[ She isn't meant to be here — on this mission, in this place, with this man, in this time. She belongs somewhere in 1952 at the helm of a foundling intelligence organisation, fielding phone calls and reports from her agents in Korea, managing tense negotiations with the Soviet Union. She's lived most of her adult life on the brink of war and chasing the dangerous artefacts and technology unearthed or triggered by those upheavals — but she was never meant to be caught in their radius, a mistake that sent her through space and time into a present she helped define from the shadows. Her only way back is the way she came, chasing the stone monolith that slipped through the cracks after her disappearance. SHIELD still works from behind the scenes so her presence in the new millennium is kept remarkably quiet; she's established as a field agent at her strict request (because who can say no to the founder?) and puts herself on the trail for anything flagged as an 0-8-4.
This time she's on the heels of some infamous stash of Nazi plunder looted from Europe during the Third Reich's collapse and hidden in Argentina with the other rats who jumped ship at the end of the war. Her encounter with the monolith came after 1945 but her working theory based on a flimsy paper trail is that it was added to this nest egg later (because powerful men can't resist something that can make them even more so). Not that she's shared this information, or her true objective, with her occasional partner-in-crime. No, Harry Flynn is as untrustworthy as they come but they've crossed paths enough times on her previous assignments that she feels it's better to keep him in the loop — and her eyes on him at all times, the slippery bastard — than risk him or his associates compromising what she's after. For all he knows, she's a treasure hunter like him. It's less complicated that way.
At least, it should be.
Córdoba in the spring is beautiful. The temperature fluctuates in peaks and valleys like the Sierras Chicas on the horizon; stretches of cool, pleasant days interrupted by flashes of heatwaves, the spell only broken by violent thunderstorms. The latter is what's kept them confined to their hotel rooms; never one to waste a minute, Peggy insists on going over their next steps even as the power flickers ominously overhead. It's late in the evening when it goes out entirely under the howling wind outside, lightning illuminating their pitch-black room; and when she returns with an emergency lantern to keep working, she finds that Flynn has poured two glasses of fernet and is reclining on the sofa in a way that suggests he's through for the night. Infuriating man.
She only meant to stay for one drink. But fernet is strong, bitter, meant to be sipped and savoured slowly, so they get to talking. At first about work, but coaxed into other subjects — although Peggy is notoriously tight-lipped about all matters professional and private. Then one drink becomes two, three, and she's kept the important matters close to the chest (ever the spy) but she'll throw an interesting bone every once in a while. ]
Of course I've been shot at, [ she's saying with a scoff, sitting up from her previously comfortable sprawl on the cushions. The room tips gently with the shift, then settles. ] You point a gun at people, they're likely to point one back. [ She lifts her glass as she adds: ] Hit their mark, too, if they're particularly determined — and odious. [ Or Nazis. ] I'm sure I don't need to tell you how bloody unpleasant that is.
[ Of course he's been shot. Who wouldn't want to shoot him? It's how they met, after all, at the end of each other's barrels. ]
[ It's barely been a week since she got back from Delhi and Chloe still can't sleep through the night. She'd initially brushed it off as jetlag — a five-hour difference is just enough to be annoying, to throw everything out of whack — but when she finds herself staring at the ceiling again and her watch reads past 2 AM, she knows she's never had jetlag this bad. (It was never jetlag to begin with, but that's a lie she told herself and one she fruitlessly hoped Harry believed.)
Her mind is buzzing, hasn't stopped buzzing since she knelt in front of that altar in Belur with Ganesh in hand and the realisation that she'd followed her father's exact footsteps to a discovery that changed her life — and ended his. (Nearly ended hers too, quite frankly.) It's a lot to grapple with and she's never been one for sharing even with her longtime partnership with Harry and newfound friendship in Sam and Nadine. She hasn't tried to unpack it since that drunken night with Sam in a small city in Karnataka. It was good, cathartic even, but part of her nearly wishes she could forget about it; she's almost grateful the older Drake turned down her initial invitation to come back with her to London. They both need time.
Yeah, no, this is a knot in her chest she's been trying to untangle on her own but most nights it makes it hard to breathe. Or maybe that's the broken ribs — or occasional nightmare of Asav's fingers wrapped around her throat. (God, she still aches from her time in the Ghats. Her bruises are uglier now as they heal.) Sure. "Jetlag."
Ugh, there's nothing for it now. She's quiet when she slips out of bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping Englishman next to her, and pads out to the living room on bare feet. Their Bermondsey loft is vast and moderately cluttered with souvenirs from around the world but Chloe can navigate it in the dark, familiar with the worn wood floors and mismatched furniture. If she can't sleep, she may as well be productive. The streetlights filtering through the factory windows are enough to help her locate her phone (lost amongst the sofa cushions) and laptop (on the coffee table). The cable to connect the two is on the floor, a toy for the cat lurking somewhere in the shadows.
