The Courtship of Nika Boronina (Or, A Comedy of Errors)
I write not for blood, guts or glory, but for the romance and to be read.
So, O tiny fandom, let me know you few Nika/47 readers aren't completely dead yet by reviewing. Mature feedback especially appreciated.
Also, if the "for the romance" bit didn't warn you - this is pure movieverse. As in I have never played the games, and I have extrapolated a great deal about the background of 47's industry from what little the movie gave us.
This will be a three chapter fic. If it seems a little jerky, it's because I initially planned the story to be entirely from Nika's POV and done as a quick semi-fluffy one-shot. Obviously, I failed to achieve everything in that last sentence.
Thanks for all feedback.
///
Sometimes, Nika does something so naive and thoughtless and just fucking stupid that he can't help but think, just for a moment: this is never going to work. She isn't worth it.
Just for a moment.
///
The real problem here isn't Nika. The problem here is him.
47 knows this. He knows it and the Organisation knows it and the other agencies know it, and even the better freelancers with the right connections know it. And they know he knows it, and he knows they know he knows, and so on and on, in this infinite loop that always end up with the same point, flat as a fatal heartline:
He is the problem.
He let a witness live.
This is not so bad in itself. (Actually, no: it is jarringly unprofessional and he is (was) never anything less perfectly professionally – this is very bad. But it gets worse.) That mistake is still salvageable. When it is found out, the Organisation even sends a man after Nika to clean up for him, as a form of apology and gift for their betrayal in St. Petersburg. If he had accepted it then, then all this would be over by now. The single mistake in his otherwise flawless career would remain secret; his life would remain starkly violent and wonderfully uncomplicated; and every other hitman alive today wouldn't be trying to take him down.
But.
That's not what happens. Despite how irrational he knew it was, that is not the future 47 chose to live in.
///
This is what happens:
He kills the agent sent.
He gives his mistake a place to hide.
He methodically retires all other agents or contractors sent in the aftermath.
He continues to carry out his assignments as competently and efficiently as if the Belicoff debacle never happened.
And yet he never retaliates against those who order the hits. 47 understands the line the separates personal attacks from administrative corrections, and he is professional enough to accept the latter as a right of his former Organisation. Only amateurs take these things personally – only amateurs are too blinded by revenge or lust or whatever weakness to refuse to realize that they've made a mistake and actually try to fight the people who are trying to correct it. And 47 wants to be very, very clear that despite his one (unbelievable) mistake, he is still a professional. He has not gone rogue or unstable or (too) irrational, he merely has a... side-project that does not detract or distract him from his work. He is still the best killer alive, and to interfere with him would be deeply unwise.
If actions speak louder than words, then 47 is practically deafening on this last point.
Naturally, the whole thing confuses the Organisation. They keep sending more men, and he keeps tracking and sniping them down. As a courtesy, or perhaps because of the spectacular failure when they tried it the last time, they don't put any hits out on his head. 47 has an unspoken agreement with the Organisation, and it goes like this: they pretend not to notice when he occasionally hijacks their various resources, and he decides not to burn them to the ground for their betrayal in St. Petersburg. This would explain why Organisation prefers to keep all things related to their former agent as secret as possible. As a result, it takes nearly two months before word starts to get out. It takes nearly two months before the rumours start.
It starts at first as a joke. His particular industry is a dark and unique one, and not known for its sense of humour, but somehow, even with the characteristic of this business as a lone-wolf affair, the rumour spreads faster than even 47 anticipated. It has to do with a certain legendary hitman and his apparent blindspot for Russian whores – the details of the frankly unfunny joke doesn't matter.
What matters is that after a while, a few people get too interested and start dropping a few questions in unfortunate places. What matters is that soon the joke becomes a story, the story becomes a puzzle, the puzzle becomes an underground controversy, and then the few other nameless and very officially non-existent agencies in the industry finally starts paying attention. They send an order framed as a request to the Organisation, flat and direct: seek confirmation – is this true?
The Organisation confirms it.
It would take more effort than it is worth to find out the exact reactions of the other agencies, but 47 gathers enough to know that they are not pleased. They demand to know why the Organisation has done nothing about their former agent. They get pictures and a body count of the damage control attempts so far. They ask why the Organisation hasn't managed to at least track the witness down. They get more pictures and another list of body counts. They point out, acidly polite, that clearly the Organisation shouldn't have compromised such a talented agent and it is their responsibility to clean it up. This time, each agency gets pictures of men of theirs that they've betrayed in the past, and a sheet precisely tallying the resources the Organisation has lost in helping take them down.
