Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Damian Desmond followed the red-haired agent into the bullpen of WISE headquarters, his eye twitching and hair almost certainly a mess. A bag over my head? Really? What is this, the Secret Police? I get my father was basically your nemesis, but what did I do? I’m laying myself at your feet here for crying out loud!

He scanned the room with a haughty expression, observing the workers scattered amongst the desks as he passed by. Even as the employees milled about nonchalantly, apparently consumed with their own tasks, Damian had the distinct feeling that he was being watched by each and every one of them. Better get used to that. He focused his attention on the agent leading him to…Huh, wonder where he’s taking me.

Jeez, how old is this guy? I’m one to talk about being a little young for the job, but this kid can’t be any older than 19. Please don’t tell me I’m gonna be working with teenagers… 

It was dawning on Damian that he knew shockingly little about his current situation. Everything after dashing out of Parliament to the nearest payphone and punching in the phone number from the crumpled, smudged business card had been a blur.

Well, up until the bag went over his head; that sobered him up pretty quick.

The bullpen narrowed into a hallway lined with windowless doors. As the gravity of his decision weighed on him, Damian’s breathing hitched, his hand instinctually clutching at his lapel just above his heart.

Get it together, Desmond, not again today. They’re watching your every move…Oh, god…

He started counting his breaths and loosened the grip on his jacket. Well that’s wrinkled…

His guide came to a stop in front of one of the last doors in the hallway. “H-here we are, Mr.—I-I mean, Lord Desmond,” he stuttered, opening the door to what was clearly an interrogation room. Damian was oddly comforted by the sight.

‘Cause the bag didn’t quite convey the warmth they’re clearly going for, he thought wryly. At least I know it’s all business.

He strode past his escort and took a seat in one of the metal chairs, back ramrod straight and staring stonily at his reflection in the two-way mirror. The young agent shot Damian a concerned look before closing the door behind him.

Finally alone (or at least able to trick himself into feeling that way), Damian raggedly exhaled. The legs of his chair screeched along the tile floor as they were pushed away from the table and he allowed himself to slouch. His heart was pounding. He needed to get his breathing back under control before—

The doorknob turned. Damian shot back up, settling for shallow, even breaths that he hoped would lower his heart rate. Good enough. Here we go.

His jaw dropped as Embassy Secretary Sylvia Sherwood walked through the door, all his progress towards composure flying out the window.

She smiled softly at him. “Good evening, Lord Desmond.”

Damian opened his mouth to respond, inhaling too sharply and sending spittle directly into the back of his throat; he descended into a coughing fit. Secretary Sherwood watched him for a moment before pulling out her chair and taking a seat. She rested a file on the table in front of her, then reached into her jacket and offered Damian her handkerchief.

He was already red from his wheezing but somehow flushed further. We’re really nailing it, aren’t we? He thought dejectedly as he waved his hand to decline, fishing his own handkerchief from his pocket and covering his mouth. The secretary nodded and muttered into her sleeve, “Two glasses of water, room 4H.”

Between diaphragm spasms, Damian croaked, “Nice to see you again, ‘Secretary Sherwood.’ Can’t believe I didn’t recognize your signature bag-over-the-head diplomacy.”

“When we’re here please refer to me as Handler, Lord Desmond,” she replied evenly. Damian felt his back straighten unconsciously at the authority in her tone, followed immediately by annoyance flooding his body.

Dammit, Damian, don’t let her get the best of you! He chided himself, defiantly slouching. Calm down. At that moment, there was a light knock on the door. At Sherw-Handler’s cue, an agent entered holding a tray with their water. The delivery and exit gave Damian a few extra seconds to collect himself; he settled on a disdainful look, arms crossed.

“Alright, ‘Handler’, although you guys already seem to know everything, such as the most opportune time to abduct me along my evening commute,” he said with a hint of venom, “I’d say it’s still safe to assume you’re wondering how I got your number.” He finished his statement with a petulant glare. That’s right, lady. I’ve got a few cards on this side of the table myself.

Handler crossed her legs and rested her elbows on the table, steepling her fingers. “Not at all, actually. I know how careless Twilight got in the end,” she stated bluntly.

Damian winced, his eye twitching. So much for that. She even knew I’d recognize his codename.

She leaned towards Damian, balancing her chin on her fingertips. “I would, however, like to know what you have to tell me that’s worth marching into this wolf’s den.”

Damian narrowed his eyes further before breaking eye contact, opting to glare at the baseboards. “There have been…whispers.” His arms slowly sagged into his lap, and he glanced back up at Handler, knowing any attempts to conceal the anxiety bubbling up inside him would be in vain. “I’m sure you know, but… the National Unity Party never really dissolved, they’ve just laid low. They’ve taken a massive hit in popularity, but there are still Senators in Parliament who hold the same beliefs and share a hope that my—“ Damian suddenly broke off, swallowing thickly.  He shakily reached for his glass of water, clutching it near his chest but not taking a drink. “They want my father to come back. If that can’t happen, they’d like Demetrius to step up as the new head of the party. He seems…willing, so I think there’s a real risk of them rebuilding and inciting pro-war sentiment.”

“And just how are you so sure of all of this?” Handler cut in. “For you to conveniently march in here, offer me all this intel on a silver platter—shouldn’t I just assume you're a National Unity plant?” Her eyes were cold and unwavering. “I’m aware that, at least publicly, you’ve thrown your lot in with the Free Democratic Party, which makes this all the more suspicious; I know a thing or two about having a cover, Lord Desmond.” She flipped open the file on the table. Damian saw lengthy reports, some with photos paperclipped to the corner, their pages filled front and back. 

Whoa, was that thing that big when she first pulled it out? Damian thought as he eyed the file uneasily, a bead of sweat forming on his forehead as he watched his life shuffled in front of him like an oversized deck of cards. His mind nervously babbled as his grip on the water glass tightened. Wait a sec, was that our group photo from orientation back in year one? There’s no way…maybe it just pulls as general info, yeah. They have every person in the country’s grade school photos stashed here, I’m sure.

“For instance,” Handler began after settling on a bundle of pages with a photo of his friend Emile paperclipped to the top right corner. “Emile Elman, twenty-eight. Now Vice President of Elman Investments.” She theatrically tapped her chin with her forefinger. “Elman Investments…Weren’t they accused of not publicly disclosing donations to your father’s campaign, as well as funding far-right media outlets during and after the war? Says here you get lunch with him every Thursday.”

Damian stared slackjawed at Handler. W-what is she talking about? Far-right media? There’s no way…Emile’s dad must have been an asshole too. But he wouldn’t…would he? He slumped forward in his chair, lacking the energy for pretense. What about…not Ewen? Don't tell me the heir to a fast food empire could somehow be tangled up in shifty politics, too?!

Handler clicked her tongue, “As expected.” She leaned back in her chair, hands folded in her lap. “I’m going to cut to the chase, Lord Desmond. My surprise that you’re here, knowing what you know, is due to the fact I thought the agency already had a clear picture of your involvement in everything, or that is, to say, your lack thereof. You and your friends are completely clean, I’m well aware.” She punctuated this with a sweep of her fingers over his extensive dossier. “Or at least, you appear to be. Obviously, you’ve slipped something past us, and I’d like to know what and how.”

Damian sighed and set his water back on the table, feeling drained.

“My brother and I were never close, but I think now that my father is out of the picture—" 

Handler raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t therapy, kid.”

“No, just…” He paused, fingertips pressed into his forehead, trying to find the right words. “I don’t fully understand everything that happened back then. All I know is that I was somehow involved in the events leading to his arrest. And…I think Demetrius knows it, too.” Damian swallowed hard again, then continued. “We’ve never discussed it, but he seemed…glad. And almost like he was proud I may have had a hand in it. His behavior towards me changed overnight.”

Handler interjected. “And how, exactly, is a stirring tale of brotherly love of any interest to WISE?”

“No, you don’t understand, it’s not about that." Damian stared down at his hands, now clasped tightly in his lap. “It’s great, obviously, and all I ever wanted as a kid but…it’s bled into my work, recently.” Damian could feel the sweat collecting between his palms. “I’m assuming you have limited eyes inside Parliament? Demetrius spends a lot of time there. A few visits here and there isn’t unusual for the headmaster of Eden, or so I’m told, so I’ve been chalking it up to that over the last year or so since he was appointed, but…” Damian fidgeted in his seat. “Three weeks ago, he came by and dragged me into a meeting I was told was ‘unofficial and off-the-record’. The other Senators there were all ones I know were sympathetic to the N.U.P. at some point in their career.” 

Damian reached again for his water, his mouth distractingly dry. “I’ve been dragged into a room with a bunch of far-right fat cats at least twice since, never the same time or place. They’re obviously meeting at least weekly, and I get the feeling it started long before I was brought into the picture. I’ve learned a lot in a short amount of time, and…” His voice faltered, so Damian finally took a sip, then he set his glass back down. “I would rather not see certain things come to fruition, that’s all.”

Damian straightened his back. This is it, just spit it out. “I’ll admit, there’s not much intel I have at this time, but I’m confident I’m perfectly positioned to be a double agent within the National Unity Party.”

Handler’s eyebrows flew up into the brim of her hat. “Lord Desmond, we don’t take just anyone as an informant, let alone wave a wand and make them a full-blown agent based purely on the chance they might overhear something.”

Damian inhaled deeply through his nose. I’m the youngest Senator elected to Parliament since ’48 for a reason, I need to make her see. “I completely understand your hesitation due to my lack of espionage experience. However, I’m in a uniquely effective position among my brother and his peers,” he began, feeding off a sudden burst of confidence. “They don’t take me seriously. At all. I’m just a tag-along to my father and brother. And a useless one, at that,” he added with a chuckle. “Now, while I understand how that sounds, you’d be surprised at how loose lips become when no one thinks you’re a threat or an asset; just that, at best, you’re ‘not incompetent’.” Damian relaxed as he slipped into his element, picturing himself on the debate floor.

“You mentioned you’ve read about my career, and you’d have to be blind to not see how meticulously I’ve curated my public image,” he pressed on. “I aligned with a centrist party for election by design, distancing myself from my father’s more extreme ideology. It has left room to express any support for my father quietly, in the appropriate circles, but publicly garner support on both sides of the fence. You criticize my friendship with Emile, but with absolutely no knowledge of his company’s connection to my father’s campaign, I have a strong foothold with a high-ranking executive-the goddamn heir! Who—" Damian’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat, taking a moment to reset his composure after that small outburst. “Who I know for a fact genuinely believes I’d do anything to see my father freed.

“It hasn’t even been three months since I was elected, and Demetrius already wants me involved. I’ve always moved in the right social circles, but now I even have the perfect job.” Damian clasped his hands and rested them on the table, leaning towards the agent across from him. “As much as you wish I didn’t know it, there was a time when a connection to me was seen as advantageous, and despite knowing what I know, I’ve kept my mouth shut for the last 11 years. What’s changed? Why not work with me now, with my full cooperation? I ask you, please consider this.”

The curtain falls. Damian Desmond, we’ve done it again. He fought back a smirk; it’d interfere with his hold-for-applause pose (piercing gaze to the audience, with his right hand held up in a loose fist). Any second now…it’ll sink in…

While Handler appeared a bit thoughtful, and Damian had even caught her jotting down a few notes during his impassioned plea, she didn’t seem particularly moved. The bead of sweat returned to his forehead as he let his hand fall to the tabletop with a dull thud. Dammit, this lady’s tough to read.

“Lord Desmond,” Handler said suddenly, Damian jolting in surprise, “You say you’ve convinced your friends that you don’t wish for your father to be in prison. How are you going to convince me that you do want him there?”

Damian’s expression darkened as he was brought back to a gloomy day at his childhood home. He could see the foyer, bright blood staining marble steps, his mother’s body slumped against the massive family portrait hung above the stairs’ landing. He could still feel the vice-like grip of a soft hand as it dragged him through the manor, hear her panicked breaths, see her pink hair bouncing against her back as she ran, ran, ran…

He exhaled, then slowly raised his eyes to meet Handler’s gaze. “Were you there that day?” 

She shook her head. Damian’s eyes dropped back to the tabletop.

“Up until that day, my father was the most important person in the world to me. By the end of it, I realized he sees everyone around him as dirt, family’s no exception.” Damian’s right hand had balled into a fist on the countertop, his knuckles turning white. “He was never fit to be a father, let alone lead a nation. I’ll die before I become like him, and he can rot in hell for all I care.” Both of his hands were shaking as he glared daggers down at the table.

The two sat in silence for a bit, Handler carefully regarding the young man in front of her.

“Well,” she said, standing abruptly. “We’ll be taking what you’ve brought to us into consideration. Perhaps, soon, I’ll be able to thank you for your call. Any final remarks?”

Damian blinked, his rage rapidly extinguishing in surprise. “Ah, no? I believe that covered everything.”

“Perfect.” She slammed his file shut and snapped her fingers.

For the second time that day, he didn’t anticipate the bag slipping over his head. 

=================================

Sylvia could hear Damian’s protests echo down the hall as she stood alone in the interrogation room. She rested her hands on the back of her chair, leaning into it and staring down at the file on the table. She reached forward and gently re-opened it, flipping through the papers, searching.

Eventually, she found it: A photo of a six-year-old Damian sitting on the steps to his dorm at Eden Academy, staring sulkily at a young girl with pink hair laughing with her friend. Sylvia straightened up, turned, and knocked on the two-way mirror behind her.

“Call in Starlight. It’s time.”

Chapter Text

The steel door of the bunker flung open, smacking into the wall as a flash of pink darted across the threshold. The force of the slam reverberated through the walls, knocking down the room’s only decoration: A small, poorly done painting of a purple flower.

“Jesus, Starlight,” a man grumbled, trailing in after. “Can’t you take it down a notch?”

“Nope!” Anya chirped. “You know better than to ask me that.” She hadn’t stopped moving since entering the room, going straight to her cot and snatching a worn leather suitcase from underneath. She tossed it open on the covers and began haphazardly grabbing belongings from the nightstand, her footlocker, and anywhere else within arm’s reach and hurling them inside.

The man (Codename: Jupiter) sighed, trudging into the kitchenette at the back of the bunker. He slowly started to assemble the electric kettle and two chipped mugs that typically comprised the WISE agents’ morning ritual. “Well, transport back to HQ isn’t going to be here for a few hours still, so I suggest you conserve your energy.” He held the kettle under the faucet and turned on the water, raising his voice slightly. “Sit down, have some coffee.”

Anya continued at her breakneck pace, oblivious to his words. She couldn’t stop. She was too excited. This mission’s gotta be important if they’re calling me back a whole month early! If it wasn’t for stupid Jupiter at the stupid Gala… She recalled the evening with a shudder. I can’t stand another day hiding in the bushes in the middle of nowhere. I’m ready for the real action, like—oh! What if it’s my first deep-cover assignment?

Anya brought her hands to her cheeks (she had Chimaera in one hand and a taser in the other) and let out a soft squeal in excitement. I could be just like Papa! She gasped, then squealed again. I might finally be able to see them! 

Ok, the second I’m in Berlint and done with Handler I’m doing a broad check of prior known aliases, she resumed her frantic packing, I know I have that file of my old findings around here somewhere…ugh, it’s been so long since I’ve been able to do any research, I don’t even know where to—

A chill suddenly ran down Anya’s back, one she’d grown accustomed to during her days at Eden, caused by eyes boring into the back of her skull. More often than not, it heralded the owner of the eyes’ thoughts being amplified in her head.

I can’t believe I’m gonna be stuck out here without her.

Anya immediately slammed her mental walls down. As much as she loved her power (and liberally applied it in her work), she’d devoted a lot of time and energy to no longer violating the privacy of the people close to her. 

Her movements slowed. She placed her most recent hasty acquisitions, a hairbrush in her left hand and a grappling hook pistol in her right, carefully atop the disorganized pile growing in her suitcase. She turned towards Jupiter, now seated at their barely-big-enough-for-two dining table, the kettle heating up on the countertop.

“Oh, uh, sorry…did you say coffee? Yeah, sure, why not.” She quietly crossed the room and sat in the opposite chair. “You’re right, they said my relief wouldn’t be here till 2300.” Anya eyed Jupiter, hoping her wording got the message across.

