Chapter Text
“It’s an emergency this time, I swear Handler.”
Charles huffs, annoyed at being interrupted before he even started speaking. He had expected this clean-up to be relatively easy compared to some of the other excursions 1080 was used to. Sitting in the silent, dim room for hours, he was not anticipating his agent to need anything before being picked up from the airport. At least he had gotten a decent amount of work done before this buffoon of a man had decided to call.
“What has possib–”
“I didn’t hurt the dog, I had nothing to do with it!” 1080 interjects again.
Eyebrows furrow as Charles tries to comprehend the agent’s rushed words. “Dog? Wha–”
“Please, I think he must have been left alone here for a couple of days, he’s just a little guy all by himself in the backyard of this dark house with this rank body on the kitchen floor emitting all sorts of smells. I just need you–”
“Stop. Stop talking, ten-eighty,” Charles commands, hand slashing through the air to cut 1080 off. “What dog? Why could you possibly be worried about this dog? Have you completed your job yet? Is Bergeron’s body disposed of?”
“Woah, woah, woah,” starts 1080, and Charles can just see the offense on his face. “I am a thrice-damned professional, my friend. Why would you think any different of me? The paint is just drying and then I’m turning the pool back on.”
‘Pool? Paint? This report better be as entertaining as the one from Cape Town or it just is not worth the headache.’
“Naturally, ten-eighty. My apologies, you are highly professional,” he placates. “But where does this dog come into place?”
“Okay, well, I was cleaning up the bloodstain on the kitchen floor – very unsanitary, by the way. It got in the oven, and I was going to bake the most magnificent cookies, I mean would it kill the assassin to make some things easier on me? I do all this work for them and they can’t even – I don’t even know them! Do they realize that someone has to clean up their messes? Do they enjoy making sure that I can't enjoy the finer things in life, like baking? Do the assassins know of my passion for handmade goods? I need to meet them, I need them to understand that I am a person with likes and dislikes and I deserve to be treated as such! I’ll make them cookies, do they have any allergies?”
Charles opens his eyes. Sometime during 1080’s unintelligible tirade, he had closed them, as if to pray to a higher being to ‘please, shut this man up.’
“Do I need to schedule an appointment with the agency’s psychiatrist?”
“You have to stop bringing that up! She labeled me as ‘Cleared for Duty’!” A crash then a half barking noise comes through the phone. “Oh shit, right. So, can you or can you not help me with this incredible emergency? It would build trust~”
A sigh slips loose, unbidden. “Okay, but–”
“YES!” 1080 cheers.
Charles gets up from his chair, and heads over to the bookcases to skim through the titles. “But! You must promise to obey what I ask of you. Otherwise, I cannot be sure of what will happen to you.”
The moment of silence that followed his words made Charles anxious. He truly hoped for 1080’s sake that he followed his advice. ‘The last cleaner was quite a pain to deal with. Arrogant and boastful. Hopefully, ten-eight does not prove to be the same in the end. It would be quite the pity, I find him tolerable.’
“...kinky.”
‘There has never been a more intolerable man in all my years. I have made a mistake in my choice of operative. Thomas MacDonald should have been assigned to ten-eighty instead of me. The agency is testing me.’
“Shut it. Now, you have completely disposed of any evidence, correct?”
A loud motor turns on in the background of the call. “I have now, yes,” 1080 confirms, sounding as if he has pressed the phone very close to his mouth.
“Very good,” absentmindedly Charles responds, leafing through some pages before placing the book back down. “What kind of dog is it? And describe its injuries to me.”
“Uhh…he’s one of those long dogs.”
Eyebrow raised, Charles clarifies “Long dogs?”
“Yes, the long dogs! Keep up!” He can hear the frustration bubbling up in 1080’s voice. “Like a sausage. But he’s whimpering on the grass and sniffing this hole in the fence. What does that mean? Is it sick?”
“...That’s it? The dog is…it’s just whimpering and poking its nose through the fence? You called an emergency for this?” Charles can’t help but laugh at the situation he has found himself in. His agent, a man who cleans government sanctioned murders, is asking him, an agent handler for the United States government, to help a “sick” dog.
His laughter dies down and he wipes the few tears that had formed there. “Ten-eighty, how can you be so intelligent and yet such a dumbass? The dog just wants to go home. It probably found itself over the fence and is just trying to get out. It isn’t sick at all.”
A bout of silence. ‘Shutting him up is sometimes easier than I think it is.’
“...oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” Charles shakes his head, the last of his amusement wearing off. “Just put it over the fence, it will sort itself out.”
“But…he’s so cute.”
Rolling his eyes at the pout he can hear on 1080’s face, Charles heads back to his chair, sinking wearily into it with a creak and a sigh. “How could you possibly take care of a dog? Your line of work guarantees that you cannot have a pet. Unless you have something to tell me…?”
“I could totally take care of a dog! Maybe I don’t – oof, come on buddy, I got you – maybe I don’t know everything about having a pet, considering the only pet I ever had was that cat that hung around the rest stop when I was younger, and it more of a ‘I feed you lunch meat and you let me pet you’ kind of arrangement, but still!”
“So, you have no idea how to take care of a pet?” Charles taps his pen against the desk.
“No…we could raise one together though!”
“Absolutely not, goodbye ten-eighty.”
“Fine...I’ll crack you one day. Goodbye.”