There really isn't a lot of love for these two out there. I found one...maybe two fanfics for this awesome pair! ;-;
So I decided to write my own! Nothing too graphic...I might write more for 47/Diana if I get the chance.
Let me know what you think? :D

47 was of many things; cunning, sharp, dangerous, and precise. His skills were developed throughout the years, made him execute kills and allowed him to get out when the timing was right. They helped him move on from contract to contract, allowing him to become the myth that he was right now; allowing him to be a shadow.

His skills, however, had not prepared him for who was there after he answered the door of his Chicago flat.

Diana stood there, in a black dress that cut formally above the knee with black heels to match. She pursed her lips briefly, eyes falling to the bare skin that was shown through his unbuttoned dress shirt. The handler looked back up at him a second later, weight shifting from one foot to the other as he stared at her pensively. "47," she spoke quietly.

The hitman blinked at her incredulously, almost as if he were imagining her for a moment. "What are you doing here?" he asked in a low voice.

Diana remained silent, looking down at her feet before meeting 47's patient stare. "I think we should talk," she answered in a slightly elevated voice.

"You're not supposed to be here," 47 argued back weakly. His eyes were softening subtly the longer he looked at her.

"When has that stopped us before?" the woman offered a small smile. One of her small hands tucked a few lose strands behind her ear, the other kept holding onto the briefcase at her side.

He nodded at her, almost as if to say you have a point, before retreating into his apartment with Diana in tow. She looked around as 47 closed the door behind her, a simple but elegant and spacious flat blinds covering the windows and a large couch on one side of the room, fitting into a small entertainment center that went along with a glass coffee table and a small widescreen HD TV.

On the other side was a small kitchen area where the table was covered with gun cleaning supplies and dirty rags. A large green mat laid in the middle of the table where his Silverballers lie discarded.

47 walked past her slowly, almost with deliberate footsteps as he made his way to one of the cabinets in the kitchen area. The woman got a whiff of his cologne, as well as gun smoke as he passed by. It made her stop in her tracks abruptly as she watched him pass by. After seeing him pull out the first glass, Diana smiled lightly and made her way to the couch and discarding her suitcase by the side. She watched him put ice in the glasses before grabbing the whiskey bottle on the counter. A moment later, 47 paced himself over to the couch, bringing over a whiskey bottle and two glasses with for them to drink out of.

He sat next to her gingerly, uncorking the whiskey bottle before pouring it first in her glass, then his. Diana watched his movements the entire time, studying the way his steady hand poured the alcohol into the glass, the look in his eye as he poured the drink to a calculated amount in his head, the way his eyes were focused but showed how distant he was at the same time.

"Thank you," she finally spoke up when he handed the woman her drink. 47 stared at her again, thinking about something but then quickly dismissing it as he took a sip, the ice rattling in its cage. Diana looked at him again somberly before pursing her lips as she set her drink on the coffee table. "I'm sorry I made you go through that," she almost whispered. Were it not for 47's acute senses, he may not have heard it.

He paused, looking at her coolly. Diana retained her focus to the drink that she still held with her hand, the other fisting in her lap. "Making you shoot me. I'm sorry there was no other way," she paused again, inhaling nervously. "I know it must have hurt you to do that."

47 looked away and down at the whiskey still in his hand. "We're even now," he spoke up. Diana turned slowly to look at him. "You stabbed me with a syringe in the back of my neck," the hitman pointed to the spot where she did indeed stab him with the serum a year ago. He slowly lowered his arm and took another sip of his whiskey. "And you killed me."

Diana continued to look at him, knowing he was going to speak up again. And he did.

"And then when you applied the antidote to revive me…" he turned to look at her, eyes wide with so many emotions. "You kissed me. Why?" He saw her eyes begin to fill up with fear. "You could've administered the antidote in another way…"

The handler swallowed lightly, looking away and taking another sip of the bitter alcohol. "I knew The Agency would send you to come after me after they re-established themselves." She leaned to the side and rested her head on his shoulder, fingers slowly creeping upward on his hand to interlock with his. "I won't lie, I…" she scooted closer, felt the way his body was tensing up. "I…" Diana laughed bitterly. The alcohol was finally starting to kick in. "It's stupid…"

"I'm listening," he murmured quietly. Diana looked up at him longingly, seeing something in his eyes that she remembered being there when he held her hand as she was bleeding on the floor, telling her he could say there until she "died". If it weren't for Victoria, she wouldn't have objected to the offer. She could tell he was more relaxed now, from the alcohol or not, it was still a rare occurrence for the agent.