He won’t be all by himself, but…I don’t blame him. I’d be pissed, Anya thought ruefully. Like, what’s the point of keeping him out here anymore? We all know this was just Handler’s funny idea of a time-out.

Jupiter simply hummed in response; his tired gaze was fixed to a spot on the floor.

Yeah, that’s gotta be why he’s upset. Watching her partner, exhaustion seeped into Anya’s bones. She slumped back in her chair, roughly tugging at the elastic holding her hair in a tight bun. “Jeez, what are we even watching these guys for? They’re just creeps with nothing better to do than harass the girls in town all day…” Jupiter snorted as she shook her hair free, rubbing at her sore scalp.

“I’ve told you before, all men are pigs,” he droned airily, slinging an arm around the back of his chair.

The kettle’s sharp whistle pierced the air. Jupiter dramatically tossed his head back towards it with a quiet, “Ugh,” before standing abruptly from his chair. Anya giggled. He lolled his head over to pout at her. “Can’t you make the coffee for once?”

“This was literally your idea,” she laughed. “Plus, I hate that crap. I don’t understand why someone would subject themself to that every morning, let alone twice in one day.”

Jupiter scoffed as he spooned the instant grounds into each mug. “Consistency? Boredom? A serious caffeine addiction?” He listed with a lilt and gesture of his utensil.

“Gee, you make drinking dirt water sound like such a dream,” Anya said dryly. “I’ll stick with cocoa.”

“Hate to break it to you, Starlight,” Jupiter tutted, setting a mug and saucer in front of her with a smirk. “We get no such luxuries out here in the boonies.”

“Well, now I know the first thing I’m doing when I get back to Berlint,” she cheekily replied.

Jupiter froze, his face falling. He straightened back up slowly, sighing as he turned to retrieve his own mug. “Yeah, bet you’re real excited.”

Dang it, what’d I have to go and say that for? Anya frowned at Jupiter’s back, quickly averting her gaze before he returned to the table. He plopped into his chair and resumed staring at the floor, coffee untouched.

The temptation to read his thoughts was overwhelming, but Anya remained strong. Would I even want to know what’s going through his head right now? she thought, thinking back to when they’d first met as she nursed her drink.

=================================

A twenty-one-year-old Anya marched triumphantly down the narrow hallway towards Handler’s office. Without an ounce of hesitation, she threw the door open, stepped inside, took a deep breath, and opened her mouth to say—

Handler didn’t even glance up from her papers. “You know, protocol states you should knock. Aren’t you fresh out of training? A bit early to be forgetting that.”

Anya deflated. She’d been admonished plenty over the last twelve weeks for consistently forgetting those small details of rank and etiquette. At least, they were small details to her; the number of extra pushups she’d been doing almost daily suggested WISE took them quite seriously.

“Eh-heh, sorry, Handler…” she sheepishly apologized, pulling the door gently closed behind her and taking her place at attention in front of Handler’s desk. As her commanding officer took her time organizing the numerous papers splayed across its surface, Anya allowed her gaze to drift to the crown of the woman’s head. The familiar light tingle in the same spot on her own head kicked in immediately.

I should have known she would be this…enthusiastic, Handler thought. She pulled out a thick file from a drawer and laid it open on her desktop. She’s wanted this since she was a kid. But these numbers… Anya couldn’t see the woman’s face underneath her wide-brimmed hat, but she sensed a hint of a dejection in her thoughts. She’s going to be disappointed, but where else on earth could I possibly send an agent with so little self-control? Hopefully Jupiter whips her into shape. Lord knows she’ll give him a run for his money…

Anya was unfazed at the harsh thoughts about her performance but balked at the unfamiliar codename. Jupiter, Jupiter…who the heck is that? I’ve never even heard of that guy!

She began to feel a hint of doubt. Am I already so bad of an agent that I’m getting stuck with some nobody? Maybe if she knew I can—

Handler cleared her throat, and Anya’s eyes snapped back to the wall behind the desk.

“At ease, agent Starlight.” Hearing the codename she’d received at graduation made Anya’s chest puff with pride, even as she relaxed her stance. Handler continued, “Your mentor is on his way. You’ll be on a train headed towards your assignment with him first thing tomorrow, so you’d better enjoy this afternoon to yourself while it lasts; it’ll be close quarters from here on out.”

Anya gave an energetic salute. “Yes, ma’am, Handler, sir!” Her CO’s eye twitched.

“I have to mention, Starlight…” Handler’s speech became uncharacteristically hesitant, her fingers drumming on the desktop. “The details of Operation Strix were kept under tight wraps, and anyone who’s aware of your identity as Anya Forger knows not to mention that name or anything about your involvement, period. It was completely expunged from your personnel file, so as far as your new partner knows, you’re a fresh recruit like any other.” She paused to remove her glasses, wiping the lenses with her jacket before replacing them on the bridge of her nose.

A finger was suddenly jabbed at Anya as Handler gave her a hard look, sending a tremor through the new recruit’s body.

“You need to be CAREFUL, agent Starlight,” Handler snapped. “I’ve seen the notes on your performance reviews from training: ‘general emotional volatility,’ with every cited incident basically identical.” The Fullmetal Lady planted her hands on the desk and slowly rose, never breaking her gaze off Anya (the young woman was now sweating bullets). “I understand that there have been…mixed reactions to your father’s success with Strix and his sudden departure, but you can’t let other agents’ comments get to you.” Handler stepped around her desk, stopping in front of the bundle of nerves that was once a confident Anya Forger.

“You’re a new recruit. You don’t know him, because there’s no way you could. When you hear about him, you should be curious, but largely aloof. Controlling your emotions this way is essential to being an effective spy, Starlight.”

Handler rested a hand on Anya’s shoulder, her thoughts leaking into Anya’s mind. I can’t believe how much she’s grown… “If you can overcome this weakness, I’m sure you’ll turn out to be as fine an agent as your fa—"

Three steady knocks on the door echoed through the room.

Handler cleared her throat, hand dropping from Anya’s shoulder. “Enter,” she called out, returning to her seat behind her desk.

Anya snapped her gaze back to the drably painted brick wall, her arms resting stiffly against her lower back. She heard the door open and click shut, then rapid footsteps approaching from behind. They ceased just to her left.

“Good afternoon, Handler,” she heard a man say, and snuck a peek. A mop of dirty blonde hair was inclined at a slight bow at her side.

“At ease, agent Jupiter. This is agent Starlight, your new protégé,” Handler said with a gesture toward Anya.

She felt him shift towards her. “A pleasure, Starlight.”

Anya fixed a smile on her face and spun to face her new partner, staring right into his muddy, brown eyes.

Hm, don’t really know what I expected. Physical aptitude was the only portion of training she didn’t completely bomb, but she’s such a tiny little thing, Jupiter’s voice immediately rang through Anya’s mind, nearly shocking the smile from her face.

“P-pleasure’s all mine, agent Jupiter,” she stammered out after a brief delay, attempting to puff herself up as she gripped his extended hand and gave it a single, firm shake. The direct contact gave his thoughts an even stronger boost.

Ugh, her hand’s all sweaty, gross. Jupiter’s placid smile sharply contrasted with the sardonic tone of his thoughts. Of course I get stuck with the runt of the litter, and a stupid runt, at that. A thousand dalc says this is Eclipse’s doing. I swear, you mouth off one time to the wrong self-important asshole…

She abruptly released her grasp on Jupiter’s hand, desperate for a reprieve from the sudden flood of negative thoughts. She could feel the backs of her eyes prick as she self-consciously wiped her hands on her trousers. Her body was tense as she whipped back around to face Handler, who was watching her with raised eyebrows. 

I hope I didn’t miscalculate… her CO was thinking. Is she ready for this?

Anya gulped. Get it together, Forger. You can do this, even if he seems like a jerk. Her back straightened as she filled with resolve. Damian had way better insults than this clown, this’ll be a piece of cake.

“Alright, you’ve met.” Handler looked down at her desk, suddenly seeming disinterested. It’s out of my hands now… Anya heard echo dully through her head. “Jupiter, I expect you to fill her in on the details from our briefing earlier this week. Train leaves for Frigis at 0600. You’re both dismissed.”

Anya gave another strong salute; Jupiter simply inclined his head again, hand over his chest. He snuck her a glance, his thoughts forcing their way back into her mind: What a dolt, it’s not like we’re in the army…

 Anya abruptly turned to the door, desperate to get out of there without even a glance in Jupiter’s direction.

=================================

Anya smiled fondly into her mug at the memory. He was such an asshole. After a final sip, she set her cup back on its saucer and slowly rose to her feet.

Jupiter started at the movement in his periphery, as though he’d been lost in his own thoughts, then sighed and eased back into his chair. “Shoulda known you couldn’t even stop for ten minutes. Go on, get out of here,” he intoned with a wave of his hand. Anya grinned, turning on her heel and rushing into their tiny bathroom to gather her toiletries. Hopefully I won’t be sharing a bathroom with a man on my new assignment, yeesh. Jupiter’s an okay guy but he’s still kinda gross; I mean, how hard is it to rinse your beard hair out of the sink? Or not leave your underwear on the floor? I wonder what my mission will be…I hope I get to stay in Berlint! It’d be nice to live close to Eden, or maybe even—

Jupiter stared at the bathroom doorway as the sounds of his partner tearing it to shreds wafted out, before standing and shuffling over to his cot. The painting knocked from the wall by Starlight’s entrance currently rested on its green, threadbare sheets. He picked it up and walked it over to Starlight’s cot against the opposite wall, gently lowering it into her overflowing suitcase.

“Really, Star? It looks bad enough in here. And why does it have to be on my side of the room?” Jupiter whined as he watched his partner adjust and readjust the small frame above his bed (he knew he should have stopped her when the hammer and nails came out).

“Easier to see from my side of the room, duh,” she responded, hopping down and taking a step back to admire the still-crooked artwork. She looked at him over her shoulder with a flip of her soft, pink hair. “I’m doing you a favor, too—I made this with my own two hands, with LOVE. It’ll rain down on you while you sleep.”

Jupiter’s face flushed at the memory, just like it had that day, and his grip on the painting tightened. He glanced at his partner, ensuring she was still obliviously occupied with collecting her bathroom belongings, before briskly walking the frame back over to his cot and stashing it under his pillow.

She’s so scatterbrained that I doubt she’ll even notice it’s gone. What’s the harm in keeping one memento?

Chapter Text

Master Damian has been going on a peculiar number of walks lately, Jeeves thought as he gazed out the window, idly drying a cereal bowl with a teal dish towel. He’s gone out every night for over a week…I wonder if it has anything to do with…

“Master Damian!” Jeeves exclaimed as the front door to the apartment flung open, the young Master’s body toppling in after. 

“Jeeeeeves,” Damian groaned, faceplanted. “Why are you always here?” He propped himself up onto his forearms, forehead red from smacking on the hardwood. “Aren’t they paying you to be at the manor? And don’t call me that…”

“Apologies, sir,” Jeeves replied with a tiny bow. Damian rolled his eyes, pushing himself onto his knees and attempting to stand. Jeeves rushed over to help. He supported Damian along one side as he groaned and limped over to the couch. They gingerly lowered him onto the plush seat, his head flopping back over the top of the cushion as he let his entire weight sink in.

“What could have possibly happened to put you in such a state?” Jeeves fretted, rushing into the kitchen and tearing open the cupboard. “Should I get you water? An aspirin?” Damian didn’t bother to look up or respond; he knew it was a rhetorical question and the man was already preparing both.

“You don’t appear to be injured,” Jeeves continued as he carried over the full glass and bottle of pills. “Have you been eating well, and getting enough sleep? It’s possible you’re suffering from fatigue…”

Damian waved a hand in a plea for silence, the other forearm tossed over his eyes. Jeeves sighed and pressed the pills into Damian’s waving hand, then set the water glass onto the coffee table with a pronounced thud. “Well, if that will be all, sir, I’ll take my leave.”

Jeeves walked towards the exit, stopping to open a small closet by the front door. As he finished retrieving his hat and coat from inside, he heard a feeble voice call out from the couch. “Jeeves…” 

“Yes, Master Damian?”

“Thank you… and goodnight.”

“Goodnight, sir.”

Jeeves sighed and shook his head, placing the bowl into the cupboard and moving on to the next dish. He returned to his spot by the window, looking out and seeing Damian on the sidewalk. Ah, he’s back. He looks upset...

I can’t believe I still haven’t heard anything, Damian fumed as he stomped down his street. I’ve been out walking all over the city, and not one payphone rings as I pass by? Or trained pigeon lands next to me with a note while I rest by a fountain? We need to act now, dammit!

Damian heard rustling, quick footsteps—he flinched and flattened against a fence lining one of his neighbors’ porches, rapidly taking in his surroundings, chest heaving.

A squirrel ran by on the sidewalk, a small dog chasing closely behind.

Jesus fucking CHRIST I’m so paranoid. Damian struggled to catch his breath. Come to think of it, why have I even been bothering with the city payphone tour every day after work when I know they’ll just pop up and bag me whenever they damn well please? Damian scowled and continued his stomp homeward. At least I’ve had the luxury of walking home all week instead of being tossed out onto the curb. My tailbone still hurts… He moaned and braced his lower back with one hand, arching and popping multiple vertebrae.

He started up the steps to his front door, glancing up and seeing Jeeves in the kitchen window. Why am I not surprised, he thought, expression flat as he watched his old butler greet him through the glass with a wave. He rummaged through his pockets for his keys, jamming them into the door and gruffly shoving it open.

“Welcome home, Master Damian,” Jeeves said cheerfully. “I take it you enjoyed your walk?”

“Um, yes,” Damian muttered, locking the door. He took a step toward the closet to stow his coat before quickly backtracking and testing the front door handle. Wonder if I should consider installing a deadbolt… He thought, distractedly shucking his coat and allowing his bag to drop to the floor. Jeeves watched Damian from the corner of his eye as he looped the dish towel over the oven handle, having finished his chore.

“Tea, sir?”

“Ah, yeah, that sounds nice. Something herbal, if we have it,” Damian replied as he shut the closet door. He picked up his bag and headed towards the hallway. “I’ll take it in my study.”

“Yes, sir,” Jeeves said, watching Damian’s back as he retreated into the last of three doors in the small corridor.

Damian sagged against the door, completely drained. Maybe…they know I haven’t seen or heard from Demetrius since I called…

He groaned and dropped his head in his hands, fully sinking to the floor. And if they’ve been watching me that closely, then they’ve also seen what a nervous wreck I’ve been over it. I’m no spy…

He heard the kettle whistling in the kitchen and roused himself, not wanting Jeeves to catch him on the floor. He trudged over to his desk and swung his leather messenger bag towards it. He felt the indents of a stamp on the strap as it slid across his fingertips and froze mid-toss. The sudden loss of momentum caused it to fall just shy of its target, knocking off the edge of the desk and falling upside down onto the floor.

“Ugh, godDAMMIT,” Damian groaned as he watched the contents splay out. He hastily started gathering the papers, writing utensils, and empty candy wrappers, before catching a glimpse of the overturned bag, strap flipped awkwardly inside-out.

A chimaera was etched into the base of the underside of the strap. And if he shifted it to look at the other end, he’d find—

“Master Damian?” came Jeeves’s voice muffled through the door. “Is everything alright? May I come in?”

Damian started and clutched the bag to his chest. He cleared his throat, “Yes, come in, I’m fine. I just…dropped something.”

Jeeves expertly swept in, tray with full tea service poised on the fingertips of his left hand as his right opened and closed the door with casual ease. He took in the mess by Damian’s feet, and his young master’s tight grip on the satchel. 

“Oh, well let me help you clean that up,” he said, turning first to place the tea tray on a small table in the corner, framed by two armchairs. Damian could feel his ears growing hot.

“N-no, please, you can leave the tea and I’ll just—" Jeeves abruptly straightened up.

“Master Damian, please allow me to assist,” Jeeves said firmly, facing away from him, hands balled at his sides. Damian stared at him, shocked. When the butler finally turned to look at his young master, he was smiling softly.

“Please, enjoy your tea. I’ll get everything from your bag organized on your desk, then take my leave so you can rest.”