Chloe sets up on the rug, her back against the sofa and her face lit by the blue glow of screens. She put off uploading her photos from India all week, the images bittersweet for the most part, but maybe without anyone hovering over her shoulder she can do it now in peace and quiet. Maybe even send a couple to her mum. Yeah, that might be nice.
She clicks through the pictures as they pop up on her laptop, deleting the blurry or foggy ones — reminders of the oppressive humidity in the jungle, no match for the British summer outside. She comes across the one she took of Belur as it emerged from the mist and suddenly she's keenly missing the familiar weight of her Ganesh figurine in her hand. My stress toy, she'd told Nadine as a joke. But it's true too. She shifts to get up off the floor to fetch it, knowing she left it on her bedside table, but when she looks up she's surprised to see Harry: bare-chested and sleep-tousled, squinting at her in the dark. ]
Jesus, you scared me. [ She didn't even hear him come in. She pushes her loose hair behind her ear. ] How long've you been standing there?
( there are certain revelations india brought to light that harry never could have expected: first, that samuel drake is alive (who at this very moment is avoiding harry in favor of work while harry is trying to avoid how pressed he feels about being the last to know); second, that chloe hijacked a train with a bomb on it (very narrowly making it out alive) and thereby averted a civil war. harry can't help but think of the last time someone climbed aboard a train full of mercenaries thinking it was noble — the only difference being nate hadn't actually been willing to sacrifice anything, he'd only wanted another notch to add to his gaudy cowboy belt.
so while it's been relatively quiet since chloe returned to london, harry knows she just needs time to process. to heal. (there's still a simmering rage harry feels when he sees the bruises darkening under chloe's skin, the way her voice sounds rougher than usual; if asav hadn't died in that train explosion, harry would have made it his mission to finish the job himself.) of course, the jetlag excuse wears thin after the first day or so, but harry doesn't press right away. he notices the way she sometimes wakes in the middle of the night with a hoarse gasp, notices the way she seems lost in her own thoughts some days, but he also know when it is and isn't his place to ask. he respects her enough to let her try to work through this on her own, trusts her enough accept that she'll open up when she's ready.
the clock reads sometime past 2 AM when he blinks awake, groggily pushing jimbo out from under him. he doesn't remember chloe crawling out of bed, just rolling over and nearly squishing the cat. ordinarily, he might have ignored this — but he's known chloe long enough to recognize when there's something eating at her, something she's doing her best not to talk about. and while they've never been particularly good at talking through the hard stuff, the stuff often left buried, this time feels different. like it's important to have whatever conversation it is she's been avoiding. he won't push it, but he might just give it a small nudge.
he finds chloe in the living room, her face aglow with soft blue light. she looks almost ethereal. harry can't help but watch for a moment as she taps through photos, and he's just about to say something witty, perhaps, when she turns toward him, her shoulders twitching with a start. he does his best not to laugh, offering a sleepy sorry, love as she regains her composure. )
Not long, ( he says, only it comes out as more of a yawn. he stretches long arms above his head as he pads his way toward the sofa, taking a seat on the cushion next to chloe. he nudges her shoulder with his thigh. ) How long have you been sitting in the dark?
[ They've come a long way, haven't they, from the hairpin turns that turn a conversation into an argument, the lies by omission, the accidental (not-so-accidental) betrayals of trust. There was a time Harry wouldn't have the grace to grant her breathing room or when she'd go off on her own to avoid the confrontation altogether. But after Syria and the explosive fallout of another Drake affair, they've learned how to navigate moments like this — when they aren't on the same page, when they're keeping secrets — with a little more tact. They're not the type to lay their cards on the table, they communicate in a different and more physical kind of code, but sometimes all they really need is time (not space, never space); and while they're both impatient almost to a fault, that's something they've both learned to appreciate. And God, does Chloe appreciate it now.
Even if time's almost up, now. It's stretched between them long enough that if they leave it any longer, it'll start to take shape, drive a wedge into the relationship they've so carefully built. (It wouldn't threaten it but they're past pointless fights nowadays; not worth it.) This isn't the first time she's slipped out of bed since returning from India but it is the first time Harry's followed her, sat with her. She knows what that means. If he'd done it any earlier, she might've felt cornered — but not tonight. She knows what that means, too. ]
Mm, [ is her noncommital answer, leaning gently against his leg as he settles, figurine in their bedroom forgotten for now. She doesn't look up at him; instead, she studies the photo on the screen in front of them. She hasn't shown these to anyone yet, let alone Harry. ] Long enough that my foot's gone numb. [ But she doesn't make a move to get back up. Her ribs make that a little more difficult to manage without help, but she's in no rush. ] Just got caught up clearing this stuff off my phone.
