Chapter Text
The air was crisp as the Hitman lay behind his rifle. His setup was as meticulous as his father had taught him — drilled into him — and he was calm in the chilled air, his breathing even. He repositioned his shades on his nose, glancing over the sight of the gun to see the scene below.
The square was busy, buzzing with activity, but nothing could stop the Hitman. He was rumored to be the best sharpshooter in the world. The only thing that could stop one of his bullets was his target.
His shades, though seemingly sunglasses, discretely fed him information about the location and target as well as the surrounding bodies. But, now, he already had sights on the person he was assigned to hit. The target was tall, skinny, and elusive enough that some would struggle with finishing the mission.
Not the Hitman.
The mercenary pushed his shades back and brought his head low. He positioned the weapon, and carefully tracked the target as she moved across the square. As she began walking deeper into the district, the Hitman stilled his hands with the rifle pointed just ahead of her.
He exhaled then pulled the trigger.
The woman fell silently in the crowd, no one particularly paying her any attention amidst the loudness of the city. It gave the Hitman enough time to squarely pack up all of his things — when the first panicked shout that always came after a hit echoed from down below, he was already making his way down the fire escape. His setup was neatly packed away to appear as a gym bag. He slid his leather jacket over his sleeves, swapped his glasses for his helmet, and mounted his bike.
And Bret Hart drove away from the scene.
Bret made it home late. He always made rounds around the city before getting back to his place to lose any potential tails. Besides, after the hit, he'd had to ascertain he got all of his payment and then he had reached out, remotely, to a new client through his usual they-stay-blindfolded means.
He shook off his jacket and hung it up with his helmet, picking up his personal cell phone in the process. A missed call from his Ma and multiple texts from his brother Owen, his brother-in-law Davey, and a contact titled 'Keith' with a heart emoji. Must be a one-night stand who snuck into his phone because he wanted a repeat.
“That's why I have two phones,” muttered Bret, bothered by the invasion of privacy. “And that's why I don't do repeats.”
He trailed over to his room and laid his equipment into the bottom of his wardrobe. Maybe not the most secure place, but Bret had found that hiding in plain sight was often the best route.
Methodically stripping, he felt tension slide off of his shoulders as he finally stood under the spray of his hot shower. He was still in his prime, but he had begun to feel weary from the easy parts of the job and distant from the hard parts. Tired of talking and comfortable with killing.
It was a sign of becoming a professional, his father would say.
Bret shut his eyes, leaning against the wall of the shower. He was deeply glad that the job was in New York — he had places set up in his most frequented cities, and contacts in any he didn't, but NYC was where he had set up a more permanent camp. The closest thing to a home that he'd made in the States, and any job that kept him there was a relief.
Home. His mind flew to his missed messages. Winter was coming in, and it was most likely what his Mom was calling about — holiday season and if he'd be home and if he'd find Owen on the way and if he'd been eating well and if he'd found someone to settle with.
Sometimes Bret wanted to pull his hair out at the last question. Half of his siblings hadn't found someone, like him; but the other half had, and his Mom savored their normalcy with devoted yearning.
She still had to deal with Stu, who was too wrapped up in the deceit and darkness of their family business to ever truly be free. He was still training people, straightening them out to be spies or assassins or mercenaries or whatever he saw in them. He'd straightened Bret out — not nearly as much as he'd wanted to, but enough that Bret was the most notorious mercenary in the Western world. Bret found that that was a hard title to walk away from, but beyond that, he'd found no incentive, either. No one he wanted to claim or be claimed by.
Shutting off the water, he knew he was brooding but he couldn't help it. He couldn't even be like Diana — she'd never been into being the spy that she had been trained to be, but she was still damn good at it. And when she met Davey, they both found their spot as a literal killer couple. It was very endearing and very infuriating.
Bret could remember the day they met. It was back when he wasn't alone; back when he had someone to watch his six; back when the Foundation was toppling politicians and governments and organizations like it was a day job. Back when the Hitman earned his notoriety.
Anvil, Bulldog, Rocket, and the Hitman. Separated now. Anvil at home, Bulldog easing into settling, Rocket working long-term spy work with his record of no kills.
