Chapter 11: The End of the Process

Tris and I barely talk over the course of the flight. It is entirely awkward and long over the 13-hour ride between the layover and inability to sleep. The plane is uncomfortable and trivial with Tris. Neither of us says much until about 4 PM, and it's not me.

"It can't be like this," Tris finally says with a bit of anger.

"What do you mean?" I ask, a little vexed.

She rolls her eyes, leans her head back, and then turns it toward me. "What if one of us died? I don't want to die being mad at you, and I don't want you to die being mad at me. Of course, I don't want you or myself to die, period, but I certainly don't want it to be terrible words and a terrible situation. In this field, we never know what could happen. We breeze through this job as if it's no big deal, as if we know we'll come out just fine. But one day, one day soon, something is going to happen to one of us. We need to make the very most of every single day, Tobias. Life is too short to even care about anything at all. Anything but each other. You are the most important person in my life."

I blow it off. "Tris, the odds of it are slim. We don't really engage in contact. That's Chris and Uriah's jobs. We rarely have to draw our weapons."

She shakes her head. "That's ridiculous, Tobias. This plane could go down right here, right now. And what would we be doing? Arguing. Arguing is what we'd be doing."

I know she's right, but what good could come out of me admitting that? "Tris," I laugh, "you're such a pessimist."

"No," she snaps, "I'm a realist."

I chuckle. "Realist," I deadpan. "So you're, like, one of those people that doesn't see the glass half empty or half full. You think it's just two times too big."

She shrugs. "If you want to put it like that."

I snicker. "Well then consider me an optimist. This plane won't go down and neither of us will get shot. Everything will be fine, Tris."

She shakes her head. "You can't live like that."

Rolling my eyes, I tell her, "And you can't tell me how to live my life."

She groans in frustration. "God, you're such an asshole sometimes. I try to fix whatever happened between us last night and you completely shove it back in my face as if it's not even a possibility."

"So I'm an asshole now just because I disagree with you? And what does that even mean? It's obviously not a possibility."

She sarcastically laughs and ignores the latter part of what I'd asked. "No, Tobias, you're an asshole because you don't give a fuck. Do you really want me to die mad at you?"

I flinch. "I don't want you to die. I don't want you to be mad at me. But you're not going to—"

She interrupts, "Don't you dare say that I'm not going to die. I could at any given moment. You know it, too. You're just too stubborn of an ass to admit it, aren't you?"

I don't say anything, indicating she's correct.

"Silence says a lot more than you think," she whispers. "More than actions."

I stay silent yet again. Then I retort, "And actions speak louder than words."

"But so does silence."

"Surely silence can sometimes be the most eloquent reply," I shoot back.

She doesn't reply as a reply. She only stares out the window, unwilling to make eye contact.

"Well played," I tell her, smirking. "Very well played."

She shrugs.

Something is eating her up inside. Her expression is hardly readable, but her body language speaks more than silence… more than anything, really. Her muscles are taut and her hands are glistening due to clamminess. She tries to wipe them on her thighs, but she only repeats the cycle. She continuously taps her converse shoe against the crappy airplane carpet. This entire argument she's discreetly been avoiding eye contact, but showing little discomfort. The only giveaway up until now was the eye contact. Now she's showing every telltale sign of awkwardness and discomfort. She's fidgeting with her fingers, picking at the cracked nail polish that I hadn't even noticed up until now.

"Enough," I declare. "What's up with you?"

Tris quickly snaps her head in my direction, away from the window. "What? Nothing," she chuckles. She tries to relax, then leans back into her airplane seat that one simply cannot get comfortable in. She reverses everything she's doing—she calms her fingers, opens her palms, and quits tapping her foot. Now she looks too comfortable.

She groans in frustration at herself.

I almost chuckle at her. "Would you like to tell me what secret you're keeping from me, Beatrice Elizabeth?"

Beatrice Elizabeth tenses up again. "You—"

"Never call you that, I know," I finish for her.

She groans yet again. "Fuck you."

"Ha!" I laugh. "You're pretty sexy when you get angry."

She glares, smirking. "Hey, Sporto, I bet you wanna slip me the hot beef injection, don't ya?" Tris quotes.

I laugh again. "Yeah, right. You'd enjoy it. You'll do anything sexual and you don't need a million dollars to do it, either."

"Are we really going to play who-can-quote-more-quotes-from-The-Breakfast-Club game?" she asks. "Because if so, I'm ignoring you."

"Sweets," I begin, "you couldn't ignore me even if you tried."

She groans, "Eat my shorts."

"'Is there anything wrong with me tryin' to put together some kind of relationship between us?"

She casually laughs. "You messed up. That's from Sixteen Candles."

My eyes go wide. "No."

"Yes," she proudly cheers.

I put my face in my palm. "Don't look at me. I'm a disgrace."

Tris only shares a light giggle, then turns back to the window. She seems a bit more relaxed now, but still a bit tense as she leans away from me and toward the window.

"Tris," I say lightly, "whatever it is, you can tell me. Maybe not now, maybe not later, but whenever you're ready, I guess. I don't know. I just… I want you to be able to trust me. And like you said, we could die any second, and if so, I would never find out what you wanted to tell me."

