Baby, why'm I worried now, did someone make a fool of me
before I could show them how it's done?
I can't give up acting tough,
it's all that I'm made of.
Can't scrape together quite enough
to ride the bus to the outskirts of the fact that I need love.
-Neko Case
***
Sophie's clothes were a secret code, and Nate was the only one on the team who could read it. Hardison didn't understand clothes, Parker couldn't understand clothes, and Eliot might have been able to, but just didn't take an interest. Sophie was a woman who could send a hundred subtle signals loud and clear, and clothes were simply one more avenue open for this. Having deep pockets helped, of course, but Nate had never met anyone so patterned as Sophie when it came to such things.
She put on the armor for work: the heels, the makeup, tailored wool things and stiff thick cotton button-down shirts and impeccably pressed, close-fitting sheath dresses. She took off the armor for after-hours, but still wore structured things: jeans, and boots, and a leather or denim jacket over whatever shirt. This, in a way, was also armor.
Nate paid attention, though, and when all she wore was modal and cashmere and soft sweaters and leggings and flat little shoes that looked like slippers, no makeup, hair all loose and half-curled, he knew his affection would be welcome, because that was when the armor was completely down. So If he came downstairs from his room and saw her there in the office kitchen—of course meaning in his kitchen—with a sweater like a blanket around her shoulders and black leggings, barefoot in front of his coffeemaker waiting for coffee while poring over a folded-up magazine, he'd hurry back upstairs and shower and get dressed and make himself smell good and hurry back downstairs again and pretend that he was in a wonderful mood even if he wasn't.
All that just so he could sneak up behind her and give her a big hug and press his face into her hair and remind himself of the good parts of his life, namely, what she smelled like and the way she fit against him, and say, "Gooooooooood morning, Sophie, how did you sleep!" Which never failed to turn his fake wonderful mood into a real one.
And she'd say, sarcastically, "Oh, Nate you're in such a great mood today," and pretend to hug him back just out of toleration for his momentary enthusiasm, and she'd roll her eyes to keep up the act, but really she'd slip her hands under his jacket and be holding onto his ribs for dear life. Sometimes Eliot would notice, and throw them a glare; he just wanted them to get it over with and fuck, because he had no perception of how lovely yet also complicated and terrifying this was for them, the back and forth. Sometimes Hardison would notice, he'd laugh at them, because he found this dance they did amusing. Parker was oblivious.
Once when they were the only two there early, he threw his arms around her as usual, big smile; and then kissed her neck, completely on impulse. He didn't give himself any time to consider it. She jumped a bit—he felt her jump—and then she tried to play it off. She asked him if he was drunk, and he said no, of course not, and then she smiled for a moment, but sadly. And then she walked into the other room. He stood there and gripped the counter for a moment. He stared at the tiles furiously and pressed his hands into fists until his nails were sharp in his palms, convinced that his cowardice had once again made him miss a great chance.
***
Once on the anniversary of his son's death, when he was sitting in front of a glass of whiskey having a staring contest, the nausea of temptation growing, Sophie stopped back at the office late in the evening to pick up something she'd forgotten. A scarf or a piece of jewelry or something, he couldn't remember. She came in on her phone, chatting to someone who probably knew her by another name, arranging to meet some folks in a bit to start a night out, and saw him at the counter. And saw the whiskey.
Immediately Nate heard her tone change, as she told her friend she wasn't going to make it after all, and dropped the scarf or the necklace or whatever on the chair.
"Well now," she said, and proceeded to dump his whiskey in the sink, both the glass and the bottle. Nate winced seeing it go down the drain but was thankful anyways. She sat down on a stool at the counter next to him. "So, what's the occasion?"
"The occasion of this near failure would be, ah, burying my firstborn son, several years ago today," he mumbled, trying for some kind of dark humor since he already felt like he'd ruined her night.
"I'm so sorry," she said, leaning over him. She rubbed his back, pressing her thumbs and the heels of her hands sharply into the muscles over his shoulder blades until she felt them relax. "But even an anniversary like that isn't worth ruining all your hard work."
"Well, if by hard work you mean cups of coffee," Nate had said with a depressed little chuckle. He leaned his forehead against her shoulder. "But you're right. Thank you."
He can't remember how long they sat there at the counter, as she thought of things to make him talk and to distract him, but he knows that they ended up watching TV on his couch until late that night. Just stupid TV; old movies and late night comedy. He threw an arm around her and made weak attempts at being the peanut gallery, which she dutifully laughed at. Eventually she fell asleep with her head on his shoulder. Before he got up to tuck her in on the couch and go off to his room, he spent a few minutes holding perfectly still, studying her face, brushing her hair behind her ear with a fingertip, willing himself to remember every detail. Just in case something happened to the team, in case something happened to their whole tenuous partnership. In case something happened to her.
***
It was so clear to me
that it was almost invisible.
I lie across the path waiting,
just for a chance to be a spiderweb
trapped in your lashes.
For that, I would trade you my empire for ashes.
But I choke it back, how much I need love.
-Neko Case