Archive of Our Own

"Come with me," she said, and he did.

Han didn't even know why he followed her, wordlessly, without questioning. She had some power about her, for all her body was so fragile and frail. Her aching bones surely becoming brittle, her age slowing her...

No, that was a lie. One he thought to comfort himself with, but it still did not mean that it was true. She was old, that was true, but Victoria Winslow was neither fragile nor frail. She was tough as nails, all whipcord strength and as flexible and enduring as bamboo. She would not falter for anything, he thought, and so he went with her.

It was always so with them, he discovered. She ordered him around, as though his obedience was the obvious course to take. As though it had been laid down from the beginning of time and all he had to do was find himself running in the same grooves to an inevitable conclusion. It didn't stop him from ignoring her commands sometimes, because he was his own man and he disagreed with her at times, but she never changed to asking him. She didn't ask. She took. She ordered. She stared at him sideways when he disobeyed, with a glint in her eyes that might have been humour or might have been exasperation, he could never quite tell.

She was almost always right.

Han savoured the times that she wasn't, rare and precious as they were. Victoria swore like the foulest of sailors when things didn't go her way, before shooting up the place more often than not and secretly, down in the utter depths of him, deep inside where the young boy he once was still ran and played, he liked that.

"You're owed fifty million dollars," she said and he nodded, baring his teeth. "Francis remembers and so do I. Twenty for the contract, thirty for the plane." She looked at him sideways, as she did when he was his own man, when he disagreed, when he had his tantrums as she put it. "Or we can purchase you something priceless, as a thank you."

He stared at her suspiciously, not quite believing in her yet.

Victoria stood there, straight and tall and remote, in a black cashmere coat and red heels. Nothing could be further from the expectations he might once have harboured about his own parents at her age - as part of his household, being cared for by his wife. These days the idea of his having a wife in the first place shattered that illusion, or of his parents even talking to him, but nevertheless he also couldn't imagine anyone taking care of Victoria in quite the way it was done at home. She was independent, defiantly so. She was unique. She was other. She was like him.

"Come with me," she said, and he did.

***

They went to Mombasa. She took him to a dream den, where drugged sleepers dreamed their lives away in the care of a sharp-eyed, dark-skinned man in a wrinkled jacket. He might have been a doctor or he might not. The den was cleaner than many of its kind and that said something, he supposed. He wasn't sure he cared much, until Victoria murmured to her contact Yusuf about needles and doses and parts per million. He cared then. Han didn't like drugs. He had fallen a long way from grace but there were things he didn't stoop to, he still had standards. Delivering clean death was preferable to this slow decay in his opinion and, these days, his opinion was the only one that counted.

Victoria looked at him as he imagined she might look at a slightly dim child. "Yusuf is a chemist," she said, "He knows the market. He sells advice and knowledge as much as product. We are here chasing the buyer of an antidote."

Han shut up, feeling the blood in his veins heating degree by slow degree. He refused to give her the satisfaction of asking for a further explanation. She looked slyly pleased while Yusuf smirked at the pair of them. He said that they should meet his dear Yasmin, that they should try double dating. Victoria didn't say a word but when they made it out into the thick humid air of Mombasa, filled with the sounds and smells of too much humanity, she took a breath as though it was the sweetest taste of freedom and then said, "Christ, I need a drink."

They went to a bar, dim and hot, the beads over the door clashing lightly with the rumbling of men's voices as they played endless games of backgammon. Han kicked out a chair for her in a parody of gentility and she raised an eyebrow at him before proceeding to knock back glass after glass of arak, clear and sharp and unbelievably good. Han decided he needed it, decided that while he couldn't trust the company, if Victoria Winslow wanted him dead she would hardly need to wait until he was drunk to kill him.

When he was good and hammered, the night having taken on a glossy sheen it hadn't had before, Han said, "I hate you."

