i'm tired, roman, and i really don't have time for this.
you don't have time for anything anymore.
because i'm a busy man, ha-- have you seen the name on the door? the job title? have you noticed anything strange about the sheer fucking volume of people who come in and out of that door, or the fact that i spend sixty percent of my time on the phone to the joint chiefs? i don't have time for this.
you're not the only one with responsibilities. i'm trying to talk to you about --
yeah, okay, i get it.
no you don't. you really don't.
in a triumph of the middling, a nod to mediocrity, and with gorge rising, it gives me great nausea to announce that the world is simply paling in comparison to your love life and whatever new easily solved problem that's come up in your schedule today. i give hope to the millions.
there's a pause. a long one.
roman --
i don't recognise you anymore.
yeah... join the club. it's packed right up to the bar.
Juniper and Phil approach the restaurant from one side; Roman and Josephine approach from the other.
“Jo! Hi!”
Juniper runs up to Josephine and envelops her in a tight hug. She wants Phil to see that they’re close, that she does actually have friends. All she ever talks about is work and her online courses, (really, all she ever does is listen to Phil; she's a good listener) and all they ever do is spend time together (a scattered burst of dates in a quick timeframe; to Juniper, it’s a whirlwind romance) — she wants him to see that she’s normal, sociable.
Juniper offers Roman a smile and a wave, hesitant to hug him — unsure if they’re there yet. He has always just been Josephine’s partner; they haven’t had the chance to form a separate friendship. Maybe this is why she cannot read the expression on Roman’s face, why she is still so absolutely elated when she turns around to face Phil and make introductions.
“I’m so glad everyone could come. I feel like, um — I feel so weird, introducing everyone. Can you all just say hi, say your name, or something?”
She looks around expectantly, the only smiling face.
she hadn’t actually planned to show up unannounced — this time.
james is still on the other side of the country, and natasha doesn’t feel like coming home to an empty apartment, so it’s only natural that she’d gone straight to phil’s from the airport just as she has countless times before. it’s strange, after so many decades apart, trying to figure out what she and james are, what they want to be and what they will be. sometimes, strange becomes hard, and they don’t have the time to figure out hard, so they skate along their softening boundaries and let things be ; and when he isn’t there, they all understand that phil remains a constant where no one else will. even if they don’t see each other as much, even if lately, circumstances have changed.
she’d barely made it out of the taxi when james called, so for now, natasha is tucked into a corner of the lobby, the side of her head leaned against the cool, polished stone of the wall as she listens to him tell her about how nice the weather in california is. next time i’ll have to scoop you up and save you from all that east coast rain. she says that sounds nice. as much as i love the rain, this is a bit much, and he laughs on the other line. it’s such a sweet sound that she doesn’t notice the doors open, only catches the back of a head of blonde hair as it passes. he’s saying something else, but natasha doesn’t hear it because when the woman comes up to the doorman, he tells her i’m going to let mr. coulson know that you’re here.
natasha watches from her corner as she heads to the elevators, and she doesn’t know why she feels her stomach drop so suddenly.
they don’t tell each other everything, but they have always told each other enough. she’s known the names of every date he’s had for ten years, and he’s known the names of hers. sure, he’s always had a thing for blondes, but this feels different. this is different. she’s dressed the way none of the women she’s seen him with dress, and she seems so young yet so tired, the way she moves. natasha catches sight of half her face before the elevator doors close, and thinks she can’t be more than twenty.
( next week, she will see josephine’s jacket. she will be sitting on his counter in one of his sweaters, and she will tell him that she’s too young for him. he will not tell her who josephine is for ten more years. )
natasha?
“... sorry — phil just told me he’s busy tonight. suppose i’ll have to get another taxi.” she offers a theatrical but reassuring sigh as she picks up her bag again and heads back out into the cold rain.
