for him, I mean, God—he never expected to last past thirty, let alone fifty. In his domain, old age was more of a myth than anything, so he never had hoped to see himself turn, in a sense, grey.
And yet, here he was. I suppose he had already done a lot of unthinkable things. Why would he have stopped at a long life?
There were times in which he almost wanted to have stopped at it. Times in which he wondered if his freedom was worth it if it came at the cost of his best friend losing his life. Times in which he forgot how hard he fought for it and questioned his own implication.
But this year—this day—it was different.
Diana was there. Earlier this time, and physically at that. To be completely honest, 47 wasn’t sure he would have survived the past two years if it wasn’t for her. His last birthday hadn’t been as successful—or near as eventful—as this one. This one was different.
It was comfortable.
“For God’s sake, 47, stop moving—”
“Respectfully, Diana, I am just flinching—”
“Well, stop it!” Diana scoffed softly. “I can’t bandage you like this.”
“I told you I’m fine,” 47 retorted.
“You cut yourself!”
“On accident!”
“You still cut yourself.”
“It’s a cut. I’m not going to die.”
Diana finished patching up 47’s finger and looked at him with those deep blue eyes of hers. “Would it hurt you to actually care for yourself?”
47 considered, an eyebrow raised just to make fun of his friend, who caught on and rolled her eyes. “Maybe,” he said, “I haven’t tried it yet.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re hilarious?”
“No, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
Diana rolled her eyes again and left the couch they were both sitting on, heading to grab a broom. In the corner of her eye, she spotted 47 trying to get up, and she immediately held up a finger.
“Uh-uh! You’ve been banished to the couch and are not allowed to do any sort of work today. You can’t use your finger for the following few hours.”
47 scoffed, “But—”
“No buts!” Diana replied, back turned to her friend as she grabbed the broom. “Just relax, 47. It can’t be that hard.”
“You don’t know that,” 47 raised a sceptical eyebrow.
“Besides,” the woman decided to ignore his remark, “it’s your birthday. Can you sit still just for one day a year?”
Tired of arguing, seeing as it got him nowhere and that Diana was absolutely nowhere near sharing the same beliefs as him, 47 had to make-do with a groan as he lied on the couch. Diana went to sweeping up glass shards off the floor—in fact, they were the reason for 47’s injury.
47 was a very practical, hands-on person, not only on the job, but also in his free time, and some of the only comfort he got out of staying in his cabin with nothing to do—after so many years of following routine, of exploring the world, of being a hitman—were tasks. He promptly refused to buy a dishwasher or any other equipment that would make his work easier, and so he stuck to washing the dishes in the old-fashioned way, dusting without a vacuum cleaner such as a Roomba—anything else you could think of.
I suppose he made his bed when he accidentally hit a jagged corner of a glass, then proceeded to throw the glass on the floor out of shock. It would have happened sooner or later, but having Diana there earned him the scorning of his life (and a good patch-up). He didn’t mind it, of course—but he acted like he did because he wasn’t used to anyone caring for him that much.
Diana had been the first person, besides Lucas, to actually love him. With love came her infinite care and worries, which 47 handled mainly badly, not being used to them—and gifts went without saying. They completely activated his fight or flight response.
“You know,” 47 said after a few minutes, used wisely by Diana to gather the glass shards off the floor, “you didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Christ, 47,” Diana sighed as she sat back down next to him, “I’m barely going to see you now and it’s your birthday. You should lighten up. Of course I should have gotten you something! And it’s just a couple of books, anyways.”
“A couple of books too many.”
“47…”
“I’m grateful, it’s just—I don’t want you to waste money on me.”
“47.” Diana pinched the bridge of her nose, sounding as if she was barely keeping herself together. “I’m not wasting anything on you. You’re my friend.”
47 looked at her. “I know. I know, I just—I don’t know. I’m sorry. It’s weird. I just don’t feel like I—deserve it.”
Diana sighed and pat his shoulder. “Survivor’s guilt? Heard that one many times. It’s alright. It’s not your fault.”
47 managed to smile weakly. “Thank you.”
“That’s alright. You’ll be okay, 47.”
47 put his head on her shoulder, and Diana rubbed his back as a manner of reassurance.
“You’ll be alright.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course.”
Diana smiled.
“Happy 58th birthday, Agent 47.”
You have one person to celebrate with.