It's all bluster and delay, really. In the end, 47 knows as well as them that this is a problem for them all. He even appreciates the theory behind it: random acts of mercy are bad for business and should be discouraged; Nika is a random act of mercy; therefore, she should be discouraged. Visibly. When you're in a business that demands unquestioning compliance and ruthless brutality from the killers you've trained, you can't afford to have one deviate from the standard and let him go untouched. He might become a symbol. Worse, he might become a possibility. The breathing proof of choice. 47 can almost hear the various agencies panicking at the very idea.
It takes a couple of weeks before the organisations decide on a solution, and by the time they contact him, 47 is ready. He has researched the few precedents before him – other hitmen who have had kept witnesses or even targets alive, or tried to retire, or went rogue, or any of a variety of mistakes. Aside from perhaps one, none of them survived past their first four months. And 47 is not even sure about that one lonely survivor: like him, he was from the Organisation, and the only evidence that he may have made it is that his file was wiped clean instead of made public an example like the rest – and that may just be because the Organisation prefers to pretend that mistakes by their agents don't exist. As far as 47 can tell, their offer is always the same. A rule of engagement that is simple and darkly ironic and suicidally in their favour.
47 is going to accept it.
"Incoming message: do you accept?"
"Yes."
The laptop hums softly as it receives and decodes the connection. 47 strips off his jacket and pulls off his tie while he waits. The shirt is ruined with faint but unmistakable blood spray: he bites back a sigh.
"We have an offer," the screen drones finally. "Regarding the witness from the St. Petersburg."
"I'm listening."
"This situation is most irregular. However, we are sure all parties involved can come to a reasonable understanding."
The cursor blinks. 47 says nothing.
"There is an old common law rule called a year and a day. It states no one is criminally responsible for the killing of another if death occurs past a year and a day after cause of death. Are you familiar with this?"
"Yes."
"As even legal wrongs have time limits as to their consequences, so are we prepared to recognize the same. The witness is free to live if she lives past a year and day. In return, you will accept a universal hit on your head, and arrange for all our costs to be covered in the event of your deaths. Do you accept?"
"Define the parameters."
He already knows them, but 47 is nothing but meticulous in his preparations.
"Your position will be a purely defensive one." The text is a rapid blur across the screen. "You will not retaliate or go on the offensive. You will not sabotage or hold any member of the major organisations hostage. You will not engage in blackmail. You will not cause us to incur more costs than is necessary in the defence of your position. You will ensure the witness remains silent as to what she has seen. You will not involve or invoke the direct help of any third parties. If any of these terms are breached, the period of a year and day restarts."
There is a pause. Then, as if even electronically modified voices can sound reluctant, it adds, "And if you receive any assignment offers from any of the agencies, you will not be prejudiced against them."
Well. It appears his reputation precedes him. Even as they try to wipe him off, they want to make sure they still have his expertise for the particularly difficult missions – while they can.
"Accepted. But if any of the offers are traps, the period ends immediately and the witness is free to walk – and I will be very displeased."
"You have our assurance that we will not engage in such conduct."
"In my experience," 47 says acerbically, "that means nothing."
The cursor blinks silently.
47 gives himself one last chance to change his mind. It would be the rational thing to do. It would be the professi—
"I accept the offer. The period started when I shot the first agent sent after the witness. That makes this the second month and third week of the rule."
"That is not how—"
"This," 47 repeats, "is now the second month and third week of the rule."
A brief pause. Then,
"Accepted. We have an understanding."
He ends the connection. And then 47 wonders for the thousandth time what the hell he is doing. Nika is going to be the death of him, and it may very well be literal.
As he stands under the punishing hot spray of the shower, 47 thinks that maybe it's time he paid her a visit. It would be the first time he's seen her since he left her at the train. He makes a note to pack extra tranquilizer darts.
///
(A note:
47 didn't actually mean to keep visiting. He just wanted to make sure she was aware that he was alive, so it would cut down on any delays of surprise if he had to relocate or retrieve her in the future. The reception had been explosive, to say the least. Apparently, Nika really did think he was dead. She was tiresomely vocal in her displeasure. But when he had been about to leave, she had followed him to the car and asked him when he was coming back. And she kept looking at him this way, defiant and uncertain and horribly vulnerable, and...
47 really wishes she would stop doing that. It just makes life difficult for him.
So, he didn't actually mean to keep visiting. This is important. Because it just goes to show that despite all appearances to the contrary, he definitely, definitely didn't mean to start taking her with him on his trips.)
///
The first time he does it, there is a legitimate reason. More or less.
The target has already survived two attempts by others, and has turned into one of those annoying recluses who never leave their home. Unfortunately, his home is also fortified with four sets of patrolling guards with Rottweiler's; has double-layered bulletproof reflective windows; a screening system of biometric security; two rooms of guards watching cameras. He also has an army of bodyguards who never leave his side.
