Laura said alright and thank you and talk to you soon, then lowered the phone and set it on the kitchen table. For a long moment, she did nothing but stare at the wood grain beneath her fingertips. She didnât chase any particular thought but let it come to her, the way sheâd been trained to. Sheâd spent too many years in analysis to miss a pattern once it revealed itself.
She replayed the conversation, this time listening for the absences. Maria hadnât denied Clintâs competence or questioned Natashaâs value. She hadnât hinted at failure, insubordination, or poor performance. The truth was, Delta hadnât been struggling. It had been thriving.
That was when Laura reached for the mental compartments she relied on. One box sat there with a familiar warning attached:Â Do Not Open Unless Absolutely Necessary.
She thought of the way Natashaâs name constantly slipped into conversationânot fondly, not flirtatiously, but with a kind of intimacy that just didnât require ornament. She thought of the half-second freeze when sheâd asked if Natasha had done something. Of Clint saying weâre good instead of itâs over. She thought of Maria Hill's choice of words: two operatives' Personal Dynamics.
The conclusion settled in Lauraâs chest with an odd, hollow certainty. Maria hadnât ended Strike Team Delta because it was inefficient. Sheâd ended it because it was unsustainable.
Laura stood and crossed to the sink, turning on the tap just to give her hands something to do. She wasnât angry, at least not yet. Anger required energy, and right now all she felt was tired, in the bone-deep way that came from holding too many competing truths at once.
But suspicion was one thing. Evidence was another. And she had none of that yet.
Still, once the thought had lodged, it refused to stay abstract.
She went down the hall to the bedroom, where Clintâs duffel still sat exactly where heâd dropped it, half open, untouched. After a momentâs hesitation, she lifted it onto the bed and unzipped it the rest of the way. She told herself she was just tidying. She wasnât looking for proof. She told herself that too.
She picked through his dirty clothes, checked pockets and receipts, but apart from a bent boarding pass and some spare change, his work bag yielded nothing. When she picked up one of his shirts, she paused, then pressed it briefly to her face before she could talk herself out of it. It smelt solely of sweat and Clint, no unfamiliar scent, no trace of someone else.
The moment stretched, then collapsed under its own weight.
The absurdity of what she was doing finally caught up with her. Even if something had been happeningâwhich it wasnâtâthey were both professionals, people trained to erase themselves, to leave no trail behind. If there were secrets, they wouldnât be tucked into a duffel bag like a careless confession.
What had she been expecting, exactly? A forgotten note? Lipstick on fabric? Lingerie that wasnât hers?
Clint had lied beforeâto enemies, to superiors, to people who deserved it. But to her? She needed to believe he wouldnât. Because the alternative meant admitting she might have built her life on a fault line sheâd chosen not to see.
Laura zipped the bag closed.
Maybe it had been nothing more than a mistake. A line nudged under pressure, then stepped back from before it did any real damage. People were allowed to misstep, werenât they? And if she was wrongâif this was just her analyst brain assembling patterns out of noiseâthen opening that box completely would only destroy something that still worked. The most likely explanation, statistically speaking, was that nothing had happened at all.
So for now, she chose belief.
Laura shut the box again, slid it back into its familiar place, and told herselfâfirmlyâthat Clint wasnât cheating.
Ao3