It wasn't even close to true, but there were so many things in his life which he did hate that it seemed a reasonable compromise. Sometimes Han thought he got through the day on such a rollercoaster of sheer hate that he wondered what would happen if it ever ran out. But that didn't seem very likely, so he rarely let it bother him.

Victoria picked up her glass and toyed with it. "Hate is such an overused word. Personally I hate this bloody climate. I hate having to negotiate with prurient fools who I can't afford to shoot. I hate doing this kind of job when really it should be Marvin's responsibility."

"So why isn't Marvin here?" Han asked, because his lips were going numb and apparently questions slipped out without his consent in such circumstances.

She sighed. "Marvin could do the research but he avoids face to face contact with strangers for good reason. Considering where we're going there's no telling if he'd actually succeed given his penchant for explosions. Besides, he's in Caracas with Francis and Sarah. I wouldn't interrupt that little mission for the world. It'll be good for them." She eyed him again, her gaze sharper than he liked, and speculative. More sober than seemed fair. She smiled and Han felt his heart thump hard, out of nowhere, the heat in the room seemingly concentrated on his skin, blooming like a rose, just by the sudden smoulder in her eyes.

"Besides, I always did like the pretty ones."

***

Han might have had a wife once. There had been a girl, modest and sweet. Her father was an important official who'd come up through the intelligence services, so he understood Han's position, how he would often be away, how he couldn't talk about his work, not fully. His daughter had understood as well, or Han had thought she had - and he'd liked that. He didn't want to marry someone whose resentment at his perceived neglect would fester through the years. He wanted a partnership based on as much trust as he could offer and truth from the very start. He'd never assumed there would be romance, didn't in his heart of hearts believe in such shallow stuff, put down love to half hormones and half need. Pleasantness and respect was all he really desired.

Then Frank Moses had bulled his way into Han's life like a wrecking ball and Han was left to discover how very little respect he commanded, how little loyalty he was offered and how much those things mattered in the long run. He supposed Frank had given him a valuable lesson - he chose his associates carefully now. He knew what the value of their presence in his life was, knew what could buy them, what price he could offer in return. He had the loyalties of some, friendships he could count on, a few, at least. When he'd been forced to run, after Frank's lies, he'd had enough help to get out of Korea before his arrest - but not from the girl he'd hoped to marry. Not from her father.

Han fell out of bed the next morning feeling like someone had sandpapered his eyeballs but otherwise surprisingly unscathed. He was naked but didn't remember undressing or indeed returning to his hotel room, and couldn't decide how he felt about that. His suit was hung up in the closet and his shirt was carefully folded on the chair, shoes paired neatly beneath. He eyed the resulting picture and wondered about the message Victoria was sending. He was certain that there was one - but he wasn't sure he spoke her particular language well enough to read it yet. And his head felt as though an elephant had stepped on it.

In the shower, unobtrusively, Han catalogued his body. There were no additional bruises or other marks. There were no abrasions, or stretched muscles, there was nothing dried on his skin that shouldn't be there. He remembered the unexpected wash of heat across his skin as their eyes met, but that was all he remembered. As he ran his hands over his own flesh, he felt it again in memory. But there was also the hot water beating down and the glide of soap, it was perfectly natural that he should experience a flush that pinkened his skin, that tightened his nipples and caused his morning erection to stiffen to full mast. Han grasped and pulled and came with a small huff, his head full of the noise of water and his mind as blank as he could make it.

In the lobby of the hotel, Victoria looked as put together as she always did, but her eyes were amused. Han decided that it didn't matter. They'd had a good time, hadn't they? He'd let his guard down with her in that bar and nothing bad had happened. In the circus that was his life that was as good as holding a parade.

***

They went to Prague. The river glistened like black oil in the cold crisp air. Everything felt pale and grey and still as they walked over the Charles Bridge, towards Old Town. Victoria wore a fur coat in black and white, but had kept her crimson boots, they looked like splashes of blood against the pale stone, as the two of them strolled arm in arm.

