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fredbassettTitle : Coins in the Fountain
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Alex Rider
Rating : 15
Characters : Yassen Gregorovich/Monica Peretti
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : The White Carnation
Summary : Ten years ago, Monica Peretti employed a contract killer to end her life. The assassin refused and returned the fee (minus his expenses, naturally). Every year, she remembers. Every year, she hopes.
Rome is a city I love very much; it holds a special place in my heart.
I come frequently for business, to buy works for my galleries in New York and Paris. And when I can, I come for pleasure, to lose myself in a city that contains more treasures than any I know, treasures both ancient and modern. I enjoy the open spaces, the museums and galleries, the cafes and restaurants, the many palaces and churches.
But there is one day a year that I enjoy the most.
One day a year for ten years that I have enjoyed in the same way. A day of simple pleasures. A day that means so much to me.
The same day every year.
I always think of it as my second birthday, The birthday I choose to celebrate, rather than the one I quietly ignore.
For this particular day each year I stay at the Hotel Majestic, in room 56. The staff call it my special room. Every year I make a booking for the following year. Every year the staff smile. Every year I smile back. I imagine them making up stories in their heads as to why that day, that room. I do not imagine that any of them ever guess the truth.
Things were very different for me on that day ten years ago, and it is important for me to remember how I felt then and contrast it with how I feel now. And to remember that I made the right choice.
So I sit in the Piazza Navona and feel the warmth of the sun on my skin.
I eat ice cream and watch children throw coins in the fountain.
I sit and I remember.
I remember a man with the lithe, athletic grace of a dancer. A man with a quiet, serious manner that has stayed with me down the years.
He saved my life and yet I do not even know his real name.
I often think about trying to find him again, but I always assume that he will not wish to be found, and that if he wants to find me, he will have the means to do so for unlike him, I used my real name.
And so, every year I come here, to the city of my rebirth, and remember him.
Eyes as blue as an early morning sky with just a hint of frost in the air.
Close cropped blond hair.
A thin white scar on his neck.
Long fingered hands. The hands of a musician. The hands of a killer. And that last thought does not trouble me as it should, for I stepped willingly into his world.
I bought death from him; in return, he gave me the gift of life and left me a challenge. To live life and find happiness, or to leave it should I so wish; he made it clear that choice was mine and mine alone. If death was what I truly wanted then that was my business, but he would have no part in it. For a man whose business was death, he clearly valued life. Or at the very least, for whatever reason, he valued mine, and for that I owe him my thanks. And my life.
There is no tunnel so long that it does not have light at the end of it. I suggest you find it. On that long ago day, he spoke as a man who had entered that tunnel and had found his own light. There had been sadness in his voice, as if he had not expected me to heed his words but even if he did not know it, he gave me hope, and hope was not something I expected to find on the day appointed for my death.
He called me stupid. That still stings my pride and maybe that sting helps to keep me alive.
He left me and did not look back.
I wonder if he ever thinks of me.
I wonder if he is even still alive to think of me or whether death has now claimed him for its own.
I think of him, often. Not just on the days when I spend time in the Eternal City enjoying a day – and a life – that was his gift to me.
The sun warms my bare arms, and a light breeze ruffles my hair. My skin is golden from the sun and my hair falls in waves to my shoulders. Every year I have it cut to this length in memory of the day I stood on the Spanish Steps and waited for death. The cheap glasses that saved my life are in my handbag. I carry them as a lucky charm – and for reading the small print in contracts.
The Piazza Navona teams with life and I wonder if he ever comes here to watch the children throw their coins in the water, laughing in delight as they scoop up the water in the hands and throw it in the air.
I toss my own coin in the fountain, as I do every year.
Soon I will buy an ice cream. The same type I buy every year, honeycomb and ginger.
He said that when I went to him, I invited a monster into my life, but I would gladly invite him into it again.
“May I join you?” The words are quietly spoken, the way I always imagine they would be.
He wears the last ten years lightly. More lightly maybe than I do.
