NOTES: I've reached a number of followers divisible by 50 on my tumblr (username: saranoh), and that can only mean one thing-I'm accepting drabble prompts until 5pm EST tomorrow if you're interested.
David'd called it her gut, her father'd said she had some weird ESP thing, and her preacher of a brother-in-law describes it as the gift of discernment. Whatever the thing is, it's Anna's super power. It always lets her know two things: when she's being lied to, and when some serious shit is about to go down. As soon as Phil ended the call before her nap, it'd kicked into high gear. She tries to chalk it up to the disturbing dream she had of her boyfriend becoming an alien, but it doesn't go away. Anna tries to call Phil back before she goes to bed that night. He'd called that afternoon to discuss Ward shooting a man who could possibly have been the Clairvoyant, she'd had her nightmare, and then she'd made the mistake of watching back-to-back episodes of a murder mystery show. By the time she crawls back between the sheets, she's uneasy about everything and just wants to hear Phil's voice. Even if he's only going to talk about droll things like the weather wherever they are or how many unpronounceable ingredients are in the frozen meal he was rationed. But he doesn't answer. She's good this time and leaves a voicemail. "Just wanted to say hi. I watched the murderer TV show in the dark again, and we both know how that turns out. Still sorry about the time you came home and I nearly took you out with a frying pan." She pauses for a second to debate whether or not she should ramble or just end the call. She elects the latter. "Hope your day got better, or at least less confusing. Love you."
Felix wakes her in the middle of the night to knead at her stomach until it's desirable enough for him to sleep on. She refrains from cursing at him when her brain suggests she check her phone. The only alerts she has are coupons for the boutique down the street and the email forwards her former father-in-law sends like clockwork every night. She deletes all the messages without reading them. Her thumbs open her new text message app on their own accord. Skye coded it, and it's supposed to allow private, untraceable messages to be exchanged between her and the team. It's not until it's open that Anna realizes she hasn't heard from anyone in the last twelve hours. Skye and Jemma have been regularly texting her about randomness over the last week. She tries to roll over and convince herself it's nothing. All she gets for it is a pissed off cat.
Anna wakes at six, two hours before her alarm goes off. She knows she had bad dreams, but can't place what exactly they were. And if they were recurrences of Phil as an alien, she doesn't want to remember them. Again, her phone is message-free save for next month's symphony schedule. Realizing that she has no hope in getting any more sleep, she gets out of bed and showers. Taking advantage of her extra time before rehearsal, she walks to her favorite coffee shop. It has the added benefit of being an hour away by foot, and she uses the time to make up details about the people she passes on the sidewalk. The coffee only adds to her anxiety, not that she was really expecting any other outcome. Giving in, she sends a short text to Phil: I'm officially nagging now. Nag. He doesn't respond.
They're halfway through rehearsal when one of the trumpet players lets out a gasp. The annoyed conductor asks what's the matter, and the musician—Kyle—sheepishly owns up to having Google alerts set up for all the Avengers. "It looks like Captain America is being arrested." There are a handful of gasps, and Anna's blood runs cold. She's one of seven people in the room who was in New York when the Chitauri attacked, but everyone has a bit of hero worship for the team of people who saved the city from aliens. The conductor sees that he's not going to get attention back on the Bach piece any time soon, so he gives them a fifteen minute break. Anna gets up and heads backstage. Digging her phone out of her purse, she logs on to the first news site she can find and goes eerily still when she sees the picture of Captain Rogers, the man she's heard Phil tell endless stories about. Shakily, her fingers back out to the main menu and she calls Phil's number once again. It goes to voicemail. "I need you to tell me you're okay. I need you to call or text or send smoke signals or something. Just one word to let me know you're alive, Phil, please." She pauses to look around to make sure no one is around her. "The internet has pictures of Captain America on his knees with a rifle pointed at the back of his head. The reports are saying that your redhead was there and she was arrested, too. I know you're not with them—at least I don't think you are—but I really need you to call me back or something. Please." She hates herself a little for how obviously she's begging by the end of the message, but she can't help herself. Her gut-ESP-discernment-whatever is screaming that something has gone horribly wrong, and she's utterly powerless in doing something about it.