Neither of us says anything after that. There was no need to.

"Let's review," Tris begins. "Local American who moved to Ponta Delgada runs a nightclub, sells drugs throughout the Azores, and Portuguese government thinks there something in the drugs?"

We stay in a small hotel in the center of Ponta Delgada on the island of São Miguel. There are a total of nine islands that make up the Azores. They are owned by Portugal, hundreds of miles away from the actual country, lying in the middle of the ocean. Ponta Delgada is easily the largest city in all of the Azores.

I shrug as a response, and then speak. "What could be in the drugs besides drugs?" I ask with a chuckle.

"But people are dying. And autopsies don't suggest overdose as cause of death."

I furrow my brows. "Doesn't this seem like something the FBI—someone who's, I don't know, not us—would handle this?"

Tris nods. "Usually. But the Azores requested special… a special team. Someone who they knew could get the job done. You know?"

I nod. "So do we just go to the nightclub and get close to Nicholas Anderson?"

She grimaces. "Yes. So, unfortunately, the Bureau probably packed me something objectifying to my body."

"As much as I hate when you have to do that, it does help with the case because my gender can tend to be shallow pigs who look at women like snacks."

She slowly nods. "But why isn't there ever a female drug lord?"

"Well," I begin, "contrary to popular belief, woman aren't as insane as men can be."

She chuckles. "I don't know. I feel like you and I are equally crazy. We would kick some serious ass if the other got hurt. At least, I hope you would."

"In a heartbeat," I say without hesitation.

She only smiles. "All right. Let's see what the FBI packed for me to go clubbing in." Tris unzips the suitcase, then pulls out something entirely different that what we expected.

What we see are a pair of dark skinny jeans, a jet-black long-sleeved shirt that is anything but revealing with it's high neck, bracelets, and black stilettos. A note lies on top of the bag that contained the clothing. She begins to read it aloud.

"Tris, hope this outfit isn't too revealing. I picked it out after overhearing Christina talking about how you hated most of the outfits that associates have been handpicking to what they see is best fit for the mission. I consulted Christina with this one. Hope it's fine. Max."

She chuckles, and then takes the clothes into the bathroom to change. I open my suitcase and see something I am not surprised with: A black, short-sleeved collared shirt, semi-dressy khaki pants, and no-lace black Vans.

Tris comes out looking all beautiful and all conserved. She wears the shirt like it's her job and the heels like she wears them for a living. Her hair remains down, wavy as ever, and an awkward smile planted on her face. "One hell of a clubbing outfit. I would go on a date in this outfit. Like, with my grandmother. If I had one," she jokes.

I smile. "You look beautiful either way."

She shakes her head. "These heels are going to kill me all night."

I shrug. "Wear your Vans you brought. They match. You look good in them."

She purses her lips. "I don't know. I feel like if I have to persuade Anderson to come with me then I have to play every move I've got, and these heels are a play."

"It's totally up to you."

She nods. "Well, you better get changed. We should head out in about ten."

I take my clothes to the bathroom and do so.

When I come out, I stand next to her in the mirror, and we look like the typical American duo. "So Max told you that you are just supposed to be my friend, right?"

I look at her wearing obvious confusion on my face. "Why does he never tell me anything anymore?"

She chuckles. "He said it's going to be easier for me to… let's say… persuade him."

As I roll my eyes, I tell her, "Max wants to make sure we've got a clean shot to Anderson, and he doesn't want me threatening that because I tend to be a little… scary, at times. You know, scary-looking-boyfriend skills."

Tris confirms with a laugh and a nod. "I just don't get why it has to be now, this particular mission. Like, in Colombia, he didn't have a problem with me dressing pretty revealingly and with you as my husband."

I scoff. "You looked amazing that night, and it wasn't even that revealing. All that matters is that you feel comfortable in whatever you're wearing."

She shrugs, and then she puts her hair up in a loose bun. "I was comfortable in that dress, and I'm comfortable in this, but will this really get the job done? God, don't get me wrong, I hate having to show skin to get things done, but sometimes I have to in order to complete the mission, you know? Some guys are just too shallow—"

I stop her. "Tris. You don't have to explain yourself. It'll be fine. If he doesn't notice you then he's a crazy person, first of all, and second, I've got some ideas. Don't fret. Now let's go."

She groans as I grab her hand and drag her out of the hotel room. She giggles, then continues hold my hand. Or apparently, I keep holding on, according to her next declaration.

"We're not together."

I lean in then smirk. "For this mission or just… you know, in general," I tease with a wink.

She shakes her head, and still doesn't release my hand.

There is no process of losing it anymore. The process of losing it has been completed. The completion of losing it has changed me as a man. As a human being. I have lost it. It didn't happen in this exact moment, holding her hand, swinging them back and forth again. It happened over the course time, over these years I've spent with her. It was only a matter of time. I finally lost it, and that is undeniable.

I have completely, entirely, and utterly fallen in love with Beatrice Elizabeth Prior.