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Al-Haitham remembers his tutor’s words almost every night, before sleep has a chance to cloak over his mind. It is etched into his memory, the first lesson at the Academy, the first time he really understood what he's in for.
“The job itself is dangerous, yes. But it truly becomes life-threatening when you get comfortable. When you allow yourself to settle in. That’s when the first - and the last - mistake happens. You don’t get second chances here, you don’t get to ‘learn as you go’. One slip-up, and you are dead”
The strangest thing about working this job was always being one breath away from death. It was customary to be prepared: nobody likes to clean your shit after you die. So, he had a note - his written will basically. It is a three-in-one thing: a goodbye letter for his few loved ones, a catalogue of his expensive or valuable belongings (his car, his books and his little apartement off the base) and the arrangements for the funeral. It is common practice to have the note in your dorm, on the table in the kitchen. It is a bitter reminder that your next mission might be your last. You looked at it when you had breakfast, when you came back after a mission; it was there when you got your first big paycheck, big promotion; when you awoke in the night because the fucking stitches opened in your sleep again. The ever-present little Death on paper, watching life go by, waiting for her moment to finally be needed.
His musings were cut short by a loud BEEP from his phone. He took it from the night table, lazily scrolling through the never-ending influx of letters from his management and superiors. Being a kill for hire in the modern world involved a ton of paperwork, for some reason. Al-Haitham opened the last message in his inbox and felt his eye twitch: the meeting conserning Kaveh will be held today and he was expected to show up.
The time on the clock read 5:36 in red, bathing his night table in a gentle light. It was time to get up, but starting this day was difficult - he dreaded the meeting. Al-Haitham hoped to just keep himself occupied enough not to overthink this to high heavens.
He showered, went for a run, held a training session for hand-to-hand combat for the second year recruits, cleaned his dorm, went through two weeks of paperwork, got groceries - but time works in misterious ways, and everything was done way earlier then he expected. The meeting was sceduled for 20:00 UTC, since some of his superiors were stationed in other countries. He had almost three hours to spare. Laying in his dark bedroom, the blinds drawn tight, he closed his eyes and let the unease and fatigue wash over him.
They work in pairs, trios, if you count the operator. There is the sniper: they do all the calibrations, all the math and physics, all the prep. They go with their partners in the field, but sometimes stay in and monitor through an earpiece. And there is the shooter: the most skilled with the rifle, the best in combat, they usually do all the physical work. Everybody takes both courses and gets to practice in the center until they take the exams. It is decided then what they’ll do. People pair up based on these scores, but sometimes they already have a partner - after all, the Academy (sadly) is designed to be as social as possible.
He had met Kaveh on the final day of the evaluation, when the test scores were released. He was first in the ‘shooter’ category and second in the ‘sniper’ one. Kaveh was the exact opposite. From the moment he saw the results, he knew they were going to be paired up - and it seemed like a good thing.
It was (unsurprisingly) not. Kaveh was loud. He was messy. He was too passionate for his own good. He slept around, he drank too much, he had useless hobbies, he was always late. He didn’t like Al-Haitham at all, it seemed, his face bright red every time they argued, his hands fluttery, frantic.
His screams and cries wake up half the dorm every night now.
Al-Haitham opened his eyes. His earpiece lay on the bedside table near the clock. It reads 3:48 in big letters. It is silent, for once, but he knows what he has heard just now - a gut-wrenching sob from another room, barely muffled by a pillow. Kaveh, again.
The meeting had gone... Well, as he had expected. The commitee - three people, high-ranking officers - were displeased by Kaveh's mental evaluation. He showed everything from signs of PTSD to anxiety, suicidal ideations and a developing case of alcoholism. The vedict was three months on leave for both of them, to let Kaveh recuperate. If he won't recover, he will be discharged and employed as a teacher in the Academy, and Al-Haitham would need to either find himself a new partner or request a discharge too.
Their friends suggested that maybe it would be wise for Kaveh to finally retire. Not every operative got a chance at a long life after being in service for 10 years, and KAveh was nearing 30 already. Work like this could as well break him, and according to the phych eval he was very close to that point.