The Hitman taking jobs for twice what they were worth because even his clients were worried about offending him.
There was no use in dwelling.
Sweats and shirtlessness was his default at night. He'd ordered Chinese to the empty apartment down the hall, and so he watched television in the meantime.
Settling in with a movie and dinner, he ignored the silence around him as he always did — until it was interrupted by his phone. Pausing his show, he checked the screen. A message from the new client he'd met earlier today.
Received
I should have his schedule and information ready by the end of the week. When are you planning to get the job done?
Bret arched an eyebrow. During the meeting, the man had given him no information at all — he was too anxious to say anything, and the Hitman only hadn't left immediately because he knew he was loaded and he really fucking wanted the holidays to start early.
Sent
Whenever you can get useful information to me.
A pause.
Received
He's conniving. He's going to put up a fight.
Sent
They usually try.
He asked him stupid questions after that, so Bret ignored the notifications for the rest of his solitary night.
He chose targets selectively, and, generally, he did not have more than one per month.
But around the winter, he usually worked like a bear — stocked up for winter on hits so he could comfortably take some months off. Back with the Foundation, they could do all sorts of hits with higher pay than his singular kills; granted, everything was split, and eventually, they got into trouble with the McMahons and it forced them to spend a lot. Over time, he was earning much more per hit, but Bret was trying to learn from his older siblings' successes and failures. He had a good amount of wealth saved but maintaining his locations and equipment, as well as sending money back to his parents as all the kids wordlessly do when they're active, always drained some amount. If he was to stay active for another half-decade, considering his rising demand, he'd be well taken care of for retirement. Regardless of whether he 'found someone', that was the plan. At that point, he still wouldn't have reached forty and would already be retired — no need to break inactivity, no need to take up a new identity, no need to take up a new career. He could just... be.
Given that he could be picky, he was careful when he chose his targets. He didn't have to be like some of the other mercs and turn the other cheek before he pulled the trigger. He chose only those that, in simple terms, deserved it. He'd always done that, never let the Foundation take someone down who wasn't asking for it, but he now had the power to be in complete control. One small benefit.
Bret slid his shades off in his corner position of a diner called Another Plate that his client was planning to meet him in — or, in other words, where the client would sit and Bret would climb up to the roof of the building next door and watch him speak to the Hitman on the phone. A nice vantage point at the table, though he'd rather the place not be so busy. He was coming with information about the target; afterwards, Bret would launch his own investigation, and then choose on whether or not he'd take the job.
The client was short about why he wanted the target dead, hence the second meeting, but Bret collected that there was some type of affair going on. The client was a wealthy businessman and seemed obnoxious, but the man he wanted dead was apparently worse — dealt with human trafficking.
Just the type of target Bret liked.
Bret pulled out his phone to finally reply to Owen, who he traded barbs with for a bit before his attention was called on — he felt someone watching him. He kept typing until he casually stretched back, head tilting back, giving him the opportunity to scan the area.
Across the room, a man stood alone in the crowded restaurant. Instantly, dozens of different observations flooded through Bret's trained mind upon seeing him. More gradually, Bret felt something else tug at his mind.
Because one blatant observation was that the man was astonishingly beautiful.
He was blonde, and had startlingly blue eyes; he was dressed casually but with bright colors that made him stand out. He was the type of person to instantly command the attention of a room, and keep it with his utter charm.
And he was looking at Bret.
Bret had been staring back for some few seconds — something in him scratched at his innards because of the incompetence, and he felt the discomfort twist him into avoiding eye contact. He turned back to his screen and did not blush. The Hitman did not blush. The Hitman was never flustered. The Hitman—
“Is this seat taken?”
Bret concentratedly did not tense. He tilted his head up.
The blonde stood there, eyebrows a bit low over a soft gaze and his lips pulled in a sweet smile.
“Sorry,” he said. “It's just that this place is so crowded and I can't seem to find a seat any—”
“Please,” Bret interrupted, voice raspy. He cleared his throat. “Sit down.”
The client wasn't supposed to show for another half hour as Bret wanted to catch lunch and stake out the area first.
The blonde smiled, bright and easy. “Thanks. I'm Shawn.”
