Chapter Text
Finally, you could hear the engine thrum outside, getting closer and closer to the safehouse. Your entire body loosened, almost melted into the armchair as a wave of deep relief washed over you.
You were used to hearing 47 park the car in the garage, to the sound of him brushing his shoes clean in the hallway, to his voice briefly announcing his return and to the rattle of the wine cooler sliding underground as he disappeared behind it. The ritual was always the same after a mission, and you had learned to respect it, no matter how badly you wanted to get filled in and make sure he was alright. Then, you would slowly wrap up whatever activity you were doing, make your way to the kitchen and wait for him to emerge from the basement.
So tonight, when he materialised right in front of you before the fireplace, shoes uncleaned, silent, you immediately dropped your issue of HIT and looked up to him.
"You're here! Is something wrong?"
No answer. You tried to read his facial expression, knowing fully well that it would be fruitless. He looked as impassive as ever, standing tall and still. It was always strange to remember that, outside of the safe nest he was tending to, he was committing crimes for a living. Did something go awry? Did you need to relocate? Were you in danger?
"Please tell me what's on your mind, are we in trouble?"
"Frisk," he only said.
"… Pardon?"
47 was never the chatty type, and you didn't like to make him talk, but you were gonna need more than—
"Frisk me."
You stared at him for a moment, waiting for his words to magically make sense.
"You mean… me? I frisk you? Right now?"
He nodded and lifted his arms straight. You furrowed your brows. Was this some kind of test?
"Well… Are you carrying something you shouldn't?"
"There's only one way to find out."
Yes, this was definitely a test. He had come up with a way to hide an item, and he wanted to see if a normal person like you would find it.
"Uhm… Alright, yeah…? Be still, then", you uttered in confusion as you rose from the sofa.
You've had to undergo frisk searches a few times yourself —it had never been a pleasant moment. You pictured those times in your mind and tried to mimic the gestures you remembered. What kind of normal person gets frisked regularly, actually? You were no assassin like him, of course, but you had picked up certain… habits during your collaboration.
You reached for his right hand and quickly patted his arm, making your way towards his shoulders.
Nowadays, the first things you were looking for in any location were the escape routes.
You swiftly moved to his left wrist and repeated the process.
Nowadays, you looked differently at soda cans, rubber ducks, and even bananas…
"Slower."
He spoke quietly, but his voice resonated in your head, replacing all your distracted thoughts.
"You might miss it… Start again."
Right. Focus.
You straightened your back with the intent of being more mindful and thorough in your search.
You looked to his right arm and wrapped both hands around his wrist. That's when you realised you'd never really touched him. Sure, you'd bumped into each other a few times —well, you'd bumped into him, because the man was too aware of his own body placement to commit such a mistake— and you had ended up in situations that required proximity, but it was never like… this. With you in charge, having to focus fully on the sensation of your fingers all over him.
You ran your palms along his forearm, determined to find something under the fabric.
Like most people, you assume, you'd found yourself staring before. Most of the time, he was covered by a suit jacket or, as he was now, a shirt. But on some occasions, when he’d come back from missions in borrowed attire, or when he dressed more casually on warm afternoons, you'd found yourself enjoying the sight. His toned muscles always rolled with intent and precision, never faltered. You had wondered how they felt, too. When his arm snaked around his victims' necks for a final embrace, did it feel cold like the claw of a predator, an unstoppable force of nature coming to claim their lives? Or did it burn with the flesh and blood of a simple human, one that could be fought and killed?
Now that your hands were laying on his bicep, you had the beginning of an answer. Rather warm. Softer than you'd imagined. Strong, undoubtedly. And sort of… comforting. Although that was probably because he wasn't using his arms to assassinate you, quite the opposite.
You repeated your motions on his left arm now, and that feeling grew. Yes, with him, you were literally in good hands. He was just back from a complex mission, communication had been scarce and traffic prevented him from coming back as early as planned. Yet he was standing there, in perfect shape, the same as ever. No battle scars, no wrinkles in the fabric, no shadows under the eyes. He seemed untouchable. And to know he was always coming back to you in one piece, to have tangible proof under your skin, that brought you a lot of comfort.
But that was not what you were supposed to find. He was hiding something. He wasn't standing there just for you to…
Exploring this thought was not a good idea. You picked up the pace to bring your attention back on the task.
You searched each flank slowly enough to show your willingness, but quickly enough to finally end this and resume a normal evening.
You put a knee down, swiftly felt around his legs, and realised there was nothing normal about this evening at all. Could the man really disrupt his routine just to give you a test? Why didn't he wait? There had to be an emergency, right? Did someone place a tracker on him? A mic?
All sorts of scenarios were racing through your mind, and they all felt as preposterous as they felt convincing. Well, except the one that had crossed your mind just a minute ago, but now wasn't the time to be daydreaming, because there was an emergency!
You rose to your feet at a dizzying pace and locked your eyes with him, wide open and desperately searching for an answer.
"And?" you asked frantically, as if you had just run a marathon.
He, on the other hand, hadn't moved a finger throughout the entire process.
"You tell me," he answered, lowering his arms back to his sides.
"Well…" you started, shrugging and darting your eyes at him from the top down. "I didn't—"
That's when you saw it. His left hand, flexing once, twice, then shaking away slightly before resting again.
You had seen him do this before. Whenever he had to pause the hunt and wait for information, for a distraction, or for a target. When he was eager to act, to move to the next step, but couldn't.
You slowly looked up at him again and whispered, as if any quick movement or loud noise could set off a bomb.
"Do you confirm we are safe?"
"I do."
He didn't hesitate. You were both safe. But he was… troubled. Impatient. Frustrated? You didn't know what to call it. He’d carried out a difficult contract, could barely communicate with you on the job, had to stay two extra days on the field, and instead of retiring to his safe corner of the house for a while upon his return, he made a beeline to you and asked you —almost commanded you— to basically put your hands all over him. Slowly.
You still didn't believe it, but maybe that one theory you had was not that far of a stretch.
"47, is that…" you started, brows furrowed in disbelief at what you were about to say. "Is that your way of asking for a hug?"
Hearing it from your own lips was even worse. You didn't even wait for him to answer and raised your hands apologetically.
"Sorry! Sorry, forget that, I thought—, well you see, I mean, you come back and you say— so I think— but it's not an emergency and it's been so long and, I didn't know if, well— I'm glad you're back and maybe I'm projecting and—"
"Touch is... complicated."
47's solemn voice cut through your erratic rambling. His eyes met yours.
"It's a difficult thing to ask for."
"But..." you hesitated, unsure if this was a request disguised as a statement. "Is it a thing you would like right now?"
The question hung between you for a few breaths.
"Yes. If you'd like."
So that was what it was all about. You couldn't help but let out a small, incredulous huff. A dozen questions emerged in your mind, but you would burden yourself with them later.
"Alright," you braced yourself as if you were about to start a performance. "Please be cooperative, sir."