Chapter Text
The drive back home from Bucharest’s airport was always 47’s favorite. He’d never been much of a vacationer, yet, it was nice to have somewhere he could call home - a chic penthouse, somewhere between modern, industrial, and green.
It took him years to finally buy a property for himself - under a fake identity, of course. But it was his, which in itself had been a scary thought. He used to be more of a roamer, always on the road, to wherever his work led him. Motels, hotels, rentals, cars, planes. He’d slept in every arrangement; appropriate, or at least secure enough. The Agency owned flats in most major cities around the world. Though staying in those felt even more impersonal than booking a room at a shady motel. It always looked like someone had just robbed the place, left in a hurry. Which summed up the life of an ICA employee rather well.
It was only natural for him to settle in Romania: not only was Eastern Europe the perfect region to hide from the world, it was the closest thing to what he considered a home country. And officially, it was. That’s what his papers said. Fabricated, yes, but still evidence he existed.
He drove a black SUV down the wooded roads, on the outskirts of the capital. The Apple CarPlay system was playing a Sade album, one of the only albums he kept in his Spotify account library. Diana had poked fun at him for being a Sade fan on the low, but it was hard to deny it; he’d listened to her for years, especially when he’d first joined the ICA - she’d caught him red handed, at the time. The years went by, and she found it less and less surprising he’d willingly listen to soul music.
To each their own, he presumed. 47 knew how much Diana loved Beyoncé, even though he never brought it up. Two years ago, he’d gifted Diana a vinyl record of her self-titled album. He remembers saying it wasn’t much, but at least, that he knew she’d listen to it. And she did. It was, more often than not, her go-to record to play.
The car system interrupted the music to read out a text message from Diana.
[I hope you had a safe flight. I have a lead. Call me soon. xx]
He eyed the side of the road, exhaling sharply from his nose. It was too good to be true: he’d wished for a few days at home, this time. Not that he had much choice. He spoke to the car system.
“Answer Diana. Tell her : I’m on my way home. I’ll call tomorrow.”
He paused, the music resuming. Then, he prompted again.
“And wish her a good night.”
The highlights illuminated the end of the road, a tall metal gate in front of his residence. 47 entered the gate code and parked his car in the classy garage.
His nightly routine was always the same; quick shower, cooking, reading the newspaper as the oven did its thing, then eating. Diana texted back while he was in the shower.
[Thank you. Good night to you too, 47]
He watched the text notification, unmoving, before shutting his phone off. He quickly made his way to bed, trying to enjoy the quiet evening by himself.
Diana rushed into her apartment, West London, a busy street. It was pouring rain outside, and her heels were soaked by now.
Once upstairs, she locked her front door, slightly exhausted from fast-walking under the storm. She’d been kept busy at the ICA London headquarters, the Board analysts pursuing a ‘good lead’ for the Shadow Client’s militia. She didn’t mention where she got the intel from - stealing flash drives directly from the target’s person wasn't typically a clause in their contracts, but she was glad 47 had grabbed this one from Ken Morgan’s corpse.
She’d kept it in her coat pocket since Tokyo. Still hard to believe he’d come to track her down so easily. Maybe she should reconsider a security detail, Diana thought.
She poured herself a cup of green tea, took a sleeping pill, and let the leaves steep in her porcelain cup. 12:05am on the alarm clock - which meant it was 2am in Bucharest. 47 had likely gone to sleep by now. He’d texted her while she was still stuck in that damn conference earlier, and wishing her a good night had made it sound like a damned luxury, right then.
The conference was held by the Melbourne representative for the Agency. Timing was undesirable, but the woman had booked a flight, so everyone had the decency to show up anyway. She discussed the budget, expected costs to be raised compared to 2015. Gave insights of the ICA’s contingency plan onward, expertly swiping under the rug last month’s scandal - one of the handlers, involved in the disappearance of a woman, making it to the press and all. And no one seemed to bat an eye at that. It was how influential people were, shrugging anything and everything off. They weren’t worried about the affair at all - as long as it had no impact on the Agency’s revenue, that is.
After some lounging in her foyer, reminiscing, Diana undressed, and changed into an emerald green robe; gleaming silk, light fabric - distinguished, just comfortable enough for bed.