Shawn. Bret nodded. “Bret.”
Shawn grinned wider at that, before visibly tampering it down. He adopted a very innocent, serious look. “Now, Bret, I have to admit, I like to talk— but I can be quiet. Do you want me quiet?”
I want you screaming my name, came across Bret's mind unbidden, which he instantly pinched himself for. He outwardly arched an eyebrow. “Do I really have a choice?”
Shawn's lips twitched. “Whatcha doing here?” he admitted.
Bret shut off his phone and flipped it between his fingers. “Lunch,” he said. “Did you order?”
Shawn nodded. ”Whatcha getting?”
Bret raised both eyebrows that time.
Shawn weakly glared back. “I was trying to talk about you — small talk, y'know? But if you want, I'll just talk about me...”
“Sounds great, sweetheart.”
Bret, entertained, watched Shawn's cheeks pinken a bit as he blinked a couple of times.
“Ahem,” Shawn muttered. “I'm also here for lunch because my friend stood me up at the place next door. I ordered a grilled cheese with ham and fries. I sat here because the only other empty seat was across from a teenager who looked like she would judge my every word and fashion decision. Also,” he added, “because you looked at me while I was staring at you and I wanted to assure you that I am not a psychopath.”
“Very reassured,” Bret informed him.
“Awesome,” said Shawn, smiling wide.
Bret rolled his eyes, hiding the twitch of his lips behind his coffee.
Their food came, Shawn waving over the waitress with his food to the table. Bret eyed his meal and calculated how much time they would take to finish it and how much Shawn would probably talk and then picked up his phone to tell his client to come an hour a later. The client agreed immediately.
“So,” said Shawn, before taking a sip of his tea.
Bret glanced up at him.
“Coffee and... a burger,” Shawn listed, indicating Bret's plate. “Pickles? Also, that's it? You need a side.”
Bret pulled back the top bun; four pickles. “The fries here are greasy.” Shawn popped a fry in his mouth and immediately grimaced. “Why were you staring at me?” The words came tumbling out before he could stop them, and Shawn looked up, surprised at his forwardness.
There were three routes that Bret took when speaking to someone who wasn't a contact or family: 1) treat them like a fed, 2) treat them like a civilian (ignoring them), or 3), which was special to attractive people, treat them like a warm body for the night.
Somewhere, with Shawn, the routes were getting twisted and turned and Bret wasn't quite sure how to speak to him.
But Shawn took it easily. He laid an appalled hand to his chest. “I beg you to not put me on the spot like that!”
Bret tightened his lips to suppress a smile. “Sorry.”
Shawn's eyes narrowed. “Canadian?”
Bret looked down, his lips twitching uncontrollably. “Texan.” He quickly took a bite of his burger.
Shawn chewed his own sandwich thoughtfully. “What do y'do for a living?”
Bret eyed him. “I do odd jobs.” The lie was his default for civilians.
Shawn squinted.
“But I'm a cartoonist,” he admitted. This second lie was his default for potential dates. Shawn was precariously balanced between the categorizations.
Shawn brightened much more. “Me?” he pleaded.
Bret rolled his eyes. “Full sentences?”
Shawn conjured up a very hot-pink pen and took a napkin from the tin. “I'm a performer,” he informed Bret.
Bret took the pen and napkin. He set the ink to the paper, and Shawn's smile stretched as he watched. “What do you perform?”
Shawn looked back up at him. “Dancing, mostly. I can sing.”
Bret snorted. “Sorry if I don't beg you to show.”
Shawn made a wounded noise. “Don't challenge me, babe.”
Bret kept his gaze glued to the napkin. “Don't tempt me, sweetheart.”
He could see Shawn's happy smile without looking up; his ears burned as they both recovered from the back and forth, Shawn eating and Bret taking bites between doodling.
“I do modeling gigs, too.” Shawn flipped some of his blonde locks over his shoulder; Bret gave him a very dry look which he beamed at. “Might even act someday! But...”
Bret glanced up at him from where he was drawing a curve. “Hm?”
Shawn was staring, again. He almost looked curious but also vulnerable in some way; he looked as if he was considering Bret while also being terrified of him.
