Improbable things were improbable, but not impossible. He should've known that, after twenty years of making what everyone deemed improbable happen, either by his hand directly, or by nudging the target in the desired direction like a chess piece and watch everything unfold almost by its own.
Sometimes, the hand that was nudging pieces on the chessboard around wasn't his. Sometimes, he was one of the chess pieces, and a beautiful Italian coastal town was turned into someone else's chessboard to play with.
Sometimes, that someone else was a cold front, blessing the children of Sapienza with snow on Christmas Eve, and damning those who were just about to leave the area to stay longer than expected.
It could've been worse. He actually liked the ICA safehouse in this town, and Diana had been very generous when arranging his supply drops. He could hole up for a few days, sustained by the whiskey she knew he liked and by the lemon candy she knew he loved. The instant pasta, however, was an affront—not only in Italy, but here, they felt like mockery.
47 made himself a quiet evening on the couch, no Christmas tree, no presents, no-one to disturb his peace. Despite his religious tendencies, he never cared about the holidays. It wasn't tradition or community he sought when going to church, no. He simply needed assurance that he, too, had a soul, and that it wasn't lost.
Quiet footsteps on the other side of the door, followed by the sound of metal sliding against metal were the only warning he got. He didn't need another, picking up his trusty silverballer as he moved out of the direct line of sight from the door, prepared to attack whoever had been sent to kill him the moment the door opened and revealed the unlucky counter assassin.
47 wasn't prepared, however, to stare into Diana's eyes as they stared at the muzzle of his handgun. He lowered the weapon as his heart rate increased even more. He could've killed her, again.
She must've been thinking back to that unholy day as well, the memory of the moment he shot her in the shower was clearly written on her face, but she kept the words to herself. Diana knew that he'd never forgiven himself, and once again, he was thankful that she wasn't one to dismiss the possibility of him experiencing emotions and feeling remorse.
"I didn't know you were still here," she said after a moment of silence.
The snowstorm had turned her layover flight into a logistic nightmare, and she was stranded in the exact location she shouldn't be, because he was here, and they weren't supposed to be close. It was a safety risk, but as improbable things were improbable, no-one of their enemies would've seen it coming.
His silent night on the couch was over, because unlike him, Diana did care about traditions and holidays. Not because she believed in any of it, but because she enjoyed the comfort of predictable moments in a life where predictability was one of the things she couldn't allow herself. A beautifully decorated tree, a glass of wine, the same old movie she'd been watching every year since she was a child. None of it would be part of her Christmas this year.
For some reason, 47 felt responsible for making up for it, even if all he had to offer was a cup of soggy instant noodles and the awkward company of a man who wasn't used to have guests around.
She didn't seem to mind. The noodles, yes, she agreed with him that they weren't what she'd normally eat on Christmas Eve, but when he said he would've prepared a festive dinner for her had he known she'd spent the night with him, she laughed a genuine laugh and touched his forearm with her warm hand.
He didn't know how to react, but neither did she, and somehow, it didn't matter. Her hand stayed where it was, but her lips didn't. It was just a peck on the cheek, but the heat rushed to his face either way, and he stared at her, just as surprised as he'd been when she was the one standing in the door.
The moment turned awkward, shortly after, when he still didn't know what to say or how to react, and she most likely interpreted it the wrong way. Her hand left his forearm, but where she'd touched him his skin was still hot, and his mind was racing, and before he could stop himself he leaned in and cupped her face, the expression of regret melting into an expression of surprise just as he closed his eyes before his lips touched hers.
She stopped him before he could recoil in panic over what he'd done without thinking. Her arms moved to draw him closer, and her fingers dug into the fabric of his jumper as if she was scared he might disappear into the night if she didn't hold him back.
Their lips were still touching, and he could feel her smile just before she turned the impetuous kiss into one filled with more emotion than he thought he could handle—but that was what he had her for, and she guided him expertly through this kiss and through the one that followed, through the undressing and the gentle caresses of touch-starved skin, through the moment they united and the moment he realised he never wanted them to part again.
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