Basically, your typical over-the-top target which would take 47 about a week or less to kill.
But he is also a target who lives in Greece.
Where Nika has never been.
Where she has once mentioned she would like to go.
And it is a relatively safe assignment; and there is a formal function that the target is hosting in his house which would allow the hit to be done in one night; and even if Nika was seen, it would only confuse and add to the false trails he has laid for her trackers; and...
For Christ's sake.
47 brings Nika along as cover, on the very legitimate basis that it would be near impossible to get into the function as a single man. For the first day there, he leaves Nika to her own devices while he makes the necessary arrangements. When he finally returns, the sky is glowing bruise-blue and he's in need of a new suit jacket. The blood stain is invisible to the eye, but 47 knows it's there and anything less than perfection annoys him.
When he walks in, Nika is in the middle of reapplying her make-up. The steam in the bathroom coil lovingly around her long legs. She is remarkably topless.
"The door is there for a reason, Nika," he says pointedly. He drops the packages on a chair, then follows suit. He stares at the banquet before him.
"But then how will you pretend not to look?" she calls back. 47 ignores that.
"What's all this?"
"Your dinner." She comes out with slightly more clothes on. "I didn't know what you wanted."
Oh. That's...
"Thank you," he says. Unexpected.
Nika shrugs. "You don't have to look so surprised." She sits in the chair opposite him, draws her legs up.
"I went to the beach today," she informs him.
47 starts uncovering the dishes. "Did you."
"Yes." She rests her chin on her knees, smiles dreamily. "I've never been to a beach before..."
It amazes him how much Nika can talk sometimes. She is capable of continuing a conversation solely by herself, a feat which, for all his training and specific skills set, 47 is fairly sure he would be unable to do. It is not unpleasant though. He listens and eats and gives a few neutral answers where appropriate, and to his surprise, doesn't find himself privately drifting off to plan tomorrow night's events. He has time to do that later anyway. By the time he's finished, he can hear the evening crickets from the balcony and Nika has morphed into a sleepy, soft-spoken creature, so different from the defensive, edgy attitude of her daytime self.
47 packs up the remaining food and stands. "Why don't you sleep," he suggests. He offers her his hand.
Nika takes it and pulls herself up, but doesn't let go. She looks up at him. "You know, I used to dream about this," she says quietly. "When I was with Belicoff."
He really wishes she would stop looking at him this way. "You're only here as a cover," 47 says, half to himself. He doesn't touch her gently, just there, on the cheek as he speaks. He is very careful not to.
Nika's smile is like a wound. "I know. But it's still true."
She lets go of his hand and goes to bed.
It takes a distractingly long time before he can focus on his work again. It is almost inefficient. But when the next night arrives, Nika fulfils her role suitably well and the hit is carried out, swiftly and neatly, and they are out of the mansion grounds just as the alarm is raised. That alone saves him nearly a week, so really, the end result is actually more efficient.
47 is a great believer in the ends justifying the means. Some might say he is a living testament to many other people's similar convictions.
That is why he continues to bring Nika along on assignments which would be assisted by either a female companion or distraction in some way. Because it's merely practical. Because she is merely a means.
///
It surprises him at first that Nika doesn't attempt to pull any of the absurd stunts she was constantly trying during their time in Moscow. After a couple of months, 47 stops anticipating it warily and starts to develop a routine of sorts – though not a predictable routine, because he of all people knows the danger of that. It works out to something like this: he sees Nika; he accepts and carries out certain assignments; at the same time, he tracks the men after Nika and retires the ones that come too close; at the same time, he takes counter-tracks and takes technically-defensive steps to deal with the men after him; at the same time, he sets up or continues to develop the enticingly plausible trails that promise to eventually lead to Nika in the same way a rainbow leads to a pot of gold; at the same time, he quietly gathers intel on the mood and plans of the various agencies. And then he checks on Nika again. It works out to an average of twice a month, or so. It is a busy life.
It isn't so bad at the beginning. Despite their proclaimed commitment, the other organisations are reluctant to waste resources on what they regard as the Organisation's problem, and the Organisation is reluctant to add to their growing headcount of failures. This leaves mainly the freelancers, who generally range between amateurs and very good amateurs. By contrast, the freelancers who are good enough to be agency-trained tend to leave him alone. 47 has the impression that most of them are watching him in the same way an audience watches a mass ring-match: they aren't going to help him if he goes down, but they aren't going to bring him down either. Considering the snowballing price on Nika's head, this is as good as having a fanbase.
