Introductions
There’s a warm hand under his chin, tilting his face up and forcing him to look. To see. A thumb brushes over the track his tears have made - it comes away wet, presses to the corner of his mouth. He feels unsteady, shaky in his body. Unrooted. Unsure. Terrified. Blue eyes - the colour of forget-me-nots - stare down into his, searching for something they won’t find. Eyelids droop shut, cutting off his visual of the colour.
Pink lips move. “I love you,” they say.
He shudders, wants to curl in on himself, hold himself together, but he doesn’t. The hand stays steady on his face. His soul aches, cries for some alternate ending. His jaw quivers, warmth sliding down his face; the personification of the feeling of his chest shattering. “Is that enough?” he wonders out loud.
The brilliance of those eyes shine down into his, which must be duller than the ocean after a storm. He wants to be closer, to touch and press himself down the line of the body his own knows every inch of. “It should be.”
“But it’s not,” he concludes. It’s not. It won’t be, it isn’t and it never was.
Lips press together into a thin line, going from rosy to white. Eyelashes brush down over red-stained cheekbones. Dry skin. There are no tears here, apart from his own, still flowing steadily. “Keep yourself warm, Buck,” is breathed out like a cloud of pity, of all things.
Every piece of him falls apart, breaking on the snow-covered concrete like glass. He sucks in a breath that stings like vodka and sinks down under a frothing ocean surface. The hand disappears and the ice crackles around him, stealing his air. Footsteps crunch across the road, disappearing. He should get up and run, beg for him to stay, but he’s broken. He can’t get up.
He curls in on himself, finally, wondering if it’ll be like this forever. He doesn’t doubt it will be.
He has nothing, now. There’s no possible way to fix this. He’s leaving tomorrow.
Night settles over him like a blanket, turning his lips blue.
The sweat he wakes up to is a far cry from the wintery night his mind had been torturing him with. He’s drenched with it, chest still heaving and jaw aching from where he must have been screaming. At least the snow hadn’t been stained with blood this time. It’s like something dragged straight up from hell when the two main themes of his nightmares clash.
He sits up, dragging himself out of bed and stumbling over to the window. It’s still open, curtains dancing with the night chill. Gooseflesh prickles over his arm and bare chest, but he can’t find the energy to shiver. He shuts the window with more force than necessary, securing the latch and stepping away, pulling the curtain shut.
He takes a moment to further catch his breath before turning to face the bedroom of the night. It’s better than some of the ones he’s stayed in, but the wallpaper is peeling from the corners and the sheets itch something crazy. He drags his hand down his face, stepping over the pile of clothes he’d thrown to the floor before collapsing into bed last night.
The light is still on in the bathroom and the open bottle of spirits is still on the basin where he’d left it. He picks up the thing and screws the lid on, putting it on the floor where it’s safe from being knocked off. He washes his face quickly, patting around his neck with the flannel and getting rid of the stickiness of drying sweat. He glares at the space where the mirror is - covered with the only towel offered with the room.
He doesn’t have the energy for a shower. Instead, he returns to the bedroom and grabs his phone from the charger port. At a quick glance of the time, he figures he has about twenty minutes to get it together. In the meantime, he starts packing. He’s only been here thirty-six hours, but that’s already longer than usual.
He has his backpack and his rifle bag. Clothes are shoved into the backpack along with the handgun - it’s not needed on this mission. He’s not wearing anything so it’s no trouble pulling on a pair of underpants and then his heavy tac gear that comes from his rifle bag. He secures several knives to his person, then takes one last sweep of the room, making sure he hasn’t missed anything.
He’s doing up his boots - custom with fucking velcro, fuck laces - and then he’s doing up his glove with his teeth and launching himself out of the window and into the night. He lands in a silent crouch, the quiet sound of snow and ice under boots the only indication of his appearance on the ground. He stalks off, keeping to the shadows and doing well to make sure he remains unseen.
He double-checks the address texted to him before heading in that direction. It’s close, only a few blocks, and has a beautiful open window. This mission comes with a doubled pay and the request to leave a message. He’s not usually one for dragging things out - he’s more the type of mercenary you pay to go in, get the job done, get out. This one’s a little different, but he’s feeling a little more malicious tonight.
He enters through the window, silent even with one arm. The room he finds himself in is clearly an office, but that’s of no interest to him. He leaves the room and heads down the hallway, taking in every little detail. The apartment is two-bedroom, one bathroom, one lounge and an adjoined kitchen. It’s small - and well-stocked. A good safehouse.
He’s not sure how his employer found out the address, because he’s done research on the man he’s to kill, and the guy isn’t stupid. He knows how to cover his tracks. It’s not his business, though. The only thing he needs to know is that the money has gone into his bank account.
The door to the second room is open just a crack, no light spilling through. Soft snores come through, masking the sound of the door opening fully. There is only one person in this whole apartment, making his job even easier. He pauses to take stock of the room - barred windows, gun on the nightstand.
He holds in the urge to snort before taking the gun and tucking it into a holster. He flicks the lamp on the bedside table on and sits down on the edge of the bed, taking the man sleeping there by the throat. Dark eyes fly open, face draining of colour as he flails, getting tangled up in the sheets.
As soon as the man’s eyes see him, he stops. “Winter,” he croaks.
Winter doesn’t smile. He stares down at the man with a blank face, squeezing a little tighter. The man makes a desperate choking sound, eyes going wide. He tries to shake his head, tries to speak again. Winter finds it vaguely amusing that this man’s last word is going to be his name. He purses his lips, squeezes harder. He has a message to deliver before he can kill this man and disappear until the next job crops up.
“ Pavlenko govorit chto on budet zabotit'sya dlya Staroverova,” he murmurs, making sure to lean in close so the man will understand.
There’s fear, pure and undiluted on the man’s purple face when Winter pulls back and looks down at him. He doesn’t look away as the man fish-mouths, trying to speak, going bug-eyed. When he passes out, Winter drives a knife into his temple and leaves through the same window.
His bags are waiting for him in his room back at the motel and he showers quickly, not knowing when he’ll get the chance for another one. He changes out of his tac gear and replaces it with street clothes before getting the hell out of there. He’d payed forward, no one will miss him. No one will chase him up.
He sends a quick text to Pavlenko, a simple ‘done’ in Russian before deleting his number and binning the burner phone. The world is beginning to wake up - he stops off to stash his rifle bag on a roof he’d found not too long ago - recent enough that he doesn’t have to switch up the place for a few more weeks. With just the clothes on his back and the things in his backpack, he goes hunting for some breakfast.
There’s a cafe just opening, so he pulls on his cap and pats his pockets for the cash he’d withdrawn yesterday. He orders a plain coffee - black - and a toasted bagel to shut his stomach up before settling into a booth. He checks the front pocket of his backpack for a safety pin and allows a moment of triumph before setting about the task of pinning his empty sleeve back.
The waiter that comes over with his coffee and bagel seems to be in a hurry, even though there’s no one else here yet. Winter figures he’s in need of a shave at some point. He scrubs his hand over his prickly jaw before grunting and forgetting about it. He sips at the coffee and lets his mind drift, while he keeps an eye on the entrances of the cafe and the staff.
He won’t be able to stay here long, but he’s not sure where he’s going to go next. There’s no one to see, no place to be. As he chews on his bagel he wonders when the last time he created a new identity was. It seems like something to do - he could stay put in a new place a little longer, perhaps. Or at least until he got a new job or got too restless.
For now, though, he’s going to finish his breakfast before the morning rush comes in.