He does what he can: goes to Kaveh's room and gently knocks four times. The cries stop, then a quiet "Come in, Haitham".
His room is a mess - even more than the usual. Clothes are on the floor, on the chairs, even on the coffee table; his drawings are in a pile near the door. It is very dark - the curtains are drawn, not allowing the moonlight to show the full state of the dorm room.
"The dreams again?" - Al-Haitham asks in the softest tone he can manage, awkwardly standing near the entrance, ready to leave if asked.
"Yeah…" - Kaveh chuckles wetly, his voice raspy from crying and screaming, - "They don't stop, Haitham. I think that…"
"Stop thinking for once. I told you countless times that logic doesn't really apply here. If I can help - tell me what I need to do", - he says, quiet but stern. He won't allow his partner to be alone in this, like he was. He won't be a coward and run. They are in this together.
"Can you just… Be here? I don't know, the dorm is too…"
"Empty. I know"
And he does what he hasn't been allowing himself to do. Instead of putting some clothes away and snoozing on a chair, he sits on the bed, feeling the sturdy mattress cave in a bit. Kaveh shuffles in the sheets, his hand emerging from all these blankets. He lays there then, motionless, like a marionette with its strings cut clean. Only breathing, shallow and broken.
"If it is alright, could you maybe…"
"Yeah. Scoot over, fatass."
He gets a small laugh at that. Good .
They slot together well, but not quite. Kaveh is too bony, too gaunt - his elbows dig into Haitham's sides painfully, his thin pajamas hiking up to reveal skin. They lay in the dark together, not sleeping, not talking. Breathing in and out in unison, a wordless agreement to be the two pieces of one wrong thing.
Kaveh starts to sob again, this time not crying, but biting back tears. Holding up, but barely.
"You know…", - he starts, timing his words between sobs, - "The dreams get so weird sometimes. I saw you just now, in her place. And you were…", - he pauses, takes a shaky breath in, - "You were there. Clearly. You stood like her, and you were just shot through the…"
He breaks down completely.
Haitham runs a hand on his side, feather-like, not to startle. He knows it all.
He knows.
Back when he was still a trainee, he had a friend. A good, good fellow, a shooter. He was unbeatable, his scars were his pride and joy, his stories were light and funny. He was always so good with all the dark stuff, never cried, never faltered in the field. He had the nickname "Shadow" - he found it a bit cheesy, but definitely enjoyed being treated like a local legend. The recruits and the trainees loved him for his friendly demeanor. Al-Haitham loved him for being himself in such a gruesome profession.
And all was well, until it wasn't.
The mission was fairly simple. The sniper did a good job with the prep, the target was alone, the weather was nice. Shadow just got in the way.
The details were obscured and the investigation closed, but something always leaked through. He was shot point blank with a gun. He was alone - his sniper ditched him. He was alone and without backup, his partner hiding out, his operator silent on the line.
Al-Haitham had never felt such fury in his life.
It was the first time he had ever got a reprimand for misbehavior. The first time he drank that much.
The last time he would ever let something like this happen.
He feels his grip on the sheets tighten, but comes back. It isn't the time to remember, Kaveh is there and he needs help.
"Hey, if you can, maybe sit up?"
He sits up, clumsily, his hands trembling, his whole body shaking. In the dark his skin is pale, his eyes barely visible, only the dark circles under.
Haitham hugs him, gentle, putting both hands around his torso. He has so much to say, but it isn't the time for it.
Kaveh cries, then sobs, then just breathes heavily into Haitham's shoulder. In and out. In and out, with more calmness. In and out, almost normally.
His clock read 5:16 in green.
"...Thank you", Kaveh's voice is so small, so quiet, "You should sleep, really. I'm okay."
The 'please stay' reads so clearly in his words that Haitham just huffs and lays back.
"I'll sleep here. Too tired to go back to mine"
'Okay' - is his silent answer.
This time they fit as close to good as it gets. Shame, guilt - all tossed out of the window. Just the blissful calm. Kaveh is in his arms, for once peaceful. And it will be ok, at least with time.
And Haitham, to his horror, finds himself content. Comfortable. Not alert, not scared shitless, just calm.
And it is the worst feeling.