That was a surprise. Victoria had hung back a little instead of striding off in her usual way, and then taken his arm. Her hand felt as light as a feather but Han thought he could feel the steel beneath the velvet. He wondered what she'd do if he refused or walked away. Watch him go, probably. He reminded himself - if he did that then he'd never see his twenty million, his thirty million, his new plane. It felt... pleasant, her weight on his arm, even the slight amount she entrusted him with. He tucked her hand in its suede glove a little firmer in place and let the automatic calculation of angles to pull her off-balance, the application of pressure points, ways to sweep her feet from under her, all move to the back of his mind. They were within each other's comfort zone. If there was to be a fight now, it would be more than bloody.

Instead she took him to a cellar beer hall and going down into its smoke-filled raucous darkness was like some kind of descent into hell. He wrinkled his nose at the smell, knowing it would linger in the fabric of his suit. She patted him on the arm as though she knew and sympathised before letting go. Han wanted to dislike that - was he so transparent?

"Victoria, darling," said the middle-aged American man they were apparently there to meet. He kissed her on both cheeks as someone more European might have done.

"Raymond," said Victoria, with as little warmth in her voice as wind from the Arctic tundra and Han thought, startled, so that's what people she doesn't like hears. He grinned at the jovial gentleman, but not kindly. He was too busy contemplating the uncertain knowledge that Victoria definitely liked him.

"Interesting company you keep," said Raymond as he lifted his stein in a salute, "Since when do either of you team up with others? Should I be worried there are more of you? Are top wetwork operatives coming in threes these days - like buses?"

This man liked the sound of his own voice too much, Han decided. Although it was also a distraction tactic. He shifted his arm to smooth out a wrinkle, incidentally bringing his gun closer to hand.

"Cut out the soft soap," Victoria said, her accent sharpened into something that could shear silk, "You must know why we're here. You always do."

"True enough." Raymond leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. Han thought, he has a flair for the dramatic too. He flicked his gaze around without moving his head, attempting to spot Raymond's accomplices, his bodyguards.

"I can't help you," Raymond continued, "No, let's be clearer - I won't help you. You haven't the funds to buy the information. Either for Mr Han's case or your target's location."

"Well, I knew that." Victoria was smiling, but Han tensed. There was something... "But luckily for you, I'm not here to buy either of those things."

She stepped back and swung her coat open, revealing a Heckler & Koch MP7 that she proceeded to empty in a long spray across the ceiling. The room filled with abrupt screaming and shouting that died away slowly to nothing as people scrambled up the stairs and escaped. Han pulled his Glock and covered Raymond's revealed support team. He was trying very hard not to laugh.

"Lucky for you too," Raymond had stopped smiling, although the urbane note in his voice hadn't dropped completely. "Nice to see you haven't lost any of your subtlety, Victoria."

"Just reminding you who you're dealing with, that's all." She let the gun hang lazily from her hand. "Nobody's even been scratched, so please don't lose your sense of humour over a little hello, darling."

"No," said Raymond, "I can see I shouldn't do that."

"Besides, what I want is old information, barely worth anything these days," Victoria continued, "It's perfectly within your purview and entirely within my price range."

She brushed some brick dust and plaster off the nearest chair and sat down, submachine gun in her lap.

"I want to buy the addresses of the Frog's known safe houses. They're not expensive, surely?" She smiled then and Han realised he had an overwhelming desire to bury his hand in her soft hair. To bend her slender neck back until he could see the blue veins of her throat stretched out under his thumbs. To taste what victory felt like in her mouth.

"After all, the Frog's dead. Isn't he?" said Victoria, all innocence, if innocence could be said to have a cheerfully murderous side.

Han wanted, and knew he was completely fucked.

