Thank you to the beautiful people who reviewed/followed/faved. I have this almost all written (it was going to be a oneshot but I split it for ~drama~) so I'll post each chapter pretty quickly.
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I
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They've housed Wolf in K Unit's old barracks. Logically, he knows that countless other soldiers have been and gone and passed through here in the three years since selection. Yet it still feels unnerving to set his bag down on the bunk and hear nothing but empty silence around him.
The camp hasn't changed an awful lot in the time he's been gone. The huts stand as they always did, sparse and perpetually damp from the Welsh weather. The lack of familiar faces, though, is a little disheartening. Wolf will go to his grave before he admits to missing training, but he can't help but wish that another member of K Unit were here with him. He hasn't seen Snake since Jakarta, over a year ago now, and he can't actually remember the last time the four of them were together in the same place.
The new recruits may be wet behind the ears, but that doesn't stop them from staring at Wolf with narrow, assessing eyes as he crosses the grounds. He gets the message: this is a training camp, and he's a fully-fledged member of the SAS. Whatever business he has coming back here is unorthodox, and – well. That was never going to sit well with soldiers.
He throws his shoulders back as he heads over to Cabin 9, refusing to let a bunch of rookies think that they've intimidated him. They haven't, after all.
The MI6 guy on the door greets him with a nod, dropping a cigarette end to crush beneath his heel.
"You're the one they've assigned to Rider?"
Rider: the contract killer who murdered a man less than twenty-four hours ago.
Wolf nods.
He draws himself together as the guard works open the lock, reminding himself that he shouldn't have much of a problem here. It's not like he hasn't done this before. Wolf isn't the man he was when he first set foot in this camp; he's seen enough to fuel a lifetime of nightmares and made tougher decisions than most people will ever be faced with. Whatever's behind that door is well within his capabilities.
It swings open and the guard jerks his thumb.
"Tell me if you need anything."
Wolf assures him that he will.
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He's older than Wolf remembered. That should have been a given, yet it's oddly throwing to see a less childish, more angular face washed out by the lights. The version of Cub he had preserved in his mind is now officially gone, he guesses. Still, he looks more like the kid Wolf met in France than the hard-eyed assassin in the Sergeant's picture. He's also very much unconscious, slumped in a chair with no less than three zip-ties securing his wrists. Either the Sergeant has become even more paranoid about not taking any chances, or Cub's reputation really is that bad.
Wolf gives the room a once-over before snagging a chair of his own and dragging it to a safe distance. The waiting, he thinks, is always the most surprising part about captivity, regardless of which side of the equation you're on.
It doesn't take long for Rider to stir.
"Ah-h…"
Eyes - familiar eyes, far more familiar than Wolf anticipated - blink open stickily. When they fall on Wolf, they widen.
"Cub," Wolf says quietly.
He doesn't get a greeting. Rider's stretches his neck, letting out a deep sigh.
"Is this the part where you start hitting me?"
His voice, for some reason, is like a slap in the face. Wolf keeps his face trained to a careful neutral.
"Depends on whether you're willing to work with me, kid."
He studies Rider closely as he examines his surroundings. He doesn't seem surprised to be waking up tied to a chair, although he seems curious about his cell.
"I think I'll pass," he says lightly. "Headache. Sorry."
Wolf raises an eyebrow. Is he trying to play the tough guy? He looks like hell. The bullet wound has been treated and bandaged, but he doubts that they gave him anything for the pain. Mottled bruising discolours the skin that Wolf can see, the product of being shot out of the sky, ricocheting off a dumpster and falling into a den of MI6 agents.
"Passing isn't an option, I'm afraid."
"When is it ever," Rider mutters.
"Why were you in London?" Wolf begins, not actually expecting a reply. He'd half-counted on this being Rider's first interrogation, hoping that this wouldn't have to get too messy. He's almost certain now that his hope was in vain. He's far too calm and collected.
"I had business there," Rider replies, like he home-delivers grocery shopping or some shit.
"Need specifics, I'm afraid, kid."
Rider's eyes flash. "Then don't fucking call me that, for a start."
Wolf can't help but smirk. "Why not? Come on, you're how old? Nineteen? Twenty?"
"Seventeen," Rider spits. "Not that it's any of your business."
"So long as it's my chair you're tied to, I say it is," Wolf shoots back, but his head is reeling. He thinks back, mentally calculating the years since he last saw Cub. He spent a year slogging through the training process, then another two on various assignments, so… If Cub is telling the truth, he was fourteen or fifteen when he was last here at Brecon Beacons. When he was sent here by MI6.
Wolf swallows hard. Rider is glaring, clearly waiting for the next question.
"Who wanted your mark dead?" Wolf tries a new angle. They all know he's an assassin; it doesn't need to be the elephant in the room.
If something crosses Rider's face for a moment, it's fleeting, and Wolf dismisses it.
"A man," he answers helpfully.
"That doesn't narrow it down an awful lot."
"A rich man."
"This doesn't have to be hard, Cub."
"What are you honestly hoping to achieve, Wolf? Do you think I'm scared of you? I know this game better than you do. I've been playing it for longer. MI6 have left me here to stew because they think that seeing you will make me regret or something."
"Do you?" Wolf asks with genuine interest.
Rider's expression is closed.
"No. I had my orders, like you have yours. So go and ahead and follow them, Wolf. Torture me. Have a field day. But I can save you the effort by telling you right now that it isn't going to work."
Silence descends upon the room. Wolf finds himself shaking his head. "Jesus Christ, kid. What did they do to you?"
"You're gonna have to be more specific," Rider bites out. "Are we talking MI6, Scorpia, or the big bad world of spying in general?"
"It— it isn't too late, Cub. If you wanted to get out of this. This life."
He huffs a mirthless laugh. "What, and join the SAS? I think I'll pass, thanks."
"I'm serious." Wolf shifts forward, half-wishing the kid would look at him, half-glad that he isn't. "Give me what I need and I'll talk to the Sergeant."
Rider laughs even harder. The urge to yell at him, to grab him and shake him, surges through Wolf suddenly. Doesn't he know what's good for him?
For fuck's sake.
Over the next hour, Wolf can feel his frustration rising and rising until he can't be in the room any longer. Rider has stopped talking altogether eventually, opting to stare at the ceiling instead. There's only so long that Wolf can question a silent room before it starts to feel like madness.
His legs feel stiff by the time he gives up for the day, leaving his chair and heading for the exit.
"Are you going to fetch bad cop?" he hears Rider call before the slam of the door.