Book 3: Changing Tides

His handler had left for the night. How fortunate, then, that he left the Wolf untied.

(Not that the Wolf was sure he could get very far in his condition.)

He eased himself to the floor, happy to leave behind the bedsheets sticky with his own blood. He wasn’t standing on his own two legs anytime soon. The bathroom felt so far away, the carpet a hostile expanse he would have to traverse on his hands and knees like a man dying in the desert.

But the Wolf knew what was expected of him, so he pitched forward, dragging himself toward those cool, white tiles.

There was no point closing the door - he was alone here, and even if his handler returned, the Wolf had no right to privacy. So he laid on the bathroom floor, smooth tile a relief after the carpet had irritated his open wounds.

Right. Open wounds.

The Wolf crawled to his knees, blindly fumbling with the sink counter for the medkit his handler had left. The dim nightlight of the bathroom cast a blue-green glow, a faint shadow cast by his shaking hands as he leaned against the bathtub and prepared the suture needle. He didn’t have the strength to turn on the overhead light.

(He didn’t have the stomach to see himself under full light.)

He started with the deepest wounds, cuts that bubbled black with blood in the poor lighting. The Wolf bit his cheek and let the coppery taste of fresh blood replace the sourness in his throat. His handler was getting reckless - the Wolf wouldn’t be able to keep this up for long.

But maybe that was what he wanted: the Wolf too broken to take care of himself, completely reliant on his handler. A clay statue crushed and reformed under the artist’s hands.

He tended his wounds as best he was able, back and shoulders too difficult to properly disinfect let alone stitch. (His handler would take care of anything particularly concerning - it wasn’t like he wanted the Wolf dead after all. And if he did, well, there were worse ways to die than by the fever in his blood.) So, the Wolf ran the shower, rinsing off the worst of the blood and the filth and shivering under its icy stream. His injuries didn’t completely numb, but the cold was a relief from his own sweat.

(Still he could feel the burn of his handler’s warm skin against his own.)

Bruises mottled black alongside freshly stitched flesh, some older, some newer. This was the third night since they arrived in this city. The Wolf wasn’t sure he would survive the fourth, but that wasn’t his call to make. He just needed to be ready.

The water running off his skin was still pink with diluted blood when he turned off the shower, but there was work to be done. He stepped carefully from the tub, avoiding where his blood had pooled on the tiles. The Wolf set out the towels and hydrogen peroxide, the scent of cleaner a familiar comfort.

He was alone, and would be for the rest of the night. He could sleep alone beneath the window, listening to the city outside. Maybe someone would be walking on the roof across the street again. The bed would be left empty - he could change the sheets tomorrow before dawn.

He could get used to this routine, if it didn’t kill him.

But before he could make a first pass at mopping up the blood slick tiles, the door to his room clicked open. Dread settled heavy in his gut as his handler’s face peered into the bathroom.

“Get dressed. We’re going out.” The Wolf dutifully nodded, looking at the supplies he had laid out for a second too long. “Leave it - you can clean up tomorrow. Let’s go. Now.”

The Wolf rose and stepped through the blood, the urgency in his handler’s voice making his heart stutter. He said tomorrow - the Wolf would be coming back, alive. He just needed to get through the night, as always seemed to be his mission. Just survive to see another sunrise.

Again.

And again and again and again.

“Wait for back-up, agent. That’s an order.”

Jackson wasn’t particularly known for following orders. And something in Command’s tone implied they knew that reputation too well. It didn’t help that the targets broke routine, traveled far and fast, and Jackson was the only agent on duty at this ungodly hour the day after New Years.

Jackson turned off his earpiece, giving Command plausible deniability if this went tits up. They knew where he was. It wasn’t like the targets could get anywhere in the country without MI6 or other Interpol associates breathing down their neck.

He had them cornered, and a silenced pistol in his hands.

And Jackson wasn’t an idiot - they were drawing him out, two against one, taking advantage of his confidence because this was his home turf. He didn’t expect any less from the CIA’s golden boy.

He didn’t know what to make of the man with him - Command called him a freelancer. Hired muscle, Jackson supplied when they didn’t elaborate. He had no ID or even a callsign. But Jackson wasn’t thinking about that as he wove between the alleyways, knowing the pair had holed up at a dead end behind an abandoned factory.

Not a bad place to have this little spat.

He double checked his ammo - if he was lucky, and the American was smart, no bullets need be exchanged tonight. But Jackson didn’t need the CIA agent alive. He just needed the location of the asset he had smuggled into the country.

He took a breath, steeling himself for the confrontation, when a muffled pop punctuated the eerie winter silence. For a brief moment, he thought it was a distant, belated firework. Two more pops followed in quick succession and Jackson rounded the corner, pistol and torch raised, trusting the Kevlar under his jacket -

Agent Smith was dead, or would be soon, throat bubbling red and two fresh holes in the front of his jacket. His killer stood frozen in place, pistol still raised.