— ДВА.
it’s dark, for nine in the morning. overcast with thick late-winter storm clouds with a chill to boot, natasha is both glad for the short distance between the door and her car, as well as the sharp coldness that helps keep her startled awake.
she checks herself in the rear-view mirror, notes the shadows under her eyes and the tired set of her face and sighs. it’s been three, maybe four days since roman had called her, and truthfully she has not slept more than a few hours in that time, has not eaten more than the sandwich or burrito that sharon and clint brought for her, and it shows. after rushing to the warehouse, after watching over bobbi as she cut into his skull, after calling maria, after slicing into hospital records and leveraging her SHIELD clearance to ensure that he’d have his own secluded and secure corner of newyork-presbyterian’s ICU with no questions asked, natasha has found her way back here. nobody told her to come, nobody asked her to, and in truth, she wonders if josephine will even want to see her.
it has been chaos upon chaos, something that natasha thrives in when she needs to, always able to tuck away her fears and push on. but this …
josephine has not left her mind since that night. the red wrap of skin around her neck, the watery eyes, the silence. even amidst roman’s panic and the need for natasha to do what she has done countless times before, it was josephine that stood out like a light, flickering violently through it all.
natasha hopes that after it all, she hasn’t been snuffed out.
something tells her that she hasn’t. and truthfully, though she’ll not admit it, she’s worried what that might mean for when she knocks on the door.
with a sigh, she pats concealer under her eyes and brushes her hair, takes a generous drink of water and steps out of her car.
— ТРИ.
she doesn’t mean to fall asleep, really. but natasha has been so exhausted, josephine had to step away to answer roman’s call, and the sofa is just so comfortable in the way that only sofas can be, that she simply couldn’t help it.
it’s well past eight at night when she blinks awake, the dimness of light from another room and the drawn curtains jarring her enough to realize where she is — rather, where she has been for the past five hours.
natasha pushes up to sit, groaning with residual grogginess and the special kind of dehydration that comes from a good nap, and curses under her breath once she glances at the clock. she can hear shilah’s voice sounding softly from another room, and josephine in the kitchen nearby.
hey.
“josephine, i’m … so sorry,” she begins, voice graveled, hands running over her face and surely worsening the smudge of mascara already beneath her eyes. “i didn’t mean to pass out on the couch like that.”
no, don’t worry about it. you looked so tired all afternoon, i figured i should just let you rest. josephine brings her tea, no doubt reheated from what she couldn’t finish earlier, and natasha smiles. there’s a distinct concern on the other woman’s features hidden beneath her own smile that natasha knows she is trying her best to maintain, and all things considered, she cannot blame her. it’s been a long week, and jet lag is one of the few things she’s not ever been able to beat.
“i should probably get going.” natasha fishes in the pockets of the coat she’d laid over the back of the sofa for her phone, sighing as she sees the missed call and text from phil. are you good to drive? i could drive you, or call a taxi?
“no, no, it’s okay. i’ll be fine.” unsurprisingly, when she looks up again the worry hasn’t passed from her face. gently, natasha reaches for josephine’s arm and squeezes. “really, i just need a good night’s sleep, i’m still on paris time. don’t worry about me.”
— ЧЕТЫРЕ.
she’s learned to expect the unexpected. to not make promises she can’t keep, especially when it comes to her schedule. it had hurt when josephine told her that little isabel was coming in another week or so, and it had hurt more when natasha had to say that she might not even be in the country then.
despite how much she had reassured her, natasha still cannot help that pin prick guilt of her own absence even while sitting on a rooftop in prague.
josephine is strong, and in truth there should be little to worry over — they’ve known each other long enough to understand what will and will not separate them, what will and will not allow their time to be shared — despite the needling concern that in the case that josephine and roman needed her, she wouldn’t be there.
perhaps it’s selfish of her, to overestimate her place in her life.
it’s another hour of looking through scopes and idle banter with isaiah when her phone buzzes. it’s not the best protocol to keep it on her person, but really, she’s been bored, and even if she won’t admit it, anxious with anticipation. sue her.
natasha leans away from the scope to check. she liked your flowers. isabel is beautiful.
if she is surprised that he had been invited, that josephine had let him see their newest addition ( she hadn't with ridley, natasha recalls ), she does not say. with a quiet smile, she texts josephine congratulations.