Now with six months (and a day) left to go to the dateline, 47 is starting to notice a change in the intensity and proficiency of the attacks. He has already survived longer than any of the past men who have taken the agencies up on their offer. The various organisations have started to – not worry, but grow... concerned. Their men keep turning up in neat piles. None of the terms of agreement have been broken. 47 is careful to maintain a constant and sufficiently challenging schedule of assignments, and he still carries them out more efficiently than most other hitmen. And the freelancers, who usually work as an effective mass weapon of distraction, are getting increasingly reluctant to seek out the 'ghost's whore', let alone the ghost himself.
47 knows that very soon, the real storm will start. He is already surviving on an average of six hour of sleep daily, which is still manageable. He estimates that by the time it is three months to the ending date, this luxury will cut down to three to four hours a day. If all goes well, his preparations of the last seven months will ensure everything goes as planned. All he has to do is remain focused, execute the plans, and not get distracted.
It is around this time that Nika decides to start kissing him.
///
Really, he should have seen it coming. Nika may have been unusually subdued the first few times he saw her, but he has returned often enough that she no longer looks at him like it's the last time she's going to see him whenever he leaves. This is probably a bad thing, but it's still better than trying to handle the quietly repressed version of Nika.
On the other hand, this is what happens when he has to handle Nika in her full impulsive self.
Goddamnit, Nika.
47 stares at the woman in his arms. Even when unconscious, a hint of a smirk remains on Nika's lips. She tasted like wine, rich and sweet. She –
Goddamnit.
He carries her to the bed and drops her there. Then 47 spends the rest of day trying to ignore the phantom press of lips against his. He tries not to think of the way her lips curved under his. He tries not to think at all.
///
The second time catches him by surprise again; but by the third, he is ready.
"Nika," he says, "you have to stop this."
He is calm. He is reasonable. Nika spits a curse and rubs her neck, complaining about how his heartless attack will leave marks and how HE is the one who has to stop it, you goddamned psychopath.
Until he met her, 47 has never met any woman who swears quite like Nika.
He has every intention of giving her a short, biting lecture on a what she is going to stop doing effective immediately, the top of that short list being attempting (failing) to seduce him, but then Nika interrupts:
"I'm already wasting a whole goddamned afternoon doing this pointless exercise, the least you can do is hold still and not fucking attack me when I'm just trying to kiss you!"
And that.
Is just.
Unbelievable.
It had taken him ten minutes to even get Nika to hold a gun properly. Hold it. And either Nika is deliberately aiming for everything but the very large and perfectly unmoving target, or she has absolutely no hand-eye coordination and in 47's world, that's just not humanly possible. So if anyone is going to complain about having to spend an afternoon doing this pointless exercise, it had better be him.
"Perhaps," 47 says acidly, "we should continue this when you're actually concentrating."
Nika mutters an insult at him and predictably, throws her gun at him. She glares at him even more when he catches it, as if taking it as a personal affront, and then stalks off muttering under her breath. 47 wonders if he should have let the gun hit him. She really is impossible sometimes. He represses a sigh.
Then he follows the only living mistake of his life back to her house and watches her swing between sulkiness and wicked teasing for the rest of the evening. It isn't amusing at all. He tries not to smile.
///
Yes, yes. He knows. He could done more to stop her.
And yes. He should have.
But the thing is this: 47 has given up on trying to make sense of things around Nika. It's easier to just accept her as she is, as some form of private and very feminine natural disaster, than try to control her. Despite everything she's seen him do, Nika still has an aggravating tendency to just not listen to him. It's as if she carefully weighs what he says to discern just how far she can push it, and then goes for it. What's annoying is how good she is at it. She has an appalling amount of trust in his patience sometimes.
He does draw a line when she tries it in public, though. It's distracting enough in the relative safety of private spaces; in public, such a distraction could be fatal. For once, Nika actually seems to listen and doesn't do it again.
47 wonders what it means that she ignored all his previous orders in other places. Then he stops wondering, because it turns out he'd really rather not know.
///
It was a risk, but after he takes on two particularly challenging assignments consecutively, surviving on seventy-two hour days for a week to get the jobs done, the price on Nika's head finally moves up over his. And then it spikes sharply; doubles; doubles again; and overnight, the price on his head is mysteriously wiped down to a token amount and the attempts on his life slow dramatically. The tracking efforts to find the witness named Nika Boronina, on the other hand, jumps exponentially.
This is excellent news.
47 knows how the agencies think. The real problem here isn't Nika. The real problem is him.
He knows it and the Organisation knows it and the other agencies know it, and so on and on, in this infinite loop that always end up with the same point, flat as a fatal heartline:
He is the problem.
He let a witness live.