This guy never quits, Damian thought with a small chuckle, his shoulders sagging. He smiled sheepishly at Jeeves. “Thank you. But yes, please go home. And just call me Damian.”

“Yes, sir,” Jeeves said with his usual curt bow, eliciting another eye roll from Damian. It was worth a shot, he thought, trudging over to one of the armchairs next to the tea set and plopping down. He served himself tea with a touch of cream and two small sandwiches on a napkin before settling into his chair. He raised a sandwich to his lips to take a bite, but paused, gently lowering it back down.

“Jeeves, do you see Demetrius often when you’re at the manor?” He asked.

Jeeves had made quick work of collecting all of Damian’s items onto the desktop and was currently re-packing his bag in the most space-efficient manner possible. He finished sliding the last of the papers into the bag, then rested it on the floor against the desk. He turned and joined Damian in the opposite armchair. 

“No, sir, I do not,” Jeeves finally answered. He served himself some tea, adding cream and a sugar cube. He sat back, carefully stirring it. “As I’m sure you remember, Chives served as Lord Demetrius’s personal valet, so he and I have never crossed paths too often. And, to be frank,” Jeeves continued, “I spend most of my time here.”

Damian jolted at that statement as Jeeves sipped his tea, wondering how often the butler stopped by while he was at work. I guess I was asking for this when I gave him a key… “Aren’t you worried you’ll get fired if you’re never there?”

“I am paid to serve the Desmond family. That includes you,” Jeeves replied simply, cup still raised to his lips. “Besides, Lady Iris keeps such a robust staff that I highly doubt anyone takes notice of my absence.”

“Pft, whatever you say,” Damiam murmured, taking a long sip from his own tea. The manor…I wonder what it looks like now? Iris always seemed like she had gaudy taste.

=================================

“Nooooo!” Anya whined as her foot sank into another mud puddle. She gripped her knee with both hands and jerked her leg up, sending dirt flying towards her companion (Codename: Blizzard) in front of her. It splattered against the agent’s backpack and onto her neck and hair, bringing her to an abrupt halt. 

Uh-oh… Anya cringed as she watched Blizzard’s hands ball into fists and her shoulders tense up. Blizzard whirled around on Anya, face bright red, shaking slightly. 

“Keep your distance from me and watch where you’re going,” she snapped, “or else you might not make it the next few miles to the train station.” 

Anya couldn’t help but brighten at that statement. “You mean we’re almost there?” She squealed and skipped ahead, brimming with newfound energy.

She caught a glimpse of Blizzard’s jaw dropping as she passed by. What is with this chick? Not even an apology? Anya heard Blizzard’s inner monologue steam. What could HQ want with such an immature…

Anya winced and slowed her pace. She joined Blizzard’s stride as she awkwardly pulled her backpack around to her front, struggling with the zipper. 

“Here, I think I have a towel somewhere…” she said as she finally tore the main pocket open. Blizzard watched in awe as Anya dug around inside, her dirty hands soiling all of the contents without a care in the world. 

“D-don’t bother,” Blizzard said in amused disbelief, resting a hand on Anya’s arm to stop her. “It’s not like we both don’t already need showers.” Alright, I guess she means well…A week slogging across the Ostanian wilderness would throw anyone off their game. 

Anya smiled. “Okay. I promise you get dibs on the first one.” The two shared a tired smile, then continued their trek; the sun had set hours ago, but they were determined to make the final push to civilization.

When Anya spotted the lights of Nielsberg Station through the branches, all the exhaustion left her body. She squealed and ensnared Blizzard’s wrist in a vice-like grip.

“We’re here we’re here we’re here—" she incanted excitedly as she dragged Blizzard towards the ticket window. The sight of a drawn shutter and “closed” sign hanging crookedly over it successfully blotted out her enthusiasm; Blizzard was freed as her hands fell limply at her sides and she went silent.

“What did you expect? It’s the middle of the night. C’mon,” Blizzard gently grabbed Anya by her shoulders and steered her to a connected building oozing warm light. “We’ll stay here tonight then take the first train out in the morning. Wouldn’t you rather sleep in an actual bed, not a train car?”

Blizzard took care of the arrangements at the front desk (they’re Mona and Lisa, two friends from college who got lost on their annual hiking trip; Wow…so cool, Anya heard the young girl who led them upstairs to a double room mentally gush). Blizzard immediately tossed her bag onto the bed by the window and rushed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Anya plopped down on the edge of the other bed and melted, her backpack and windbreaker falling from her shoulders. Once her arms were freed from the sleeves and straps, she began wrestling with her boots. The first one was removed and thrown across the room with ease, but the force of tugging on the second sent her flying back onto the bed with a small “eep”. She let the shoe drop from her hand onto the floor and laid there, waiting. 

As soon as she heard water rushing from the showerhead, Anya soundlessly shot up and darted across the room to a small desk facing the beds. She reached for the only object of interest on it: A telephone. She picked up the receiver, and after a final nervous glance at the bathroom, hurriedly dialed a number she knew by heart.

“Ermm…hello?” A groggy voice answered after several rings.

“Becky? It’s Anya.”

She heard the frantic rustling of blankets, “Anya, it’s so good to hear from you, it’s been ages!” Becky said, sounding a bit dazed as small objects clattered onto the ground in the background. “What’s going on, are you ok?” Anya heard the click of a light switch. “Jeez, it’s one-thirty in the morning! What time is it there? Did you just wake up, or just get home? I’m not exactly up on my geography and time zones and all that, you’ll have to forgive me. Daddy took us out East once when I was a girl, remember back in Year 8? Well anyway my memory of the trip isn’t great, but I seem to recall—"

“Yeah, Becky, I’m sorry I haven’t called lately. It’s been pretty hectic at the, uh, dig site,” Anya cut in, glancing nervously at the bathroom door. “But, um, I actually just arrived in Nielsberg. I’m gonna be back in Berlint sometime tomorrow.”

Becky shrieked in delight; Anya flinched and pulled the phone away from her ear in an attempt to save her eardrum.

“Ohmygosh really?? How long will you be here? We simply MUST get lunch at Busch & Bergmann, it just opened up on Main and is positively divine. This timing is actually perfect, did you know Meg’s about to get married? I introduced her to a friend of Lionel’s, then a year later, what do you know! That girl owes me big time. Oh, her and Connie are going to have a FIT when they hear you’re in town—”

“B-Becky, wait, nothing’s set in stone yet,” Anya interrupted again, anxiously winding the phone cord around her fingers. “I don’t really know when I’ll be able to get away. Please don’t start calling restaurants and renting out department stores, and please don’t let anyone else know I’m gonna be there yet.”

Anya’s head snapped up as she heard the water shut off in the bathroom. “I-I have to go, I’ll try and reach out when I’m in town to make more solid plans—” 

“What, gonna be too busy with your parents?” The phone cord slowly unwound from Anya’s fingers as her grip slackened. Her eyes pricked and her throat went dry.

Becky continued, “I swear, Anya Forger, I know you worship the ground they walk on, but you’re 28 years old now, you have to make some time for yourself! I’m sure your dad would—”

“Becky,” Anya said firmly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’ll let you know. I’m sorry. Hopefully I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She placed the phone back in its cradle a bit harder than she ought to have and maintained her tight grip on the receiver, glaring down her arm at it.

“Who’s Becky?”

Anya crumpled as all the tension rapidly left her body in surprise. Dang it, I really spaced out there. I didn’t even hear the door open…

“Oh, uh…just maintaining a cover,” Anya replied weakly, hand slipping from the phone onto the desktop. She turned to flash Blizzard an equally feeble smile.

Blizzard stood by the bathroom door, drying her dark hair with a small towel, now dressed in a fluffy bathrobe with the inn’s logo embroidered on it. She regarded Anya for a moment before heading towards her bed.

She’s either getting a jumpstart on her new assignment with some crazy method acting, or the rumors are true…

Anya’s blood ran cold. She could feel the smile on her face turning manic as she struggled not to react to Blizzard’s thoughts.

Blizzard perched herself on a corner of her mattress. “Y’know, I remember you from basic. Do you remember me?”

“Of course,” Anya said grumpily. “I tried to tell you when you showed up at the bunker, but you just tossed me a backpack and ran into the woods.” She frowned and walked back over to her bed, grabbing said backpack and yanking down the zipper. “Where the heck’s my suitcase, by the way?” she asked, looking over at Blizzard as she pulled a mud-caked t-shirt from her pack.

“The truck that brought me and your relief would have taken it all the way to Berlint, I imagine,” Blizzard said. She hasn’t changed at all, she was always such a hothead. She casually stood and swept up her bag, heading back into the bathroom. Anya watched her, mouth agape. I honestly can’t believe she’s lasted this long, especially after screwing up so big back in March…

Anya relaxed at that thought. She’s just thinking about the Gala…everyone assumes it was my fault. She sighed and smiled contentedly. And at least I know my stuff’s sa-wait a minute…

“Excuse me?” she sputtered, the full implication of her partner’s comment suddenly dawning on her. “Then why didn’t it take us?”

“Iunno,” Blizzard called through the open door. “Handler said we had to proceed on foot, and that was that. I don’t ask questions.”

Anya’s cheeks flushed in annoyance. I guess a week out in the woods thinking I was gonna die all the time was the trade for a month off my sentence.

Blizzard emerged, now in a clean t-shirt and sweatpants. She tossed a robe identical to the one she’d worn and a fluffy white towel onto the end of Anya’s bed as she drifted back towards her own. I need to get some shut-eye, and a break from this loon, the agent thought as she rubbed at her forehead tiredly. “Now, please shower. I don’t think I’ll be able to fall asleep with you stinking up the room.” Blizzard flopped onto her bed and rolled away from Anya, cocooning herself in her blanket in the same motion.

“There’s a shop nearby that I think the inn runs, so I can try and scrounge up some disguises for the train ride,” she continued, voice muffled by her pillow. “We go on as Mona and Lisa, and step off as…I haven’t decided yet…” she trailed off sleepily.

“Okay. Goodnight, Blizzard,” Anya said, shuffling towards her shower.

‘Night, Starlight.

Anya smiled, gently closing the bathroom door behind her.

Chapter Text

Damian hurried through the unbearably slow crowd clogging the sidewalks of downtown Berlint. Dammit, I can’t be late again this week, he thought anxiously. He shouldered through a group of boisterous men in suits and stumbled out onto the curb. A car rushed by inches in front of him, startling him a few steps back into the crowd. Safely on the sidewalk, he impatiently shuffled from foot to foot, scowling down at his watch.

A tap on the shoulder made him flinch and jump about a foot in the air (his anxiety around being kidnapped wasn’t terribly high that day, but still present). He whirled around on the source and found Becky Blackbell beaming and waving demurely at him. She was dressed in what Damian knew to be obscenely expensive athleisure, her hair in a high ponytail. A jewel-encrusted leash that was connected to a tiny, equally expensive looking dog dangled delicately in her loose grasp.

“Hiya Desmond, fancy running into you here,” she said cheerfully.

“Hey Becky, it’s good to see you,” Damian replied in a tone contradictingly devoid of any pleasure. He turned back around to glare at the crosswalk sign as though he were trying to intimidate it into changing. I do not have time to be roped into a conversation with this chatterbox…

Becky giggled. “Charming as always. What’s got you all worked up today? I have some news that might cheer you up.”

Damian quickly suppressed his sudden wave of curiosity. “I don’t have a lot of time right now, I’m supposed to meet Emile at Restaurant Dacil in five minutes.” There’s a chance I’ll still make it on time, so buzz off, he tacked on mentally. The crosswalk signal changed, and Damian stepped into the street with a long stride.

“Oh, perfect! I’m heading that way anyway, and it’s been ages since I’ve seen Emile.” Becky scooped up her dog and speedwalked after him. “You know he’s been trying to meet with Lionel? I guess there’s rumors going around that the firm will be dropping them as a client. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to have a chance to talk me into putting a good word in,” she said smugly with a wave of her free hand. Her dog panted contentedly in the cradle of her other arm, staring forward with an empty-headed look.

“How could talking to you possibly affect his business with your husband?” Damian asked wryly, lengthening his steps a bit in an attempt to shake her. “I don’t think your particular brand of spending is of any interest to an investment firm.”

“Why Damian, how old-fashioned of you. Everyone knows I’m the one with the actual grip on the purse strings,” Becky replied with a dainty smirk. 

Damn, how is she keeping up with me? She’s not even breaking a sweat, he thought with an irritated huff.

“Anyway, dontcha wanna know what I—"

“Not really,” Damian interrupted tersely. He could see the restaurant’s sign ahead. Phew, thank god. 

“Oh, but I think you do,” Becky retorted in a sing-song voice. He glanced down at her, intrigue bubbling back up. She still had that stupid smirk on her face, now paired with slyly raised eyebrows.

He sighed and rolled his eyes as they reached his destination. He stopped abruptly by the entrance to the long patio of the restaurant, scanning the tables for Emile. “Well, this has been great, but I really shouldn’t leave Emile waiting…” Becky scoffed as Damian caught his friend’s eye; he was seated along the far edge of the wrought iron fence. 

Emile smiled brightly and waved. Damian returned the gesture, enthusiasm waning as he watched his friend’s eyes fall to the woman still standing beside him. Emile’s smile grew and he stood, now weaving through the tables towards them.

Damian groaned and threw his head back, hand dropping lamely to his side. 

“Well, would you look at that? He must want to say hello,” Becky said amusedly. She stepped around Damian to address him head-on. “I really don’t want to intrude on your date, so I’ll make this fast: Anya’s in town!”

Damian snapped his head up to look at Becky in disbelief, mind grinding to a halt. “E-excuse me?” he stuttered.

“I know, I could hardly believe it! She called me up super late last night after I hadn’t heard from her for months and just dropped the news on me, can you believe that? She hasn’t changed a bit,” Becky said with a giggle. “She was acting a little weird but, y’know, that’s our girl! I don’t have a ton of details, but she said she’d arrive today and I assume she’ll be here for the weekend at least.”

Emile joined Damian at his side, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You made it! And hi Becky, great to see you!” Emile said sunnily. “What brings you here? Were you and Lionel grabbing lunch?” Emile started glancing around in search of Becky’s partner. “You’re both obviously welcome to j—"

“What exactly did she tell you?” Damian interrupted. He hadn’t acknowledged Emile at all or broken his intent stare at Becky since hearing the news.

Becky’s smirk returned. “Why, hoping to get a chance to meet up? Well, you’re absolutely not invited to whatever plans we make,” she said breezily, setting her dog back onto the sidewalk. She crossed her arms and jutted her hip out as she shifted her weight to her right leg. “But, I’ve been in a generous mood lately, so feel free to give me a message and I'll try to remember to pass it on.”

“Who are you guys talking about? Someone from Eden? It feels like everyones in town right now,” Emile said. “Ewen’s coming home from training camp this weekend, Meg’s here planning her wedding, and didn’t Connie move back recently?”

“Emile, Connie never left.”

Damian stared silently off into the distance during the ensuing chatter.

I can’t believe that dolt still hasn’t cut off Blackbell. I wonder what crock she feeds her about where she’s been. She wouldn’t even tell me what she decided after college, I had to find out from friggin’ Loid.

His eyes widened, and he reached into his pocket, gripping an already-crumpled business card uneasily. I wonder if Loid knows she’ll be here…should I tell him? He released it as his palm began to sweat, not wanting to smudge the ink scrawled on it. Not that there’s much to say, it’s not like she’d even want to see me…I mean, I don’t wanna see her, either. Obviously. I guess I should still let him know, he might wanna talk to her, and maybe I could, like, set it up for her-THEM. For THEM. Just cause he’d be, like, mad if he knew I knew his daughter was in town and didn’t tell him—

“Um, hello? Earth to Damian?” Becky was snapping right in Damian’s face. He came crashing down, blinking rapidly as he realized his eyes had fallen out of focus.

“What?” He asked, swatting her hand away with an irritated look.

“Private room at the Hotel de Rose for Sunday brunch? I’ll bring my mystery guest and you can bring—" she cut herself off with a small gasp as a mischievous smile crept onto her lips. She uncrossed her arms and leaned further into her jutted hip, propping a hand on it. “You should bring Liesel.”

