November 1998
Elle Hammond, though she rarely went by that name these days, glanced down at the cinnamon-sprinkled foam atop the cappuccino in her hands and took a small sip before setting the mug back atop its yellow-patterned saucer. She allowed her eyes to travel to the door of the coffee shop once more, roaming over and resting briefly upon each other the other occupants of the small room with a vague interest. A few feet away from where she sat was a couple in their late teens, dressed in denim and very obviously on an endearingly awkward first date, each smiling and giggling at every word that left the other's mouth. A couple tables over, by the window that faced out towards a small expanse of green park, was an elderly woman with thin red lips reading a paperback romance novel, a cup of tea rapidly cooling in front of her. And just by the door, was a young blond man scrawling away in a worn notepad, a guitar case leaning up against the back of his chair. Face impassive, El leaned back and readjusting the sleeves of her crisp white blouse, straightening them at the wrists and pressing the sleeve on her left arm back ever so slightly to check the time.
3:18.
Mike was late.
A small frown etched itself onto Elle's lips. She had grown accustomed to Mike being reliably punctual and the smallest hint of anxiety began to form a knot in the pit of her stomach, her dark-painted nails drumming a terse pattern on the wooden surface of the table as a result. Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, Elle took a moment to gather her thoughts, focusing on the cappuccino set down in front of her, searching for patterns in the cinnamon. Once she felt grounded again, Elle reached into the black bag resting on her lap and pulled out her phone, glancing briefly at its screen.
No missed calls.
Elle ran her tongue across the surface of her teeth, pursing her lips tightly together and, just as she slid the phone back into its usual spot in her bag, the bells over the door jingled, announcing a new arrival. She looked to her left as a cool gust of wind intruded upon the warmth of the coffee shop from the dreary November afternoon outside, bringing with it a tall, lanky man, near her age. His black hair, messy by nature, was windswept and, as he bustled towards her table, he hurriedly swept it away from his dark eyes; eyes that focused in on her with an apologetic look behind black-rimmed glasses that sat askew on his nose. Elle fixed him with a cool stare, eyebrows raised as she watched him shrug off his trim coat, straighten his glasses, and slide into the chair opposite her, slinging his messenger bag over the back of his chair.
"Sorry," he muttered, clearly out of breath, his elbows coming to rest on the table. Elle's expression softened into a grin at the imagined picture of Mike rushing down the street, limbs flailing, that ran through her mind. "The dog wouldn't come inside," Mike continued by way of explanation, pushing his glasses upwards and rubbing the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply. Elle clicked her tongue, her smirk becoming more pronounced as she leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest.
"Winslow is trouble," she remarked, fondly remembering the many times she'd had to go to the dry cleaner to remove the drool and muddy paw prints from her skirts and dresses—and not-so-fondly remembering the time Winslow had brought her a dead rabbit during their long walk through Central Park the first (and last) time she had agreed to pet-sit.
"Yeah, well…" Mike's voice trailed off into a chuckle. He couldn't argue with her—his dog, a big and dopey Mastiff and Bloodhound mix, was a disaster in every sense of the word. "I hope you weren't waiting too long," Mike mumbled, changing the subject. Elle smiled crookedly at him and took a deliberately slow sip of her cappuccino. Her answer, or lack thereof, caused Mike to flush a deep red. "I'm going to grab something," he announced, making a move to stand but Elle shook her head sharply and motioned for him to remain seated.
"I told you," she said firmly, "I owed you a coffee after that business in Chicago." Mike's cheeks turned an even deeper shade of crimson, one beyond what seemed humanly possible. He shook his head, but stayed in his chair, knowing full-well that Elle would not capitulate. She bought him a coffee after every successful mission—it had become their tradition.
"It's my job." Mike grinned, his fingers coming up to twist through his unruly hair. "Besides, you could have gotten out of that mess yourself."
"Maybe," Elle laughed softly, "But you're good at your job. And we make a good team." Her voice was nonchalant as she pushed herself away from the table. "What can I get for you?" They both knew she didn't have to ask—Mike always got the same thing, but Elle figured it was the polite thing to do and Mike didn't mind being predictable.
"Just a dark roast," Mike answered sheepishly. Elle nodded and made her way to the counter to order. As she waited behind a tired looking young woman ordering a double—no triple—espresso, Elle's eyes darted back to Mike every few moments. His shoulders were slightly hunched as he stared fixedly down at his phone, fingers working furiously across the button pad. Elle shook her head as the lady with the triple espresso paid and left, wondering, with amusement, who he was hacking now and to what end. She stepped up to the counter and ordered Mike's coffee, along with a blueberry muffin—his favourite—and a shortbread cookie that had caught her eye earlier.
Moments later, order in hand, she returned to their table. A comfortable silence fell between them, as it usually did during these post-mission moments. As partners, Mike and Elle were in constant communication. As friends, they were free to enjoy one another's company however they pleased.
"Remember when we met?" Elle asked finally, munching thoughtfully on the shortbread cookie she had gotten for herself.
"The first or the second time?" Mike raised an eyebrow at her. His tone was playful, though Elle could hear the hint of hurt behind his words. It had been just over a year ago since Mike Wheeler had walked unexpectedly back onto her life. She swallowed the lump of cookie in her throat and took to stirring her cappuccino thoughtfully, watching as the last of the foam was absorbed into the caramel coloured liquid.
June 1997
The Metropolitan Museum of Art was one of Elle's favourite places in the city. Outside of when it was necessary for work, she wasn't entirely comfortable in large crowds of people and avoided public attractions whenever she could, but this place had always been the exception. She found it soothing to sit amongst students sketching away, mimicking the masters, and found herself especially drawn to the soft hues of Monet, relaxing and beautiful, or the long lines of El Greco, violent in a meaningful way.
