Author's Note: So, new story and all, I think it needs some reviews to keep it from dying fast. Because reviews make it happy. Anyways, enjoy! -Nana
I dropped the phone on my table with a sigh, and slumped in my chair.
Officially fired as of 17:00 today from the position of Agent Cameron Morgan CIA.
Wonderful.
My fingers caressed the surface of the wood desk I've accompanied through my CIA life, and realize how long it's been since that summer of black, the summer that dyed my entire life into an overcast of black and white.
Drifting off into dreams, I let my head drop to my table for the last time as I officially exit my job with snores.
"It's your fault," she snarled, pushing my chest away, her palms exercising the most force possible as I do nothing to stop her. She screams at me, pushes me, doing whatever possible to keep the truth from entering her brain. But it's too late. I can see her mind registering that one sentence, the same time as I do, as she keels over and cries in sobbing increments. I can do nothing but stare, the shock still numbing me until I can barely even feel alive.
People with faces that I can't remember surround us, pulling her up and dragging her off, no doubt somewhere far away from me. A few of them give me a pitying glance that I can't help but hate.
It's my fault.
"What is the meaning of this, Agent Morgan?" he asks, tapping on a document that was the report of my behavior during my stay in Honolulu, Hawaii.
Inwardly I winced. The stay had not gone well. With what paparazzi and potential assassination plots, it was bad enough as it was.
I gave him my most stoic look. "It was in my best judgment, sir," I replied.
"Best judgment?" he exploded. "Look at this report, Agent. What of this screams 'best judgment'?"
He went on and on about everything single detail. About the sliding stairs incident (that was to protect the Subject; I wouldn't have gotten to the Subject in time without sliding down the stairwell. And what civilians may have been in my way, well, they were only bruised), about the dining room incident (rode inside a cart of food to the room after foreseeing possible threats and scared some important guests; not my problem), etc, etc, etc.
Once he finished, I added in my best and final defense. "It was to protect the Subject."
His face softened a bit. He knew about everything; he understands why I go so far for some unknown person. But this time his face closes up, and I know I've used up my lives.
"It's too much," he says at last, throwing the document onto his desk and leaning back, covering his eyes with his hand. "You go too far. This isn't best judgment, Morgan. It's about your past."
I stand there, gaped at him as I begin to shoot off statistics, anything, to prove it wrong. But I stop. I know he's right. I am keeping my past with me, and never letting it go. So I downcast my eyes and swallow hard, preparing for the consequences.
When he finally speaks, his tone is softer and quieter. He regrets this. "I'm letting you go, understand? Live a little. I don't require of my agents to live as agents 24/7. From what I hear, you have 17 men panting after you while you're off protecting an elderly politician with your life."
I bite the inside of my cheek and after a pause; quickly get out of the room before it can suffocate me.
I finger the envelope in my hands while examining my prospects. It's money, from the Director. He feels that since this is so sudden, money would be helpful. Some shit. My job back would be helpful. It would at least keep the grief from killing me.
"I'll take that one," I nod at my choice. She hurries to grab it and shows me what I've got.
"It's a one bedroom, one master bedroom apartment. Living room, kitchen, everything." She yatters on about all the benefits while I examine them myself.
It's not too bad of a place, actually. A friendly neighborhood, a decent lobby and some facilities.
She scampers out before I can change my mind.
Never have I actually owned a place to live. Most of the times, I'm stuck in foreign hotels and safe houses, brain overworking with plans and threats. Now and then, when I have paperwork, I'm at the office all week.
I take a minute to reexamine everything. I marvel at the emptiness. It has the idea of potential. It can become anything: a drug addict's hang out, a children's nursery. Under my hand, all it becomes is a room. There's no identity to it. A bed, a desk, a closet. The necessities. My hand floats across the plain white walls, wishing for this. Something clean and fresh, something that can start again with nothing in its past but the potential to become.
