DISCLAIMER: I don't own the song that serves as inspiration/titles (Maroon 5) or the characters/world (Marvel).

LANCE

He recognized her laugh coming through the open door before he recognized her. Her hair was black this time and she wore gray colored contact lenses surrounded by thick, framed glasses.

Bobbi had never worn glasses, unless she was in a lab of some sort. This was, quite obviously, an undercover mission.

One that he was walking straight into.

Shit.

The door to the small, dingy pub had a bell attached to it, and Bobbi had glanced up when the bell rang and the door had shut behind him. Her face had lost Mockingbird mode for a fraction of a second before she returned her attention to what had to be the mark, running a hand down his arm almost seductively.

Lance had to force himself not to punch the guy in the face.

He also had to keep reminding himself that he left her. He knew the path they were heading down and just sped up their arrival to the end.

(He hated himself for it every day.)

After many rounds of both drinks and avoidance, Bobbi made her way over to the bar, standing right next to him, and ordered two shots of whisky, both of which she took for herself. Lance chuckled from his spot beside her.

"What?"

"You always drink whisky when you're stressed. At least you do if you don't have access to your staves."

"Why are you here, Hunter?"

"Hunter now, is it? Well then. I'll have you know that it's not like I knew you were going to be here! I thought you'd been re-assigned to America! This is also one of the most pathetic pubs in all of London, so I most certainly didn't expect to walk right into an undercover S.H.I.E.L.D. mission!"

"You need to leave. You're messing up my concentration."

"Aw, still in love with me, are you?"

"No, I can simply hear your ego from the other side of the room and it's deafening."

"Is there a problem?" the mark asked as he literally strutted up to the bar.

"Not at all," Bobbi said, adopting her standard British accent. He'd helped her refine back when they were first dating, and now he could swear up and down that she was actually British, though whether that was due to his tutelage, her living in England for so many years, or all of the above, he couldn't tell you.

"We should go," the mark insisted.

"Let me pay," Bobbi replied, "And I'll meet you outside."

The mark nodded gruffly and Bobbi did as she had promised, quite obviously making sure to hit Lance hard with her shoulder as she passed him.

The next day, he received a phone call from a number he didn't recognize. He answered it quickly, being in one of those moods where he was hoping to get to tell the telemarketer on the other end to fuck off, but that was when he heard Bobbi's voice on the other end, asking him if he wanted to get some coffee with her, since he had rejected the whole British people and tea stereotype ages ago. She was staying in her old flat in Southampton, if he was interested in meeting her there.

He didn't want to say it but he was. He wanted to see her so badly.

"Pick you up at one?"

"In combat boots?" Bobbi teased.

"Only if you wear yours," he replied.

"I'll see you at one, Hunter."

"Whatever you say, Morse."

She hung up the phone first and he sighed, running a hand through his hair. He should not be this excited to go see his ex.

He jumped up quickly. When was the last time he or his flatmate did laundry?

"Roger!"

"Yeah?"

"When was the last time either of us did laundry?"

"How should I know? And why?"

"I'm meeting up with Bobbi!"

Roger peeked his head around the doorframe in shock and asked, "Bobbi? As in your ex-wife Bobbi, whom you vowed to never speak to ever again?"

"The very same," Lance replied, sniffing one of his dress shirts that he'd most likely discarded after a military banquet. "Smell this," he added, shoving the shirt under his roommate's nose. "Think it'll be okay?"

"Sure?" Roger answered, batting Lance's hand away. "I'm very confused."

"Ex-wife, coffee, one o'clock. There, caught up."

"I have several questions."

"Okay."

"How did you two get back in contact? When did you two get back in contact? Why does it matter what your shirt smells like? Why are you looking forward to coffee, of all things, with your ex-wife? And, most importantly, why do we not have a laundry schedule like normal people?"

"She called me; ten minutes ago; smell is linked to cleanliness; no fucking idea though we both don't drink tea; normal people don't so we don't. That answer all your questions?"

"Yeah," Roger said slowly. Lance could feel his flatmate's gaze on him.

"Is there something else?"

"You left her, right?"

"Right. What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing. Have fun on your coffee date."

Lance was about to tell him it wasn't a date, but he couldn't say that with absolute certainty, so he decided to try and find clean underwear instead.

At exactly one o'clock, he knocked on the door of her flat. She opened the door with a smile and stepped out, locking it behind her. Her hair was still black, but she'd lost the glasses and the contacts. She wore white pants and a navy blue top that she looked so damn attractive in he'd considered taking her right then and there.