***

They went to London. Han had been before, for work, both before and after he began acting independently. It hadn't mattered on either occasion, because he hadn't paid much attention. One city was very much like another. But it was different this time, he wanted to notice details, like the rich wash of sodium light over rain-damp streets, or the grey grandeur of the buildings, more than a century old in most cases. A city almost frozen in Imperial splendour, with only a leavening of the modern, the flashy thrust of the Gherkin, the odd skyscraper in smoky glass. He wanted to notice this time because it was where Victoria called home, or at least where he knew she'd worked for her government, for longer than he'd been alive. He wondered if that meant she loved London, in much the same way he felt about Seoul, except without the bitter undertones of his exile. He allowed himself to feel their kinship in that, although an artificial one perhaps, because you couldn't cultivate sentimentality in this business, not and live. He knew that, and still allowed himself, because it was a tiny indulgence that cost him nothing. Whereas indulging anything else he fantasised about promised to prove ruinously expensive.

He tried to put himself off. He asked about Simonov, as though the thought of the other men in her life would fool his subconscious into cauterising that particular desire. Instead, the knowledge there was still in existence a man who'd known her when she was young, who had such a rich and varied history with her, made his palms itch and his teeth grind. He wanted to hit something, quite badly, so took himself off to some random seedy bar in the worst area he could find. The resultant fight was another kind of indulgence but it left Han feeling calm and clean, even as he spit the blood out from his mouth.

Victoria clucked her tongue at him as though he was a naughty child, but she didn't say anything else. Han had been prepared for that, for her to order him not to do anything like it again. It left him off balance when she didn't, and he wondered about that too. He thought he might be getting too used to her orders. To her pushing him in directions he didn't want to go. He wondered if he was losing his edge, or whether he'd ever even had it to start with. He wondered if she was driving him mad.

Victoria had dismissed his questions about Simonov. She'd claimed it was none of his business and he couldn't even argue. But she'd stared at him, more deeply and seriously than he was used to from her, and told him that each meeting mattered, but only then. What lives they lived apart from one another? That was none of Ivan's business either.

With their lifestyles, Han supposed it made sense. He tried to imagine where he might be in a month, a year, in ten years. And he couldn't. Han looked at Victoria who had been this, had lived this, for forty years. He stared back at chips of icy blue diamond in such a finely boned face. He stopped his burgeoning sorrow for her in its tracks, because he knew she wouldn't thank him. She'd do so much worse.

***

"Rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated," said the Frog, "It's true."

He sounded rather more gleeful about it than Han had expected. Victoria had found him hidden away in a small brick terrace house, as nondescript and ordinary as was possible to imagine. Certainly not surrounded by the lavish lifestyle the Frog was usually known to enjoy. He didn't try and shoot them either, which surprised Han even further. Instead, he put the kettle on.

Victoria was swinging her legs in her chair like a child might, her scarlet boots tipping backwards and forwards. "Well, that's rather what I thought."

The Frog tipped his cup to her as though they were in one of his exclusive wine bars, instead of a shabby melamine kitchen. A nod of equals.

"Americans can be so... obvious, at times. Don't you think so?" she added, and the Frog snorted, far less elegantly, spoiling the effect. "I thought it unlikely that you'd taken poison, or at least, not a fatal one. As a plan it seemed to lack your usual self-preservation instinct."

The Frog was nodding, jerkily, leaning forward in his eagerness, his glasses slipping down his nose. "Yes, yes, you've hit the nail on the head. Precisely. But Horton bought it, which was the main thing, and his CIA cronies." He looked pained at the recollection. "I had to let him hit me a few times before I broke the capsule on the paralytic though - I had to make it look real. Which hurt, rather a lot. I was terribly upset to hear he'd passed away, after all that. You didn't kill him, did you?"

Victoria looked honestly regretful. "No, I'm afraid not - I understand from Francis that it was Bailey."

"That's a shame - I was looking forward to being creative with Mr Horton, but I suppose efficiency does have it's place."

The Frog took a sip of tea, in a ruminative fashion. Han decided he was in some surreal alternative reality, unless this was the way things were always done in England. But then, Victoria had all sorts of odd friends.