Damian glowered, his cheeks suddenly burning.

Emile furrowed his brow. “Why would Liesel come? I thought she went to some boarding school out East? Or, wait, are you bringing Lionel by chance?” He brightened again and focused entirely on Becky. “If you bring him, I’ll take care of all the arrangements. Anything you want, completely gratis, courtesy of Elman Investments.”

“Deal,” Becky said, firmly shaking Emile’s hand as they smiled wryly at each other.

“Ugh, you guys are ridiculous. Emile, I’m sitting down.” Damian brushed past his friend, heading towards the area where he’d seen him seated (he assumed their table was the one with a confused-looking waiter hovering nearby). “I suggest you join me so they don’t think I’m stealing your table.”

“Damian? Last chance, want me to tell her anything?” Becky called out after him. He halted; Emile glanced between the two of them, obviously interested.

“No point,” Damian said casually, rolling his shoulders back and continuing his path to their table. “I’ll see her Sunday.”

Yeah, I’ll see her Sun— A shoulder crashed into Damian, knocking the wind out of him.

“My most sincere apology, sir,” a polite voice said in his ear. The man it belonged to gently patted Damian’s shoulder as he spun around his stumbling form.

“My, how rude!” Emile huffed at the retreating figure. 

“It’s fine, Emile,” Damian flatly reassured his friend. He removed his bag and placed it at his feet under the table. He idly patted his pockets before removing his coat, and froze. His left pocket now felt empty; the one that typically housed his wallet.

“Motherfu—” Damian muttered angrily under his breath. He turned to shout after the man, but he was already gone. He huffed and faced his friend across the table, jamming his hand into his other pocket to take inventory of its contents.

“You’re not gonna believe this, I think that guy—" Damian abruptly stopped speaking as his hand brushed a familiar object: The wallet. “Oh, nevermind…” he muttered, a blush creeping onto his cheeks. Emile laughed as Damian took his seat, cautiously flipping through the leather trifold. A corner of a light grey piece of paper jammed into a slot caught his eye. Huh…what’s that?

Emile’s amused voice snapped him back to reality. “You really shouldn’t assume the worst in people, Damian. You’ll live a sad, paranoid life that way.”

Damian slammed the wallet shut. He looked back up at Emile, chuckling awkwardly. “I’m not gonna take that from a guy who works with bankers,” he bantered weakly. Emile guffawed at the joke as Damian’s mind spun. Is this it? What do I do? Do I excuse myself, like say I have to go to the bathroom? Is he still here, watching me? Damian abruptly jerked around in his chair to check. I didn’t see him a second ago…

“Damian? Are you feeling ok?” Damian’s winced and turned slowly back to Emile. His friend was watching him with a worried expression.

“Uh, yeah, sorry,” he said, sliding the wallet back into his jacket pocket and clearing his throat. “Just thought something was missing for a sec, but you’re right—I shouldn’t have assumed.” I need to chill out. I’ll check it after lunch. They left me waiting for an entire week, so what’s the rush, right?

=================================

Anya stepped down onto the station platform, face burning. She self-consciously tugged her jean jacket closed over the large “I ❤ NIELSBERG” scrawled on her white t-shirt (the sentiment was already proudly proclaimed by the matching baseball cap perched atop her auburn wig). Her mud-caked hiking boots peeked out under dramatically flared corduroys. 

She glanced to her right just in time to see Blizzard float down the steps of the neighboring car in a tasteful floral sundress, wedge sandals, and white cardigan. She paused, shuffling a pair of white gloves and a dainty clutch purse to one hand so she could use the other to don a wide-brimmed straw hat over platinum blonde locks.

Anya slung her backpack around her shoulders, catching Blizzard’s eye with a scowl. ‘This was the last one, I swear!’ She mentally mocked the flimsy excuse the other agent had given her for the difference in their ensembles. You’re telling me the place sold frilly sundresses, kitschy crap, and nothing in between? This has to be some sort of weird revenge.

Blizzard subtly tipped her hat and started off in the opposite direction. Wonder if I’ll see her again… The parting thought caused a tinge of sadness to overtake Anya’s annoyance.

Awh, I’ll miss her too. Anya took a deep breath and began weaving through the station’s crowd.

Where’s Platform 8? I coulda swore he pointed—

Ugh, she said she’d be here ten minutes ago. What if we miss the train?

Oh my god, where’s Kevin?

Each little bump and brush against a stranger momentarily breached Anya’s mental barriers, but for the most part, she could condense the overlapping voices into a dull roar secondary to her own train of thought.

I’ll need to stop at the newsstand, Anya thought as she scanned the station. She spotted a kiosk with papers displayed, and headed towards it to get in line. That lady on the train stamped my ticket, I’m guessing that’ll tell me the cipher… She dug into her pocket and withdrew the crumpled ticket, squinting at the shape punched in its top-right corner. It looks like…ah…is that a duck? Okay, well, some sort of bird…and the number 6? Jeez, my head already hurts…

She came to a gentle stop as the crown of her head bumped against something softly; a woman’s thoughts boomed in her head.

—can’t believe how packed it is on a Thursday afternoon—“Oh!” 

Anya clumsily stumbled back, hand flying to the top of her head; she’d walked headfirst into a well-dressed woman’s back. “Excuse me, so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was—" The woman turned, her piercing blue eyes locking with Anya’s.

What a strange looking young woman. Her modestly rouged lips smiled, revealing blindingly white teeth. “Think nothing of it, it’s like a madhouse in here.” Perhaps one of those folk singers, like I saw earlier? Could there be a festival in town? Maybe that’s why it’s so busy. “I take it you’re coming from Nielsberg?” At the very least, it’s obvious she’s a particularly enthusiastic tourist, or perhaps some sort of nomad? I recall reading that—

The woman’s thoughts moved at a dizzying pace. Oof, she’s just like Papa, Anya groaned internally, averting her eyes and rubbing the spot on her forehead where a dull ache had set in.

“My, are you feeling alright?” She barely touched me, and she’s disoriented? Or perhaps just rude? “Do you need me to call someone?”

Anya cleared her throat, thankful for her sunglasses as she avoided the woman’s unrelenting gaze. “Oh, no, I’m sorry. Just had a long journey so I’m feeling a little groggy.”

Isn’t the trip from Nielsberg only two hours? “I understand completely, I also tend to get a bit fatigued from travel.” Her shoes are filthy, not to mention that backpack. She looks more like a hitchhiker than someone who just took a leisurely train ride. “I always say the best part of the trip is washing it off when you get home.” The woman chuckled demurely. Anya awkwardly joined in, unsure of how to respond.

The woman’s high heels clicked as she shifted ahead with the moving line. “So, what brings you to Berlint?” I don’t see an instrument, or any luggage, come to think of it. Does she have a place to stay? It’d be silly to come to the big city with no plans, but you never know—

“I-I’m visiting friends?” Anya considered herself to be an exceptional liar at this point in her career, but something about this woman’s dissecting thoughts and gaze made her resolve crumble like sand.

She’s lying, I wonder why? The thought immediately pierced Anya’s mind; she fought to keep her composure. Wasn’t there just a news report about teen runaways? She’s showing some of those signs, but she only looks a few years younger than me. “My, how lovely. Old friends from school? Do they all live in town?” I guess exhaustion could age a person, but how many years, really—

Anya swallowed, her throat feeling tight. Okay so she’s pretty far off, but I gotta be careful here. “Yep. And a few, ah, former coworkers.” Not that I have a cover to blow yet, but you never know. “What about you? On your way home, or just visiting?”

The line shifted again; the woman was next up and began digging through her clutch. “Neither. I live here, and I’m leaving for a girls’ trip.” So definitely too old to be a runaway, but based on the eagerness to turn the questioning on me, almost certainly hiding something. “I’ll be in Shellsbury with my sister. She recently had a baby.” She retrieved a compact from her purse and was smiling warmly at her reflection as she adjusted her dark brown curls. If your definition of ‘recently’ allows a year and a half…It’ll be nice to finally meet him. I bet he’s already gotten so big. “Well, thank you for chatting with me." The woman snapped the compact closed, warm smile still firmly in place as she looked back at Anya. “I wish you the best of luck with your endeavors, and hope you have a nice time in Berlint.” She’s cute. I’m sure she’ll be fine.

“T-thanks,” Anya said with her own nervous smile. She’s nice but kind of weird. I guess she was just bored? “I hope you have a nice stay with your sister.”

The woman had been extremely efficient with the attendant, already holding her magazine and canned coffee as she turned back to face Anya. “Thank you,” she replied, smiling tightly. I hope so, too. “Have a pleasant evening.” She gave a slight bow of her head as she took her leave, striding confidently through the busy station.

Anya purchased a paper, a chocolate bar, and a bottle of water. She thanked the attendant and stepped away from the newsstand, scouting the station for a bench. She settled for one near the locker rentals; a few travelers milled about, but she figured if she looked tired enough hunched over her newspaper (Easy) she’d blend right in. 

She plopped down, setting her backpack between her legs. She tore the chocolate bar open with her teeth as she thumbed to page six of the paper. 

‘Good leavening, Aging Starlet,’ it read. ‘You deceive your briefing for your pest mission at HQ in Barlint. Please arrive in your Hamper’s office at exactly 1900 hours as Ania Horger.’

Bits of chocolate and crushed nuts trickled from Anya’s mouth, stunned agape. She coughed as a few crumbs trickled to the back of her throat and reached for her water. She re-read the message as she chugged from the bottle, her mind wandering in shock.

Are they serious? I gotta show up as myself? Anya gulped for air as she set aside the now-empty bottle. Do they know I’ve been maintaining my cover with Becky? She felt the color drain from her face. Oh, god, am I in trouble? Did they kidnap her??

She took a deep breath and exhaled through pursed lips, the air hissing as it caught on her teeth. Cool it, Anya, that’s ridiculous. If they know I’ve been talking to her, they know what I’ve been telling her: nada. Anya carefully smoothed the crumpled paper in her lap. Handler doesn’t seem to care that I still talk to Mama, and she’s WAY more dangerous than—

Anya gasped quietly. Wait, did I pack my journal? Her head fell in her hands, newspaper dropping to her lap. Crap, I can’t remember. I don’t think I wrote the new number anywhere else.

She sighed and held the newspaper back up, regarding it glumly. Well I guess I should see what the rest of this says, although I gotta adjust the cipher key…

‘There is a hotel room in your name at…’ Anya dug around in the front pocket of her bag for a pen, brandishing it with a satisfied hum. She pulled the sleeve of her jean jacket up with her teeth and jotted the decoded address onto her wrist. ‘Checkout will be at 11am on Monday morning, by which time you are expected to have secured long-term housing in the city.’ She balked.

Three days to find an apartment in downtown Berlint? She groaned. I wonder if I’ve got Franky’s number anywhere…

‘Your will find your belongings, a change of clothes, and a preliminary stipend for expenses in locker #...’

The number and lock combination were added to her forearm. 

‘You will receive further details at your briefing tonight. Welcome home, agent Starlight.’

A warmth blossomed in Anya’s chest at those last words. She smiled, gathering her things and scanning the wall for locker #18. She squatted down next to it, peeking at her arm as she wound the combination into the lock. It opened with a satisfying click.

The contents practically glowed. My stuff, she thought, suppressing the urge to weep. There was a large canvas duffel bag jammed inside with her beat-up suitcase. Probably has the cash and the clothes, Anya thought, withdrawing both. She slammed the locker shut and stood, slinging the duffel bag over her shoulder. She caught someone’s eye from across the room as she turned away from the lockers.

So someone was expecting her.

A familiar icy stare from across the station. Anya fought the chill that ran through her body, forcing a polite smile on her face and waving to the woman from the newstand line. The woman returned both gestures, her expression almost wistful. 

I hope it’s someone she can trust, she thought, and turned to board her train. 

Anya stiffly grabbed her suitcase and darted for the station exit. Weird…but also kind of nice, I think? She emerged onto the sidewalk, already starting to fill with evening commuters. She double checked the clockface above the station’s entrance. 

Dang it, I totally spaced out. I need to get to the hotel and get changed and call Becky-or should I call Becky first? She jogged in place for a moment, taking in her surroundings. Okay, it’s just up the road, I’ll go straight there and hope the room has a phone. She shot off down the familiar street, fighting a smile as that warm feeling spread in her chest again. 

Chapter Text

Anya shouldered her way into her hotel room, sagging under the weight of her suitcase and the large canvas duffel bag from HQ (she’d tossed her mud-soaked backpack in a dumpster in the alley by the hotel, the cheap wig and tacky baseball cap stuffed inside). Okay, first order of business: Find the…phone…

Whoa… She took in a tastefully decorated sitting room on the other side of the wide entry way, its backdrop a stunning view of downtown through floor-to-ceiling windows. She trailed further inside, head swiveling around in awe. I knew this was a nice hotel, but this is, like, next level nice. To her right was a kitchenette bordered by a breakfast bar with three stools, a bowl filled with tropical fruits resting on its surface. She approached the set of slatted double doors waiting to her left, setting her suitcase down before pushing them open.

Her hands tightly gripped the canvas strap still slung across her torso as she looked around the large bedroom, mouth agape. A king bed made up with silk sheets and framed by delicate, sheer curtains was across from her; it faced tall, sleek chestnut cabinets that spanned the entire wall. Anya peeked inside a sizable compartment centered on the bed, abruptly throwing its doors ajar and drooling at the sight of the widescreen TV. On the adjacent wall, there were two large windows bordered by thick curtains, a vanity situated between them.

Where was this generosity when we couldn’t even get powdered milk at the bunker? she recalled with a scowl. She shook her head, pressing her palms against her cheeks as she reset her focus. Right. Don’t got a lotta time. She spun around to face the bed, her fatigued arms struggling to lift the heavy duffel’s strap over her head. She successfully heaved it onto the bed and yanked the zipper down. There was a garment bag carefully accordioned inside…

…amongst countless bands of 100 dalc bills. She gawked, shakily withdrawing one of the bundles and flipping through it. Is this…real money?

I don’t think I need THIS much for a security deposit…What the heck is my assignment? She stuffed the bills back into the duffel with a disbelieving shake of her head. She hooked a finger around the hanger peeking out of the garment bag and started carefully disentangling it from the pile of money. Dang it, she thought as a few wads of cash tumbled onto the covers and floor, gotta make sure I don’t forget those. Once extracted, she laid the bag out flat on the bed and unzipped it.

There was an off-white cropped tweed jacket inside, draped around a mint green turtleneck. A matching skirt hung below it; it had two front pockets adorned with gold buttons, and a tan belt woven through the loops on its waistband. Opening the shoe compartment revealed a pair of nude pumps, a cosmetics bag, and a set of pantyhose.

Anya went back into the sitting room, scratching her head. Maybe they do this for everyone about to go undercover? A fancy hotel room, nice clothes— “Oh, shoot, I gotta call Becky!” Her eyes darted around the room, resting on a gold rotary phone on the console table by the front door. She lunged for the receiver and dialed Becky’s number as fast as she could.

A curt voice answered after the second ring. “Blackbell residence.”

“Hi Renate, it’s Anya. Is Becky in?”

“Why, hello, Miss Forger! I’m afraid not, she just stepped out. Can I take a message?”

“Yeah, can you let her know I’m settled in, and I’ll be having dinner in about,” she craned her head around to look at the clock on the wall, “half an hour at Sereno if she’d like to join me?”

“Of course, she’ll be thrilled. She’s done nothing but gush about your arrival since you spoke last night.”

Anya smiled, gently cradling the receiver against her face. “I’m excited to see her, too. Thanks, Renate.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

Anya hung up and ambled reluctantly back to the bedroom, pausing to lean in the doorway, arms crossed, a faraway stare glued to her new outfit. After a few moments, she shivered. Gotta hurry up… She stepped into the room with a sigh, an unexpected pit forming in her stomach as she undressed.