The man’s hands were shaking, and the wide eyed panic in his eyes clashed with his imposing figure.

“Well, no love lost between us mate, but I’d rather you put that gun down.” Jackson tried to sound friendly, unnerved by fear clear on the man’s face. He thought freelancers were supposed to be professionals - hitmen, assassins, and the like. Not…scared.

And this man was terrified, eyes widening a fraction as he looked between Smith’s twitching corpse and Jackson, who made the mistake of taking a half step forward. In an instant the muzzle of the pistol was under the man’s jaw, eyes screwed shut, trigger pulled -

“Don’t!” Jackson nearly charged the man before the click of an empty chamber echoed softly in the alleyway. He sighed in relief, lowering but not holstering his gun. “Christ alive, what the hell’d you do that for - ”

Jackson, for the record, did not yelp when the man chucked the pistol at his head, but he did make a rather undignified sound as he narrowly avoided a nasty headache. When he turned back, the stranger had vaulted over the chain link fence, landing badly on the other side with an audible sob before scrambling to his feet and bolting toward a broken in factory window.

The MI6 agent looked between the dead American, the retreating stranger, and the dark clouds above that were beginning to spit lovely English sleet.

What a hell of a way to start the year off.

He couldn’t breathe - he couldn’t breathe - fuck, he couldn’t fucking breathe -

What had he done? What had he done?

Why? Why would he do that?

How had he done that?

(Who was his handler now? )

The Wolf couldn’t breathe - couldn’t think - not with the sound and the light and the exposure of being seen -

The Box. He needed the Box. He had made a mistake - he disobeyed, indirectly - he needed to be put away for a bit until he could think himself to death and figure out what the hell he just did.

This ancient supply closet would do, filled with long expired chemicals and cobwebs. Small. Cramped. Dark. Door closed. Alone.

Think, you dumb mutt.

Breathing was getting easier, thinking wasn’t. His mind was filled with frozen molasses, the last few moments playing back like a rewound VHS.

He ran from the enemy. (Coward.) He collapsed from pain after vaulting over the fence. (Weak.) He threw away the gun, he hadn’t spared one of his handlers three bullets for himself. (Idiot.)

But before that - what had happened? He was tired, still bloody and exhausted from his earlier punishment. And with exhaustion came resentment - dangerous, volatile.

Something that could simmer low, unchecked by a brain too focused on mere survival. Something that would wait until his handler peered around a corner, groping for his pistol that the Wolf had lifted from its holster with steady hands. Something that curled in satisfaction at the fear in his handler’s eyes, anger burned away by acceptance as the first bullet cut into a tender, unprotected throat.

And now, having unfurled in all its glory, that resentment withered to sickly regret.

What was the Wolf without his handler? Certainly not whatever he had been Before. Now, he was a coward, weak and stupid and crying in a broom closet like a frightened child.

Boots disturbed broken glass, uneven footsteps intending to slip past less sensitive hearing. But the Wolf knew who was there, creeping down the hallway. He had been listening to those boots for days now. The airport. The hotel hallway. On the roof across the street.

(His handler didn’t ask what the Wolf heard or knew, so he hadn’t shared their tail with him.)

(Now it felt like a betrayal worthy of every second of agony he had endured over the last few days. Worthy of whatever hell lay ahead of him.)

The Wolf didn’t flinch as the door opened, but he hadn’t expected to be found so easily. (There was dust everywhere here - an observant tail would clearly see what door handles were recently used.) (Idiot.)

“You…alright there, mate?” The Wolf was so, so tired. Was he supposed to respond? Did it matter? “Hey, you hearing me? Look at me.”

The Wolf blinked, the ingrained desire to follow orders as soon as they were given turning his eyes from the floor between his knees to the face at the doorway. For all he had heard their tail these last few days, he had hardly seen the enigmatic man.

He was currently soaked, the Wolf suddenly realizing the drone in his ears wasn’t panic but the rain outside. But besides the rainwater beading down the stranger’s face, there was a pair of steely grey eyes looking down at the Wolf with an expression he couldn’t make sense of. Was he angry? Sad? Frustrated? Annoyed?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t pleasant.

The stranger dropped to a crouch in the doorway, the Wolf tensing in anticipation of a blow. Of unwanted hands. He tucked his head under his arms with a strangled sob, waiting waiting - just get it over with already -

“Easy, love, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m Agent Jackson. What’s your name?” His name. The script. The Wolf uncurled a fraction, head still ducked but looking vaguely in the agent’s direction.

“I am Wolf.” His own voice felt clunky in his sore throat, iron on his tongue as he swallowed back the pain. The agent nodded, gentle grey eyes beckoning the Wolf relax against his better judgement.