“I'd like to go to school,” said Shawn, as if he was admitting something heinous. “For, uh... For agriculture... or something.”
Bret paused. He stared back at Shawn.
There was some quiet.
Shawn forced out a laugh. “Sorry. Sorry, you must think I'm insane. I just— Kind of a pipe dream, I really wouldn't even know where to start so I don't share it often and—”
“You want a farm?” clarified Bret, hand anxiously working quickly at the drawing. “Or— Or a ranch?”
Shawn's eyes lit up a bit, before he visibly tried to dampen his excitement down. “I don't know, just... Maybe? A ranch. I used to live on one, for a little bit, and it was cool. I enjoyed it a lot. Really, you don't need a degree to start your own but I think going to university would be cool, too. But I don't... I don't know.”
I could buy you a ranch, thought Bret. I could pay for your school. I could take care of you.
His hand stopped moving. The drawing was finished.
Shawn seemed to be thinking as well, from where he sat across from Bret, their pant legs brushing in the crouched table. Bret felt startlingly bare.
And, even more terrifyingly, he found that he didn't completely mind it.
With that in mind, he lowered his gaze and began throwing his attention into eating; Shawn did the same, abruptly quieted in a way Bret doubted happened often.
It was probably five minutes before they seemed to mutually decide that whatever had just happened was too unsettling. Bret stood first but Shawn just shook his head, ruefully, standing up and dropping some bills next to his plate to cover both of them; Bret opened his mouth but Shawn made an 'ah-uh' noise.
“Please,” he said, and his eyes seemed so damn—
Bret helplessly shoved the napkin at the blonde.
Shawn took it from him and carefully examined the sketching of him.
He looked up, eyes so bright it was blinding. “You flatter me.”
Bret shrugged, sliding his hands into his jacket pockets. “No,” he said shortly.
Shawn's eyes flew over him before the blonde pursed his lips. “Thanks, Bret. See you around?”
It sounded like a promise and a lie in one, and Bret struggled to get his lips to work in response to Shawn's intense gaze. “Goodbye, Shawn.”
Shawn tucked the napkin into his pocket and walked off. Bret sat down hard into his chair and wondered why everything suddenly felt so wearisome.
He fingered the pen Shawn left behind, not chasing after the man to return it.
By the time his client had finally dropped by, Bret was up in the building across the street to watch the wide window of Another Plate.
The man was as skittish as he was last time; nervously pulling at his hair and glancing around as if someone was going to jump out and shout 'boo'. He sat at the table the Hitman assigned him to, and dialed Bret's number.
Bret would humor him about watching him, but he was emotionally exhausted and felt irritated. “Information,” he immediately said upon answering.
The man shakily set down a thumb drive.
“Go in the bathroom and place it under the first toilet. If there's a trace, bug, or any malware on this, I will know,” he reminded absently. “And I will kill your wife and then you.”
He observed him enough to know that was where to hit, given the client would always nervously touch his wedding ring. The man became even more visibly sweaty.
“Hitman,” he rasped out, below a whisper. Bret grimaced. “Before you leave, my— my boss said I had to warn you.”
Bret grew cold. “Your boss?”
The man swallowed. “Thumb drive will explain.”
Bret gritted his teeth. A waste of his damn time. “I don't deal with bosses. This conversation — this deal — is over.”
“No, wait!” The man exclaimed. A couple of other patrons glanced at him. He waited until they looked away to continue quietly, “My boss, he's— he's...” His tone went even quieter. “He's Ted DiBiase.”
The Hitman was quiet. He knew DiBiase; he'd tried to hire the Hart Foundation in the past, but they avoided working for individuals like him — rich, dumb types — at least as a team. They usually passed him off to someone they knew, and they never made an enemy out of him but never worked for him.
As a single, however, the Hitman was more amendable. DiBiase was a greedy son-of-a-bitch, but he didn't traffick or deal to kids or any of that.
“Who is this target?” Bret commanded after a long pause.
“Is this line safe?” the man asked desperately.
“Is yours?” snapped the Hitman.
The man audibly swallowed. “It's... It's the Heartbreak Kid.”
“You and DiBiase are fucking insane,” Bret said blandly, and then he hung up.