I always think he was in his early thirties when he refused to take my life. But now he looks barely forty. Still slim in build, smooth muscles showing through his thin white shirt. His blond hair slightly longer now with a hint of stubble on his face that goes well with his faded jeans and dusty sandals. Slight lines crease the corners of his eyes; long-lashed eyes the same blue as the cloudless summer sky reflecting off the water of the fountain. The hint of frost I saw in those eyes has gone now, chased away by sunlight.
“Your ice cream is melting,” he prompts me, smiling, and I realise he is holding out a small tub with a wooden spoon.
Once a year for ten years I have imagined this meeting and now I do not know what to say, so I smile and take the ice cream. The richness of the honey contrasts with the tang of the ginger and of course he knows which one I always choose. He is an assassin and I owe my life to his eye for detail.
Eventually, I find my misplaced tongue. “Hello, Mr Forbes.”
“Yasha,” he corrects gently. “I am retired now. Hello, Monica.”
“How did you find me?”
A slight smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I saw you here by chance four years ago. I remembered my words to you that evening and wondered if you did, too. So I returned the following year. And so did you.”
I eat the ice cream slowly, savouring both the taste and the memories. “I have returned every year for ten years.” I hesitate, and then give in to my stung pride. “Do you still think I am stupid?”
His smile broadens. “You run successful galleries in New York and Paris. You are opening a third in London next month. You set up and run a mental health charity and you have helped thousands of people. You sought help and you now help others. No, I do not think you are stupid.”
“I sought the help of a contract killer and instead of purchasing death, I was given the gift of life. That was … unexpected.”
“For six years I did not know which choice you had made.”
“You told me that I had beauty and money. Both those things are accidents of birth, The curse of depression is another such accident of birth for me. If I had chosen a different assassin, that family curse would have claimed me, too. You stung my pride and made me think. And I made my choice.” I opened my handbag and showed him the cheap pair of glasses I bought for my appointment with death. “I keep these as a reminder for when the days are dark.”
“They are longer lasting than flowers.” His voice sounds solemn, but I can see laughter bubbling in his eyes. “And more useful.” He stands up, all lithe grace and easy confidence. “Will you walk with me?”
I finish my last mouthful of ice cream and accept the hand he holds down to me.
Ten years of waiting fall away in a heartbeat.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Alex Rider
Rating : 15
Characters : Yassen Gregorovich/Monica Peretti
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : The White Carnation
Summary : Ten years ago, Monica Peretti employed a contract killer to end her life. The assassin refused and returned the fee (minus his expenses, naturally). Every year, she remembers. Every year, she hopes.
Rome is a city I love very much; it holds a special place in my heart.
I come frequently for business, to buy works for my galleries in New York and Paris. And when I can, I come for pleasure, to lose myself in a city that contains more treasures than any I know, treasures both ancient and modern. I enjoy the open spaces, the museums and galleries, the cafes and restaurants, the many palaces and churches.
But there is one day a year that I enjoy the most.
One day a year for ten years that I have enjoyed in the same way. A day of simple pleasures. A day that means so much to me.
The same day every year.
I always think of it as my second birthday, The birthday I choose to celebrate, rather than the one I quietly ignore.
For this particular day each year I stay at the Hotel Majestic, in room 56. The staff call it my special room. Every year I make a booking for the following year. Every year the staff smile. Every year I smile back. I imagine them making up stories in their heads as to why that day, that room. I do not imagine that any of them ever guess the truth.
Things were very different for me on that day ten years ago, and it is important for me to remember how I felt then and contrast it with how I feel now. And to remember that I made the right choice.
So I sit in the Piazza Navona and feel the warmth of the sun on my skin.
I eat ice cream and watch children throw coins in the fountain.
I sit and I remember.
I remember a man with the lithe, athletic grace of a dancer. A man with a quiet, serious manner that has stayed with me down the years.
He saved my life and yet I do not even know his real name.
I often think about trying to find him again, but I always assume that he will not wish to be found, and that if he wants to find me, he will have the means to do so for unlike him, I used my real name.
And so, every year I come here, to the city of my rebirth, and remember him.
Eyes as blue as an early morning sky with just a hint of frost in the air.
Close cropped blond hair.
A thin white scar on his neck.
Long fingered hands. The hands of a musician. The hands of a killer. And that last thought does not trouble me as it should, for I stepped willingly into his world.