“You’re a freelancer, right?” The Wolf didn’t know what that meant, but his empty stare was taken as confirmation. “Did Agent Smith hire you?”

“No one hired me. I work alone.” The Wolf bit his tongue until he tasted fresh blood. He had gotten ahead of himself, and now the agent was making that face again -

“You were with Agent Smith earlier, right?” He have a stiff nod. Lying would hurt more in the long run. He just needed to stick to the script.

“Why did you kill him?”

The Wolf’s breathing shuddered. He had, hadn’t he? He killed his handler. He was no different than the rabid dogs he had seen the project put down. A broken bastard that bit the hand that fed.

“I didn’t - it was a - please - please, it won’t - sir, please I can’t - ” Begging never helped, sometimes it hurt, but it was the only thing he could force between hollow gasps. But he couldn’t - he couldn’t survive another punishment. Not now. Not with wounds so fresh and a body so broken. “I can’t.”

Somehow, the agent seemed to understand. Somehow, the agent was generous enough to grant the Wolf a temporary reprieve.

“Shush, shh, it’s - it’s alright love, you’re not…I’m not fishing for a confession.” The agent swallowed, uncertainty in his eyes as he glanced down the hallway. The Wolf could hear approaching tires in the distance. “Agent Smith had something that I’m looking for. An asset he stole; do you know what I’m talking about?”

The Wolf stared into those soft grey eyes. Wasn’t he the asset? But the Wolf wasn’t stolen - he was transferred, for a disciplinary interim. That’s what his handler told him. Did this agent not know that? Was this agent unaffiliated with the project?

“Nevermind - let’s - let’s get you out of here, alright?” There was a shuffle of fabric, and the Wolf flinched, folding in on himself. But no hands grabbed hold of his arms and dragged him to his feet. All that followed was a soft sigh and whispered words. “C’mon mate, get up; let’s get going.”

The Wolf glanced between strands of his own tangled hair, the stranger standing still. Waiting. Patient. Soft. Everything his handler never was. Everything a weapon like him wasn’t allowed. His breathing shuddered again as he gulped down a lungful of air.

Get up. An order. Lesson number one. Do as you are told, without hesitation.

His legs strained, shaking under him as the Wolf stumbled to stand in the cramped broom closet. He could feel himself trembling as he looked to the agent for approval. Those grey eyes flicked down the hall, expression gentle as he nodded and started walking.

“Follow me.”

One foot in front of the other.

Endure.

Again and again and again. Just to see another day of pain. Just to maybe see the sun once more.

Again and again and again.

Jackson was going to be in so much trouble for dipping before back-up could arrive. He was going to be in trouble for frisking a corpse without gloves. He was going to be in trouble for forgetting to re-enable his comm when chasing after a target of unknown threat level.

But mostly, Jackson thought he would be in trouble for taking that target to a quaint hotel at the edge of the city. If he was a less valuable agent, he might not be allowed to get away with a stunt like this.

The walk was long, cold, and dreary - at least Jackson’s heavy trench coat kept everything but his head dry. The stranger - ‘Wolf’ - didn’t seem to mind the weather, or at the very least didn’t complain and wonder aloud why they couldn’t flag down a taxi. He always kept a pace and a half behind Jackson, just out of arms reach. The same way he had followed Agent Smith when Jackson watched them from afar.

Curious.

Half the reason Jackson was willing to get in trouble was this stranger’s curiosities. The gun he had shot Smith with was Smith’s own weapon - Wolf himself appeared to be completely unarmed. (Not that a man of his physique needed a weapon to be lethal.) That was the first curiosity. The second was…everything after Jackson opened the closet door. He expected an ambush - a trap made from expired chemicals or improvised weapons. Not a man curled on the floor, trying to make himself as small as possible. Like a child hiding from a wrathful parent.

Jackson still wasn’t completely sure what a freelancer was, but it sure as hell couldn’t be this - skulking behind him like a shadow, avoiding eye contact, speaking so low he almost couldn’t understand the man. Command hadn’t been forthcoming on his identity - and Jackson knew they were keeping him in the dark, at least until the mission was done.

He was curious.

It wouldn’t kill him.

Probably.

—

The hotel wasn’t the best, but it was nice enough. Low profile, but off Command’s active radar for illegal activity hot-spots. Any good agent worth their salt had a few personal fake IDs, just in case. They wouldn’t be found here, not anytime soon.

“You can clean up first, I’m sure you could use the hot water more than me.” Jackson flashed a smile, but Wolf’s expression hardened as he nodded in reply, stalking to the washroom like a soldier on a mission.

Another curiosity.

Aside from a well disguised limp, Wolf moved like a soldier. He didn’t have the purposeful poise of an agent - American or otherwise. He took orders quite seriously. Wolf hadn’t moved since he and Jackson entered the room, as if waiting for instruction. Blunt, to the point, comfortable in a hierarchy - now that didn’t sound like a runaway spy’s associate.

