#* beta.

she's not one for dramatics, but she makes the point of waiting for the harsh chorus of old strung - up aluminum cans and scrap metal to settle down a bit before she makes an effort to say ' hello '. she's got her manners to remember, after all; even when it comes to whoever decided to spend their morning tangling up the perimeter she'd laid out around her little lean - to and helping themselves to whatever she's got inside.

       "mm, might be wrong, but. i don't think that belongs to you," ------------------- well; it's not a formal hello; it's more of a ' don't move or i'll skewer you ' gesture than anything else.

an abandoned grocery with row after row of no people and variably picked over shelves still feels surreal regardless of how many times she's done it now --------- even with her habit ( in what seems two lifetimes ago ) of frequenting the corner 24 / 7 store in the early hours of the morning where it was just her and the night crew keeping each other company.

------------- at least then she'd had those soft rock hits of the 80s and 90s to sing along to while she wandered up and down the cereal aisle.

she doesn't even bother tempting nostalgia with a trip down that aisle in particular ---------- this store has clearly been raided on more than one occasion based on what's been left behind ---------- all she's managed to find in her half of the store are some boxes of bandaids with princesses on them, a bottle of baby aspirin that had been knocked under the pharmacy shelves, and ....

she’s resisted the urge to call it a home - away - from - home in the walk up, but that’s essentially what it was -------- additional compensation from a mark to go along with the alias she got out of it. months at a time had been spent here once, sharon tasked with living someone else’s life and with someone else’s name. she didn’t even bat an eyelash when a neighbor in passing asked where irma had been all this time ---- answering ( in dutch as sweetly as she could muster for no sleep in going on sixty hours ) that she’d been called away on business.

but it had been a considerable amount of time since the last time she was here; maybe more than she realizes when the door needs an extra push of her shoulder before it would open, or the smell of stale air and dust that greets the pair makes it clear without her having to vocalize it. it’s gloomy inside with only enough sunset left to leave an orange glow on the tile floor underneath the curtains, but it keeps her from reaching out to feel along the wall for the light switch just yet.

“oost, west, thuis best," she offers with a half - smile as she drops her bag and motions for @sierra6x to pass along his; the exhaustion she’s been keeping at arm’s length this entire time finally beginning to catch up to her.

but even with the curtains all drawn and the minimal furnishings ( most of the previous owner’s items nobly went to help pay rent those first few months; arguably the one decent thing the original irma krull probably ever did -------- posthumously ) it looks a hell of a lot better than most of the places they’ve been staying on their impromptu tour of europe.

he’s already there waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs when she hits the final step outside of the met; his combination of jeans and a sweatshirt looking far more appealing right now than the cocktail dress she had to drag out of the very back of her closet earlier in the evening on short notice. she conveys as much with a jealous groan before actually saying hello --------- insisting the pair can walk and talk ( gossip is more like it, but she won’t outright call it that --- she had been attending for business, not pleasure ) about fisk’s little fundraising get together as they go now that there’s a break in the rain.

       “i hated these things then, and i hate them now.” @lostsouldier has his pick of what ‘these things’ could be ----- the ‘fundraiser’ that’s charity - washing a whole lot of money, the small talk she’d had to endure for the last few hours or the fact she’d had to stand there uncomfortably and grin and bear them both while balancing a drink in her hand and minding her tongue. ( the only reason she’d gotten so comfortable with it back in hightown was sheer repetition -------- that and her survival instinct running on high alert nonstop for more than half a decade. )

the reflections of traffic lights and neon scattered and diffused on the wet pavement is apparently one of those universal things, she notices as they walk along --------- they looks the same here as it did half a world away, and she has to go and catch herself mentally before she refers to that other place as home out of habit. two large raindrops landing square on her forehead interrupt her story about her conversation with one of fisk’s staff ( and the parsley stuck in his teeth ) eliciting an annoyed “shit,” from her as she glances up at the black - grey sky of manhattan and gets greeted with another handful of drops on her face for her trouble. “so much for being dry.”

he’s already proven to be just as stubborn as she is enough times for it not to come as a surprise that the moment the skies once again fully open up he’s fussing with his jacket in an attempt to keep her dry ---------- nor should it be one for him that she fully intends to spend the handful of blocks they still have to walk towards the subway station on 86th protesting the gesture and trying to convince him to put his coat back on. ( but she will at least concede to herself that the heels she’d chosen for the night were a poor choice ------ just another reason why she never wears them unless absolutely necessary. but barefoot on the subway is too far, even for her. )

when they reach the staircase and he still hasn’t left her side, arms outstretched over her head while she pauses to rummage through her bag for her metrocard, she debates darting back into the rain just to be difficult.

the ready room is a master class in duality -------------------- there's an electric quality to the air; nerves and excitement hang over the rows and rows of fold - out chairs in absolute silence ( save for the occasional announcement over the PA system, of course; and the cheers from the unseen crowd just through that door. )

she's managed to get an entire row of seats to herself, ample space to sit with her ears covered by headphones and let her music play a little louder than she normally would, eyes closed while she attempts to visualize the 5154d she's got ahead of her in the next group. a familiar ping cuts in, momentarily pausing her music; and while she knows she should just ignore whatever the message is until afterward, curiosity gets the better of her knowing it's from @razorfst----- he might be halfway around the world in the middle of a season of his own, but it never seems to stop him from making her feel like it's just a little bit closer.

so when she goes to open her messages, she expects a little pep talk; or words of encouragement -------------- but what waits for her instead is something else entirely. ( not that she's complaining; nor is she really surprised. he's just got some pretty spectacular timing, whether it's intended or not. ) there's a squeak when she opens the attachments one at a time; allowing herself a moment to grin before she texts back.