The turtleneck fit her “in all the right places,” as Becky would say. Her unease grew as she adjusted the tweed skirt over her hips, tucking in her sweater. It’s a little short… She stepped around the bed and approached the vanity, tugging at the skirt’s hem as she checked her reflection, turning and bending experimentally. It rode up a bit higher than expected and she quickly straightened up, watching the blush creep onto her face in the mirror. Heh, gonna have to be careful…

Anya had never gone under deep cover, but she’d heard stories from other female agents about WISE's frequent use of honey traps on those kinds of missions. Guess it had to happen eventually, she mused as she clasped her belt. She let out an exaggerated sigh and flopped back onto the bed, stretching across its wide expanse as she reached for the garment bag. Her fingers dug into the shiny material and she yanked it roughly towards her. Maybe it’ll be easier than I-oops, she winced; she’d underestimated her strength and sent the makeup bag and pumps tumbling to the floor. 

She sighed and dipped her head in annoyance, allowing the garment bag to slip from her grasp and slide onto the floor with the jacket still inside. She dramatically slumped over to pick up the makeup pouch and trudged over to the vanity, prodding the heels along with a pantyhose-clad foot. She plopped down into the upholstered seat with a huff.

The makeup bag rolled out of her fingers onto the vanity’s surface as she regarded her reflection. She tried running her fingers through her long, pink tresses, but winced as they were snagged on knots. Not enough time to really do anything with this…a bun it is, she thought with a sigh, reaching for the makeup bag. She snapped it open and withdrew a tube of lipstick. Probably a little out of practice with this stuff, too… she thought wistfully, setting it aside gently. Gonna have to keep it simple.

Anya moaned and drooped onto the vanity, resting her forehead on her crossed arms. What the heck am I getting myself into?

She glanced under her armpit towards the bedroom door, catching a glimpse of her suitcase and abruptly sitting up. She rose slowly from the vanity, walked over, and kneeled down in front of it. She squinted in frustration at the sticky dials of the combination lock as she entered her code.

The overworked clasps sprang apart with the force of Anya’s belongings exploding out of the suitcase; they showered down around her as she sat back on her calves with a flat expression. She winced as something hard bounced off her head. Grumbling and rubbing the sore spot on her head, she looked around for the culprit, her eyes landing on a light purple cover—

“YES! I remembered it!” She exclaimed joyfully, snatching her journal off the floor and hugging it to her chest. “I’ll be able to call Mama tonight.”

She padded back over to the vanity and dropped into the chair, journal still pressed against her chest, staring at the floor. She could feel a growing resolve slowly but surely overtaking her anxiety.

She exhaled, then looked back up at her reflection with a fiery stare. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

=================================

Five more minutes. Anya lowered her wrist after checking the time on a delicate gold watch (she’d just about keeled over when she discovered it with a diamond necklace and matching earrings wrapped in velvet at the bottom of the makeup bag). Her hand rested on her light pink enamel purse (that was hers; a bit worn, but still a perfectly acceptable handbag) as she idly gazed down the street waiting for Becky in front of the restaurant.

Anya knew with utmost confidence that Becky had received her message and would arrive exactly on time if she was able to make it to dinner. While away on assignments, it was tough for Anya to find opportunities to call her discreetly, but luckily, it was never a problem for the heiress: No matter where she was when Anya called, her legion of staff would somehow convey the message, and to Anya’s repeated amazement, she’d get a response within the hour. I wonder if she ever thought it was weird that I never called at the same time, or had a number to give her, or that I never had that much time to talk… Anya reminisced about the excuses she had fed her friend over the years with a satisfied smirk. I guess my cover story was just that good. It’s a testament to my skills that I’ve managed to maintain it after all this ti—

Anya’s muscles tensed as she was dragged out of her reverie; she could sense something coming at her from the left, and fast. “ANYA!” a familiar voice squealed shortly after, and she relaxed with a smile, spinning into her best friend’s attack (a crushing hug) with open arms. I can’t believe she’s actually here! Anya’s heart swelled as her friend’s comforting mental voice boomed in her head.

Annoyed passersby had to sidestep the two as they squealed and hopped in their embrace. They eventually stilled, and Becky held Anya at arms-length to get a good look at her. “Oh. My. GOSH. You look adorable! Is that Chenal? They must pay well for…what is it you do, again? I always thought it was strange that a Classical Languages degree landed you a job with so much travel.”

Anya chuckled nervously. “Well—"

“We can discuss this all over dinner, don’t want to be late for our reservation!” Becky hooked her arm in Anya’s and steered her towards the entrance to the Italian restaurant. “There’s just so much to catch up on.”

“Becky, I didn’t make a reservation—"

“Ohhhhh, I was wondering why you didn’t pick somewhere better! Easier to get in on short notice,” Becky interrupted with an easy laugh as they approached the well-within-earshot, now-glowering hostess’s stand.

Anya’s brow furrowed in confusion. The concierge said this was a fancy restaurant…

“Do you happen to have room for two on the patio?” Becky shined innocently under the hostess’s glare. “The name is Lawson.”

The girl balked, hastily dropping her scowl in favor of a polite (if noticeably nervous) smile. “W-why Mrs. Lawson, how wonderful that you’ll be dining with us tonight.” She fumbled with their menus, nearly dropping them as she stepped around the stand. The hostess jerked her arm out towards the patio entrance, her tense smile widening into an even more strained look. “Please, follow me.”

“You use Dirtbag’s last name?” Anya asked amusedly as she followed Becky and the hostess. “I thought Blackbell packed more of a punch.”

“Of course it does, but what can I say? I’m in love.” Becky grinned cheekily as she wiggled her fingers back at Anya, showcasing an enormous diamond engagement ring on her left hand. “That being said, please don’t call him that.”

“What? Dirtbag?” Anya repeated with a lazy smile. Becky glared at her as they arrived at a wrought-iron table. It was set against a trellis dripping with flowering ivy and had a clear view of the fountain in the center of the patio. The hostess rushed around Becky to pull out the chair she had gravitated towards.

“Ugh, grow up, Anya,” Becky bemoaned, gracefully flouncing into the awaiting seat. “It’s not even clever. You do know what that word means, right?” she asked with a patronizing lilt as she carefully arranged her dark flowy skirt around her knees.

Anya sneered at her friend, her chair screeching against the concrete as she dragged it out from the table herself (the hostess watched, exasperated, before making her escape). “Yes, I know what it means. And you know I never liked that guy, so it’s actually a perfect nickname.” She aggressively smoothed her skirt underneath her, awkwardly lowering onto the seat. “I’m happy for you and all, but I can’t help it. I didn’t like how he treated you back in college.”

“You didn’t seem too concerned about that while you were drunk on champagne and hogging all the hors d'oeuvres at the destination wedding his family paid for,” Becky said with a dry smirk.

Anya opened her mouth to rebuke the accusation…only to come up with nothing. “Pfft…okay, and? Your point?” She crossed her arms and slouched back in her chair.

Becky laughed. “My point is that for better or worse, richer or poorer, I’m stuck with him, so the least you could do is be nice.”

Anya sighed and shrugged exaggeratedly. “Fine, I guess I can handle that.”

“Enough about me, though, and speaking of the wedding…I don’t suppose your friend Matthias is back in town as well?” Becky blinked coquettishly at Anya as the waitress approached their table.

“Who?” Anya said, blinking cluelessly back. Becky watched her friend politely order her iced tea with a raised eyebrow. She ordered a glass of white wine for herself.

“Seriously, Anya?” Becky said in slight disbelief as she turned back to her friend. “Your date? Doesn’t ring a bell? Weren’t you coworkers, too?”

The puzzle pieces finally connected in Anya’s mind. “O-ohh, THAT Matthias!” She chuckled nervously. “Yeah, um, no. He did not come to Berlint with me.” Wonder what he’s up to right now. I didn’t recognize my relief, hopefully he doesn’t traumatize them too bad.

“Awww, and here I was hoping you’d have some good news for me,” she pouted. “You’re all dolled up, nice clothes, jewelry—I thought maybe you’d bagged that rich hottie.”

Anya’s face grew hot. “What makes you think he’s rich? He works the same job as me.”

“I can just tell. Besides, we all know you have a type." She leaned forward on the table, wiggling her eyebrows. “Speaking of, aren’t you gonna ask me about him?”

The temperature of Anya’s face rose, and she scowled. “I got no clue who you’re talking about.”

“C’mon, Anya, yes you do,” Becky smirked. She planted an elbow on the table and propped her chin in her hand, looking up at Anya mischievously. “Best to rip the bandaid off now, since you’re probably gonna see him on Sunday.”

Anya’s eyes widened as the color drained from her face. “Becky, what did you do?”

“Nothing, nothing,” she said with a carefree swat of her hand. “He and I ran into Emile at lunch earlier today. I may have mentioned a certain mystery Eden graduate was back in town, and given how it perfectly coincides with several of our other cherished former classmates being in town, we’ve decided to have a small reunion brunch at the Hotel de Rose.”

“But you didn’t say it was me? Honest?” Anya could feel panic slowly rearing its head inside of her, and fought to seem casual.

“Of course not, Emile has no idea,” Becky remarked simply as the waitress arrived with their drinks. Anya watched her friend carefully as she chatted with the waitress about the menu. I mean, I guess I’m gonna be here as Anya, maybe it can’t hurt to go. I need to know exactly what she said though.

After placing her own order, Anya cleared her throat. “So, ah, do you guys get lunch a lot? Or just today?”

Becky giggled as Anya reluctantly pulled back the curtains she’d drawn on her friend’s inner monologue. I knew that little tidbit would get to her, she’s totally still hooked on him. “From time to time,” Becky replied breezily. “He’s not my first choice for a lunch partner but it seems so important to him to stay in touch, I have to indulge.” She doesn’t need to know I was just crashing his and Emile’s little…the memory started to take shape at the forefront of Becky’s mind. 

He looks so tall…Or I guess Becky’s pretty short, Anya thought as she regarded the mental image of Damian. Does she not know the color of his eyes? They’re not that dark, and waaay more golden. And he’s still got those stupid long…lashes…

 “—Anya’s in town!” The ghost of Becky’s voice pulled her from her very important inspection and crashing back down to the reality of the situation. She groaned and let her face drop into her hands.

“She-okay, you don’t have to be like that about it,” Becky said with a disapproving tut. “I get things were kind of weird between you guys when we graduated, but she’ll be happy to see you.” Did she find out what happened? I thought I was the only other person who knew.

Anya balked, having not listened to a word Becky was saying. “Er-maybe?” She began vaguely. It’s fine, Anya, just pivot. “The thing is…I just wasn’t sure I was ready to see anybody from school yet. Nothing’s set in stone right now.”

Ugh, here she goes again. Becky set her glass down with an annoyed look. “You are always saying that, Anya Forger, and you always sound miserable when you do. You’re back home, so just stay! I don’t understand what’s so hard about that.”

“It’s not that simple, Becky. Some of us have to make a living. And I really like my work.”

“Anya, don’t be naive. You absolutely do not have to make a living. If not Damian, I could have you set up just like that!” She snapped for emphasis. Anya groaned again, falling back into her chair in frustration. “I’m sure whoever you end up with will let you fumble around with carved rocks and dusty manuscripts as a hobby.”

Anya felt an unexpected surge of protectiveness for the profession she’d never actually had. “It’s not just playing around with rocks, Becky,” she muttered irritatedly. I do remember a lot of dusty manuscripts in college though…

“Whatever it is, you could still do it, I’m sure! I miss my best friend,” Becky said in an impassioned tone. “And Damian misses you, too. He asked about you on your birthday, y’know.”

Anya glanced up at her friend, and before she could stop herself—"He did?”

Anya’s birthday had been the night of the Peace Gala. She and Jupiter were posing as guests when she’d gotten the news about Damian’s election to Parliament. I thought about him, too. Then everything went to absolute shit.

“Yes! Here I am, trying to get drunk at the party the firm held for him, and he’s on the balcony getting all teary-eyed cause you’re not there!”

Anya couldn’t help it; she peered back into Becky’s mind. 

Dang, she was drunk, Anya thought as she witnessed the bleary memory. He was leaning against the railing of the rooftop, spinning a small object between his fingers (not deemed relevant enough to an inebriated Becky to recall in any particular detail). He had a sad smile on his face—she wouldn’t exactly say he looked “teary-eyed"—as he jabbed a finger at the spot next to him.

“I bet she’d be standing right there, going ‘It’s a fluke, no way they’d elect a piece of crap like you,’” he said, a fondness to his tone. “I wonder what she’s doing right now.”

“Hell if I know, she doesn’t tell me anything,” Becky pouted (a slight slur to her words) as she dropped onto the soft cushion of a wicker chair.

Anya slammed her walls back down as a familiar wave of guilt washed over her. 

“Anya. I can tell you’re tired.” She jumped as Becky reached across the table to hold her hands. I feel like there’s something she’s not telling me, does she need help? “Just think about it, okay? You have options. The stones don’t have to set themselves,” she concluded with a reassuring smile. Anya’s heart clenched.

“Whew,” Becky released her friend’s hands and sat back in her chair, picking up her wine as she went, "that got heavy. Don’t you want a drink after that? I’m almost insulted that you’re sticking with tea.”

“Oh, I have a meeting after this, so I have to be careful,” Anya said, jerkily reaching for her own drink as though she’d forgotten it was there.

“A meeting? And you’re being all sketchy about your plans?” Becky gasped, leaning towards Anya with stars in her eyes. “It’s an interview, isn’t it? You’re gonna get a job here!”

“Becky, c’mon, nothing’s—"

“—set-in-stone-yet, I don’t care! I’m sure you’re a shoe-in. I mean, how many people could’ve possibly studied the same boring thing as you.” Anya bristled again at the thinly-veiled insult lobbed at her fictitious career path. “This is so great! I knew I’d wear you down. This calls for a toast, but we need to get you something a tad stronger than that.”

Anya laughed while Becky signaled over a waiter. She weakly protested as Becky ordered her a chocolate martini, knowing it was a bad idea, but having too much fun with her friend to care.

=================================

“Owwww-” Anya whined as her ankle buckled; she was sprinting through the streets of Berlint in her heels, the time currently three minutes after her briefing was scheduled to start. Dang it, I can’t believe I lost track of time like that, she panicked, slowing to a few hopping steps as she removed each of her shoes. She picked up speed, frantically looking around for a familiar mailbox. She found it and came skidding to a halt at the entrance to the alleyway, nearly missing it entirely. She went straight to the photo booth nestled amongst the buildings, roughly jerking the curtains open and throwing herself inside. 

C’mon, c’mon, she frantically dug through her purse. “Ha!” She exclaimed as she triumphantly withdrew a 10 pent coin, then confidently slammed it five millimeters to the right of the coin slot, sending it spinning to the floor of the photo booth. “What the heck is happening,” she moaned in tearful frustration as she scrambled to retrieve the coin from the dirty floor. She finally jammed it into the machine, straightening her posture and forcing a neutral expression for the camera as she anxiously wrung her hands. She relaxed as the elevator began its descent.

She caught a glint of her watch in the corner of her eye. I don’t even wanna know, she thought sourly as she put her shoes back on, also willfully ignoring the holes in her pantyhose. What’s important is that I’m here.

Anya shot out of the elevator doors the moment they’d opened wide enough. She desperately tried to corral the hair springing free from her bun as she near-jogged through the bullpen, politely smiling and nodding at familiar faces as she rushed towards the hallway.

Yeesh, she looks like shit.

Isn’t she supposed to be at her briefing…?

This is gonna be gooooood.

Anya took deep breaths, her anxiety getting the best of her mental defenses.

Already running late…this doesn’t bode well for our partnership. I hope this guy’s qualified.

She skidded to a stop as the familiar voice echoed between her ears. 

“No way,” she mumbled to herself, the clacking of her heels rapidly increasing in tempo as she hurled herself towards Handler’s office. “There’s no way…” She roughly yanked the door handle and burst into the room.

Handler looked up at Anya from her seat behind her desk. She never did get the hang of the ‘knocking’ thing, did she? She thought, her expression displeased. “Come in, agent Starlight. You’re late.”

S-Starlight? Wait a minute… That unmistakable voice again.

Anya’s eyes slid down to the man seated across from her boss while her jaw dropped. A head of wavy dark hair was tensed between shoulders clad in an expensive wool suit. His hands gripped each armrest tightly as he slowly rotated in his chair to look at Anya.

Hazel eyes framed with dark lashes widened in horrified shock, mirroring Anya’s own expression.