The bathroom door locked, and Jackson turned to the bed with a sigh. Of course they only had singles left. He paid for a couples room, even if it left his skin buzzing. It shouldn’t have bothered him, but his paranoia was acutely aware of how the secretary had raised a brow at his refusal for separate rooms.

(God, what did Wolf think of that?)

(…)

(What did they care? It was 2004 for God’s sake.)

(…)

(He still felt like the eyes of others always seemed to know what he was.)

Jackson tossed the duvet and the spare pillow to the ground. He could sleep on the floor just fine. He didn’t want to make Wolf uncomfortable. (And a small voice in his head whispered he didn’t want to give Wolf any more reason to kill him. How easy it would be for Wolf to kill him here, alone, without witnesses, and for his death to be brushed off as just another murdered poof.)

The agent turned out his coat pockets, setting what he had collected from the dead American on the bedside desk.

A room service receipt - it matched the hotel he had been staying at, but the wrong room number. Smith certainly seemed the type to choose two rooms for two people, but the sheer scale of the bill - the wine, the dinners - it didn’t meet the income of a spy in hiding. He had friends in high places (literally - Jackson would have to case the penthouse tomorrow).

The hotel room key was additional confirmation that Smith was likely traveling within the hotel. It was for the room Jackson had been stalking the last few days. The blinds were always drawn, but he could see light and movement from time to time.

The third item he snagged from the corpse was…odd. It looked like a car’s key fob, or a small, oddly shaped television remote. It only had four buttons. Unthinking, he pointed it at the television in the room, and clicked the most well worn button.

The yelp from the bathroom startled him - more so because he hadn’t expected to hear from his quiet guest. It hadn’t been particularly loud, but it had sounded distinctly pained. The thud that followed was equally concerning.

Jackson bolted to the door, stopping himself from trying the handle he knew was locked. He knocked softly, trying to keep his voice even.

“Wolf? Is everything alright?” When no reply came, he pressed his ear to the door. The sharp, agonized breathing between sobs was enough to spur him into action. “Wolf I’m going to unlock and open the door if you don’t say something.” His lock picking tools were easily slotted into the door’s mechanism. He had it unlocked, but he knocked again. “Wolf, are you alright?” The silence was deafening. “I’m coming in - please say something if you’re…”

The sight shocked Jackson to silence.

It shocked him to being 15 again. 15 and finding the corpse of a girl he had shared classes with stuffed behind the bleachers, obscenities carved into her bloodied and bruised flesh. That moment had led him here, more than a decade later. A professional MI6 agent looking down at a man beaten and bloodied that very same way, but by some cruel miracle still alive.

Jackson dropped to his knees, still processing the flesh in front of him. Bruises mottled from aged yellow to fresh blue along Wolf’s ribs, skin marred by scars and old burns. Cuts were tallied on his shoulder - like someone was keeping score - and the small, circular burns that trailed Wolf’s forearms were difficult to see against the thick bands of bruising from too-tight restraints and red rope burn. Wolf was kneeling next to the tub, keeled over with his back to Jackson. Between the blood and the bruises, the agent could make out two words etched across Wolf’s shoulder blades:

“BAD DOG”

Under the flickering fluorescent light, Jackson couldn’t read what else was carved across Wolf’s back, but those bloodied letters were cut deep into the muscle. Jackson let his eyes wander the room, finding Wolf’s rain soaked jacket and thin t-shirt neatly folded on the toilet seat. But Jackson’s eyes were once against drawn to Wolf when a violent shiver wracked his bare torso. The words contracted and stretched, weeping anew with fresh blood.

Unthinking, he let a shaking hand graze against the butchered carving before him. His words were soft, but the pity blooming in his chest made them waver with overwhelming compassion.

“Who did this to you?”

The trembling body under his fingertips stilled, and reality came crashing down on him as Jackson froze in turn. Wolf sat up slowly, broad back straightened until he sat taller than Jackson. (Blood ran in rivulets from the letters.) Dark eyes peered over his bloodied shoulder, damp with tears and expression unreadable.

Jackson was just about to jump to his feet, to mention that he had a medkit with a sterile suture needle, when Wolf lunged at him.

His brief panic at the sudden movement faded quickly as he realized what was happening. Strong arms had wrapped around him like a vice, but they were shaking - hands desperate and grasping at the back of Jackson’s shirt like he would dissolve without the contact. Jackson held Wolf’s head to his chest as he sobbed. He couldn’t touch his back without hurting him, and right now, Wolf just needed a shoulder to cry on. Jackson carded his fingers through sweaty, tangled hair and hummed soft reassurances.

Any thought of sating his curiosity tonight was discarded.

It didn’t matter who had done this, not right now. All that mattered right now was that they weren’t here.