"So," the Frog said, staring at them, his beady eyes bright, "Since you've gone to so much trouble, I assume there is something you want?"

Han stared at the back of Victoria's head, where the blonde-grey hair fell in perfect waves. His cup of tea steamed quietly to itself on the dresser by his elbow but Han wasn't touching a drop of any liquid he was offered in the Frog's house. Victoria picked up her cup and took a sip, not breaking eye contact. Han held his breath a beat, but nothing happened. No foaming at the mouth or odd muscle spasms.

"I want to buy a man," said Victoria, "One I know you have for sale. He'll think he's safe now, because you were so publicly... disposed of. But I don't believe you'll have any qualms about letting me disabuse him of that notion, will you? And using that knowledge won't break your cover because we were involved - indirectly - with your death. Who knows what we got you to give up before you died?"

The Frog's eyes glittered. "People will think me very paltry, to have broken so easily."

"People won't think of you at all. That is the point, isn't it?" said Victoria easily.

The Frog looked away. Without his beady regard, Han realised the man seemed smaller than he'd been expecting. There was a hole in his woollen waistcoat, and an egg stain on his tie.

"Yes, I suppose so." But he seemed disappointed.

Han had never considered if it were possible to feel sorry for the person you were blackmailing, but it did occur to him now. It also occurred to him that of all the safehouses on the list, this anonymous terrace had been one of the first, one of the least likely, and yet had turned out to be the correct place. He wondered how Victoria had known.

Han hoped there would never come a time in his life that he'd be so desperate he'd need to hide away in his old childhood home or be so lonely he'd welcome his erstwhile enemies in with a cup of tea. He liked to think not but - these days he'd learned never to underestimate the unthinkable.

***

They went nowhere. They sat outside the Frog's house in their hired car and Victoria took the passenger side without even arguing. Han settled into the driver's seat feeling dazed.

"Well?" she asked, "Is it worth twenty million, thirty million? Is it better than a new plane?"

There was a hint of smugness in her tone and Han looked across at her, at the sly humour in the corner of her eyes. He thought about the fact that this was the first time she had asked him anything, thought about how it wasn't really a question at all. Thought about how much this woman had given him, that was nothing at all to do with money. The smell of cooking pancakes under cherry trees at the spring festivals, the taste of jasmine tea from his favourite cafe on Dahakno Street. The smile of his mother, the pride of his father.

Victoria Winslow knew what mattered, what was most important.

Han Cho-Bai had never believed in romance, he put such shallow stuff down to half hormones and half need. Pleasantness and respect were all he required, and someone to understand the work he did. Someone to understand.

He leaned across the car, slowly enough, telegraphing everything, but all she did was watch him come. He leaned across the file on Choi Se-Hong, Head of the Intelligence Bureau in South Korea, with all his dirty little secrets there in black and white, with all its possibilities for his reinstatement, for regained honour, for a reclaimed country and family. He leaned forward and touched her face for the first time, the skin delicate and fine, softer than he expected, a gentle caress until he slid his hand round and into her hair, tugging at the strands. He expected her to resist because that was what she did, what they both did, pushing and pulling at each other, neither one giving ground. But instead she moved to meet him, her hand hot like a brand on his thigh, leaning up as he bent down, until their lips met, a soft brush that turned hungry almost instantly. They kissed for long seconds, alternating between soft and eager, harsh and tender, demanding and gentle. Perhaps they should have been clumsy with the newness of it all, or careless with passion, but somehow together they were all these things and none because Victoria knew what she wanted and how to get it, and Han was not at all surprised.

They parted an endless time later and Han could only see blue eyes darkened to smoky twilight, a hint of a smile curling at her lips. She leant back in the bucket seat and wriggled her shoulders, getting comfortable, as Han watched her silently, eagerly. She looked out of the windscreen then back at him, before tipping her head to one side in impatient expectation.

"Well?" said Victoria, "What are you waiting for? Let's drive."