[ "This stuff." Like it doesn't matter. Like they're just tourist snapshots and not a record of her following in her father's footsteps. Now she shifts to look up at him, leaning her head back against the cushions, lips curved as she teases, ]
( harry's never particularly been the record-keeping type — he's always left that to his more capable and artistically inclined partners, be it drake or otherwise — and he hadn't taken chloe for much of one either, but finding the tusk and returning to india must have been important to her (how important he doesn't yet fully understand) or she probably wouldn't have gone to any extra effort to keep her phone intact and on her person. the photo she leaves on the screen is a breathtaking landscape, massive waterfalls parted by two equally massive statues. for once, he's not really sure what to say, notices the way chloe dismisses the topic as if it were an afterthought. they'll come back to it.
for now, he shrugs, looking down at her with a kind of sleepy-but-wide-awake resignation. )
Nothing for it now. ( no point trying to go back to sleep, at least not until chloe's ready to come to bed with him. ) May as well have a cuppa. Been too long since you've had a proper one, innit?
( sipping tea on the job is for pretentious explorers who fancy themselves archaeologists but are really nothing more than posh tossers playing dress up and letting their subordinates do all the hard work. real treasure hunting is messy and dangerous — and as much as harry hates the mess, the reward outweighs the inevitability of getting absolutely filthy or possibly dead.
he had to bin half the clothes chloe brought back from india; either they were so caked with mud they were unwashable or they were littered with too many nicks to be worth repairing. these are the things they fuss about now; they rarely argue anymore, but that doesn't stop either of them from getting annoyed from time to time. there's nothing unhealthy about disagreements in a relationship — and, by now, there's almost nothing they can't compromise on. they're both stubborn, but not so much so that it becomes a detriment to every little thing. under different circumstances, syria probably would have eroded what little relationship they already had; instead, in a way, it fortified the relationship they were able to build from it. it would be maddeningly juvenile to give that up over something as petty as laundry.
he leans down to press a kiss to the top of her head, smiling softly into her hair. )
[ India was important but she didn't realise it until halfway through. It was just another job (or so she told herself). Because that's what they usually are. There's rarely anything personal in their work, just a handsome paycheck and another thrilling story to tell. Because once emotion is involved, things get messy and complicated. (Look no further than Shambhala.) She'd said as much to Nadine: sentimentality in this line of work will get you killed. The other woman hadn't asked why she felt that way since for the most part, it's obvious; but if she had, she might have gotten the story of Chloe's father a lot sooner. Pieces of it, anyway. She'll never know what drove Vishaan Bhargava away from his family and into the jungle in search of an artefact so significant it was almost mythological; she can make her best guess about the duty he probably felt towards cultural preservation, a need to protect Belur and its secrets, but that's all it is — a guess. She's been trying to puzzle it out since she got home, but if there's anything she's learned in the past few years with Harry, it's that sometimes it's better to work things out together.
He's certainly giving her every avenue to pursue that option. She can tell he's settling in for a long night with her and the offer of tea seals the deal. She wonders, not for the first time, how things might've gone if he'd worked this job with her as planned. Would he have gotten the full story up front? Or would it have to cost nearly everything to earn it, as it had with Sam and Nadine?
That's the difference here, she realises a second later. It doesn't have to cost them anything to come clean. Not this time. It's almost — rare, in their complicated history, to have that opportunity. So by the time his lips brush the crown of her head, she knows they need to talk. She just has to figure out where to start. ]
Yeah, all right. [ Soft, a bare trace of resignation. She watches him go, absently admiring how his ass looks in his sweatpants, then calls after him: ] Bring some paracetamol back, would you?
[ Since he's making the trip across the loft. She looks back at the laptop, the glory of Halebidu, and sighs. Bloody hell. It's a lot. She continues to click through the photographs like they'll help her get her story straight, listening to Harry putter around in their kitchen, and by the time he's back with their mugs, she's landed on Belur's grand entrance. ]
Cheers, love. Hang on, I'll... [ Now she really does need to move, she's starting to ache from how she's sitting and on the sofa may be preferable to against it. Chloe takes a breath and braces herself to get up, face twisting when her injuries protest the effort. ] Ah, shit —
[ In spite of never having been the religious type, Rafe is hard-pressed not believing there may actually be something out there somewhere... If only because recent events seem to be aligning in an almost cosmic level of spite directed at him in particular.