Except... within that problem, there lies another one. Small and diamond-hard and carefully crafted. And that inner problem is this: 47 is very, very good at what he does. In fact, he is unprecedentedly good. No hitman has ever managed to survive an all-out industry hit on his head for as long as eight months, and keep a target alive and miraculously hidden, and maintain an undisrupted professional life, as if unaffected by the private war waged on him by the major players of the killing industry. He is good enough, in fact, that he has become too valuable to retire.
47 knows that agencies, even his former Organisation, are unofficially (deeply) interested in recruiting (or re-recruiting) him as a resource. They would prefer that he gets cured of his weakness by a dose of death to the witness, as opposed to death to him. Not that they would be opposed to his retirement, of course, but... The focus is on the symptom named Nika Boronina now. And that goes perfectly to plan. It is far easier to protect Nika without constantly counter-tracking and taking down those after him too. The main issue now would be to keep Nika hidden, and make sure she doesn't do anything foolish to attract attention.
Also, getting some sleep would be nice. 47 is exhausted enough that he has been moving on numbed routine for the past few days, which can be deadly in a life where split-second reactions is the difference between breathing and the lack thereof. He is tired enough that it takes a while for him to realize that he is going through the motions that is a prelude to seeing Nika – the double-weaving and back-tracking and false clues and the acceptance of a simple cover assignment – all the things that allow him to see Nika without getting her killed in the process. It is dangerous and irrational and he should really, really be sleeping instead of going through with this idiocy, but it has also been nearly three weeks since he last saw her, and she always looks at him in that way he hates when he stays away for too long. Besides, he can rest on the flight there. He can handle this.
When 47 finally arrives at the vineyard, it's three in the afternoon for Nika and three in the morning for him. He finds her in one of the smaller plots, testing the soil with a look of concentration on her face. Even with her knees in the dirt, she's still dressed in an impractical dress of some sort, one thin shoulder strap falling over her shoulder.
He comes up behind her and touches her there lightly. Predictably, Nika starts. It's exasperating how easy it is to surprise her sometimes.
Nika turns; her face lights up. "Well finally," she says, but she's smiling. She gets up and moves towards him; 47 takes a step back automatically. Nika stops obligingly.
"How long are you staying this time?"
"Just a few hours."
"Can you stay the night?" she asks hopefully.
She always asks this, even though his answer never changes. "No. Why do you even bother to ask?"
"Why don't you ever say yes?" she snipes back. 47 hopes she isn't going to start sulking. He really doesn't have the energy to deal with that.
But Nika merely looks resentful for a moment before the light returns to her eyes again. "Fine, don't. Come on, I want to show you something."
He follows her as she leads him out of the vineyard and into hilly terrain. 47 can feel himself slowly degrading into the unique mode he occasionally reverts to when the exhaustion or stress of a fight becomes too much. It's a mode which strips everything away but the core of him, leaving him deadly and crystal-sharp and perfectly, viciously detached – it's not something that Nika should meet. 47 is trying to fight the weight of weariness when he realizes that Nika has stopped.
She has brought him to a natural sniper's nest. They are on the rise of a hill, with good bush cover; and fields of green and rust-gold spread out before them. Their position is low enough that a normal scope would be sufficient for a headshot; but high enough that any approaching enemies would be spotted at a decent range. Knowing Nika, she probably just saw the view.
He joins Nika in sitting near the edge of the rise overlooking the terrain. She shifts closer and leans her head against him; 47 is too tired to move.
"I found it when I was exploring this area a couple of weeks ago," she says softly. "I like to come here sometimes, to think. It's so peaceful. Or sometimes I just come and watch the people below work. You know, they never look up?"
"People rarely do."
"Mm. I guess you don't expect anyone to be watching from above."
"I often count on it."
"Ha, with a gun."
"With a delivery," he corrects.
"Delivery." There is a tease in her voice. "How polite."
"I try."
He feels her smiling. 47 concentrates on staying awake. There is gentle breeze, and there is a sleepy hush settling around them, and...
He shakes himself mentally. This isn't working.
"Nika, I need you to keep watch."
She lifts her head, looks confused. "Keep what?"
"I'm going to rest for a few minutes," he translates patiently. "I need you to stay alert and wake me if you hear anything."
"Why, who are you expecting?"
"No one. But I won't be able to rest unless you do."
Nika looks amused. "Alright. If you insist on being paranoid. No, I will," she adds hastily, when he makes a quiet, irritated sound, "Really, I will. Trust me."
Says the woman who never hears me coming, 47 thinks. But really, if anyone finds Nika now, they deserve to.
He leans back on his elbows; then raises himself again and takes off his jacket. He hands it to Nika wordlessly. She takes it without any sign of abashment.
"I like the way I dress," she retorts to his pointed look. One day he'll just let her shiver till she gives in and gets clothes that are practical enough to actually keep warm in.