"I'm rather fond of you," the woman said, smiling ever so lightly as she stared at the pitch black screen of the TV. She felt his fingers squeeze around hers. "You're probably the only person I trust implicitly." Diana looked up at him. "I love you, 47."

"Diana, I—" he cut himself off, knowing he wasn't the best with words. He never had been to begin with. "You know that this won't be able to last."

"You said that when you shot me," Diana argued lightly.

"I'm a murderer, Diana," 47 looked towards the dead TV screen and moved his hand away from hers. She was about to speak up when his arm wrapped around her. Diana let him pull her closer to his body, resting her head under his chin.

"I know," she replied faintly. "If I didn't still trust you, I wouldn't have come here." When she finally looked up, 47 was staring at her with the same waiting expression he had when he opened the door. Her eyes remained fixated on his, addicted to the unnatural blue hue that illuminated off of them in the darkened room. Diana watched as they trailed down her face, down to her lips. They drew in a thin line as some color rushed to her cheeks.

One of 47's hands came crawling up her back, fingers lightly pressing through the fabric of her dress until it reached the base of her neck, the other reaching for her hand as the hitman turned Diana to face him. Her hands cupped his face gingerly, as if the skin he had were porcelain when she knew very well that it wasn't; it was hard, durable and scars littered his body all over with fingers and palms padded with thick callouses that were gently holding her hand right now.

Diana leaned in first, pausing just as she reached his mouth and looked up at him, silently seeking consent he seldom had the opportunity to give. 47 didn't move however. Despite his rapidly beating heart and the urge to kiss her, he remained still. The impulse to move grew more frantic as she placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned in with a chaste kiss to his lips before pulling away.

She was about to move away when the hitman stopped her, his hand squeezing hers and the other on her neck stopping her abruptly. Diana paused and turned to look at him, facing him just in time before he pulled her back and met her half way with an almost forceful kiss. He didn't want her to slip away again like last time.

The hand by her neck wound itself in Diana's hair and securing a firm grip on her head. 47's other hand wrapped around her back, pulling her in closer this time. Diana felt her head spin as her hands went on his shoulders, and then her arms following suit as they wrapped around his neck. The hitman pulled the woman into his lap with one hand sliding down to her waist while the other one remained threaded in her hair.

Diana cupped his face with her hands before letting them slide down to his bare torso, fingers sliding along the grooves and ridges of the muscles she found there. The need for air was becoming too great and she had to break away, gasping for the air to fill her lungs as quickly as possible. 47 looked up at her, clearly somewhat startled and also in need of a breather until he saw the smile that she was wearing.

The hitman pulled her close, slowly and gently this time. His nose was buried in the crook of her neck. "Stay," he panted, hot breath fanning against her exposed skin. Diana shivered at the unexpected warmth. She let her heels fall to the floor, vaguely remembering that she was still wearing them. "Please, Diana," she heard him speak again as she looked down at him. 47 lifted his head to stare at her with an expectant, almost desperate look, as if he knew this moment wouldn't last and it were grains of sand slipping through the cracks in his hands.

He didn't expect her to touch their foreheads together and their breathing to mix. Words were futile at this point. The sure grip he had on her hair and her on his shoulders told the other that they weren't going anywhere.

And when 47 woke up the next morning in his bed, Diana was still there with him, still sleeping on his chest as he laid on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He looked up at the alarm clock, the time 5:30 glared back at him in an angry red. The hitman squinted his eyes and moved slowly to get up, to make sure Diana didn't wake up in the process.

"47…"

He looked down at her, blinking in surprise. Diana was mumbling in her sleep, her grip on him tightened as she curled up to his side and began to settle down again.

The hitman looked at the clock, a minute having passed by as he read the time again. He was still tired and Diana's body heat was making it too tempting not to leave the bed. 47 grunted in annoyance, remembering that he didn't have and current contracts and that some vacation time was in order. He rolled onto his side and wrapped an arm around the sleeping woman, who snuggled up to him even more.

In his opinion, there was nothing to complain about.