It had started with his usual physiotherapist considering, then recommending, then scheduling a referral to an out of state specialist. Someone a little more experienced in what she tactfully refers to as "high impact events", someone who could offer a second set of eyes and hands in advising how to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. Rafe hadn't exactly been thrilled at the prospect; then again, he hasn't been thrilled at anything since waking up in a hospital bed in Antananarivo so it isn't really a change of pace on that front. Still, he supposes— more like Nate forcibly reminds him, stubborn as always and more than a match for him these days —it's better than scraping through on whatever cheap rotgut liquor and store brand painkillers he could get away with stashing in the desk at the office.
The economy class ticket didn't help his mood any, nor did the brief TSA-hosted interlude after lighting up the metal detector like a Christmas tree thanks to the countless screws keeping his spine in one piece. But the cherry on top of the sundae was the (unfortunately) familiar face waiting for him in the Atlanta terminal during his layover, with that same face and the mouth that goes (and goes and goes and goes) with it ending up in the seat next to him.
Rafe has experienced several different versions of hell by now but trapped next to Harry Flynn in an aisle seat on Delta Airlines, every jostle of turbulence sticking pins and needles in his back? Honestly could count as a circle all its own.
He fixes his mind on landing and the slim consolation that once the wheels are back on the ground, he'll be free and clear of Flynn for good and all— Except where he isn't. Because of course the hotel, being the cheapest option within range, is also where Flynn's set up at. And the hotel staff, being similar cheapest in terms of quality and general intelligence, screw up the booking and beg Mr. "Anderson's" pardon, it'll just be one evening (or two, tops, they swear) until another private room opens up.
This is the shit that never used to happen when he had money. He hates the thought as soon as he has it, spoiled and soft and entitled, but the hate doesn't make it any less true.
Too drained by the flight to argue or even put a decent amount of withering contempt behind his stare, Rafe just stiffly holds out a hand for the fucking key and limps stalks his way to the elevator. His knuckles creak white around the head of his cane as they come to the door, wait for the bellhop to finish dumping suitcases in the appropriate corner, wait for the same bellhop to stop waiting for a tip that isn't going to come this side of fucking Judgment day and to get the hint and get out. ]
I am taking, [ he clips out, teeth all but clicking on each syllable from how tight his jaw clenches, ] this bed. You... are going to shut up for ten minutes.
[ Or Rafe will engage in some physio of his own, exercising his arm in beating the shit out of Flynn with this cane. ]
[ The whole mess with Asav and the Tusk was less than a week ago and Chloe — along with Sam and Nadine — needed to haul ass to Delhi and wrangle a meeting with the Ministry of Culture before they could finally put that story to bed. (God, she could do with sleeping in her own bed. Not yet. Soon.) To say it's been hell and a half is an understatement. The reward from the Indian government almost made it worth it, and the personal cost had been... a beastly thing she hasn't even begun to unpack, even with all the alone time she's had with her thoughts since parting ways with the others.
(She'd tried to invite them back with her in some fit of courtesy or friendship or guilt. Hard to say what. It's as unlike her as it is like her, as she is now that the edges have been worn down. But Nadine had accounts to settle with her share and Sam — Sam's been weird since Nashik and had a gig with Sully lined up before they even booked their tickets. But that's fine. The invitation's an open one. And they all need their space after everything. She sure does.)
It's been a long road home. She'd blown a small fraction of her earnings on a business class seat and a slightly longer journey back; and while Chloe ordinarily doesn't mind travelling on the cheap and rough, the beating she'd taken on this particular go-around made economy on a budget — even if it meant a shorter, direct flight — an unpleasant prospect. Harry had questioned the choice when she texted her itinerary, but she'd downplayed her aches and pains and made a quip about free in-flight champagne to play it off. (And picked up a few goodies during her layover in Dubai to make it up to him.) Truth is, she's nursing some broken ribs and a concussion, and while a few days' respite before flying did some good, long-haul is rarely kind even when one is in the best of health. So she's tried to take it easy but God, she is so bloody tired and she couldn't get back fast enough.
Between the rides to and from the airport (the traffic in London and Delhi is a nightmare), and the time it takes to transit let alone fly, she's been travelling for over 15 hours before she finds herself back in Bermondsey after a month away on the job. It's a warm and humid morning by British standards, but it's pleasant after the sweltering Indian summer. Chloe suspects Harry might still be in bed so she doesn't bother calling to say she's on the way; instead, she takes a car back to their place. It's barely 9 when she lets herself into the loft, dropping her duffel onto the table in the gear room with a groan (she'll unpack later or tomorrow), before making her way to the kitchen for a glass of water.