Once I unpack my bags, I sleep. It's the middle of the day, and yet I'm sleepy. I feel the urge to just stay sleeping forever so that nothing like reality can slap me hard in the face and hurt me and make me cry. Except it already has. So much that my dreams like to copy my reality and slap me hard in the face and hurt me and make me cry too.
A knock at the door wakes me from my dreams. I'm glad for it, even though socializing isn't my number one thing.
I open the door, groggy and not caring who sees me. I blink.
"Cam!" she squeals, then hugs me. Behind her blonde hair, I see two other figures. I close my door, and crouch down and whisper, "This is a dream. A dream."
Then the knocks come again, louder this time. An exasperated voice echoes, "Is not. Let us in or we'll break down the door. And even if Liz can't do it, Macey and I can."
I unlock the door and open it a bit, before sprinting for my bed and snuggling in, trying to ignore the voices behind me.
My efforts are in vain.
10 minutes later, I'm sitting up miserably with a cup of tea in my hand.
"Cam."
It takes a minute for me to realize they're speaking to me. But it's not that that scares them.
"Oh, Cam," Liz says, gently embracing me, as if I will break into pieces. The irony.
I lick my lips, feeling how cracked they are as I reply, "Yes?" My answer is stony cold and unfeeling. I want it this way. I don't want to feel anything. Once I do, I'll lose it and I'll die again. And again, and again. It's an endless cycle of dying.
I end up getting something that smells like cucumbers slicked onto my face.
"Helps to minimize pores," Macey describes, "not that you have any." I begin to roll my eyes, before realizing I'm not supposed to react to anything. So I stay obedient and let them slather on goo onto my face.
They stay for a few more hours, before unwillingly going home. Bex stayed the longest, but even she left by midnight.
"We'll come again," she promised.
I felt myself feel almost happy to hear those words. Until I realize that promises can be broken.
I go back to bed.
"Are you hiring?"
She looks up at my face, this time actually looking. Then her eyes move down, and I inwardly wince at the sudden look over. She has these intense eyes that burn through everything but you, and I feel like I'm naked. That there is no cover to hide me from these woman's eyes.
"There are some requirements," she speaks slowly, her hands already speeding away with a pile of documents organized.
"Number one," she continues, "you follow my rules." As she says this, she's already hooking her arm with me and dragging me towards a rack of clothes. The bright colors hurt my eyes that are used to the black and white monochrome themed uniform at the CIA.
"Number two," she grabs hangers from the rack and I mentally imagine what boot camp I would go through. "Dress good. And by good, I don't mean conservative. I mean style."
If Macey was here with me, she would've been totally nodding her head along and pushing me into the dressing room.
And the woman did just that. She ushered me into the dressing room with a hill of clothes. "Try them on, honey," her words echo through the door, now closed. "I'm your new boss, Amanda."
I come out of the dressing room awkwardly, not used to what I'm wearing. I blindly remember Bex pointing out the shoes I'm wearing as all the panic in Milan. I walk like it's a mined floor, carefully stepping out.
The voices I hear stop, and I look up. Amanda's with a customer, who's staring at me and I blush. Then she slowly points her finger at me, and states, "Give me that."
I widen my eyes as her words go through my mind, and relax as she means the clothes. Not me.
Amanda's busy smiling as she goes to get a size for the customer and manages to win an extra purchase along with a new worker. Huzzah.
I stand there, not entirely sure of myself as the customer exits and Amanda turns to face me, finally. "Can I change?" I ask, feeling how different and unfeeling the fabrics were to me.
"Look at yourself in the mirror," is all she says, and I do. My feet move methodically to the right.
I see someone. I don't know that someone. She looks so tired of everything she doesn't even try to look at herself in the eye. She's so tired she can't spare a glance of happiness and pride at how the clothes accept her. At how they try to hug her, and shower her with shows of affection, 'You're beautiful,' 'We will let you wear us because we can make you look pretty,'
"Twirl," Amanda orders. An order. I am obedient. I lift up the edges of my dress and twirl, slowly getting faster and faster. I see myself. Somewhere, in that twirling,
I see myself before that summer in black coated me in shadow.
I go to the dressing room and change.