I bought death from him; in return, he gave me the gift of life and left me a challenge. To live life and find happiness, or to leave it should I so wish; he made it clear that choice was mine and mine alone. If death was what I truly wanted then that was my business, but he would have no part in it. For a man whose business was death, he clearly valued life. Or at the very least, for whatever reason, he valued mine, and for that I owe him my thanks. And my life.
There is no tunnel so long that it does not have light at the end of it. I suggest you find it. On that long ago day, he spoke as a man who had entered that tunnel and had found his own light. There had been sadness in his voice, as if he had not expected me to heed his words but even if he did not know it, he gave me hope, and hope was not something I expected to find on the day appointed for my death.
He called me stupid. That still stings my pride and maybe that sting helps to keep me alive.
He left me and did not look back.
I wonder if he ever thinks of me.
I wonder if he is even still alive to think of me or whether death has now claimed him for its own.
I think of him, often. Not just on the days when I spend time in the Eternal City enjoying a day – and a life – that was his gift to me.
The sun warms my bare arms, and a light breeze ruffles my hair. My skin is golden from the sun and my hair falls in waves to my shoulders. Every year I have it cut to this length in memory of the day I stood on the Spanish Steps and waited for death. The cheap glasses that saved my life are in my handbag. I carry them as a lucky charm – and for reading the small print in contracts.
The Piazza Navona teams with life and I wonder if he ever comes here to watch the children throw their coins in the water, laughing in delight as they scoop up the water in the hands and throw it in the air.
I toss my own coin in the fountain, as I do every year.
Soon I will buy an ice cream. The same type I buy every year, honeycomb and ginger.
He said that when I went to him, I invited a monster into my life, but I would gladly invite him into it again.
“May I join you?” The words are quietly spoken, the way I always imagine they would be.
He wears the last ten years lightly. More lightly maybe than I do.
I always think he was in his early thirties when he refused to take my life. But now he looks barely forty. Still slim in build, smooth muscles showing through his thin white shirt. His blond hair slightly longer now with a hint of stubble on his face that goes well with his faded jeans and dusty sandals. Slight lines crease the corners of his eyes; long-lashed eyes the same blue as the cloudless summer sky reflecting off the water of the fountain. The hint of frost I saw in those eyes has gone now, chased away by sunlight.
“Your ice cream is melting,” he prompts me, smiling, and I realise he is holding out a small tub with a wooden spoon.
Once a year for ten years I have imagined this meeting and now I do not know what to say, so I smile and take the ice cream. The richness of the honey contrasts with the tang of the ginger and of course he knows which one I always choose. He is an assassin and I owe my life to his eye for detail.
Eventually, I find my misplaced tongue. “Hello, Mr Forbes.”
“Yasha,” he corrects gently. “I am retired now. Hello, Monica.”
“How did you find me?”
A slight smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I saw you here by chance four years ago. I remembered my words to you that evening and wondered if you did, too. So I returned the following year. And so did you.”
I eat the ice cream slowly, savouring both the taste and the memories. “I have returned every year for ten years.” I hesitate, and then give in to my stung pride. “Do you still think I am stupid?”
His smile broadens. “You run successful galleries in New York and Paris. You are opening a third in London next month. You set up and run a mental health charity and you have helped thousands of people. You sought help and you now help others. No, I do not think you are stupid.”
“I sought the help of a contract killer and instead of purchasing death, I was given the gift of life. That was … unexpected.”
“For six years I did not know which choice you had made.”
“You told me that I had beauty and money. Both those things are accidents of birth, The curse of depression is another such accident of birth for me. If I had chosen a different assassin, that family curse would have claimed me, too. You stung my pride and made me think. And I made my choice.” I opened my handbag and showed him the cheap pair of glasses I bought for my appointment with death. “I keep these as a reminder for when the days are dark.”
“They are longer lasting than flowers.” His voice sounds solemn, but I can see laughter bubbling in his eyes. “And more useful.” He stands up, all lithe grace and easy confidence. “Will you walk with me?”
I finish my last mouthful of ice cream and accept the hand he holds down to me.
Ten years of waiting fall away in a heartbeat.
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Date: 2021-03-25 08:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-03-25 09:01 pm (UTC)