A/N: This fic is something I'm working on while I try to get past the slight writer's block I have on "Bitter Heart". Don't worry, that'll be updated on the weekend or maybe early next week. :D I was inspired by "The Spy Who Came in From the Cold", a novel by John le Carré that I read a while back. I don't think there are many England spy fics, so I thought I'd make one. :D The setting is Cold War Berlin. Anyway, here's the first (really short) chapter!
Disclaimer: I only own the laptop I'm writing this on.
A nearly imperceptible sigh passed the lips of the blonde man. He crumpled the small piece of parchment and, pulling out a lighter, set it on fire. Holding a corner, he let it burn until the flames almost reached his fingertips, then dropped the remainder in the toilet. He flushed the note. The man washed his hands in the porcelain hotel sink, then ran his fingers through his hair. Another Code Grey.
He finished dressing, a white collared shirt and slightly rumpled khakis. He wore black loafers, but no penny. Quietly, he opened the bathroom door and walked into the dark room. It was still night time. Sidling to the nightstand of the King sized bed, he opened the top drawer and pulled out something dark and metallic. A gun. He walked over to the sleeping body and pointed the gun at the man's forehead. "Sorry, Francis…" he whispered. His finger moved to the trigger.
"Wait," came a hoarse whisper. The previously sleeping man brushed his long golden locks from his face, tucking hair behind his ears. He sat up in the bed, grabbed the gunman by the shoulder and pressed their lips together. The standing man did not move. He showed no surprise, no joy, no sadness. His lips simply danced along with his mark's, allowing entrance when requested by the other's tongue. After a minute, the long haired man released him. "Don't ruin my pretty face." Blue eyes stared into green sadly, but understanding. The green eyed man closed his eyes briefly, then he pointed the gun at the other man's chest.
"It won't be quick."
"I know." Francis smiled.
"It will hurt."
"I understand, mon cheri."
After a moment's hesitation, the man touched the barrel to Francis' chest. He bent over and kissed him gently. "I'm sorry," he whispered once again and pulled the trigger. Francis gasped, his body shaking with the impact of the bullet. He brought a trembling hand up to his chest, touched the wound, and looked at the blood on his fingers with wide-eyed fascination.
Arthur stood up straight, his fingers caressing Francis' cheek one last time, then turned and left the French man quivering on the bed.
"The target has been erased." Arthur's voice echoed in the small, cold room. His handler sat across the table from him, hands folded.
"Good. Any trouble?"
"None to speak of."
"You weren't… attached to the target?"
"My personal feelings never impede my work."
"Just making sure. I wouldn't want my best asset to be lost to heart-break." Arthur could hear amusement in his handler's voice.
"Of course not, sir. May I leave now?" Arthur asked curtly, annoyed for some reason.
"Yes. Stay at Yellow house. I'll have someone follow up for debriefing later."
"Understood."
Arthur left the room, walking out of the drab building into the rain. He hadn't thought to grab an umbrella, but honestly, he didn't care.
The grey rain did an excellent job of covering the tears streaming down his cheeks.