47 lies back on the grass and covers his eyes with his arm. The darkness is a blessing. And Nika is safe and unharmed and next to him. He can afford to just... take a few...
When he wakes, the shadows have grown deeper and the sun has moved across the sky. 47 blinks, raises himself up slowly. There is a grateful restfulness in his muscles. He estimates he's slept for about two to three hours.
Nika smiles at him. "Welcome back. You survived."
His voice comes out sleep-rough. "I survived?"
"The horde of angry attackers." She smirks. "But then they saw me watching, and they surrendered on the spot. Because I'm that good."
"Clearly," 47 says dryly. "Why didn't you wake me?"
"For the horde?"
He gives her a look. She relents.
"Because you looked like you needed it. And you always wake up if you need to, and you didn't this time, so..."
She shrugs. The movement gets lost in his jacket, spread too big around her shoulders. In it, Nika looks small and fragile, like a girl lost. It makes a striking contrast with her knowing dark beauty, as if she can be two personalities at once. 47 has never once wondered why Belicoff had kept her for so long, even though the man was known for his fickleness. Not once.
The remnants of sleep are still low and drowsy in his head. So that may be why 47 allows himself to reach out. That may be why he is allowing himself to touch her now, precise and careful – just his thumb brushing her tattoo; just his palm cupping the side of her face. Practically means nothing at all. Nika stills, then she puts a hand over his, presses it warm and close. In her eyes, there is that terribly vulnerable wonder again.
Nothing at all.
He keeps his voice calm, as if his weakness wasn't a tangible thing between them. "You must not have moved much, for me not to wake."
"I've had practice." She sounds dazed. "I know a lot about not wanting to wake sleeping men."
"I see."
"Not that I didn't want to – I mean, not that I was afraid that – I didn't mean you're like the other..."
Her words stumble to a halt. Nika looks briefly miserable. Then she says, as if stating the simplest fact in the world, "I just want to be with you, that's all. I didn't mind."
Sometimes Nika has sulking tantrums and is irritatingly unreasonable with her cajoling demands that he stay longer, that he talks, that he tells her things that he sees no need for her to know. Then there are times when she does something like this: not move for hours so he can sleep, even though she knows he'll have to leave soon after. There are times when she blindsides him with a strike of quiet, sudden honesty, and he has no defences.
It's an unfair advantage. He was never trained for this.
47 pulls back, gets up. Nika looks up at him, anxious and uncertain. The light is fading, but he estimates there is still about an hour before it gets too dark to see.
Nika takes his offered hand and pulls herself up. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. You're going to practice."
"Practice what?" Then she realizes. "Oh for fuck's sake. Not again. I hate that goddamned tree..."
She complains the whole way down the hill and to the field. 47 takes the time to get a grip on himself again. By the time they reach the spot, Nika has gotten impressively creative with her vocabulary. Anyone would think she suffered more than him in these trying lessons.
It's easy to keep Nika distracted. 47 thinks, as he watches her miss the target yet again (bad grip, and she still flinches when she pulls the trigger), that he can't do this. Not yet. Not now. He'll deal with one problem at a time. Right now he has to focus on keeping her alive, not to mention himself. And then, perhaps... once it's over...
Nika breaks his thoughts by throwing her gun to the ground. And then she breaks his irritation by startling him into another ambush, using his tie as leverage. At least she appears better at basic trickery than aiming. She smirks a lot more and concentrates a lot better after that, but she still misses spectacularly. 47 is too distracted to really care.
///
No.
He does want not to talk about that night.
First, because it shouldn't have happened. He can't afford to lose focus like that again. The worst so-called professionals are always the ones who have attachments while they work.
Second, very soon after that, 47 doesn't have much time to dwell on it. It's the ninth month, and there are only three months and a day left to go. On some days, he can't tell if its dawn or eventide. On most days, he doesn't have time to care.
///
The agencies start to devote an impressive amount of resources to finding Nika. They send men after him too, of course, but their efforts have more the quality of distraction than anything else, so that for periods of days, 47 doesn't have time to do anything by counter-ambush and counter-track and gather or force out intel that will keep him alive. It's a simple but unfortunately, effective method. He still has to keep up a schedule of assignments, track the many freelancers and agents after Nika, create false diversions, take down the ones that come too close, and very importantly, sleep. 47 has never been so tired in his life. And there are still so many weeks to go.
He takes Nika with him a couple more trips. Not so much as cover but – as a form of bait. He would give her a list of places she can go in the new city and leave her while he conducts his affairs. Her picture will be captured by security cameras and two days later, recognized by the agencies' bio-scanning devices. Then the sharks will smell blood in the water and come in a frenzy only to find him waiting. Technically, 47 is not allowed to go on the offensive; but he prefers to arrange the circumstances of his technically-defensive position. If he controls the leak of information well enough, he can draw out the men who he has marked as needing retirement.