[ TODAY 1:29pm ] ＩＭＧ ３９２３．ＪＰＧ [ TODAY 1:30pm ] ＩＭＧ ３９２４．ＪＰＧ

she’s far better at asking questions than she is answering them -------------- blame it on all those years working for an organization that held acquiring information in such high regard. and she was good at getting what she needed; quick, precise, and dependable. it was a skillset that kept her both in high demand and in fury’s good graces because she was useful. that was, of course, until she wasn’t anymore. and even now, in this walk of life, she’s still good at getting information. she still excels in getting what she came for and getting back out again relatively unscathed. but offering up something in return ------------ does she even know how to do that?

the lines on his upturned palm she keeps tracing as it sits in her lap aren’t being very helpful past giving her a place to focus on that don’t involve his eyes looking back at her.

not helping the matter is being stricken tongue - tied and silent now that @killsboogeyman has gone and beaten her to vocalizing a question she’s asked herself in the past when he’s come around plenty of times, but somehow always managed to talk herself out of a real answer. ‘ does this mean something ? ’ this ... this situation they find themselves in. them. that wish that’s always on the tip of her tongue when she sees him but never manages to get any further than that; the one that seems to feel more and more justified with every reunion they’ve had in a business where paths that stay parallel tend to fair so much better than the ones that cross. ( maybe that’s the sign she needs to finally acknowledge --------- the fact they keep finding their way into each other’s lives and surviving. )

now isn’t a time to play coy, or give a light - as - air answer to a question that is anything but. ( not that she ever has to question if john’s being serious about something --------- he has his moments where another side of him peeks through the cracks of the exterior he’s fashioned for himself, but more often than not she’s the one doing the teasing for the both of them. )

she wasn’t one to do much in the way of business here anymore ---- afterlife had it’s place in her history, just like it did for most of the fixers in this city; there had been plenty of nights spent under the sickly green lighting when she had an extra job or two that needed attention, and six ------- it still gets a laugh out of her and a knowing glance across their table when someone starts bitching at the bar about the lack of alcohol in the drink they just ordered. so while there’s an overwhelming level of comfort when it came to working her magic back on her own turf ( under @sierra6x’s ever - attentive eye ); it still was necessary to at least appear every now and again to keep that built - up reputation fresh and scatter a few higher - ended jobs to see who’s biting.

the full series of events that had gotten her here --- here being propped up on some boxes just outside a set of sliding doors near the back, just her and six — were still hazy at best. she remembers an argument starting on the far side of their usual booth near the bar, someone railing about not being paid while the counterclaim of doing poor work gets you poor pay slowly drowning out the music overhead before some of rogue’s men swoop in to break things up. she remembers six’s hand wrapping around her arm and telling her it was time to go while pulling her in the opposite direction before bottles ( or bullets and fists ) started flying; but somewhere along the way they’d been separated --- her fault? had she forgotten something back at the booth? the ringing in her ears and the way the side of her head and face throbs were pretty good hints that she’d managed to catch a solid hit before ending up on the floor. ( a rogue elbow? handgun grip? whatever it was that took her down momentarily, it still hurt like hell. )

“talk to me.” his voice is low, but she can hear him clearly over the muffled shouts and distant bassline that continues to thump along on the other side of the doors, and the hand cradling her chin is gentle as he guides her to turn her head to the side. her gaze, while still a little fuzzy despite her optics being fully functional, makes an effort to stay fixed on him even if it’s only in her peripherals. “i’ll live, i promise,” it isn’t as if she hasn’t seen this look on his face before. still, there’s far less neutrality in how he analyzes her than some no - name off the street looking for some fast cash. a move a little too far for her neck’s liking has her wincing briefly with a hiss of exhaled breath before he’s leading her back in the opposite direction. she catches his wrist before he can attempt to check the other side of her head ---- the one with the sharp pain and bruised cheekbone that makes her more and more thankful for how shitty the lighting is out here ---- hoping to keep his hand still enough to buy enough time to pull herself together and avoid playing the ‘ repeat after me ’ game that tends to follow.

“it’s not bad,” at least she can’t see the full extent of the concern on his face with her half - hearted attempt at reassurance -------- an appreciation she’s certain he doesn’t share considering he’s the one attempting to check her over, but she avoids looking for visual confirmation of her hunch for now; letting the giant fans on the far wall steal her attention away for a few blinks worth of time. ( as if she needs to be reminded by a wall of exhaust fans that they’re sitting in the back of a decommissioned morgue. )