Wittenberg is a fever dream back on schedule.
The first ten hours are spent catching up on sleep. At four in the morning, Horatio is already making significant progress digging up the supplies in the cemetery. As expected, the snow is deeper, and unforgiving against his gloved hands. It takes an adequate amount of time to put things back where they belong in his flat, neat and secure.
By the time the sun rises over the historical town of Wittenberg, Horatio is by the window, blankly staring at the snow on buildings and the sleepy streets below. He's not usually one to have expectations, but for the rest of the term it should go smoothly. Time has a tendency to fly by when it comes to institutions. Exams are around the corner, and the asset should be busy. Busy with normal things, safe respectable things.
Should.
>
The errant thought about having the fencing blades sharpened without anybody's knowledge is mildly amusing. Though belatedly concerning. Adjusting to the calm monotony of Wittenberg might just be challenging after weeks of back to back missions filled with violence and dark humour with handlers.
Such a temperament should dissipate soon in the dull routine of maintaining his fencing gear. One would argue it is a hypnotising form of time travel.
"...You really are in here at five in the morning..." The disbelieving murmur gives him pause. It's clearly meant to be a taunt, but the groggy sleepiness there undercuts the attempt. "...Polishing your sword."
Horatio keeps his gaze on the blade before sullenly continuing the task, scrubbing at a tiny speck of rust. It is too soon to be dealing with him. That's meant to be the day after tomorrow. No one has notified him about any schedule changes.
Unfortunately, the presence doesn't leave in spite of his insistent avoidance. Horatio sighs. "And you're here, at five in the morning, watching me polish my sword, why?"
The snort is rather unexpected. "Palace schedule has me awake early. My body holds me hostage."
Horatio's brows furrow, and he finally looks at the asset. "The first day we met, you complained about having class at ten in the morning."
There's a lopsided smile as he looks at the floor, and he shrugs with his arms crossed from where he's leaning against the doorway. Despite having the same exact features as the person Horatio had seen on television a few days back, the Crown Prince of Denmark looks different. Perhaps it's the cosy sweats, or the rather unruly bed hair growing a little too long. The very distinct ring on his right hand, however, is new. "I had a specific vision of how my life would be here. I'm still working on it."
Ominous.
The asset hums and nods at him. "What's with your ring? Germans and Danes wear their wedding ring on the same hand, yes? Did you get married over winter? Again?"
Horatio blinks, looking down at his hand. His signet ring is still there, comfortable as it has been over the years. "Again?"
"You had a mark on the same spot before," He answers, almost hesitant, as if any skill perceived is something he doesn't wish to advertise. Even more of a reminder not to underestimate him.
"It's my work ring. I'm married to my work."
"What a coincidence," He huffs, sardonic. "I'm married to Denmark." The asset takes off his own ring and puts it in his pocket. "Any news of Cesario?"
"You think I would have that information, why?"
The asset only shrugs in reply.
"What did you want with Cesario?"
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"There's something of interest in my bedroom I'd like her to see."
The disgust those words garner is natural, but considering the lack of taunting quality to them, it's something that morphs into mild concern. Cesario and the asset could get closer than anticipated, and that would most definitely add problems down the line. When geopolitics and loyalties shift, the organisation could easily change the mission guidelines from protection to elimination.
Keeping inevitability in mind, perhaps it would benefit Cesario then, to experience the ultimate deterrent against getting attached sooner rather than later through the grim consequences.
"I shall let Cesario know if we cross paths," Horatio murmurs, averting his gaze. Command has been suspiciously late in sending his apprentice over. It shouldn't be an issue so long as he doesn't have to deal with the asset so soon and his choice of establishments. "There is no fencing today. That starts this upcoming weekend."
"I'm aware." The asset reaches into the other room before marching in, dragging in a massive fencing bag and walking to his locker. "Had a more comfortable uniform commissioned. Amongst other things."
"I did not give approval for such a thing."
The asset hums lightly as he cleans out his locker. "Did I need it?"
"It's a uniform," He points out. "It's meant to be the same."
"Uhuh. Is this your political sentiments coming to light?"
"No, it's me shielding my eyes from the blinding light of your narcissism," Horatio deadpans. "Not everyone can afford to have the luxury of having their uniform tailored to their comfort and preference. You're meant to be in a team."
"Team? We're not at a competitive level yet, are we?" The asset wonders, turning to face him and crossing his arms again. "Do you have plans to take us to tournaments?"
Horatio stares, unsure if he's expected to laugh. The serious expression he faces seems to anticipate an answer, and he finds himself staring down at the blade.
"If you and your peers wish to do so and are at that level," He begins. "Perhaps by next year, it will be possible. It will have to be discussed."
It's doubtful that he will even be here next year. That's something for the next operative to deal with. Horatio is bound to talk his way out of this mission at some point, surely.
"Hmm." The asset nods. "Alright. I'll leave you to your sword polishing."
Finally left alone, Horatio finds that it was a surprisingly civil encounter for the most part. Since when did that start to happen?
>
According to the dossier, the threat level for the asset is currently minimal. It allows him to be preoccupied about other things.
Even in the first full week back, he notices that some of his students remain absent. Likely for a luxurious extended vacation. The fact that the Crown Prince of Denmark is here and they aren't is ridiculous. It's such a low bar.
He hammers his annoyance into the small bookshelf he's trying to build in his campus office. Most of his books are in his flat, but he might as well give in and move most of them here. The closer the end of term, the more he's bound to be stuck on campus for longer hours. He pushes the bookshelf against the wall, right behind his chair. The way the whole thing slightly wobbles when he arranges his books sparks irritation, but that's what he gets for being cheap and settling for prefab.
It's a burden he's willing to bear considering it's all temporary anyhow.
He narrows his eyes, trying to decide what piece of work he can base a blindsiding assignment on. It has to be worthy of suffering and fosters a greater amount of critical thinking. His fingers absently tap on the backrest of his chair, increasingly off-beat to the music playing on his headphones. Horatio blinks and slowly turns to find the asset by the door.
