Prompt: Yearning. 558 words, Darcy/Phil, PG-13.
...There's nothing different about the apartment at all. It's still messy, yet not particularly lived in looking. The coffee stain on the hall rug hasn't been removed, and there's still a spare set of car keys dangling from the coat rack that's screwed to the wall.
Darcy doesn't even really know why she's there. On some level she understands the chaotic thoughts that led her to the third floor walk up in Queens, but as she sits down on the couch and hangs her head in her hands, she can't feel anything but emptiness.
She's a twenty-five year old with no direction. Three weeks ago, he would have told her to get her head out of her ass and stop feeling sorry for herself. He would have told her to be thankful that a god had fallen from the sky, and tied her eternally to public servitude.
But now Phil's gone, and she didn't find out until yesterday. He's gone, and even though they never saw each other at work after that first day, where he met her in the foyer and promptly passed her off to Agent Morse, she still expected at least a phone call. There had been some pretty serious paperwork involved, after all. You can't even meet a fellow employee for lunch on a Sunday without filling out a damn form.
So she sits on the old leather sofa, body curled in a ball against one of the arms, and breathes in the smell of the apartment. She has no idea if all in her mind, but she imagines she can smell his soap, and the cheap supermarket shampoo he uses on what's left of his hair. She imagines she can hear him breathing softly in the next room, passed out after another long day. She imagines she's not just a twenty-five year old grunt who wasdating a forty-seven year old super agent.
She cried for hours the night before. She can feel the tears pricking at her eyes again, and blinks them away and rubs at the dampness. There's an ache in her chest, and she sucks in a shuddering breath.
"Fuck it, Lewis. Get it together."
There's a creak from the direction of the bedroom, and she rolls off the couch quickly, drawing her gun from the holster tucked beneath the waistband of her pants. Her taser is still safely in her purse, which is at the far end of the rather large three seater. She shuffles to the right a little, but another creak stops her progress. There's the sound of bare feet padding across floorboards, and she wrinkles her brown in confusion.
She'd be lying if she didn't immediately assume that Phil wasn't as monogamous as she had initially thought.
The footsteps have moved towards the kitchen now, and she peers around the side of the couch, standing as quietly as she can manage, and aiming her gun at the open freezer door. There's a sweat pants clad posterior poking out from behind the stainless steel, and she hopes her voice isn't as shaky as she feels when she eventually speaks up.
"Turn around, hands where I can see them."
The body freezes, and there's the sound of something being placed back on a shelf, before the person turns around, and the door swings shut.
"Phil?"
End.