N-no way…there’s no way… They were the only thoughts Damian could muster at the sight of his ex-girlfriend.

Chapter Text

Damian thought he felt something brush his ear and flailed wildly, sending his right arm smacking into the lamppost he’d been waiting under for the last 12 minutes. He failed to suppress the pained groan rumbling in his throat as he clutched at the throbbing area above his elbow.

Goddammit, what’s taking so long? he mentally cursed, checking his watch for the umpteenth time. They said 6:45, right? He rubbed the almost certainly bruised spot once more before reaching into his pocket for the note he’d been slipped at lunch.

‘6:45pm, discreet pickup,’ it read. Kinda vague, but I’m assuming this is where they meant, Damian mused bitterly. This was the last thing I saw before it all went dark. He regarded the somber metal gates to the graveyard, recalled with a shudder the rough burlap (Editor’s note: the bag was actually made of cotton) scraping against his forehead before he was thrown into the trunk (backseat) of the WISE van (it was a luxury sedan).

He sighed, slipping the note back into his pocket and relaxing a bit. Maybe it won’t be as bad this time, since I know it’s co—

A sleek black car screeched around the corner, its backend fishtailing wildly as it accelerated directly at him. He gasped and scrambled backwards in shock until he bumped into the cold, stone foundation of the fence bordering the cemetery. He clutched his bag to his chest in horror as the vehicle continued careening towards him.

Just as he thought it would flip onto the sidewalk, the car’s path arced, its tires screeching as it was maneuvered into a perfect parallel park against the curb. Damian flinched as the passenger side door unceremoniously swung open, and an older gentleman he didn’t recognize stepped out.

“Good evening, Lord Desmond. Please,” the man reached for the handle of the rear door, tugging it open and gesturing to the car’s interior with a small bow, “come with us.”

Damian cautiously inched towards the sedan, leaning down to peer in at the driver but thwarted by a raised privacy barrier. He gulped, looking warily back at the man still holding onto the door.

“If you please, sir, we’re running a tad behind,” he smiled.

Damian shakily rested his hand on the roof of the car and ducked in; he had to snatch it into safety as the door was brusquely shut behind him. He stared blankly ahead, hearing the passenger door close, and then silence. That’s a pretty thick divider, Damian thought as sweat beaded on his forehead. His body swayed slightly as he felt the car take off from the curb. Calm down, he thought, clenching and unclenching his fists and attempting to will his anxiety into submission. This is the easy part. He tried settling back into his seat, hands coming to a rest on his stomach, but his leg bounced agitatedly in the corner of his eye. He sat up, resolving to slide over to gaze out the window. It was darkly tinted, but Damian had a clear view of the bridge they were currently crossing. Isn’t this back towards the government district…?

His face was glued to his window with an expression of mixed outrage and shock as, after a short ride, they came to a stop in front of the Westalis Embassy. Irritation flooded his body, his hands balling into fists where they pressed against the glass. You’re saying I walked eight blocks only to be driven to a meeting two blocks from my office. He almost didn’t notice the agent approaching his door once again; he flattened against the backseat just as the handle clicked.

“Right this way, sir,” the agent said with a sweep of his arm.

This isn’t very discreet, Damian thought as he stepped out onto the sidewalk and appraised the pale stone building in front of him (the car sped off the moment the door closed behind him). He adjusted his bag on his shoulder, watching the agent’s back as they climbed the steps to the wide entrance nestled behind tall pillars. I guess it’s getting late, but that makes it even weirder that I’m here. What if someone sees us?

His fears turned out to be completely unfounded: They didn’t pass a single person on the stairs, the front desk was unattended, and the halls were completely devoid of life. Guess everyone here has stellar work-life balance, Damian thought, trying and failing to combat the eerie sense of isolation with levity. The unease had him fidgeting nervously with the strap of his messenger bag as they waited in front of an elevator at the end of a long hall. The doors creaked open and he stepped inside, his escort trailing in after him. 

The agent gestured to the button panel with a smile. “Please take note of the pattern. You’ll be expected to use this entrance for briefings,” he said before punching in the sequence.

Door open…floor two…Can he seriously not go any slower? Damian’s eyes darted around in a futile attempt to follow the sequence, his anxiety spiking with each button press. The agent finally completed the code and stepped back, clasping his hands behind him. I’ll need to ask him to write it d— The elevator creaked and groaned concerningly as it began a jerky descent, sending Damian shrinking into the corner. His grip on his bag tightened. If I survive this, that is…

During Damian’s inaugural visit, they’d stepped out of the elevator and into a small vestibule that led directly to the bullpen. This time, he exited into a familiar hallway on the opposite end of HQ. Instead of being led to one of the interrogation rooms he knew lined it, they turned to the left and headed towards a door at the end of a short passage. The agent opened it with a gracious gesture for Damian to enter.

Damian found Handler seated at her desk against the opposite wall. “Welcome, Lord Desmond,” she said without looking up from her papers. “Please, have a seat.”

“Good evening, Handler. I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he paused to clear his throat as he settled into one of the upholstered chairs in front of her desk, “my older brother is technically ‘Lord Desmond’, it’s not really the correct title for me. ‘Mr.’ or ‘Senator’ is more appropriate.”

Handler looked up for the first time since he’d arrived, pairing a quirked eyebrow with a bewildered smile. “Is that so? I apologize for the faux pas.”

“It’s fine, really,” Damian added hastily, fighting the embarrassment welling up inside him at her obvious amusement. “But it’ll be important for my partner to understand those sorts of details, if he’ll be working with me in Parliament.”

“Oh?” Her smirk morphed into something more patronizing alongside her tone. “I wasn’t aware you’d be assigning and coaching my agents. What luck.”

The embarrassment surged inside him again. “O-of course not—”

“I’m flattered by your confidence in our abilities, Senator,” she continued, looking back down at the documents in front of her, “but WISE hasn’t infiltrated Parliament to such a degree that we could plant an employee inside undetected.”

“Oh, well that wouldn’t be an issue. I would personally handle hiring any staff—”

“What was that?” She swept the papers she’d been looking over back into their folder and shut it firmly. “You’re telling me the Ostanian Parliament wouldn’t feel the need to conduct any of their own background checks on applicants? Wouldn’t want to have a liaison present during interviews?” Her chair creaked as she folded one leg over the other, crossing her arms in the same motion. “You haven’t been in office long so I’ll forgive the lack of knowledge this time, but neglecting to take these sorts of details into account can end a mission before it even begins.” She sighed with a slight shake of her head. “If this is going to work, you’ll need to trust us. I assure you, we’ve assessed the situation thoroughly and determined the social angle to be the most viable. There won’t be any need for our agent to step foot in Parliament.”

“With all due respect, ma’am, I fail to see how,” Damian replied in a cautious tone. “I think it’d be just as suspicious if I suddenly brought someone new around my friends. And even if they aren’t suspicious, it’s not like Demetrius spends a lot of time around them, anyway. My partner will need to work in Parliament to ensure the most—”

“As I’ve already stated, we’ve taken all of this into account, and I assure you our agent will have no issue infiltrating your social circle.”

Damian frowned, pointedly checking his watch. Already running late…this doesn’t bode well for our partnership. I hope this guy’s qualified.

“I hope you’re ri—" Damian tensed and cut off as he heard the door fly open behind him.

=================================

Handler cleared her throat. Anya jumped and ended her horrified staring contest with Damian, standing at attention. He swiveled back around in his chair, hands balled into fists in his lap, shoulders tensed up to his ears.

Late and disheveled—not really sure what I expected, Handler was thinking ruefully. Meanwhile, as Anya had stared into his eyes, Damian’s thoughts had sounded like television static.

“Well, no need to be coy, seeing as you obviously know each other,” Handler said casually as she turned to pick up two binders, placing one at each seat across from her. “Please sit down, Starlight,” Anya jumped again at her codename, “so we can start the briefing. I’m sure it’s been a while but you two will have plenty of time to catch up later.”

Anya gulped and walked stiffly to the other chair while Damian composed himself. He watched her out of the corner of his eye.

Like I care about catching up. This is work, okay? You need to take this seriously. He directed his first coherent thought at Anya as she perched on the edge of her chair.

If she’d heard him, she didn’t visibly react. Guess your acting skills have improved, he added bitterly. I bet you’re their best agent, huh? Still nothing as Anya grabbed the binder in front of her and slouched back in her chair, idly flipping through it with a far-off stare. Damian’s eyebrows flew up into his hairline. Seriously? You’re actually going to ignore me th—

“Alright, let’s cut to the chase. Your mission will involve assuming a fake relationship in order to infiltrate Berlint high society—”

“Whoa, hold on, a relationship?” Damian immediately interrupted. Anya’s face burned as she buried it into her binder, her intense study of it an obvious farce.

“Yes, Senator, a relationship,” Handler repeated coldly, not bothering to conceal her irritation. “As we’ve already discussed, it would have been far more difficult to have an agent infiltrate Parliament directly—"

“But why does it have to be her? It could be any female agent.” Anya flinched at his side. There’s no way you and I can pull this off, this is a serious conflict of interest, he tried silently reasoning with her.

“She’ll be reassuming her identity as Anya Forger, a childhood friend to you and many of your acquaintances. She’s maintained her cover with Becky Lawson,“ this elicited another flinch from Anya, “so she’s a much better candidate than an agent who’d need to start from scratch.”

“Yeah, and these ‘friends’ know that we’re not exactly on the best of terms.” Even as delusional as your stupid croney is sometimes, he psychically tossed Anya’s way; he knew jabbing at Becky always got under her skin. He glanced over to gloat over her inevitable reaction.

Nothing—she just continued blushing behind her mission packet. You can’t hide behind that thing forever, he thought with an annoyed frown.

“You’d be surprised, Senator,” Handler replied with a patient smile. “I’m reasonably confident that will be the easiest part of the mission for you both, so long as your brother is also convinced. It’s much more likely that your significant other would be in the same room as Demetrius than your assistant or an aide, after all.”

“Oh, I see what this is about,” Damian scoffed mockingly, butting his forehead with the heel of his palm in faux realization. “I just need to get her in the same room as him, and then she’ll—"

“Damian,” Anya interrupted firmly. The first thing she’d said in the meeting was his name, and at the sound of her voice, he instinctively whipped around to look at her.

He’d dissociated a bit during their staring contest and hadn’t fully registered her appearance. Her green eyes were still wide and bright, even as they directed a steely glare his way; there was something dark smudged around them that accentuated their shape and intensified the gaze. They were still brushed with soft pink bangs, her face framed with longer strands that sprung loose from a messy bun atop her head. She still had an embarrassed blush, albeit slightly faded, coloring her cheeks. His eyes flicked down to her mouth, set in a firm line, but he could still make out the shape of her peach-tinted lips—

Damian blinked rapidly, realizing both women had been watching him in silence for several seconds. “Um, she’ll…she’ll probably weird him out. He never liked her,” he finally responded half-heartedly, tearing his eyes away from Anya’s face while still pointedly avoiding eye contact with Handler.

“Uh-huh, is that so?” Handler asked with evident amusement.

“Yes,” Damian responded flatly. His eyes flickered over to Anya. Does your boss not know? She had turned back to face Handler after his response, and he had an even harder time reading her expression in profile. Or do you not want her to know that I know?

No response. What game is she playing… He gritted his teeth and looked back at Handler, who was watching both of them inquisitively.

“Ahem,” she eventually continued, reaching up to adjust her glasses, “you said yourself that your relationship with Demetrius has improved dramatically.” Damian opened his mouth to protest, but she raised a hand to halt the interruption. “If you and Anya can sell your affection for each other, why wouldn’t he accept her with open arms?”

Damian glared down at his lap. “Because that’s a big ‘if’,” he muttered. He thought he saw Anya’s fists clench more tightly out of the corner of his eye, but couldn’t be sure; so far in the conversation he’d found her to be inscrutable.

“It’s not up for debate,” Handler said, rising slowly behind her desk. She leaned forward on her palms and looked back and forth between the two with an austere stare. “The details have already been decided. The success of Operation Typhlo rests on the success of this ruse, so I’ll need you both to do your best—"

“Tee…flo?” Anya interrupted in an unimpressed tone; her stiff, blushing demeanor had abruptly vanished and been replaced with a cross between confusion and doubt. “Couldn’t we pick something else? ‘Strix’ sounded so cool and mysterious.”

“Please don’t mention that name again. This isn’t subject to discussion—"

“I mean, shouldn’t we at least get a say?” Damian chimed in. “Or can we at least know why you picked it, like is there some meaning behind it?”

Handler straightened up from her lean on the desk, exasperation showing through the cracks forming in her cool facade. “The name is completely irrelevant to the success of the mission—"

Anya had been staring at her boss with a vague, focused look when her expression suddenly crumpled into scarcely contained laughter. She reached up to cover her mouth and block the few escaping giggles, peeking over at Damian with a mischievous glint in her eye.

“What? What is it?” Damian twisted in his chair to glare at her. “You have to tell me.”

Anya let out a relaxed sigh as her snickering subsided. “Handler’s right,” she responded lightly, lowering her hands into her lap to reveal a cheeky smirk. “The name is irrelevant to the success of the mission, Sy-on boy.”

“Don’t you dare start with that Sy-on boy crap, I am an elected official—"

“Okay, fine, Senator-boy.”

“How DARE you—"

“That is enough, you two,” Handler loudly interjected, shocking the seated pair into straight postures and sheepish expressions. “It’s called Operation Typhlo and that’s that.” She removed her glasses and rubbed tiredly at her forehead just above her right eye. ”I’ve told you everything you need to know and not a single detail more.” Her chair creaked as she slowly lowered back into it, clearly drained from their bickering. “Now, are there any relevant questions? Agent Starlight, I assume you reviewed the section on your employment?”

Anya paled slightly. “Er, right, ‘cause that’s exactly what I was reading earlier,” she replied with a timid chuckle. “I guess just one question, oh, where was that…” Damian watched in awe as her jittery hands fumbled through the binder (there was a red tab on the edge labeled ‘EMPLOYMENT’ he had located and flipped to immediately, while she was currently passing over it for the third time). “Ah, got it, right here. What exactly will my duties be as a ‘museum curator’?”

A beat passed as Handler stared flatly at Anya, the younger agent’s face slowly returning to a bright red hue. She sighed tiredly as she flipped her own mission folder to the relevant page in just a few swipes. “Since the story you’ve maintained focused on working as a translator for an archaeological dig out East, your ‘supervisor’ contacted the Berlint Natural History Museum last week and notified them that the fruits of this expedition would be delivered bright and early on Monday morning, and gave a glowing recommendation for you to join the team curating the final collection.”

“H-Handler, I haven’t been in school for a long time,” Anya began nervously. “And it’s kinda not what I studied—"

Damian had to suppress a snicker as Handler interrupted her. “My, really? Then why were you out East for six years?” Handler watched her shrink into her chair with a cool expression. “I would start studying to maintain the iron-clad cover that you established without the consent of your superiors.”

“Yes, Handler,” Anya replied quietly, reduced to a dejected puddle in her seat. Damian snickered again. Typical, so unprepared… Anya jerked her head around to scowl at him. Emboldened by the response, he returned the look with a brazen smirk. You know most of those people have, like, doctorates, right? You’re toast.

She was still glowering at him, but didn’t seem to otherwise react before returning her attention to her superior. His smile faltered as Handler cleared her throat.

“I wouldn’t be so smug, Senator.” It was Damian’s turn to flinch before nervously meeting Handler’s eye. “You’ve failed to follow your extraction orders twice now, not to mention—"

“Wait a minute, failed to follow my what? I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Both times, you were explicitly told to wait at discreet pickup, and both times you just wandered off into the city! Not to mention how difficult it’s been to get a hold of you this week in general.”