Christ, she aches — everywhere. And she's getting hungry. Just past lunchtime in Delhi, maybe they'll order in. She chugs her drink and pours another before scrolling through the delivery app on her cracked phone screen, leaning against the kitchen island with a grimace, but then suddenly she's greeted by — not Harry, likely still asleep despite her quiet ruckus, but — the cat, yowling to announce his presence before weaving between her legs. ]
Jimbo, you needy bugger, [ she huffs, a fond smile tugging at her lips. Chloe sets down her phone, patting the stool next to her as if to say, hop up. ] Where'd you come from, hey? C'mere if you want attention, I can't bend over. [ The tuxie obliges, leaping up for scritches, purring up a storm. ] Where's Harry, then? Just us early birds, is it? Just as well. [ She reaches for her phone again, but Jimbo bumps her hand in protest. Despite herself, Chloe laughs, low and soft. ] Alright, alright. Missed you too.
( the response is almost immediate. perhaps too immediate, but it's not like he's had many callers since he got back to london — honestly, even fewer know he's still alive. the way he sees it, rumors of his death are good for making a grand entrance later, so he hasn't bothered with the pr of it all. he'd only told two people he'd be back in london to begin with. if it were charlie lighting up his phone now, he'd have let it sit. but it's not charlie. which only leaves the familiar twist in his chest, spurring his fingers to type out a reply before she can change her mind. )
[ it's been four months since they've seen each other in person. a few emails or phone calls here and there haven't quite made up for that. but she's on her way back from a job and a stop in london on the way back seemed as good a time as any to check in.
why not? they've kept in touch. of course they have, it's not like you can just ignore what happened between them — to them — last year. but it's... weird, too, where they're at now; honestly, chloe isn't even sure what they are or if she even wants them to be something at all. friends, she supposes. that's cleaner. easier. and she's not one to muddle things (anymore — or at least, she tries not to). ]
Something like that Think you can squeeze me in to your busy schedule
( and the next day and every other day, except when his physical therapist comes round a few hours twice a week. she's not due tomorrow is the point, so it won't be awkward if anything happens. (if they get carried away ... if she stays.) harry has no expectations about the nature of this little visit, but he'd be lying to himself if he thought they were just friends. maybe that's all they should be — but he's always been greedy, especially when it comes to chloe. and after everything they've been through — even as messy, complicated, and broken as it was — why shouldn't he want more? she made her choice, in the end, and he wouldn't be here if she hadn't. he thinks maybe they owe it to each other to keep giving this — this messy, complicated, broken, half-put together thing — a try. )
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This time she's on the heels of some infamous stash of Nazi plunder looted from Europe during the Third Reich's collapse and hidden in Argentina with the other rats who jumped ship at the end of the war. Her encounter with the monolith came after 1945 but her working theory based on a flimsy paper trail is that it was added to this nest egg later (because powerful men can't resist something that can make them even more so). Not that she's shared this information, or her true objective, with her occasional partner-in-crime. No, Harry Flynn is as untrustworthy as they come but they've crossed paths enough times on her previous assignments that she feels it's better to keep him in the loop — and her eyes on him at all times, the slippery bastard — than risk him or his associates compromising what she's after. For all he knows, she's a treasure hunter like him. It's less complicated that way.
At least, it should be.
Córdoba in the spring is beautiful. The temperature fluctuates in peaks and valleys like the Sierras Chicas on the horizon; stretches of cool, pleasant days interrupted by flashes of heatwaves, the spell only broken by violent thunderstorms. The latter is what's kept them confined to their hotel rooms; never one to waste a minute, Peggy insists on going over their next steps even as the power flickers ominously overhead. It's late in the evening when it goes out entirely under the howling wind outside, lightning illuminating their pitch-black room; and when she returns with an emergency lantern to keep working, she finds that Flynn has poured two glasses of fernet and is reclining on the sofa in a way that suggests he's through for the night. Infuriating man.
She only meant to stay for one drink. But fernet is strong, bitter, meant to be sipped and savoured slowly, so they get to talking. At first about work, but coaxed into other subjects — although Peggy is notoriously tight-lipped about all matters professional and private. Then one drink becomes two, three, and she's kept the important matters close to the chest (ever the spy) but she'll throw an interesting bone every once in a while. ]
Of course I've been shot at, [ she's saying with a scoff, sitting up from her previously comfortable sprawl on the cushions. The room tips gently with the shift, then settles. ] You point a gun at people, they're likely to point one back. [ She lifts her glass as she adds: ] Hit their mark, too, if they're particularly determined — and odious. [ Or Nazis. ] I'm sure I don't need to tell you how bloody unpleasant that is.