Also, there is something... else. There is no evidence or reason to believe that any of her trackers are close enough to finding her that he has to pull her out of vineyard, but...
It's an instinct. And 47 has survived long enough in this business that he has learnt not to ignore them.
It is the same instinct that calls him back early from a task one evening. He has left Nika to her own devices as usual, but for once, she isn't back before him. He has just finished an eight-hour stake-out, and had planned to enjoy five-second dozes in a quick shower before heading out again to set up technically-defensive traps and ambush a potential contact. Except when he checks Nika's location, he finds her walking into a death trap. There is an instant where the world freezes, then 47 is a blur of movement – out of the hotel, through the maze of streets, down to the docks where there are far too many eyes that belong to one of the agencies. Where Nika is. When he finds her, he is so relieved and furious that he barely knows what he says. He takes her back and is forced to skip the shower, but the adrenaline shock keeps him alert for the rest of the night anyway.
After that, 47 decides against bringing Nika along. He doesn't have time anyway. It doesn't take long before his exhaustion starts to shave away everything but the core of him: trained killer, clinical and blindingly focused. All the matters is reaching the objective; the reasons behind it are irrelevant.
After a few weeks, 47 is down to surviving on this core mode almost constantly.
After a month more, he can't remember how else to be.
///
He gets a message from the agencies one month before the dateline.
The man before him is from one of the agencies that mark their agents with a code on the right side of their necks. Right now, that mark is obscured by the blood spilling from the slit in the man's throat.
47 shushes the gasping man soothingly, and aims the gun at his forehead.
"Wait." It comes out more as a gurgle than a word. Red life trickles from the corner of the agent's mouth. He rasps, "I have a message."
47 pauses. He doesn't move the gun. "Speak."
"An offer. If you--" The man chokes. More blood spittle. 47 waits impatiently. At this rate, he wouldn't need a bullet.
"If you eliminate the witness yourself," the agent manages finally, "your hit will be lifted. Your mistake wiped. Everything returns to before."
"Before," 47 says flatly. "Really."
The man is weakening rapidly. "Unofficial," he rasps wetly, "but my agency – has a position – for you. With full access – to all inter - intermediate intel."
Full access. Despite himself, 47 is surprised. "Anything else?"
The agent glares at him. 47 supposes he could wait for him to die. It would only take a few minutes more. But he doesn't have that much time to waste. So he retires the agent neatly and leaves his body with the other corpses. When he emerges from the alley, it is the lunch rush and no one looks twice at the shaven-head man in the business suit.
Full access. How... flattering. Back when he was under the Organisation, he'd always wanted – Anyway, it's a good sign. They're getting desperate.
Four weeks.
And then the witness Nika Boronina will be in the clear.
And then he can sleep for a full night instead of three-hour snatches in unsecure places.
And then it will all be over.
He can do this. He will do this.
47 has a faint feeling that he is forgetting something – not crucial to the objective, but...
It doesn't matter.
Four weeks.
He can do this.
///
A week later, the signal of Nika's trace dies out. There is a moment of blank shock – then 47 remembers why. And then he remembers what it is that had nagged at him yesterday: the visits. Of course. He hasn't had time.
He is tempted not to bother to go back anyway. There are only three weeks and a day left after all, and the trace on her is such a small detail of precaution... But even as he thinks that, 47 knows he's going to go. Details are what makes the difference between perfection and near-perfection; and in this business, it translates into the difference between life and death. And he hasn't come this far to leave anything to chance.
When he arrives, Nika sees him coming and goes to him. She demands to know where he's been; he deflects . She becomes theatrical and announces he is leaving her; he is short in his answer. Though even as he says it, 47 thinks that he might very well be leaving her at this rate: if someone was to attack him right now, he would be too tired to fight properly. The realization shakes him a little. It prompts him to accept the ever-present invitation to stay the night for once. Over dinner, Nika is subdued and agitated. It turns out that after all her show of asking in the past, she's actually uneasy with him staying. 47 doesn't really care. He doesn't. He just wants to sleep.
He sleeps till just before dawn. Then he wakes and goes to Nika's bedroom. She doesn't stir, even when he carefully draws the covers back and places the signal charger close to her neck, near the back of her ear. The charger locates the device and clicks three times, beeps. Nika's breathing doesn't even change. She really is a depressingly easy mark. 47 watches her sleep for a moment, then shakes himself. Despite his rest, he can still feel a heavy weariness deep in his bones, as if the hours were merely blinked away. He takes a breath. And then he leaves to fight for a new day.
