NOTES: Since the show is on hiatus for the next couple of weeks, I'm doing a chapter that takes place before the latest episode of "Yes Men" and one that will take place after. This is the before.
Thanks to the_wordbutler for the beta.
Song referenced in the story is "Rain" by Patty Griffin.
Anna loses herself in the progression of the chords, finding a counter melody to the song blaring from the sound system. She tries to focus on that and not the lyrics, because those hit too close to home at the moment—which is probably why her fingers not-so-randomly selected the song from her iPod.
She doesn't hear him come in and she immediately regrets giving him a key. When the song finishes, he's sitting a few feet away in the armchair.
"Patty Griffin?" Phil asks. "You must be really pissed with me."
"I'm not the only one," she fires back and she stands to turn off the music and replace her cello and bow on their display stand in the corner. "Jemma was getting annoyed with your lack of information. Ward and May couldn't even tell me where you were when they came to pick up the girls. Not because of something being classified, but because they honestly didn't know."
Phil purses his lips before answering. "I'm taking personal time. It's not their business."
"Apparently nothing is anyone's business, especially mine," she mutters.
His eyes flicker to the bag he brought with him. "If you don't want me to stay here, I can go get a hotel—"
"Good," she interrupts before stalking to the kitchen. Loudly, she bangs around, pulling out a saucepan and ingredients to make dinner. She's had nothing but soup for the last few days since that's all Skye could eat, and she's desperate to sink her teeth into something substantial.
She's also desperate for her boyfriend to stop being a secretive jackass, but lacks a recipe for that particular dish.
"I guess I'll go," he says from the living room.
"Okay," she answers as she drizzles olive oil in the saucepan. She reaches for a knife, cutting board, and a clove of garlic. Before she can start mincing, she hears footsteps approach, and she whirls to face him, taking a small amount of pleasure in the way his eyes bug at the sight of a blade pointing at him. "No," she says before he can open his mouth. "I'm not falling for whatever sob story and pathetic, broken facial expression you're going to make. Not again."
"Falling for it? You think everything I've told you is a lie?" he asks, his voice growing louder and giving into frustration.
She puts down the knife and turns off the burner. "I think you've told me only what you want, even though you swore there wouldn't be secrets between us anymore. And since then, all you've done is ducked out of my sight, refused to answer questions, only talked on your terms, and dropped your team members off at my door like I'm running a hotel."
"You can't know this, Anna. Not this part," he tells her quietly.
She shakes her head. "Then I can't know you. Because whatever this thing is, it's consuming you. And if you won't let me near it, then you won't let me near you." She pauses to consider if the next words should actually be spoken; her gut tells her to go for it. "And if you won't let me in, then what is the point of this?"
"It's not that I can't tell you ever, it's just that I need to find some more answers—"
"Phil, you're never going to find all the answers. Never. You know this. And, besides, I thought you found whatever miracle drug it was that saved you. That's what Jemma said. What could be so awful as to cause you to have more questions about it?" A darkness creases his face for a moment, but she doesn't give in to the compulsion to soothe him.
He sighs before repeating slowly, "I can't tell you—"
"Then you can leave," she says before turning back towards the stove. As she minces her garlic, she watches him out of the corner of her eye as he stands there slightly gobsmacked. She knows exactly what to say to make him actually leave, but doing so might make this the last time she ever sees him. Anna thinks about the way he's left her sleepless with worry, how she's had to fight to keep her hands from shaking at rehearsal the last two days, and how infuriating it is to be stuck in a relationship where you can't talk all over again.
"I was wrong," she tells him quietly. "You aren't the same man you were. And I hate it. I want my Phil back, not this shell he's been replaced with. At least then you'd have the decency to apologize for being a secretive asshole."
"Anna, if you knew what I knew and had gone through what I did, there's no way you'd be the same either."
She shrugged. "Guess I'll never know since you won't say a damn word about it."
"Anna—"
"I said you can leave," she snaps. He stands there for a minute more before she hears him grab his bag and walk out the door. He locks it before walking away, and she absentmindedly wonders if he'll give back the key.
She goes back out into the living room to turn music back on while the garlic simmers, and if she happens to look out the window to watch him get into his beloved car and drive off, she'll just lie and say she was looking to see if it was raining. Because it feels like it should be raining.
Once she's done with dinner, Felix walks around the apartment crying. She puts up with it for ten minutes before snapping at him. "They're gone," she tells him. "The girls left, and they're not coming back." It doesn't stop him whatsoever, so she turns up the volume of her TV, but that only pisses him off more. His cries amp up in volume, and she rolls her eyes. "Get over here." He takes his sweet time walking over the couch and jumping up to curl up against her side. "They left," she repeats. "People like that are always going to leave."