#I literally said a true urinator c'mon

[bivampires]

haha urinator

[mindfulwrath]

The Hits Keep Coming

At first I was like “I wanna get on that good good Jeremwood train” and then my brain punched me in the face and went FUCK YOU.

Also I’ve been watching a lot of the Hitman Let’s Watches and I was intrigued by the dynamic of Gavin coaching Ryan through what the fuck to do.

Also also thanks to @jrmwds for getting me on the Jeremwood train. Now look what you’ve done.

Words: 1,483 Warnings: Death, gore AO3

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | | Part VII | Part VII.5 (NSFW) | Part VIII | Part IX | Part X (Final)

If you told most people in Los Santos that the Vagabond heard voices, they would believe you.

If you told anyone that the Vagabond took orders, they'd laugh at you, and also most likely refrain from standing between you and any large windows.

Nonetheless, both are true.

"There's another corridor up ahead," Gavin says. "Take the left when you get there."

To be clear: Ryan does not take orders. Ryan is a strong, independent, well-adjusted man who has never been wrong about anything, ever. But the Vagabond is not the same entity, and the Vagabond's temperament is not well-suited to infiltration. If left to his own devices, he'd simply kill everyone and be done with it. No survivors = no witnesses. It's very simple mathematics.

This is fine, because Gavin's temperament is not well suited to getting blood on his hands, but he is surprisingly patient, meticulous, and level-headed when it's not his own life on the line.

"Pair of guards coming up on your right, hold tight for a bit, V," he says. The Vagabond crouches behind a stack of crates, listening to the footsteps and the idle chatter.

"All I'm saying is, I think he might be literally colorblind," says one.

"Ah, it can't be that bad."

"It's an atrocity."

"Well, hey, c'mon now, what he does with his hair is his business."

"I don't know how he didn't get fired for that shit. It's fuckin' unprofessional. You'll see."

The voices fade into the distance. The Vagabond waits.

"You're clear," Gavin says in his earpiece. "Follow them, see if you can get a card off one of 'em."

He rises like smoke, slips down the hallway with a silenced pistol held down by his thigh. The lab corridors are clean and sterile, humming with the busy work of ten thousand machines. He's always had a fondness for laboratory environments. There's so much potential there.

"Hold it," says Gavin. "Those two weren't on rounds, they're replacing a couple other blokes on the door. Get in cover."

The Vagabond looks around. There isnst any cover nearby. He darts across the hallway and presses his back to the wall, bringing the pistol up.

"No no, nope, just get back down the corridor!" Gavin said, his voice rising to a squeak. "Run! Runrunrun!"

He lets out a breath through his nose and hurries back the way he came.

"You won't make it all the way there. Door to your right, go in, now!"

He throws himself at the door. It gives. He rushes inside—a bathroom. He plasters himself to the wall just inside the door, gun at the ready. Again, voices approach, but Gavin is calm and steady in his ear.

"Uff, that was close," he sighs. "Just hope neither of 'em needs to have a piss after—oh, shite."

He doesn't need to ask what's just gone wrong, because the bathroom door opens, letting in the chatter. He's already taking aim, bracing his wrist to keep the shot from going wide.

"Hold," Gavin says through his teeth.

A short man comes in, broad at the shoulders and narrow at the waist. His hair is an absolute atrocity—purple on top, orange on the sides, so bright it makes the Vagabond's eyes hurt. He goes straight for a urinal and doesn't see the intruder standing there in his fucking leather jacket and skull mask, with his fucking silenced pistol and six knives in his belt.

"You'll have to kill him," says Gavin. "His mate's hanging about outside. So actually make that both of them. See if you can get to a better place whilst he's pissing."

The Vagabond switches cover, putting his back against the stalls instead of the wall. The guard is talking to himself, masking the sound of the Vagabond's movements.

"And everybody's jealous," he's saying. "Just 'cuz they can't pull it off. Huh. What a bunch of losers."

He finishes his business, goes to wash his hands. The Vagabond just stands there. The guy—kid, really, he's awfully smooth around the eyes—must be totally engrossed in his own little world.

Gavin is gurgling in his earpiece, tickled pink.

"See if you can't drown him in the bog," he snickers. "It'll be hilarious."

