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Dex was pretty sure he was close to wearing a groove into the sidewalk between his apartment and hers. He walked it almost everyday (whether she knew it or not), and had the details of the route memorized down to the where the sidewalk was uneven enough to trip, when to cross the street to avoid overflowing trashcans, and dips in the road prone to collecting water that cars had no problem splashing through. She lived in an older, tenement style building that had probably been out of code since 1930, but she insisted she liked it. “It’s rough around the edges, but still pretty,” She had said when he asked her why she didn’t move into a safer, newer building, “like you.”
A hit job for Mr. Charles had kept him away the last couple days—he had told her at the beginning that he worked in “government operations”, so any time Mr. Charles had a job for him that ran more than a day he explained it away as a proposal or briefing that needed all hands on deck and, consequently, a lot of overtime—and he had plans to make it up to her, because that was what a good partner was texted to do. They had dinner planned at her place; takeout and a quiet night in after a long week. He checked his phone for any messages or calls from her he might have missed, and couldn’t help the disappointment when none came up. Sparse texts usually meant long or unexpected meetings. If she was meeting with another operative she texted more than normal, a sort of unconscious need to cover her tracks. No texts meant it was a bad day, one that left her quiet and lethargic, and sad in a way he didn’t know how to deal with.
A part his brain that he barely paid attention to anymore pointed out that it was a good day to ply her for information, take advantage of her lowered guard to get something useful. A part of his brain he needed to listen to less told him to go find out what or who had caused her misery and make sure they never did it again. But mostly, overwhelmingly, he just wanted to make sure she was still there.
He took the steps up to her floor two at a time, armed with takeout from the Dim Sum place around the corner that reminded her of a place her grandmother used to take her to as a child.
He knocked—even after months of having each other’s keys it still felt necessary—and waited a beat before slotting his key in the lock.
The apartment was dark. She didn’t answer when he called out to her. Today was Wednesday, which meant she would have done everything possible to come home on time after being asked to stay late on Tuesday. Maybe her boss pulled her into an emergency meeting. Maybe the subway was slow. Maybe the CIA had decided she wasn’t so useful after all and had sent someone to terminate her while he’d been away. Maybe she was bleeding out in an alley two blocks from here and he was wasting time standing here with sweating takeout containers instead of out looking for her. Maybe she was going to die and it would be his fault. He stopped. Took a breath. Then another.
In for six, hold for four, out for another six.
Above the blood rushing in his ears he heard the shower running. She was home. He felt his muscles in his shoulders relax a little. But it wasn’t like her to not turn the lights on when she knew he was coming over. But she was home. He could forgive the break in routine for that alone.
He busied himself with setting the table—chopsticks centred and placed exactly 3 inches above the little colourful plates he had driven her to Poughkeepsie to pick up because the idea of her answering a Facebook Marketplace listing on her own made him want to scream, napkins to the left of the plates, a little bowl for bones and gristle at an angle where they could both access it without having to reach over each other.
When the shower kept running after thirty minutes he started to worry. Showering was purely utilitarian for her, a maintenance task that took twelve minutes tops, maybe seventeen on the very rare occasions she let him join her.
She didn’t answer when he knocked, or when he called her name. What if she’d slipped and hit her head? You could drown in two inches of water.
“If you don’t say anything, I’m coming in.”
Nothing.
He counted to five and pushed the door open.
She was sitting on the floor of the shower with her knees drawn up to her chest, elbows propped on her knees to support the weight of her head. Bubbles clung in clumps around her hairline, as if she had only gotten halfway through rinsing it out. Her eyes met his through the doorframe and the wet glass door of the shower. One second he was standing in the door, brown eyes staring into her red-rimmed ones, and then he was under the stream of water, sliding down the wall to sit next to her. She didn’t acknowledge him, but he felt her shift closer until she was leaning into him.
The water was soaking through his jeans, the synthetic knit of his quarter zip already clinging tight like a second skin in desperate need of shedding. His mind recoiled at the feeling, even as he forced his body to remain still, let her lean against him and just breathe.