Today she sat in front of El Greco's View of Toledo, not paying attention to the painting—she had already committed each of its details to memory—but focused instead on the book pressed open across her lap, a half-eaten Kit-Kat in its partly crumpled red wrapper resting on its pages as she read.
"Lovely shades of blue."
A man's voice, gentle and slightly tentative, accompanied a creaking of the bench she sat on, indicating someone had sat down beside her, someone who had just spoken the code she had been given earlier that morning.
So, this was to be her new partner. Elle almost dreaded turning around.
"I prefer the greys," she said quietly, closing the book and looking up at the stranger. Elle was certain that for a moment her heart stopped, refusing to beat as her own eyes met the darkest orbs she'd ever seen; eyes she had never forgotten. His face was the same too—a smattering of soft freckles, intense cheekbones, messy dark hair. He wore glasses now, but it was a familiar face nonetheless and it was frozen in shock. She knew, from his parted lips and the earnest expression in his eyes, that he remembered.
"El, it's you."
That's when her heart started beating again—she felt it jolt back to life inside her chest, tight and breathless as it was. He remembered, not only her face, but the name he had given her, the one she had taken to using all these years. She found it hard to think of something to say. Mike was looking at her as though she were a ghost, though she supposed that was exactly what she was to him.
"You escaped." His voice, dropped to a whisper, continued after a beat of silence.
"Yes." Elle bit her lip and said nothing more, memories of that day pushed far into the back of her mind and hidden under lock and key. She remembered only Mike's encouraging words and the press of his lips against her cheek. There was a silence, tense and awkward, filled with fourteen years of questions and doubts. Elle noticed, but didn't mention, the shaking of Mike's hands in his lap.
When Lucas had revealed his new partner would be Agent Eleven, Mike had, of course, entertained the fantasy that she would be the mysterious girl from his past. But he had never thought it possible, never more than just a hopeless fantasy from a small part of him that still longed for closure. All the field agents had codenames. It was just a coincidence.
Yet, he had noticed the Kit-Kat on her lap as he approached and it had dried his throat. When she spoke, the sound of her voice was unmistakable and he felt as though he were living an out-of-body experience.
"This is crazy," Mike said finally, voice quaking. "Can I…can I hug you?"
Elle hesitated a moment. She had always been reserved. But Mike had saved her life—years ago, yes, but that didn't change the fact that he had been her first friend. Swallowing her reservations, she folded her book closed and nodded. Mike noticed her discomfort and remained still.
"Never mind," he said softly, "Is everything, uh, how's it going?" Elle grimaced inwardly. He was just as kind and thoughtful as she remembered and it wouldn't be easy to tell him what she was thinking, but she supposed it would be best to get it over with quickly.
"Mike," Elle tried to smile, to soften her voice, "We can't work together."
"What?" Mike looked at her in shock. She noted, with relief, that his voice was incredulous and not angry. "Why not?"
"History," she replied simply.
"What do you mean?" Mike looked concerned. "Do they not know about…about what you can do?"
"No," Elle shook her head, "And I'd like it to stay that way." She wasn't particularly interested in having her powers known—that information in the wrong hands could be dangerous. It had landed her in a cold and sterile laboratory for the first twelve years of her life and she had no interest in disclosing or repeating that story.
"El," Mike was impassioned, earnest, "I promise, your secret is safe with me."
"Mike…"
"Listen, please," Mike interrupted her, "Do you know how I got this job? Lucas. Lucas was my best friend growing up and he hired me because I'm really good at computers—like, really good, but that's beside the point—I've known Lucas longer than anyone else and we were friends that summer that…the summer when I met you. I never told him anything, I swear you have to…"
"Mike. Be quiet." It was Elle's turn to interrupt. Over his shoulder, she had noticed someone familiar enter the room. Mike frowned and looked at her quizzically, concerned by the intensely focused expression on her face.
"Were you followed here?" she asked, leaning closer to him. Mike shook his head.
"No," he said, "Definitely not."
"Follow my lead," she whispered, grabbing his hand, "And don't turn around."
November 1998
Elle felt her phone buzz from its spot in her bag at the exact same moment she heard Mike's beep in his pocket. Their eyes met over the table and they couldn't help the laugh that they shared.
"Duty calls," Mike groaned as he pulled his phone out and glanced at the screen.
"I suppose it's convenient for Lucas that we're together," Elle shrugged, standing again and draining the last of her cappuccino before sliding into her long trench coat. Focused on its buttons, she didn't notice Mike's cheeks turn pale pink as he quickly downed the remainder of his coffee.
"I guess so," he mumbled, following her example and making quick work of his coat. "Shall we?" He gestured for her to lead the way and El navigated around the cramped tables of the coffee shop before stepping out into the cold afternoon air, her eyes immediately falling on the black SUV that was to be their ride. Mike walked along behind her, slipping ahead at the last possible moment to open the door of the car. Elle playfully rolled her eyes and Mike grinned at her
"After you, Agent Eleven." He made a mock-gallant gesture, half bowing and half waving her towards the door. Elle swatted at his arm and she climbed into the SUV, shifting to the far side to make room for Mike.
"What do you think it is this time?" he asked as he closed the door and settled in beside her, "Top secret documents? Preventing an assassination? Aliens?"
"Definitely aliens," Elle said quietly, smile on her face.
It wasn't aliens, though both would have likely preferred that to what actually awaited them at headquarters.
