(no subject)

[kayip]

Coming back was more difficult than Behrooz had imagined it would be. He couldn't look anyone in the face – he'd spent the last few weeks lying and manipulating men, looking straight into their eyes, but now he couldn't even keep the gaze of a guard without wanting to blurt out the truth he was sure they didn't know. Of course, this also meant they weren't likely to believe him – sometimes Behrooz wasn't sure he cared, but most of the time he knew that, like when he was a child, it would be better to keep his mouth shut.

At least, until the right moment.

To get away from the guards, from looking into their faces, knowing the lies they unknowingly served, Behrooz wandered more often outside the buildings, walking along the fence and trying to not look at anyone, whether it was the guards or the prisoners. Especially the imam. He's soon wishing he hadn't left the Bar at all, even if returning to this life was always inevitable.

The woman comes a few days after his return – he hadn't seen her in a while, and part of him wonders why the other agent, after their last encounter, hadn't shown up to see him again since – but the woman doesn't mention him, just puts a file on the table Behrooz eats at when it gets dark, sits across from him, and says, "We need a favor."

Behrooz stares at her straight face for a long moment, and then asks calmly, "I don't really want another dislocated shoulder."

"It's not like that," she says dismissively. "Our Turkish translator got called away to the LA office and we don't want to wait for someone else if we don't have to."

"... and I'm the only one around?"

She seems to try to stare him down again, and instead of answering, just pushes the file toward him.

"We'll pay you for it."

"I'm not really interested in more money."

"Then what, Behrooz?" she snaps. He's silent for a few minutes, and she begins to tape the table impatiently, but he ultimately decides this isn't the moment.

"Khalil Al-Ashry."

She doesn't pause at all – "The imam from Fairfax, you attended his congregation."

"You can release him. He was never a threat."

"I don't have the autho-"

Before she can finish, he pushes the file back toward her. She doesn't argue further, just picks up the file, and walks out of the room.

He hasn't begun his iftar meal before she returns, a guard flanking her as she pulls him out of the room and through along hallway. She doesn't speak at all, and he doesn't ask where they're going – he's assuming it's to some higher ranking official with some shining new deal that he won't be interested in.

But instead, it's just to a window, with a clear view of entrance gates he remembers going through that day a few weeks ago. Now, he sees the imam very clearly, dressed in his own clothes, and be patiently escorted out to black car that's waiting outside.

"He's going to call you when he gets home – he asked for a number for you, here."

Behrooz doesn't answer, and doesn't say a word when she pushes the file again into his hands.