I have absolutely no idea where this came from, other than the fact that I wish it was raining...
"The course of true love never did run smooth." -William Shakespeare
The rain was coming down in droplets, shattering the ground below in the lightest pitter patter of patterns that danced among the wet concrete; it was gracing the earth with an elegance of sorts, yet still allowing the noise of the water to be heard throughout the pipes, the building, and the roof – the large glass that spread across that was facing the square below, allowing a view with arched tiles decorating the sidewalk and the roofs, creating an illusion of sorts. The view was a rather large one for the area, which usually was only seen while either outdoors or inside a small house with small windows.
The looking glass held a vision of both wonder and mischief, with sloped roofs, hidden gutters, and red-tiled patterns that swooped among the square with hints of yellow woven in. It was a picture most desired by the inhabitants of the city; it was surrounded by apartments that stretched high into the sky, leaving half of the area covered in slight shadow from the hours of three to six.
Inside, looking outward at the hurried people rushing below, was a pair of sharp eyes and a bright smile, with petite, light hands folded behind her back – a thinly shaped face sloped downwards, revealing a swoop of brown hair a shade lighter than the average color of a tree that had been growing in the woods for far too long. Her eyes were downcast, looking deeply into the floor with a look of intense concentration on her face; slender fingers were tapping each other, brushing just against her lower back. She was alone – there was no one to share the room with her.
And quite a room in was; with a deep brown wooden floor slinking along and a beige color decorating the walls. It was a relatively simple room, graced with a long mattress on the floor followed by a few other pieces. In the corner there was a white door that contrasted greatly to the rest of the room, yet somehow fit right into place. There was a tiny kitchen parallel to the bed, with a tiny stove and a tiny refrigerator; everything about the area was oddly misshaped, whether it be big, small, or in between. Nothing looked exactly perfect, yet everything – just like the oddly colored door – looked in place.
She was alone, something that caused her lips to tug from its rather straight line into one with the corners turned up. The rain was an event that was gladly needed and rather enjoyed by the people of this tiny section of the country; it was very dry all other times in the year, but come February, March, and April, people whipped out their umbrellas – or their wallets, before rushing out to buy umbrellas at least – and rushed through it as if it were like any other day. The children hopped through puddles before being scolded by their parents, and the adults stayed locked up in offices and tall buildings all day.
That is, she was alone in the room for now – in a few minutes, there would be a ringing of the doorbell, an echoing among the room that would bring a placid expression her face, being she would nearly bolt to the door in a effort to get their even faster; she would grasp her fingers around the doorknob, and –
And then the loud noise of a ringing entered the door, but it was not the doorbell; no, instead it came from the buzzing of her favorite pair of boot-legged jeans. She drew the offending object from her pocket before clicking the bright answer button and drawing it up to her ear.
"Hello?" she asked quietly, voice hiding the anxiety she felt. One more minute, two – her awaiting company should be here.
"Agent."
Her lips drew into a rather worried form, teasing her lips between her teeth. "And this is…" She knew very well who is was; and they would be here in three, two –
A loud ringing entered the loft, causing her to pretty the blinking red end button and toss her phone onto the double mattress settled on the floor. Her feet padded quickly against the wood and she reached the door quickly, grabbing the handle with sly fingers and pulling it open. (Her door would have been knocked down had she not answered…)
She was met with white teeth, dark hair, and a frown. He was leaning against the doorway, eyes lidded with an emotion she could not read. His arms were crossed, a tell of his that told her he was rather pissed off at someone (her); his muscles were nearly bulging through the dark leather jacket, paired with a pair of dark jeans and black jeans. His whole outfit matched his usual personality; dark, brooding, and dangerous.
He pushed past her, and she closed the door silently behind him, taking care not to let him step on her bare toes. "Hey," she scolds, when he carelessly swipes a few things off her nightstand table, placing them in his left pocket. "No stealing."
He takes one lazy glance back at her before turning back and taking in the rather small apartment. His eyes swept over her rather cheap furniture, took in briefly the window's view of the square, before turning and facing her again, arms folded across his chest in the standard manner of an agent.
"Agent," he says harshly. "You need to come home."
Her eyebrows raise and the slightest of sighs escape her lips. She crosses her own pale, slim arms, but he doesn't budge, causing a dark shadow to flitter across the small area. "Why?" She learned long ago never to argue with her supervising officer, but running away to the middle of nowhere for six months pretty much threw all rules out the window.
His lips thin. "Agent–"
"Don't," she hisses, words sharper than ever as her hands drop to her sides and her fingers uncurl, forcing her to be calm. "Don't – don't call me that. I'm not an Agent, sir," she spits the name with meaning, "and I sure as hell don't respond to you."
"It's time to come home, rookie." His voice was calm, but the slightly ticking.