"As punctual as always," she laughed as they exited the S.H.I.E.L.D.-owned apartment building and headed out towards the docks and the main town. "I'm assuming you're still in London, based on last night?"

"I thought you would still be, too, if you were still in England. You got the flat in the divorce, after all."

"I was for a few months. I was off doing S.H.I.E.L.D. stuff so often when rent was due that almost all of it was late and I was almost evicted, so I just decided to relocate my stuff here. So yeah, haven't left England. I guess Izzy was trying to throw you off my scent." He gave her a sideways glance when she mentioned Izzy. He knew the two were still close, but he also knew that Bobbi still had trouble believing that Izzy had had no idea that she was helping Lance pack to leave her, not leave on deployment.

"How'd you know Izzy was my informant?"

"Because it sounds just like her to tell you I was re-assigned to Headquarters. So we're divorced. That doesn't mean I'm going to ask for a re-assignment."

"Re-assignment?"

"Every year in December we have what's called oh-so-cleverly The Re-Assign. It's when you can ask to be stationed at a new base, put on a new team, taken off of a team, get a new partner, start a team, whatever. You can also ask for re-assignments during the other months if you've worked there for at least one year and/or have a Level 2 or higher security clearance. Usually, though, S.H.I.E.L.D. does all that by itself during the rest of the year, and just because you ask doesn't mean you'll get it."

"Why didn't you ask for one as soon as the papers were filed?"

"Because I'm not weak, Hunter. I knew if I ran into you again, I could handle it." She opened the door to the coffee shop and held it open for him. "See? I'm being polite and everything."

"Very funny, Bob," he sighed, entering. She got them a table while he ordered, her complex coffee order still fresh in his mind like it had been just yesterday that he'd bought her some, not almost six months since he'd signed a letter and walked out their front door for the last time.

When he came back to the table with their lattes and scones, it was easy to believe that this was one of the many coffee dates they'd had during the very early days of their relationship, when he wasn't called in and she had somebody cover for her on base and they'd meet in this very same shop. But that was before the first 'I love yous,' and her move from a S.H.I.E.L.D. flat in Southampton to their shared one in London, and a white dress, and a wedding ring sitting on a table next to a letter and a ring of keys.

"Have you been seeing anyone?" she asked like they were old friends instead of exes.

"You mean, romantically?" She made a 'duh' face and he panicked. Was he supposed to lie to inflate his ego or tell the truth to inflate hers?

"My roommate's sent me on some blind dates. You?"

"Not many people in England wanna date an American that's gone 24/7 for a job they won't explain," she laughed.

"Well, to be fair, most people, no matter their nationality, wouldn't want to date someone who doesn't explain a job they're gone 24/7 for, and, plus, you did marry this specimen in front of you. No one compares to that." Bobbi laughed again and chucked a bit of blueberry scone at his face, which he simply scooped out of his lap and ate. "I missed this. The easy back and forth."

"I did, too."

They sat there for hours and he drinks way more coffee than he'd had in months. The banter was easy, back and forth, but soon it was almost seven o'clock and they were the only ones left in the café.

They walked back to the S.H.I.E.L.D. flats hand in hand, her hand just as calloused yet dainty as he'd remembered. She invited him in once they got back and he didn't make an excuse about needing to get back to his flat. He couldn't imagine wanting to be anywhere else.

The sex that followed was great, just like always. Even when at their most dysfunctional, sex was never something they had trouble with.

"I was lying about those blind dates. It's mostly just been one-night stands."

"I know. Skilled interrogator, remember?"

They lasted for two months before things went south. He knew about her PTSD, even if she wouldn't admit that she had it. She'd come back from a mission, haunted, and she wouldn't tell him what had happened, so he might've scheduled a meeting with Fury.

And when she found out, she was not pleased.

"You had a meeting with Director Fury?"

"Of course I did, Bob! I'm worried about you! Coping by yourself isn't healthy."

"I don't need you interfering with my work, Hunter."

"Oh, it's Hunter now, is it? You've been calling me 'Lance' for the past two months!"

Anger sex soon followed, but there was no gentle words of apology or make-up sex like there was once upon a time.

They were broken up by the end of the week.

During the divorce, she'd given him his ring back, saying she didn't want to look at it anymore. He'd kept it in his dresser since then, not fully knowing what to do with it.

But now he had a pretty good idea.

Which is how he wound up standing by the Thames the next morning, and he only slightly regretted tossing the ring in there.