— ПЯТЬ.
after the wake, after the few days that the coulson clan had stayed in the guest rooms to catch up and reminisce before all traveling back to boston, natasha had herself returned to brooklyn.
josephine had asked if she still needed help with going through things, and natasha hadn’t had the politeness or will to say no. if nothing else, the company and the sound of children running and laughing would be better than the profound and heavy emptiness that would have been with her otherwise.
so, the house has been all but cleared, save for some beds, sofas, larger furniture that would take too much trouble to move again, and basic supplies for the occasional beach trip. phil had left her everything, but everything is far too much for even natasha to take care of, so it had only been fair for her to tell the bragins, elliot, shilah, that if they ever need to get away from the city, she already had keys made for them.
but that would be for another time, and now that the weekend has ended, they have to go back home.
we can stay a little longer if you need, josephine tells her, both of them lingering on the large porch as roman loads their bags and the children into the car. it’s a courtesy, she knows, but she knows just as well that she means it. she hates pity, hates feeling coddled, but this is different, and it makes her hate how difficult it is to keep herself from crying of gratefulness, if nothing else.
natasha has always been a quiet woman, but it isn't difficult to realize that she’s been quieter than usual. she’s barely said anything these past few days beyond the occasional direction, answer, or soft question. even now, she thinks that her voice would be silent and hoarse if she responded — but she tries all the same.
“it’s alright.”
josephine reaches for her hand, squeezes, and she smiles. the weather is lovely today, perfect for a sail on the water, something she’d promised phil she would give him.
“i still have something to do.”
they hug, she presses kisses to the childrens’ heads, and natasha watches the car as it disappears beyond the trees.
Stevie leads her to Ellie leads her to Andrew — not in a creepy way, not even in a way that indicates she was trying. Just in a I know all your ghosts whether I like it or not way, which you can take as you will.
It only took eight years because she wasn't trying. She couldn't try.
But now, in another sense, she really is trying something. She reunited with Stevie on a Wednesday. She went back to the meeting on the following Sunday. And the next Wednesday. And Sunday. And, finally, she had the courage to say something.
And afterwards she asks for Andrew's number.
He receives a call from an unknown number. She'll leave a voicemail, if she has to, maybe even try to articulate a succinct enough text.
a beat. then two. phil looks down at the hand on his shoulder and doesn’t really quite know what to do with it. “-- tahiti sucked. are you the welcome back committee?”
@feralego // daniel said: a kiss to anger a third party
@wristful // stevie & @withbeasts // andrew
It’s one of Spirit’s favorite restaurants in the city. It isn’t far from Andrew’s apartment — and proximity to there is what brought her here, anyways. She wonders if Daniel realizes this, wonders how much he cares.
Spirit and Daniel are leaving after their meal when Andrew and Stevie arrive. (Stevie looks like shit. Perhaps Andrew is trying to comfort him, to revive him, like he had done countless times with her.)
Daniel recognizes Andrew and Stevie even though he shouldn’t, even though he only can because of the night he followed Andrew after the play and all the times he’s spoken to the doorman about Spirit’s visitors. He wraps his arm ‘round his girlfriend’s shoulder, turns her head towards him — always towards him, always away from any other distractions or interferences or people who she doesn’t belong to, not like she belongs to him. He kisses her quickly, chastely, on their way out the door. But it’s enough.
Spirit feels an invisible wall between herself and Andrew, feels too stunned to say anything after he left with an I’m sorry. She’s frozen and rigid when Daniel kisses her. She’s not thinking straight when she whips her head back towards the boys, walking out as they walk in.
She doesn’t expect to see Stevie staring at her — cold, almost angry. No, definitely angry. His jaw is set in a way that Spirit thinks must be uncomfortable. Her lips part, and she wants to say something, but Daniel has her steered out the door.
He’ll text her later, Stevie will. He’ll say something that Andrew won’t — because Andrew won’t, because he’s Andrew’s hero, because he’s always got to protect him.
Spirit will throw her phone against the floor and scream into her pillow.
"do you think you scare me?" it is asked with an open honesty, a genuine desire to peer behind the curtain of mystery and supposed intrigue; some people just get in their way, phillip no stranger to the vague hint of a shadow on the wall. it is dark in the penthouse when he gets inside the door save for a lamp ominously left on in the corner which he knows - the same way he knows exactly how many wine glasses he has, the millimeters in which they are spaced - was not left on when he went to work that morning.
do you think you scare me because only someone well versed in the subtle art of implied violence knows how these things are typically scripted to sell fear. you set the mood, pick the right thing to say, let the vulnerability bleed through every crack in the facade you can find. violence can be a lot like sex if you want it to be.