[ Of course he's been shot. Who wouldn't want to shoot him? It's how they met, after all, at the end of each other's barrels. ]
☕️
Her mind is buzzing, hasn't stopped buzzing since she knelt in front of that altar in Belur with Ganesh in hand and the realisation that she'd followed her father's exact footsteps to a discovery that changed her life — and ended his. (Nearly ended hers too, quite frankly.) It's a lot to grapple with and she's never been one for sharing even with her longtime partnership with Harry and newfound friendship in Sam and Nadine. She hasn't tried to unpack it since that drunken night with Sam in a small city in Karnataka. It was good, cathartic even, but part of her nearly wishes she could forget about it; she's almost grateful the older Drake turned down her initial invitation to come back with her to London. They both need time.
Yeah, no, this is a knot in her chest she's been trying to untangle on her own but most nights it makes it hard to breathe. Or maybe that's the broken ribs — or occasional nightmare of Asav's fingers wrapped around her throat. (God, she still aches from her time in the Ghats. Her bruises are uglier now as they heal.) Sure. "Jetlag."
Ugh, there's nothing for it now. She's quiet when she slips out of bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping Englishman next to her, and pads out to the living room on bare feet. Their Bermondsey loft is vast and moderately cluttered with souvenirs from around the world but Chloe can navigate it in the dark, familiar with the worn wood floors and mismatched furniture. If she can't sleep, she may as well be productive. The streetlights filtering through the factory windows are enough to help her locate her phone (lost amongst the sofa cushions) and laptop (on the coffee table). The cable to connect the two is on the floor, a toy for the cat lurking somewhere in the shadows.
Chloe sets up on the rug, her back against the sofa and her face lit by the blue glow of screens. She put off uploading her photos from India all week, the images bittersweet for the most part, but maybe without anyone hovering over her shoulder she can do it now in peace and quiet. Maybe even send a couple to her mum. Yeah, that might be nice.
She clicks through the pictures as they pop up on her laptop, deleting the blurry or foggy ones — reminders of the oppressive humidity in the jungle, no match for the British summer outside. She comes across the one she took of Belur as it emerged from the mist and suddenly she's keenly missing the familiar weight of her Ganesh figurine in her hand. My stress toy, she'd told Nadine as a joke. But it's true too. She shifts to get up off the floor to fetch it, knowing she left it on her bedside table, but when she looks up she's surprised to see Harry: bare-chested and sleep-tousled, squinting at her in the dark. ]
Jesus, you scared me. [ She didn't even hear him come in. She pushes her loose hair behind her ear. ] How long've you been standing there?
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so while it's been relatively quiet since chloe returned to london, harry knows she just needs time to process. to heal. (there's still a simmering rage harry feels when he sees the bruises darkening under chloe's skin, the way her voice sounds rougher than usual; if asav hadn't died in that train explosion, harry would have made it his mission to finish the job himself.) of course, the jetlag excuse wears thin after the first day or so, but harry doesn't press right away. he notices the way she sometimes wakes in the middle of the night with a hoarse gasp, notices the way she seems lost in her own thoughts some days, but he also know when it is and isn't his place to ask. he respects her enough to let her try to work through this on her own, trusts her enough accept that she'll open up when she's ready.
the clock reads sometime past 2 AM when he blinks awake, groggily pushing jimbo out from under him. he doesn't remember chloe crawling out of bed, just rolling over and nearly squishing the cat. ordinarily, he might have ignored this — but he's known chloe long enough to recognize when there's something eating at her, something she's doing her best not to talk about. and while they've never been particularly good at talking through the hard stuff, the stuff often left buried, this time feels different. like it's important to have whatever conversation it is she's been avoiding. he won't push it, but he might just give it a small nudge.
he finds chloe in the living room, her face aglow with soft blue light. she looks almost ethereal. harry can't help but watch for a moment as she taps through photos, and he's just about to say something witty, perhaps, when she turns toward him, her shoulders twitching with a start. he does his best not to laugh, offering a sleepy sorry, love as she regains her composure. )
Not long, ( he says, only it comes out as more of a yawn. he stretches long arms above his head as he pads his way toward the sofa, taking a seat on the cushion next to chloe. he nudges her shoulder with his thigh. ) How long have you been sitting in the dark?
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Even if time's almost up, now. It's stretched between them long enough that if they leave it any longer, it'll start to take shape, drive a wedge into the relationship they've so carefully built. (It wouldn't threaten it but they're past pointless fights nowadays; not worth it.) This isn't the first time she's slipped out of bed since returning from India but it is the first time Harry's followed her, sat with her. She knows what that means. If he'd done it any earlier, she might've felt cornered — but not tonight. She knows what that means, too. ]
Mm, [ is her noncommital answer, leaning gently against his leg as he settles, figurine in their bedroom forgotten for now. She doesn't look up at him; instead, she studies the photo on the screen in front of them. She hasn't shown these to anyone yet, let alone Harry. ] Long enough that my foot's gone numb. [ But she doesn't make a move to get back up. Her ribs make that a little more difficult to manage without help, but she's in no rush. ] Just got caught up clearing this stuff off my phone.