The week passes bloodily.
Two weeks and a day left.
Another week passes, heavy with sulphur and smoke.
One week and a day.
One week.
Six days.
Five.
Then –
It happens.
Five days before it's all over, everything changes.
First, Nika gets found.
///
It is a chance thing that tips 47 off. Something a contact mentions in passing, an afterthought of an afterthought, hardly worth noticing. But 47 has been trained to notice every minor detail for so long that it might as well have been a shout. In the interrogation, the contact blabbers about the usual things: how everyone in the his network from Cairo to Stavropol is being hit for info about that Boronina bitch, not just him, oh god please stop, he doesn't know anything more etc etc. Except Stavropol is one of the largest regions of Russian wines, and even though Nika isn't located there, it is a close enough hit that it prompts 47 to question him further. It turns out that despite all the trails 47 has carefully laid that insist otherwise, there's an unknown who has been particularly interested in the rural wine-making regions of Russia. 47 doesn't bother with the camouflaging actions in getting to Nika this time: there is no time, and she is as good as compromised anyway. At the airport, he only hesitates briefly before he gets two tickets: at this stage, the safest option would be to take her with him. It's dangerous, but he doesn't have time to relocate her right now. He gets an extra return ticket anyway as an unlikely back-up plan, then spends the flight there reworking the change in his plans. And eighteen hours after he first hears the tip-off, 47 is in Nika's bedroom telling her they have to go.
(Notice that so far, this is merely a change of plans.)
(Notice that when a man like 47 uses a word like everything, he rarely exaggerates – and so far, this hardly changes everything.)
Everything changes, but not because Nika gets found. Not exactly. There are few truths in the world that 47 believes in, but when he does, he builds his world around them, absorbing them to be as undeniable as fact.
Such as: he is going to die violently one day, and he is going to die alone.
Such as: he will never be as good at doing anything else as he is at taking lives.
And recently, such as: Nika will never fully listen to him, and she will always wait.
This is how everything changes:
In the car, on the way to the airport. 47 is drained enough that he doesn't care to ask what it is that's bothering the woman beside him. Nika is nervously subdued beside him again, and he can tell she's trying to work up the courage to say something. He wishes she'll just say it. It's distracting him from planning the schedule of the next few days ahead.
And then Nika does say it, and he stops planning altogether.
She thanks him for giving her the vineyard.
She rambles on some more about how grateful she is, how she has everything she wants now.
Then she tells him this is the last time she'll be seeing him.
Then she tells him that she'll never forget him.
And the whole time she says this, she doesn't even look at him. Just straight ahead, clear and tense.
He actually asks her to repeat. That's how unbelievable it is. She's sharper and more brittle the second time, but the message is the same:
Nika wants him to stop visiting.
She wants him to leave.
And.
She is right, 47 thinks. He always knew it had to end sometime. Just not this way.
And.
This is actually a good thing. Because no matter how well he's done so far in this game, no matter how perfect his kills or precisely met his datelines in other assignments, Nika will always remain an unprofessional aberration...
And.
He only continued visiting her before for her sake, and now that he's freed of this obligation, he... She is a continuing mistake, and this is a chance to...
47 is so tired. That's why he can't think right now, why his head hurts; he needs to rest. Nika doesn't say anything for the rest of the drive, and pretends to sleep on the whole flight to their destination. She always was thoughtless as to planning, 47 thinks distantly. If she was going to say this, she should have said it at the end of the trip, not at the start.
Not that it matters, since he doesn't care either way.
This is probably why they teach trust as one of the worst flaws to have, back in the Organisation. Right after the flaw of mercy.
He has been such a fool.
By the time they get to the right hotel, 47 has deliberately shut down to his simpler mode, where everything is clearer and sharper and stripped of sentiment. Where everything is easier to deal with. He is arranging for the right room to book when there is a collective gasp around the room and all eyes are on the person behind him. Nika, of course.
Who has just caused a scene by swearing at a bellboy.
Who he has specifically told to keep a low profile.
Who has just made his work several times more complicated by drawing attention to herself.
Sometimes, Nika does something so naive and thoughtless and just fucking stupid that he can't help but think, just for a moment: this is never going to work. She isn't worth it.
Just before he turns to deal with the matter, 47 thinks of two things.
The first is a flash-memory of Nika, sitting on a hill rise with his jacket loose around her, quiet and darkly exquisite and achingly untouchable.
The second is of an offer made in an alley by a dying man, stark and uncomplicated in terms. A way back to his old life.
As he turns, 47 reminds himself that the problem isn't Nika. The problem is him.
Of course, where the solution lies is also ultimately up to him.