"It's called fashion, assholes, look it up," the kid mutters to himself, drying his hands. He looks up—finally—and sees the Vagabond in the mirror.

He plasters himself to the wall, gasping. There's a gun in his belt and he doesn't go for it. His eyes are wide as dinner plates, his face pale as death. The Vagabond watches him, unmoving.

"It—it—it—" the kid stammers. "Oooooohhh my God."

"Kiss him," Gavin says.

The Vagabond hesitates.

"V, kiss him," Gavin insists. There's no hint of humor in his voice. It's an order. The Vagabond takes it.

He puts one hand on the kid's chest and shoves him up against the wall. The other hand tugs the mask back, and off, and their lips meet. The mask falls to the floor with a sweaty thwap.

The kid's a good kisser. Startled at first, and then really, really into it. It's the luckiest day of his goddamn life. Somewhere underneath all the paint and blood and leather, Ryan wonders how long this kid's had a hard-on for the Vagabond. Must be like a dream come true.

"Good," says Gavin. "Had to get in close quarters to muffle the sound, since his mate's right outside. Shoot him."

The Vagabond takes orders.

The silenced pistol swings up and nuzzles against the kid's heart. His finger is on the trigger. The kid goes rigid, squealing against his lips, hands clutching on the leather jacket.

Ryan does not.

He pulls back, slow, meets the kid's eyes. Gavin is squawking in his earpiece, but Gavin is a nuisance at all times and Ryan's learned how to tune him out. It helps not to have the mask on.

"Listen up, Atrocity in Color," he says softly, holding the kid's terrified gaze. "I'm supposed to be killing you right now. But I'm not gonna. Instead I'm gonna ask you: are you gonna tell anybody what went down here today? And bear in mind: you're real distinctive-looking."

The kid shakes his head so fast it rattles his teeth. Ryan kisses him again, a little reward for his obedience.

"That's good," he says. Gavin's still nattering on, calling him all sorts of gibberish names.

"Uh," says the kid. "Am—am I—are you—because I got—uh—"

"Name," says Ryan.

"Jeremy!" the kid squeaks. Ryan kisses him again. He melts, kissing like it's the last thing he's ever going to do. The pistol is still pressed to his heart.

"You useless bloody bell-end!" Gavin's snarling. "Quit snogging and get back to it!"

Ryan breaks off, because there is work to be done, after all. Then, because Gavin's still yelling at him, and Gavin's a mingy little prick, he goes back in for one more. Just to annoy him.

"Not a word, Jeremy," Ryan says.

"Yep," says Jeremy. In another situation, that tone of stunned, breathless admiration would have earned him at least one orgasm on Ryan's courtesy. As it is, Ryan just steps back.

"Now get the fuck out," he says.

Jeremy runs for it.

"V, for fuck's sake!" Gavin squeals. "At least peg him in the back of the head on his way out!"

"That's not how pegging works," Ryan snickers, picking his mask up and shaking it out.

"It—wot?" says Gavin, thrown for a loop. Ryan doesn't usually respond to him, and the Vagabond never does.

"Hm? Nothing," says Ryan. He pulls the mask on and his voice drops an octave. "Keep going."

"Too bloody gay to function," Gavin mutters.

"Heard that," says the Vagabond.

"Right," says Gavin. "All right, back to it, lads. Outside this room there's a couple of pricks leggin' it down the corridor. You'll have to pop 'em both."

The Vagabond pushes open the door. Sure enough, Jeremy and the other guard are hurrying off down the hallway, Jeremy somewhat unsteadily.

"Dude, just trust me on this one, we gotta go like right the fuck now," Jeremy's saying.

"Them two! Bag 'em!" Gavin insists.

The gun swings up. The Vagabond takes aim.

The gunshots are not loud. Both bodies hit the floor.

"Oaugh, God," Gavin laughs. "That was bloody brutal, that was! Quick, drag 'em back into the bog before somebody finds them."

The Vagabond does as he is told.

Somewhere underneath all of it, somewhere under the blood, and the leather, and the guns and the face paint and the knives, Ryan realizes something.

"Well done, V!" Gavin chirps, as the Vagabond finishes stuffing Jeremy's corpse into a bathroom stall. "Check his pockets, see if he's got a card or something. We'll need one of them."

Gavin is the coldest motherfucker on the face of the planet.