[ "This stuff." Like it doesn't matter. Like they're just tourist snapshots and not a record of her following in her father's footsteps. Now she shifts to look up at him, leaning her head back against the cushions, lips curved as she teases, ]
Bit early for you, isn't it?
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for now, he shrugs, looking down at her with a kind of sleepy-but-wide-awake resignation. )
Nothing for it now. ( no point trying to go back to sleep, at least not until chloe's ready to come to bed with him. ) May as well have a cuppa. Been too long since you've had a proper one, innit?
( sipping tea on the job is for pretentious explorers who fancy themselves archaeologists but are really nothing more than posh tossers playing dress up and letting their subordinates do all the hard work. real treasure hunting is messy and dangerous — and as much as harry hates the mess, the reward outweighs the inevitability of getting absolutely filthy or possibly dead.
he had to bin half the clothes chloe brought back from india; either they were so caked with mud they were unwashable or they were littered with too many nicks to be worth repairing. these are the things they fuss about now; they rarely argue anymore, but that doesn't stop either of them from getting annoyed from time to time. there's nothing unhealthy about disagreements in a relationship — and, by now, there's almost nothing they can't compromise on. they're both stubborn, but not so much so that it becomes a detriment to every little thing. under different circumstances, syria probably would have eroded what little relationship they already had; instead, in a way, it fortified the relationship they were able to build from it. it would be maddeningly juvenile to give that up over something as petty as laundry.
he leans down to press a kiss to the top of her head, smiling softly into her hair. )
I'll put the kettle on.
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He's certainly giving her every avenue to pursue that option. She can tell he's settling in for a long night with her and the offer of tea seals the deal. She wonders, not for the first time, how things might've gone if he'd worked this job with her as planned. Would he have gotten the full story up front? Or would it have to cost nearly everything to earn it, as it had with Sam and Nadine?
That's the difference here, she realises a second later. It doesn't have to cost them anything to come clean. Not this time. It's almost — rare, in their complicated history, to have that opportunity. So by the time his lips brush the crown of her head, she knows they need to talk. She just has to figure out where to start. ]
Yeah, all right. [ Soft, a bare trace of resignation. She watches him go, absently admiring how his ass looks in his sweatpants, then calls after him: ] Bring some paracetamol back, would you?
[ Since he's making the trip across the loft. She looks back at the laptop, the glory of Halebidu, and sighs. Bloody hell. It's a lot. She continues to click through the photographs like they'll help her get her story straight, listening to Harry putter around in their kitchen, and by the time he's back with their mugs, she's landed on Belur's grand entrance. ]
Cheers, love. Hang on, I'll... [ Now she really does need to move, she's starting to ache from how she's sitting and on the sofa may be preferable to against it. Chloe takes a breath and braces herself to get up, face twisting when her injuries protest the effort. ] Ah, shit —
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you have five minutes and counting to explain and then i'm going to kick your ass.
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whatever this is, why do you get first billing
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2. rolls off the tongue better that way
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and i quote
"british beef"
what.the.fuck.
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cutter has some semblance of taste
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they're his
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It had started with his usual physiotherapist considering, then recommending, then scheduling a referral to an out of state specialist. Someone a little more experienced in what she tactfully refers to as "high impact events", someone who could offer a second set of eyes and hands in advising how to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. Rafe hadn't exactly been thrilled at the prospect; then again, he hasn't been thrilled at anything since waking up in a hospital bed in Antananarivo so it isn't really a change of pace on that front. Still, he supposes— more like Nate forcibly reminds him, stubborn as always and more than a match for him these days —it's better than scraping through on whatever cheap rotgut liquor and store brand painkillers he could get away with stashing in the desk at the office.
The economy class ticket didn't help his mood any, nor did the brief TSA-hosted interlude after lighting up the metal detector like a Christmas tree thanks to the countless screws keeping his spine in one piece. But the cherry on top of the sundae was the (unfortunately) familiar face waiting for him in the Atlanta terminal during his layover, with that same face and the mouth that goes (and goes and goes and goes) with it ending up in the seat next to him.
Rafe has experienced several different versions of hell by now but trapped next to Harry Flynn in an aisle seat on Delta Airlines, every jostle of turbulence sticking pins and needles in his back? Honestly could count as a circle all its own.
He fixes his mind on landing and the slim consolation that once the wheels are back on the ground, he'll be free and clear of Flynn for good and all— Except where he isn't. Because of course the hotel, being the cheapest option within range, is also where Flynn's set up at. And the hotel staff, being similar cheapest in terms of quality and general intelligence, screw up the booking and beg Mr. "Anderson's" pardon, it'll just be one evening (or two, tops, they swear) until another private room opens up.