“B-but that’s all you said, I had basically no other information! I knew I’d be discreetly picked up—" Damian cut off; his lips remained parted as a blush crept into his cheeks. Anya overwhelmingly wanted to peek in at his thoughts, but maintained her distance. If this is gonna work, I need him to trust me, she thought, focusing her gaze on her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

“I suggest you take some time to look through your briefing materials as well, Senator,” Handler said tiredly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You need to accept that, in some ways, you are inexperienced, and trust that we will do everything in our power to make this operation a success. And we expect the same from you both,” she added, lowering her hand from her face and sticking each of them with a meaningful look. “You’re both well-known figures in this community, which comes with unprecedented opportunity, but also enormous risk.” She rose again, carefully stepping around her desk and resting against it facing them, her arms crossed. “If either one of you is compromised, that’s it; the effect it could have on Demetrius, the other members of Parliament, and, consequently, WISE’s ability to monitor this situation could be catastrophic.” She watched them in silence, letting her words sink in. Anya was staring lifelessly at her shoes while Damian returned her gaze directly; she imagined his goal was proud defiance, but he just looked harried and stressed.

Handler’s head drooped and she sighed, her confidence waning. This had better work…all of this planning can’t go to waste. Anya peeked up at her with a curious look; Damian caught the movement in his periphery and glanced between the two, his expression softening with intrigue.

Handler straightened up and stepped back around her desk. “I’m allowing you to leave with those mission briefings with the expectation that they will be guarded closely and destroyed after they’ve been thoroughly reviewed.” She punctuated this with a hard look at each of them before taking a seat. “We’ll have weekly briefings at this time starting on Monday, and until further notice. I expect you both to be on time moving forward.”

As if on cue, the door to the office opened behind them. “You’re both dismissed,” Handler concluded, resuming her study of one of the many files piled on her desk.

Anya immediately sprang out of her chair and darted for the exit. Damian sighed, fatigue descending on him as he slowly rose from his chair.

“Damian.” He froze as Handler’s voice cut through the air towards him. 

“Y-yeah?” he sputtered out in surprise, caught fully off-guard by the use of his given name.

“She’ll take good care of you. I expect you to return the favor.” Her eyes and tone were icy in an apparent abandonment of professionalism.

Damian swallowed, feeling a faint sense of dread. “Yes ma’am.”

“Good,” she replied, returning her gaze to the documents in front of her. “Now walk agent Starlight back to her hotel.”

“Excuse me?”

Her eyes snapped back up to him, resuming their cold glare. “That’s an order.”

Damian huffed and snatched his bag off of the ground, stomping out the door without another word. What’s that lady’s deal? ‘Walk her home’? He rounded the corner into the main hallway. I shoulda known she’d get special treatment—

“Oof!”

He ran directly into Anya; she’d been waiting just around the corner. Damian’s eyes widened as she teetered back from the impact, and he reflexively reached out to grab her wrist and prevent her fall.

They exchanged a silent, wide-eyed stare as Anya dangled from his grasp. After a few moments, Damian came to his senses, abruptly releasing his grip on Anya’s arm and sending her scrambling to regain her balance. He nervously wiped his palms on his trousers as Anya got her bearings, then cleared her throat.

“They said I gotta show you how to use the, uh, other exit.” She was staring down at the ground.

Damian blinked, confused. “‘The other exit’?”

“Yeah, not the way you came in, the other…way…” She trailed off lamely, reaching up to brush an errant strand of hair behind her ear. 

He batted the urge to fix the one on the other side of her face away with a stick. “Al-” his voice cracked, and he cleared his suddenly dry throat before continuing. “Alright, lead the way.”

Anya nodded, still refusing to look at him as she turned on her heel and headed towards the bullpen at a brisk pace. He struggled to keep up with her as she barreled across the office and into the vestibule holding the elevator he’d stepped out of on his first visit. He almost lost sight of her when, contrary to his expectations, she took a sharp right down a dark hallway. They stopped in front of a slimmer set of doors tucked at the end of it.

“This is it,” Anya said quietly, pressing a large, grey button on the wall nearby. The doors opened immediately, revealing an elevator car around the size of a bathroom stall with a stool situated in the center. Anya stepped inside and stared up at him expectantly. “C’mon.”

He stared back at her, completely baffled. “This is clearly only meant to hold one person.”

“I know that,” she flushed, her tone annoyed, “but they told me to take you this way, so get on.”

Damian let out an exasperated sigh and awkwardly sidled into the elevator. Both stood with their backs pressed into opposite walls, attempting to maximize the scant space between them. Anya twisted and clumsily pushed against the wall with her hand, testing multiple spots with a confused glare. She eventually froze and looked over at Damian, her expression turning sheepish. “There’s, uh, a button, but I think it’s on your side.”

“Huh?” Damian twisted around to check behind him. “I don’t see a button.”

“It’s behind a panel, you have to kind of jimmy it out—"

“Do what?” 

Anya huffed irritatedly. “The panel’s hidden in the wall, you have to get it open, then you can press the button.”

“Okay, where is it?”

“Somewhere over there on the wall.”

“Gee, that was super helpful,” he responded flatly as he began his search. She huffed again at his sarcasm, crossing her arms and tapping her foot impatiently as he awkwardly prodded around.

He looked for about five seconds before agitatedly saying, “It’s not here.”

“Uh, yes it is, ‘cause it’s not over here. You’re not looking hard enough.”

“Oh, pardon me, I didn’t realize I could’ve been doing a better job poking at this wall,” he fired back hotly.

“Well, that makes sense, ‘cause you always think you do everything perfectly.”

“I do not—"

“Be quiet and let me do it.” She started to cross the small space between them, and Damian panicked.

“N-no, stay over there—” He scrambled back towards the wall, sending the new bruise above his elbow crashing into it. “F-f-f-f-” He suppressed a swear as he doubled over, clutching at his arm.

“What? W-what’s wrong? What happened?” Anya stammered in anxious shock at his sudden agony.

“Nothing,” he growled through clenched teeth. He rotated carefully away from her, still doubled over, before falling onto the stool. “Please just get me out of here.” He sat with his chin tucked, hugging his arm to his chest. Anya shuffled around him to look for the button, watching him in confused worry the whole way. After two tries, she was able to locate the panel; the doors closed and she retreated to the corner, fiddling with her hands as she stared down at her shoes.

They rode up in silence until the elevator shuddered to a stop with a small ding. Damian looked up just as Anya hurriedly threw open a curtain and rapidly ejected herself from the elevator. He took a moment to examine his surroundings, slowly piecing together that they had risen into a photobooth.

Curtain still ajar, he stepped out. They were in an alleyway next to a brick building he didn’t recognize. Anya waited for him at the entrance to the street, her back to him, shoulders looking tense as she gripped the strap of the purse dangling from her shoulder tightly with both hands. He took a deep breath and slowly approached her.

Chapter Text

Damian tensed with every step he took towards Anya. Okay, think empty thoughts, he fretted, glancing down to find his hands strangling the strap of his bag. He forced them to relax down at his sides as he took a few steadying breaths. Last thing we need is to give her the upper hand here. You're literally just walking her home. He glanced up at Anya as he drew closer.

The streetlamps cast her in a warm glow. She stood completely still, her posture rigid, and her knuckles were white where they gripped her purse strap. Damian came to a stop at her side and snuck a glance over at her: She was staring straight ahead with her jaw set, looking as though she were trying to bore a hole into the building across the street.

He gulped, tearing his eyes away from her. He couldn't settle on what to do with his hands as he grappled for what to say; they started awkwardly clasped in front of him, moved to rest on his hips, then ended up crossed over his chest, his shoulders scrunched.

“So…” Damian ventured, but quickly lost steam. C'mon, Desmond, say something—

Anya surprised him by taking the initiative. “We should probably meet up.” His eyes darted over to her. “Y’know, before the next briefing…and Becky’s…thing.” Her shoulders slumped as she trailed off tiredly.

“Ah, right,” Damian replied weakly. I completely forgot about that stupid reunion… "Well, we can talk about it on the way to your hotel. I'm supposed to walk you home." His voice gradually dropped to a mutter as he felt his cheeks warm; he was starting to feel childish.

Anya's eyes widened. "O-oh, okay. That's fine I guess…" She jerkily looked from side to side, before abruptly turning on her heel. “It's this way," she said, and started down the street at a near speedwalk.

Her sudden departure gave her a head start, but Damian was able to easily catch up with a few long-legged strides. “So, um, when are you thinking?” he asked, shoving his hands into his pockets as he fell into step with her.

“What?” Anya replied absentmindedly. Her eyes stayed locked straight ahead as they navigated the dim streets of the city.

“You said we should meet up.”

“Oh, right.” Her tight grip on her purse strap loosened, and she began twisting it between her fingers. “Are you busy Saturday?”

“Kinda…do you have any time tomorrow?”

“I really shouldn’t tomorrow. There's a lotta stuff I need to take care of.” Damian glanced over at the sound of Anya's dejected tone, surprised to find a matching downtrodden look on her face.

“What do you mean?"

“I don’t suppose you have an extra apartment lying around?" she asked with a slight wince. "I'm only in the hotel till Monday. I guess I can try and stay a little longer, but it's pricey, so the quicker I find a place, the better.”

“That's all? I can help with that.”

She looked over at Damian with a discomforted expression, hands raising into a gesture of protest. “Oh, no, I was just kidding—”

Damian rolled his eyes as he interrupted. “I know that. I used a real estate agent to find my apartment, and I can get you his number.”

“A real estate agent?” She parroted as her sheepish look faded, before shaking her head and chuckling to herself. “Pft, figures Sy-on boy couldn’t find his own place.” She looked back over at him with a smug smirk, mocking humor glinting in her eyes. “Does Jeeves still tie your shoes, too?”

He flushed, and frantically suppressed the mental image that statement spurred of the butler drying dishes in his apartment; he couldn’t afford to psychically grant her any ammunition for the accusation. “Shut up. Any respectable person uses a real estate agent,” he countered with a scowl. “A dummy like you needs all the help she can get, anyway. You'd accidentally rent a room in a crackhouse or something.”

Anya snorted. "Immediately making fun of me. You really haven't changed a bit."

"Yeah, w-well, right back atcha," Damian sputtered in response, crossing his arms and glaring petulantly at the sidewalk a few paces ahead. You can put the obnoxious uggo in designer clothes, but she's still an obnoxious uggo, he thought, casting a condescending look sideways at Anya.

He expected shock, indignation, anything to cross her face at the childish jab, but she once again perfectly kept her composure as they came to a stop at a crosswalk. He felt a pang of annoyance at his latest failure. What is with you? I know you can hear me, suddenly too mature to—

He was suddenly struck with a theory, and decided to put it to the test. "Doesn't matter how much they try to dress you up, an obnoxious uggo is still an obnoxious uggo."

Finally, the reaction he'd hoped for: Her head whipped around to stick him with an annoyed frown as she dryly retorted, "I'll take being an uggo over a big old jerk any day." The crosswalk signal changed, and she started across the street with her nose up in the air.

Damian followed a few steps behind her, watching the back of her head with fascination plainly etched on his face. He continued to test his theory. I hate Demetrius. I want to kill him. Die die die.

Anya continued marching ahead with no discernible change in her demeanor. He jogged to catch up with her at the corner, then grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around.

This is driving me nuts. Just give me a sign. Like, if you can hear this, you have permission to slap me, he thought as he stared intensely into her wide, green eyes.

She didn't move, just returned his stare with an anxious look as he braced for impact. "D-Damian? Are you feeling okay?" she asked, shrinking in his grip. Her eyes started to dart around as random passersby regarded them curiously.

Do they know each other? Is she okay?

Wonder what that's about.

He's dressed kind of nice for a mugger, but I guess anything is possible…

"Damian, come on, cut it out," she began in a low voice, "people are getting weirded out. I'm weirded out."

I'll let you go right now if you say 'banana split', and only if you say 'banana split'. He doubled the intensity of his stare.

Anya's look morphed into a scowl. "What the heck are you doing? I said cut it out." She started to twist in his grip, reaching up towards his fingers on her right bicep.

Nuh-uh, the password is 'banana— "Ow-ow-ow-" Damian was quickly caught off-guard by her strength; Anya had easily gathered up his fingers and was slowly bending them back, freeing her arm from their grip. His other hand flew to snatch his newly aching extremities from her grasp and nurse them.

"What the hell was that for?" he snapped.

"Well, I told you to cut it out," she snapped back, rubbing at her arms where he'd gripped them. "You weren't listening to me."

"All you had to do was say the password!"

"Wait, what?" Anya's anger dissipated into pure confusion, her hands dropping to her sides. "What are you talking about?"

"You can drop the clueless act, you're not fooling anyone."

She was still lost. "Has public office melted your brain?" she asked, her impatience at his cryptic behavior growing by the second. "What 'act'? One second you're offering to help me and then you start acting all jerky and weird." She crossed her arms and glared over at the curb. "I didn't even ask for your stupid real estate agent."

"That's not what this is about, and you know it."

She redirected her glare to Damian. "No, I don't know it. Can you just spit it out already?"

He sighed impatiently. "I know you're…you know." He shifted closer, leaning into her as he dropped his voice. "Listening."

Her eyebrows flew up. "Uh, yeah, I'm listening," she replied in a faux whisper, "and I'm hearing a crazy person."

Damian groaned and spun away from her, dropping his face in his hands. "Forget it." His voice was muffled through his fingers until he looked back up at her with a prideful scowl. "Play dumb for all I care. You're not gonna put one over on me."

"Yeah. Fine. Whatever," Anya replied flatly, before roughly snapping open her purse and digging out a pen and crumpled receipt from her dinner with Becky. She haphazardly smoothed the paper against her palm and began hastily scribbling on it. "You can't do Saturday, and I'm gonna be busy during the day tomorrow, so how about dinner?" She winced each time the pen tip punched through the paper and into her palm. "Here's my hotel and room number. I wrote some other stuff down, call me if it doesn't work." Damian reeled back as Anya shoved the note into his chest and stepped around him to leave.

"I-You-Hey!" he sputtered, rooted in place in outraged shock as he watched her take off down the street. He'd failed to reach for the receipt, and had to scramble to catch it as it fluttered down his torso. Once safely crumpled in his hands, he took a hasty step forward to go after her, but stopped abruptly as he realized she'd already escaped his view.

Jeez, for a shrimp she can really book it. He looked down at the wrinkled piece of paper in his hands.

'Hotel de Rose, Room 3…' Is that a…a seven? Or is it a two? He sighed impatiently as he shoved it into his pocket. I'll try and decode her chicken scratch later. He tossed one last scowl in the direction of her hotel before shoving his hands in his pockets and beginning his own frustrated march home.

=================================

"'You're an obnoxious uggo who likes crackhouses,'" Anya said to herself in a low-pitched, mocking imitation of her new mission partner as she jammed her room key into the door. "Yeah, right. Beats being a stupid jerk." She let the door fall closed behind her as she angrily plopped her key and purse onto the console table by the door. With two large, sweeping steps, she kicked off each of her shoes as she trudged into the sitting room, dropping into one of the plush armchairs.

The sooner this is all over, the better, she thought, and sank tiredly into the cushions, her eyes drooping closed and her head flopping over the backrest. Just gotta figure out what Demetrius is up to, then keep him from starting another war, and bing-bang-boom, world peace is secured once again by Anya Forger. A dreamy smile spread across her face as she sighed contentedly. Easy peasy. I'll definitely get it done waaaaaay faster than Papa did—

Anya's eyes snapped open, and she shot up in her chair. What time is it? Her head snapped to look over at the clock on the wall: 8:32pm. She sighed in relief. Okay, still got time to call.

Anya groaned theatrically as she slowly rose from her seat and plodded into the bedroom to retrieve her journal from the vanity. The thick, quilted cover felt soft in her hands as she turned it to the very last page. She began carefully sliding her nail along the spine, until the lining of the back cover gave way to reveal a compartment. She slipped a few folded sheets of paper out before returning to the living room, leaving the journal on the vanity's surface.

Anya clumsily unfolded and inspected each sheet on her way to the phone. They were all covered nearly front-to-back with crossed out phone numbers, occasional coordinates, and passphrases. "No, not that," she muttered to herself as she squinted at her poor handwriting. "I really need to figure out a new…ah, that one." Phone receiver cradled between her chin and shoulder, she dialed the number from the latest entry.

After a few rings, she heard a click as the call was answered. A woman spoke in a low, measured voice. "Dresner residence."