“Bad day?” He asked after a couple minutes under the stream.
“Drug bust. Should have been DEA that went in, but it was an FBI lead so we ended up in charge of the operation. It got bad fast.” She took a shuddering breath. “There were a lot of casualties. The whole thing was mishandled by the brass.”
He knew he should probably ask about something that could be passed on to the CIA—where it happened, what the scale of the cartel (if it was a cartel) was, any international connections that might have motivated her involvement the bust, how it happened, why she had to be put in harm’s way—but all he could think of in the moment was, “Your side or theirs?”
“What?”
“What side were the casualties on?”
“Why does that matter?” She looked at him, brows furrowed and mouth drawn down in a tight line.
“It’s better if it’s not you...” He didn’t know what, but he could tell he was saying the wrong thing. She was outright glaring at him now.
“People died, Dex.”
”I know, I just meant—“
“That one person’s life has more value over another just because of what side they’re on?”
“No, of course not.” But maybe it had been. The path to righteousness is littered with the bodies of the unworthy; that was what he had been told his whole life. In the army, in SWAT. As Bullseye it was his creed. The anti-suicide hotline had been an outlier, but it had still kept him separate from the lives at stake. And then there was her, the knowledge that he would eventually get the order to end her life when she stopped being useful. It was a fact that had become harder to accept, easier to put distance between it and the reality of the two of them as time had gone by.
She let her head fall back against the tile wall. Her hair was sticking to her face in wet strands that his hand itched to bush away. “I don’t know if this is working.”
“What do you mean?” The water was suddenly too cold, and his wet clothes clung too tightly, and his heart was beating too fast under his ribs. He knew he’d said the wrong thing, but what if it was the wrong thing? The straw that broke the camel’s back. People said near-death experiences put things into perspective, prompted major life changes. He wondered how many couples split up after FBI raids. He wondered when he started thinking of them as a couple.
“Being in the FBI.” Thank fuck. Not him. “I’ve seen some rough shit—like really rough, but something about today…” she shook her head. “Kinda makes you question what it’s all for.”
He wasn’t good at empathy, wasn’t good at the feelings thing, especially when his own cortisol was still so high from scaring himself. “That’s hard.” He put an arm around her, head coming to rest against hers. “Really hard.”
“Yeah.” The water was definitely colder now. Her utilities bill was going to be higher than normal.
“You’re a good agent.” They both knew she wouldn’t quit—probably couldn’t—so it didn’t really matter, but maybe it helped to be reminded once in a while.
“How do you know?” He could hear the smile pressing against her voice, not quite ready to return, but just below the surface .
“I just do.”
She kissed his shoulder. “Thanks for bringing food.”
“Of course.”
“It’s probably cold.”
“We’ll heat it up.”
“You hate doing that.” He did. The texture didn’t stay consistent. The oils clotted in a way that felt wrong. Things got soggy, or dry, or both.
“I don’t mind.” He stood, clothes making a terrible sucking sound as he straightened. It was going to be hell taking everything off.
He offered her his hand to pull her to her feet, his other searching for the towel hanging off the hook on the wall. He watched her scrub the last of the soap out of her hair and turn the water off, the movements mechanical, still numb with the events of the day, but her shoulders weren’t as tight as before. He wrapped the towel around her, and pulled her into his chest.
“You’re all wet.” She groused.
“So are you.”
“Yeah, but…” She pulled on the fabric of his shirt. It snapped back with a wet thwack. “You’re extra wet.”
“I wonder how that happened.” He said, deadpan.
“It’s a mystery.” She shifted in his hold, turning towards the door. “I’ll find you some dry clothes.”
“Don’t go too far.” He didn’t mean to say it. It just sort of happened. He kissed her, hard. It was easier than interrogating the truth behind why such a thought was so close to the forefront of his mind.
“Dex?”
He hummed against her lips, mind fuzzy from the way they felt against his and the white noise of the shower fan.
“Thank you, for being here.”
“Nowhere else I want to be.” He said, and was scared by how much he meant it.