This is the shit that never used to happen when he had money. He hates the thought as soon as he has it, spoiled and soft and entitled, but the hate doesn't make it any less true.
Too drained by the flight to argue or even put a decent amount of withering contempt behind his stare, Rafe just stiffly holds out a hand for the fucking key and
limpsstalks his way to the elevator. His knuckles creak white around the head of his cane as they come to the door, wait for the bellhop to finish dumping suitcases in the appropriate corner, wait for the same bellhop to stop waiting for a tip that isn't going to come this side of fucking Judgment day and to get the hint and get out. ]I am taking, [ he clips out, teeth all but clicking on each syllable from how tight his jaw clenches, ] this bed. You... are going to shut up for ten minutes.
[ Or Rafe will engage in some physio of his own, exercising his arm in beating the shit out of Flynn with this cane. ]
@chardismastic
fick mich selbst du feigling ❤️
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(She'd tried to invite them back with her in some fit of courtesy or friendship or guilt. Hard to say what. It's as unlike her as it is like her, as she is now that the edges have been worn down. But Nadine had accounts to settle with her share and Sam — Sam's been weird since Nashik and had a gig with Sully lined up before they even booked their tickets. But that's fine. The invitation's an open one. And they all need their space after everything. She sure does.)
It's been a long road home. She'd blown a small fraction of her earnings on a business class seat and a slightly longer journey back; and while Chloe ordinarily doesn't mind travelling on the cheap and rough, the beating she'd taken on this particular go-around made economy on a budget — even if it meant a shorter, direct flight — an unpleasant prospect. Harry had questioned the choice when she texted her itinerary, but she'd downplayed her aches and pains and made a quip about free in-flight champagne to play it off. (And picked up a few goodies during her layover in Dubai to make it up to him.) Truth is, she's nursing some broken ribs and a concussion, and while a few days' respite before flying did some good, long-haul is rarely kind even when one is in the best of health. So she's tried to take it easy but God, she is so bloody tired and she couldn't get back fast enough.
Between the rides to and from the airport (the traffic in London and Delhi is a nightmare), and the time it takes to transit let alone fly, she's been travelling for over 15 hours before she finds herself back in Bermondsey after a month away on the job. It's a warm and humid morning by British standards, but it's pleasant after the sweltering Indian summer. Chloe suspects Harry might still be in bed so she doesn't bother calling to say she's on the way; instead, she takes a car back to their place. It's barely 9 when she lets herself into the loft, dropping her duffel onto the table in the gear room with a groan (she'll unpack later or tomorrow), before making her way to the kitchen for a glass of water.
Christ, she aches — everywhere. And she's getting hungry. Just past lunchtime in Delhi, maybe they'll order in. She chugs her drink and pours another before scrolling through the delivery app on her cracked phone screen, leaning against the kitchen island with a grimace, but then suddenly she's greeted by — not Harry, likely still asleep despite her quiet ruckus, but — the cat, yowling to announce his presence before weaving between her legs. ]
Jimbo, you needy bugger, [ she huffs, a fond smile tugging at her lips. Chloe sets down her phone, patting the stool next to her as if to say, hop up. ] Where'd you come from, hey? C'mere if you want attention, I can't bend over. [ The tuxie obliges, leaping up for scritches, purring up a storm. ] Where's Harry, then? Just us early birds, is it? Just as well. [ She reaches for her phone again, but Jimbo bumps her hand in protest. Despite herself, Chloe laughs, low and soft. ] Alright, alright. Missed you too.
🇬🇧
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finally come round old blighty again have we?
( but he hasn't missed her or anything. )
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why not? they've kept in touch. of course they have, it's not like you can just ignore what happened between them — to them — last year. but it's... weird, too, where they're at now; honestly, chloe isn't even sure what they are or if she even wants them to be something at all. friends, she supposes. that's cleaner. easier. and she's not one to muddle things (anymore — or at least, she tries not to). ]
Something like that
Think you can squeeze me in to your busy schedule
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( and the next day and every other day, except when his physical therapist comes round a few hours twice a week. she's not due tomorrow is the point, so it won't be awkward if anything happens. (if they get carried away ... if she stays.) harry has no expectations about the nature of this little visit, but he'd be lying to himself if he thought they were just friends. maybe that's all they should be — but he's always been greedy, especially when it comes to chloe. and after everything they've been through — even as messy, complicated, and broken as it was — why shouldn't he want more? she made her choice, in the end, and he wouldn't be here if she hadn't. he thinks maybe they owe it to each other to keep giving this — this messy, complicated, broken, half-put together thing — a try. )
buckle up darling it's off to hackney with you
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