Work Text:
They tried just about everything to lure him back. His answer held firm every time.
NO.
They were right, telling him he was good at it. That scared him all the more. Sliding in and out of identity? Adopting manner, adjusting expression and gait, wearing a second – or third – or fourth – skin instead of your own? And the violence involved – the thrill that rose up within him in correlation to it. No. No, thanks. Better to leave well enough alone. Better to return to the tranquil frozen tundra and anonymity that didn’t betray the innocent trust of strangers.
“Imagine all the wrongs you could help right.”
That line had worked once, appealing to his sense of duty. But that tune had been played out. He wasn’t interested. They’d have to find someone else. How many ways could he say it?
NO.
“You’re good at this.”
Sure. And he was good at other things, too, once upon a time. He’d enjoyed the quiet life, before. He yearned for a quiet corner of the globe, allowed to just be again. And if he was so damned good, why couldn’t he escape their persistent offers? Why couldn’t he fade into the crowd again? Evaporate from one place and cease to be on their radar?
What was it that caused his veil of invisibility to slip every few months – and then, like clockwork, that call to come in the wee hours of the morning. Two shrill tones and then a pause before ringing again? All for the standard exchange: The offer; his refusal.
Then comes the morning his curt reply catches in his throat. They don’t bother with hello this time, nor with an apology for ruining his attempt at tranquility.
“He’s alive, Jonathan.”
The simplest of phrases, but the ‘no’ he was summoning gets stuck in his chest. He blinks, and then blinks again, his breathing beginning to quicken. They know he’s still on the line. The empty air is cloying, a trap waiting to spring shut. They know they’ve got him. They’ve finally found the singular way to change his answer.
His heartbeat is thrumming within his head.
How?
But then – does the how truly matter?
“Richard Roper is alive and well.”
He grips the old plastic handset until he hears it creak in protest.
His answer comes out as a snarl. “Not for long.”
