Work Text:
At what point does a house become a home? Is it the moment one gains ownership of it? Is it when they’ve finished renovating it to suit their tastes? Or is it when they feel comfortable enough to let their guard down that the space is no longer just a roof over their head? These questions raced through 47’s head as he stood underneath the cooling shower of his safehouse in the European countryside. He had recently returned from a mission in Oslo that had nearly ended in disaster: his victim’s lover barged into her bedroom as he was dragging her body into the closet, and he had been forced to pull his Silverballer on a non-target. 47 rationed that killing the man was the only way to remain uncompromised, yet a small, guilty voice whispered that another warm, loving home would never see its innocent owner return because of him.
His own safehouse was certainly warm; he kept the fireplace lit at night year round to keep his freakishly cold skin from freezing over. Whether 47 could consider his abode ‘loving’ was a more difficult question to answer. There were no doubt valuable items strung across his property, with the flowers in his well-kept garden, his varied and vintage wine collection, and the jumper that Diana repeatedly forgot to take home being of particular importance to him.
However, the numerous firearms, poisons, and other murder tools hanging up in the basement served as a constant reminder of the safehouse’s purpose. It was merely a pit stop in between missions: all of the additional luxuries of a home were not necessary for success. And yet, 47 couldn’t imagine not taking care of his glass palace in the woods. Furnishing it and sneaking in trinkets that radiated humanity had been methodic, comforting.
By the time he stepped out of the shower, it was late enough by his standards to dress down, so he forewent a suit and slacks in favor of changing into a black turtleneck and a pair of cargo pants. Although his appearance did not matter outside of contracts, 47 took a moment to eye himself in the mirror. Despite being fifty seven years old, the wrinkles and sagging skin he possessed were minimal, due in no small part to how he was engineered. A normal person would be grateful to be past their prime and still appearing beautiful, yet 47 found his youth to be disturbing; it was surprising and irregular, just like him. He pushed the haunting thoughts out of his mind as he ventured into the kitchen to prepare two cups of tea. If his instincts were correct--and they always were--he would be receiving a visitor that evening.
At the same moment that the kettle whistled its readiness, a knock came to 47’s door. It was not an ordinary knock, but a secret code that he had designed for secrecy. Opening the door revealed a disheveled looking Diana. The bags under her eyes betrayed her smile, and the folder in her hand promised hours of mindless work. 47’s scuffle in Oslo alongside a few close encounters with the guards patrolling his target’s manor had already set Diana on edge. When their client proceeded to act fickle with the payment afterwards, she had stayed up most of the night attempting to negotiate. In short, their client had lied about the amount of money he had, and it would take a few months before he could generate enough to cover the contract. Diana had violently insisted he pay interest for the wait and his dishonesty, but the man had pulled every excuse out of his ass to avoid additional fees. It was proof that they still had things to learn as freelancers, and that would be the last time they generously waived the down payment for a client.
Diana removed her shoes as she entered 47’s house, and 47 assisted in hanging her jacket up. He paced away to retrieve the finished tea as Diana spread out the documents from his most recent mission and from prospective offers on the coffee table. It had become a ritual between them to meet up after a contract and scout the next one over earl gray. Following some discussion and intel gathering, Diana would inevitably call it a night, and 47 would grant her his bed while he slept on the couch. In the morning, he would always be the first one up to make a breakfast of eggs and toast before Diana returned to her own place. 47 could predict everything before it happened: it was like clockwork.
He had a contingency for every plan on the field, but when the clock stopped ticking, he was at a loss for what to do.
Instead of excusing herself for the evening, Diana had continued working for an additional hour, falling asleep on 47’s couch as a consequence. On one hand, leaving his guest to sleep on the couch would be the mark of an inconsiderate host. On the other hand, carrying her to his bed would mean touching her without her permission, and that was inappropriate for their relationship of agent and handler. At the same time, 47 did not have the heart to wake her, for he knew how much stress she had been under lately.
His desire to make Diana comfortable outweighed the urge to act professional. He gently cradled her body in his arms, allowing her head to rest in the crook of his neck as he carried her to his bedroom. 47 pulled back the covers as he set Diana down. He fluffed one of the pillows briefly and made sure to tuck in the corners of the blanket as he pulled it up over her. Just as he was about to venture back into the living room to set up a makeshift bed on the couch, 47 was overcome with even more unprofessional impulses. The moonlight cascaded onto Diana’s beautiful face, and he wanted to reach out and stroke her cheek. He wanted to straighten her fiery red hair and protect her from the dangerous world in the fortress of his arms. He wanted to whisper every romantic feeling he had ever felt for her into her ear so that they would infiltrate her dreams.
No, he shouldn’t be thinking about such things, he chided himself, it wasn’t his place. He did not possess the capacity to love, or at least that’s what the ICA had told him. 47 slowly realized, however, that he was free in more ways than one; they did not control his assignments anymore, but they also could not command his personal life. He had been acting based on two decades of ingrained rules: handlers and agents were forbidden from being intimate.
But what was stopping him now?
47 removed only his shoes and socks before sliding into bed next to Diana. Being this close to her was already a treasure, and he wanted naught to make things awkward by sleeping shirtless as he usually did. For the same reason, he did not cuddle her either. Aside from the tidal wave of questions that would spawn in the morning, doing so would be simply disrespecting her personal space. 47 attempted to stay awake for as long as possible to admire Diana’s peaceful expression as she slept, but the haze of drowsiness eventually took over him.
He woke up second when the morning came, which was another break to his usual rhythm. Diana was staring at him, and while an ordinary person may have found it disturbing, he had done the exact same thing the night before, so he was in no position to judge. 47 had wrapped an arm around her waist while he was unconscious, resulting in them lying much closer to one another than when he had first entered the bed. He went to apologize for overstepping, but Diana placed a finger on his lips to shush him. A small smile danced on her own lips, and she wordlessly rested her head on his chest to hear his heartbeat.
Maybe this was where he belonged: inside of his home, next to his home.