The words hit her in her core and she physically takes a step back. The name brings was a flurry of memoires, unwanted and wanted ones that she had suppressed numerous times. He shouldn't be calling her that – she wasn't a rookie anymore, not by a long shot. She wasn't that young girl he met, the innocent naïve one that allowed herself to fall under the disguise of becoming an agent. She just wasn't; she was more now, someone with purpose, someone who ran on her own.
They hadn't wanted her; hell, they never had. They had only wished for her skills to add to their impressive resume of holding talent agents. She wasn't one of them.
"I'm not your rookie anymore; I'm not her anymore."
"Yes, you are." At this, he takes a step forward. She doesn't move; he continues, his words running through the loft with every intent hiding along. "You're that same girl I met; you are that same girl who saved the lives of everyone, the same girl who nearly died."
At this, her hand flies to her stomach, where she can feel the scars. For a moment she's flashed back to when the bullets entered her and she sucks in a breath, her mask coming undone for a split second.
And then it's gone, giving him the leverage he needs. His feet step quickly and his hands fly upward to frame her face, his thumbs brushing against her eyelashes. She fights the urge to sink into his embrace; he was the man she had fallen for, with long drinking nights turned into I love you (from her) and don't ever leave me (from him). That life was long gone, a forbidden affair between an S.O and a rookie.
But she doesn't move; instead, stays frozen like ice as his face leans down, their breaths mingling as she holds her own. Neither of them make a move – he doesn't want to, she doesn't want to. It was a battle of wills that neither would win, neither wants to win.
His rough stubble brushes against the underside of her jaw as he moves his fingers apart, pressing the lightest of kisses there. Then he leans back, his eyes blank. "Come back, Skye," he whispers. "Come back with me."
The alluring voice nearly made her drop to her knees. But then memories flash back and her hands flew from where they were tangled among the bottom of his shirt to his chest, pushing him away from her.
"Don't do that," she murmured. "You can't just come in here, try and seduce me, and take me back with you; that isn't how it works for me, and you know it."
A hurried flash of anger crosses him and it's gone before it was truly even there, but she knows him better than anyone to be assured of the fact that it was there. His feet stamp down a little harder that it shoulder, betraying the anger she knew he felt.
"I'm not coming back with you," she said, words flowing out of her mouth – but they weren't her own, coming from somewhere else as if someone else was watching this picture and placing words delicately into her mouth.
His mouth thins, once again, becoming the stoic agent he used to be – before he met her, that is; before she fell in love.
She turns halfway, waving a hand towards the door. "Get out." Her voice is low and faintly mixes with the sound of a faraway train. "I don't want you here."
"No."
She whirls around, jabbing a finger towards him. "You don't need me," she bites. "You never needed me; you just wanted someone to screw around with, to tease. I was never wanted on the plane, not by you, not by May, not by anyone." Her tone is loud now, echoing with the force of a thousand scorned. "I was thrust into the spotlight, into expectations I could not do. And whose fault was that? Yours."
His eyes flash, once again. "I never screwed around with you," his voice cracks. "You were the one thing that kept me anchored to this crazy, screwed up world; you were the only thing that kept me sane, and I feel in love with you."
It's the first time she's ever heard him use those exact words, and she swears her heart skips a beat. But the overwhelming urge to tell him to get the hell away from her overtakes her will to say the words back.
"Go away," she whispers, fighting back the tears that she knows are coming. "Get the hell away from me, and never come back."
He stands firm. "I have my orders," he articulates, his voice loud and clear, and before she knows it, there's a hand looping itself around her waist, pinning her arms to her side. She struggles, but he's stronger than her and he knows it.
There's a prick into her neck, a needle that came hidden in his jacket pocket. Her vision turns into a sudden shock of blurs and she faintly feels the sensation of being lifted up. When her head hits something hard she realizes that's he's carrying her bridal style.
"Screw you," she whispers, her head growing ever more in beat with the sound of the rain pattering on her roof.
There's a light chuckle before she hears one last thing before unconsciousness claims her: "Hate to break it to you, Skye, but I think you already have."
She dreams of their affair, of their stolen nights together, harbored kisses and sacred words that she had kept close to her heart – which she still kept with her.
She wonders if it would ever been like that again.
She fell in love with him on a rainy Thursday, when the Bus was empty of visitors and occupants, only the two of them, together, seated side-by-side on the couch, thighs touching. They were watching a movie, but neither was paying attention to the flickering screen. She remembers how he had gently pulled her closer, into his lap, pressing butterfly kisses to her collarbone. She remembers how rough his hands had looked intertwined with her own.
She remembers the first time she had said I love you. He hadn't said it back, only had captured her lips once again in his own, distracting her. In the back of her mind, she wondered whether or not that had been the start of the fall.
Honest, I cannot write happy stories about characters...