No own Covert Affairs. Sadly.
Title's from Lost Stars - Adam Levine.
are we all lost stars?
The road was deserted, the echo of her heels on the sidewalk too loud for the silence around her. A van, probably of some delivering company, turned in the corner and drove past, leaving a trail of wet tires on the asphalt.
Another turn and she could spy their apartment building, and the one window that belong to their kitchen, the one near their small breakfast table. It was dark, like all windows usually are at this hour, but she pretended she could make out the greens of mini plants in their equally mini pots. Absentmindedly, she hoped the three little plants; a cacti, mint, and fichus, would actually lived out.
Her watch informed her it was five minutes past four as she walked up to the building entrance; she'd been out wandering around, getting some stuff for breakfast from the 24-hour store four blocks away. She took the stairs instead of the elevator, needing to prolong her arrival time, wanting to give him a few more minutes of much needed sleep. As soon as she stepped inside their apartment, she knew he'd be up and he hadn't slept much the past week.
A lone suitcase sat untouched beside their door. She'd left it there about an hour ago, perhaps having too much trust in their neighbors, but she was doubtful anyone would be wandering the halls at two-forty in the morning. He would probably just roll his eyes, or move his eyeballs around in their socket in an attempt to roll them. She reckoned it might have a thing or two to do with the fact it'd been years since moving them made any difference to him. Though she never thought it out consciously.
It was all quiet, save the constant noises that made up the neighborhood's night activities. She fished out her keys and slipped out of her heels before entering the dark apartment, lifting her suitcase as to not make too much sound and dropped it on top of a mat beside the door, one she had placed there for this exact purpose. Her purse went on top of it, followed by her heels, and she locked back the door.
She stood there for a moment, pausing to listen if she'd aroused him but the hall leading to their room was silent. Going to the kitchen, she left the lights off, got herself a glass of milk and sat by the breakfast table, ripping open a package of cookie she'd gotten. Some of the fichus leaves had turned to a dark orange shade, she noticed as she dipped a cookie to her cold milk, but the soil was slightly damp so he did remember to water them, at least once.
Her thoughts drifted back to her latest mission, analyzing it in a structured formal approach for the report she'd turn in later today. Reports, she mused. She'd written dozens of them, all in the same structure, varying in the details, yes, but in the end, they were all the same: cold, detached words describing a sequence of events leading to a certain conclusion, either success or failure to complete the mission.
Compartmentalizing was one of the things that had make her a good operative. She was good at threading that fine thin line between reality and mission objectives in a way that not many operatives were able to. For a time. Then, she slipped, and without knowing it, she had veered off way past that line, away from reality into a life of missions after missions. And more missions.
Which had brought her to this point in life, asking questions at how she arrived here today, at twenty past four, a glass of cold milk in hand, staring out the distance, and receiving no satisfying answers.
A dark shadow suddenly appeared in the doorway, causing her to jump slightly in surprise.
"Hey," he greeted with a soft smile, eyes partially open, hair ruffled, clothes rumpled. He looked like the epitome of sleep.
"Did I wake you?" She asked in a quiet tone.
"I don't know. How long have you been home?"
Home. A bit barren and austere, it'd only been a week, but still home. With him.
"Twenty minutes ago-something?"
He walked further, one hand trailing the furniture lightly. His other hand reached out for something, she took it in hers and he allowed her to tug him toward the empty chair beside her.
They sat in a companionable silence for a long while. She kept his hand in her grasp, studying the blunt nails, soft dark hairs growing on his knuckles, tiny puckered spots of old scars barely noticeable against the tone of his skin. She could faintly smell the Vaseline he applied to help with the callouses from gripping his cane and reading braille and doing his seeing in general.
And she admired how much bigger it was compared to hers, despite the many times she'd lost her own enveloped by them. His pinky was bigger than her forefinger, or thumb and it brought a soft fond smile to her lips and chase away some of her weariness.
The muted gleam of their wedding band complimented the beauty of his strong, warm hand.
"Why are you so fixated with my hand? Is there something on it?" He asked, sounding more amused than anything else.
She glanced up at him for a moment, to return the smile she knew he was giving her. "Your hand is huge."
"It's not the only part of me that's huge." He said it in such a somber, serious tone, she slapped his arm playfully, and he grinned in return.
"You and your monstrous ego." She shook her head slightly.
Another moment of quiet followed, then he broke it again. "Care to share which great mystery of the universe you've been pondering tonight, Mrs. Anderson?"
She guessed he'd been wanting to ask her that question for a while now. She'd see it on his face, the crinkle of his forehead and inclined brows, tongue peeking out to wet his lips, whenever he found her sitting quietly alone, lost in her own thoughts. He might have been a bit worried, but he hadn't said anything and let her be. Until now.
She opened her lips to assuage his concern, but thought better of it. They'd been rather good at being more open these few years, on their health, missions, opinions, and thoughts. Admittedly, she still felt the urge to lock her lips and simply said 'Nothing. It's okay. I'm fine.' But she held them down, recalling that one night his whole body trembled, heart beating erratically in panic and he let her in on one of his weakest moments.
Letting out a deep breath, she felt he squeezed her hand and she squeezed back. "I've been thinking," she paused, waiting for him to make a smart quip but he only waited for her to continue. "Auggie, I don't think I know what I'm doing anymore."
The sentence escaped her mouth in one breath, not giving herself a chance to rethink and reword it. The out loud admittance scared her more than anything. This was real. Unlike the many times she'd been thinking it alone and able to shove it back to her mental back drawer, she could not take it back. She'd said it and he'd heard it.
On a sub conscious level, he understood what she was saying; what it was she no longer knew. But people had a way of assuming things to make it seems like a public knowledge and hard fact. She was the not-so-young rookie who spoke, at least, five different languages fluently. She was the new operative taken under the Ice Queen's wings. She escaped one of the Russian's darkest prison. She betrayed her country and died. And came back under much whispers and more speculations.
And the public knowledge at Langley in general on Operative Walker (or Anderson if anyone… details) was that she still had many great years to come serving the Agency, coming back from dozens more successful missions, climbing the ladders, regarded as one of the more skilled seasoned operative. She was one of their own current living legends.
"The missions, I'm still getting the same adrenaline rush as I did all those years ago. And a win is still a win." She allowed for a quick smile which he never fail to return. "I just… I don't know… Auggie."
"Well, you can write a letter, request a transfer. Or a promotion."
The corner of her lips pulled up despite herself. But, there was one thing she knew and, "It's not about that."
He sighed that I know that but I still want to make you feel a bit better sigh. That sigh. "I know."
"I feel like I'm just going through the motion sometime. Debrief, mission, report. And it goes on."
She'd barely had time to unpack; more than half of her stuff were still in boxes lining the wall in the living area. It took them half a year to find this two-bedrooms apartment. She hardly remember the last time they spent at least a full day, 24 hours together. Was it his birthday weekend or was it that 4th July weekend?
His hand trailed up her arm to her neck. His thumb caressed the soft skin of her cheek. "What do you want now, Annie?" He asked in compassion.
She let out a shaky breath. "I don't know, Auggie."
I do not know what brought this on (and what's the deal here), all I know is that I really miss Covert Affairs these days and I remember having this story basically sitting in my laptop, so I might as well share it with anyone who's still around. And, please just assume they're somehow married, thank you, I do not have the talent to hash out the how and why and what's next of this.
Hope you enjoy it and, have a great day!