"Er, hello," Anya squinted down at her handwriting. "I would like to order a third of a bushel of koh…kull…"

"Anya, is that you?" The voice immediately brightened into her mother's familiar, sweet tone. "It's so good to hear from you!" Anya heard rustling, then Yor's voice became distant. "Loid, it's Anya!" Anya smiled as her mother spoke back into the receiver. "How have you been, my darling girl?"

"I've been good, Mama." She couldn't keep herself from beaming as she spoke. "Just got my latest assignment."

"That's so good to hear! I hope your last one was a success, we hadn't heard from you in so long and were getting worried."

"Uhh, yeah, it was pretty intense, but super successful," Anya replied shakily. Can't let them find out I was basically in detention for the last five months. "How have you guys been? Settled in to the new place?"

"Just about! We have a lovely little shop on Main Street that's opening soon, and the house has the most wonderful view of the shoreline. All of our neighbors have been so kind and welcoming."

"That's really great, Mama. Maybe…" Anya bit her lip, hesitating. "Maybe I'll be able to see it soon."

Yor went quiet for a moment. Anya anxiously wrung the phone chord between her fingers, waiting for her to respond.

"I'm going to hand you over to your father, okay dear? It's so wonderful to finally hear from you."

Anya pulled the receiver from her mouth so it wouldn't pick up her exaggerated sigh, thankful that her mother couldn't see her expression. "Okay, Mama. Nice talking to you, too. Love you."

"I love you, too." Anya listened to the rustling of the phone exchanging hands, bracing herself.

"Hi, Anya."

"Hi, Papa."

An awkward silence. Loid eventually continued, "How have you been? We're very happy to hear from you. Are you safe?"

His tone was pleasant, but Anya didn't need to read her father's mind to know a lecture loomed.

"I wouldn't be calling if I wasn't," she said, wincing as it came out a bit more tersely than she intended.

"That's good to hear. Your mother says you asked about planning a visit?"

Okay, straight to the point, Anya thought with an eye roll. "Yep, just got my latest orders. It shouldn't be too hard to slip away."

"Anya, we've talked about this." The tone of admonishment she'd grown accustomed to hearing the last six years finally crept into his words. "You knew what you were signing up for when you took this job. I've enjoyed these phone calls, and we miss you, too, but you're not supposed to have any ties to your real identity."

"I mean, does it count if my 'real identity' was a cover to begin with?" she countered, trying to sound playful.

"Yes, it does." Loid did not match her attempt at levity. "Your mother and I would really like for this to be a permanent arrangement, and that means the location has to remain secure. If you're actively on assignment, there's no guarantee HQ won't be keeping close eyes on you."

"C'mon, Papa, we've made it this far without any issues. I don't get what the big deal is. Handler found out about the phone calls ages ago and nothing bad has happened—"

"She what?"

Anya winced again. Oops. "It's not a big deal, she knows I talk to Becky too—"

Loid's deep sigh stopped her in her tracks. She felt a pang of shame, but it was quickly overtaken by annoyance. Whatever. Becky I get, but why shouldn't I be able to talk to my secret-agent-assassin parents?

"I know you trust Handler, and I don't necessarily disagree with that, but you need to be more careful, Anya. You're not in a business where it's wise to trust so freely."

"Heh, I see what you did there."

Loid sighed again. "This isn't a joking matter."

"I know it isn't," Anya replied curtly, letting her irritation fully take over. "If you guys are staying there forever, shouldn't I be allowed to see it? We haven't had any problems, so I don't get why you feel the need to put your foot down now."

"I've been trying to put my foot down since you finished school, Anya. You just insist on ignoring me, and your mother can't bear to say no to you."

"Yeah, but you've made it perfectly clear you don't mind doing it."

"If it means keeping you and your mother safe, then no, I don't mind."

"Ugh," Anya scoffed as she threw her free hand up in frustration. "There have been literally zero issues, I don't get why you keep saying that."

"Because you know that's not the case, Anya. After the last time, you know we've had to—"

"You don't know that that was my fault," Anya blurted out; her voice sounded a bit hoarse, bordering on desperate, and her eyes started pricking with the possibility of tears. "It could've been completely unrelated—"

Loid's voice became gentle as he interrupted her. "Garden finding us a month after you visited hardly seemed coincidental, Anya."

"But that's Garden, they have nothing to do with WISE! And Mama whupped those guys' butts no problem."

"Whether they know you're an agent or not, they know you're Yor's daughter, so who knows how long they could have been watching you? And besides, your mother shouldn't have to do any butt-whupping. She's retired, let her enjoy it."

"Well, if that's the case, then you might not be hearing from me at all for a while," Anya said bitterly. "I'm back in Berlint as Anya, and who knows," she adopted a sarcastic, spooky tone, "they could be listening to us right now!"

"What?" Loid said, and Anya cringed with guilt at the genuine distress in her father's voice. "What do you mean? Aren't you supposed to be undercover? Is that your assignment?"

Anya opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off by Loid's sharp voice through the receiver. "Wait, don't tell me. You shouldn't be sharing details about your mission, I apologize for asking. But shame on you for telling me that if it is."

"I-what? Are you serious?" Anya sputtered.

"Yes, I'm serious. And you need to take this seriously, too. I'm going to give you back to your mother, now. I love you, Anya. Please be careful."

"Yeah, yeah," she muttered sulkily. "I love you, too."

There was a pause amidst the second phone shuffle, and then Yor spoke again.

"You know we'd love to see you, Anya. It's just…" Yor trailed off into silence. Anya rubbed roughly at her forehead, trying to calm down and pick her words carefully.

"I understand, Mama. It's just how it has to be right now. Hopefully things die down soon and I can."

"Well, hopefully no one has to die," Yor said with an uneasy chuckle, "but yes. It'll be soon, I know it. We love you, darling. Don't wait so long before calling again, okay?"

"Okay, Mama. Love you too."

Anya hung up. She stood staring at the phone for several seconds, sadness and frustration clouding her thoughts. Just as she started to feel overwhelmed, she stomped away to the kitchenette to rifle through the cupboards, muttering angrily to herself.

"I can't believe he said that, there's no way that was my fault." So far, she'd only discovered plates, bowls, and mugs, but stopped short at the sight of the fourth cabinet she'd yanked open. Bingo.

Arms laden with chips, candy, peanuts, and every other treat from the cupboard she could carry, Anya marched back into her bedroom, dumping her haul onto the sheets of the large bed.

"'Take this seriously, Anya,'" she mocked as she threw the TV cabinet open and snatched up the remote. "How does he know I'm not?" She turned around, poised to pounce onto the soft mattress, then was halted by a thought.

I guess I should look through my mission binder before calling it a night. She groaned and tossed her head back, stomping back into the sitting room. 'Cause I'm a great agent, she thought, glancing around to see where she'd left it. This isn't 'cause of anything he said. Why would I pay any attention…to…to… The binder wasn't on either of the side tables by the armchairs. She turned around to check the kitchenette.

To someone who's always… It wasn't on any of the countertops. Anya could feel her heart rate increasing as she stumbled around searching the room. She rushed over to the console table by the door.

He's always…underestimating…oh my gosh I left it at headquarters. Anya moaned, reeling back with her face in her hands as the image of the binder resting on the chair in Handler's office materialized in her mind. She hunched over tiredly, hands falling from her face, and her eyes fell on a throw pillow on one of the armchairs.

She quickly crossed the room, yanked it off the chair, pressed it into her face, and screamed.

=================================

"'What? What are you talking about?' Give me a break."

Damian slammed the drawer of his dresser shut, continuing his (surprisingly accurate) impression of Anya, a pair of silk pajamas clutched tightly in his fist.

"'Yeah, I'm listening. And you sound like a crazy person.'" And she has the audacity to insult me? There's no point in being coy about it, so what could she be planning…

He tossed his pajamas onto the cushioned bench in the center of his walk-in closet, and began distractedly unbuttoning his shirt as he considered the possibilities. It's obvious she wants me to think she's not listening, but I feel like I've made it pretty obvious that I know she is, so why not just acknowledge it? It's not like playing dumb will magically make me trust her. He let the button-down slip from his fingers onto the floor, his undershirt joining it shortly after. Plus, it could be kind of cool, I guess. Like, on missions, it could be helpful or whatever…

He pictures the two of them creeping around some imaginary lair. They move through the winding halls quickly but quietly, posting up at each corner to scope the route ahead before giving the other the signal to advance. It's Damian's turn: He rushes forward, flattening against a wall, his handgun (they have matching handguns) raised, carefully peeking out to ensure the coast is clear. He hears a shuffling noise, and his eyes dart around to locate the source.

He turns, locking eyes with Anya where she waits at their previous checkpoint. Three men, two armed with automatic weapons. She nods sharply, and begins signing out (they've worked out a system of hand signals) a rough plan of attack. He gives a near-imperceptible shake of his head. No, you should hang back; it's better if they don't know there's two of us. I got this. Anya furiously gestures her disagreement; he's outnumbered, outgunned, and she's concerned for his safety.

Damian smirks, then tosses her a saucy wink. You worry too much.

He bursts around the corner, flying towards the men at a full sprint. He manages to close the distance considerably before they even realize he's there, giving him the opportunity to slide-tackle the closest goon. The man yelps in confusion, his gun dropping from his grip and directly into Damian's free hand as he falls to the ground. Damian shifts his feet, rotating to face the remaining enemies as he skids to a stop. He flings the gun into the face of the unarmed man; the butt of the rifle makes contact, breaking his nose with a satisfying crunch.

Damian turns his attention to the remaining goon, his eyes widening in surprise at the sight of the rifle pointing at him. In a split second, deafening gunfire fills the hallway. Damian runs in a wide arc around the enemy, skillfully avoiding the bullets. His path sends him up and along the wall, and when the firing ceases and he hears the magazine clatter to the ground, he roughly kicks off, spinning around to send the tip of his combat boot into the temple of the gunner. The man loses consciousness instantaneously, crumpling into a heap on the floor.

Damian rights himself with a dramatic toss of his hair out of his eyes, plants a hand on his hip, and looks back at Anya. Heh, what did I tell— He gasps and quickly raises his pistol.

The goon with the broken nose had retrieved the offending rifle from the ground and currently had it pointed at Anya's head. "Griffin…" she whimpers helplessly, clawing at the arm currently trapping her against him as a human shield.

"So you're the famous agent Griffin," the enemy hisses, sending blood and spittle onto Anya's cheek. "You can't be that great, letting a fellow agent be taken so easily."

Damian chuckles darkly, keeping his expression nonchalant and his pistol expertly aimed at the man's forehead. "We all have our off-days. I don't suppose there's any way we could talk this out? I'm sure you'd love to live to tell the tale of catching me unawares." His eyes flicker over to briefly lock with Anya's. I've got the shot. Her gaze sharpens, and she blinks twice (they also have a blinking system).

"I'm not sure there's any need for that, Griffin." His grip on Anya tightens. "I seem to have you right where I want you."

"I wouldn't be so sure. You know what they say about best laid plans: They—"

BANG.

Damian whipped around his room in a panicked daze, startled from his reverie. He snatched up his pajama bottoms from the bench and clumsily pulled them on, hopping over to the closet door and cautiously peeking into his bedroom.

It was empty. He flinched as another loud knock, knock rang through the room, this time followed by a familiar voice.

"Master Damian? I just wanted to inform you I'm taking my leave for the evening."

Damian sighed in annoyance and stepped out of the closet. "Okay, Jeeves. You know you don't have to tell me, right?" His voice dropped to a mutter. "You don't even need to be here in the first place…"

"Of course, sir. Breakfast and lunch for tomorrow are ready in the refrigerator for you." Damian's hand flew up to his face as it flushed with embarrassment; he dragged it slowly down his features as Jeeves continued. "Sleep well, Master Damian."

"Yeah, you too," Damian called out tiredly in response. He listened to Jeeves's footsteps plod down the stairs of his townhome as he trudged over to his bed. When he reached the edge, he turned on his heels, and let himself fall back onto the covers.

He laid staring up at the canopy of his bed for a moment. I wonder if she's got food at the hotel. Maybe I should… He blushed again as the absurdity of the sentiment washed over him, burying his face in both hands and turning over onto his side to curl into a ball. Stop it. She's fine. She's made it perfectly clear she doesn't want my help. He removed his hands from his face, moving them to grip each of his elbows as he curled up more tightly. As soon as the mission's over, she'll be back to gallivanting around the East and West without a care in the world. Business as usual.

An unexpected feeling of emptiness washed over him. He unfurled, resting his bare feet onto the rug, and rose slowly from the bed. He put on the slippers placed neatly at the base of the nightstand, and walked over to the door.

He stepped out into the hallway and started towards the staircase, not bothering with the lights before descending. Damian had made enough late-night trips to his office over the years that he had no trouble navigating the dark stairs, and didn't need to fumble around in search of the doorknob.

Moonlight streamed in through the tall windows behind his desk. It was late, so the streets and trail through the park behind his apartment were devoid of life, only populated at intervals by the warm oases cast by the streetlamps. He took a moment to appreciate it as he plodded over to the desk, then his eyes reluctantly dropped to the binder resting on it. He raised a hand, delicately running a finger over the smooth, blank cover before flattening his hand over it, supporting his weight as he pulled out his chair.

He settled into the seat, then felt along the top right edge of the binder until his finger caught on an earmarked page. He flipped to it, and his eyes immediately landed on a paragraph on the left-hand side.

'…feigning a romantic attachment in order to grant Agent Starlight access to the asset's close family and acquaintances…'

Damian slumped back in the chair, staring listlessly out the windows. I can't forget; it's not even me she's here for. He gradually leaned forward onto the desk, pushing the binder out of the way with his forearms, resting his chin on them and staring up at the waning moon. I'm just the 'asset.' She probably doesn't give a single fuck about what I'm thinking.

Chapter Text

Anya spent her Friday morning as follows:

6:38am - Was gently awoken by pale, morning sunlight streaming in through the windows.

6:39am - Rolled over and went back to sleep.

9:17am - Knocked her elbow on the hardwood nightstand as she violently scrambled out of bed, having now greatly overslept. 

9:32am - Ate breakfast while she perused ads for apartment rentals in the newspaper. She managed to find a few options that were a reasonable distance from the museum and HQ, and that she was pretty sure fell within her budget.

10:05am - Left the hotel to check out the listings, brimming with optimistic excitement.

10:27am - Arrived at the first listing. The entire unit shook each time one of the extremely regular trains passed perilously close by the windows, which had the added effect of scaring the cockroaches from their hiding spots.

10:51am - Arrived at the next listing. The landlord's office was down an alley tastefully accented by broken glass and cigarette butts and appeared to be, contrary to their newspaper ad and the hours listed on the door, boarded up and condemned.

11:18am - Toured the last listing, a cozy studio apartment with pleasant natural lighting. She knew she could get the hang of blocking out the thoughts of the family of five in the apartment above, but had to admit that it was hard to ignore their heavy footsteps and arguing through the ceiling.

11:39am - Stumbled to a payphone, discouraged, to call Becky and see if she was free for lunch.

=================================

Anya felt two small taps on the back of her head.

"Gee, that bad, huh?"

She unglued her forehead from her arms and looked up, squinting in the bright, early afternoon sunlight that filled the small cafe. A silhouette in the shape of her friend Becky stood next to the table where she languished; Anya grunted her assent at it before dropping her head back onto her forearms.

"Yeesh." Becky took the seat across from her, setting her clutch down on the table. Her escort, Renate, had entered a few paces behind her and seated herself a respectful distance away at a table against the far wall. "I know you're probably just being dramatic, but it's still hard to watch. You've only seen three places, Anya."

"Yep, that's right," Anya replied, still facedown, her voice muffled. "The only three places I can afford that aren't an hour long bus ride from the museum."

"The museum? So you got the job?" Becky asked excitedly as Anya sat up and began digging through her bag.

"Yeah. And they don't pay well." I really really hope I'm remembering the rent allowance wrong…but now all that money in the duffel bag makes sense. She yanked out her newspaper and tossed it onto the tabletop.

Becky watched the paper slide towards her with a raised eyebrow. She tsked and rolled her eyes before reaching for it. "Three places in one newspaper, all hope is clearly lost," she remarked dryly, scanning one of Anya's clumsily circled entries in the Classifieds section. "Seriously? This place is a shoebox. Look, there's a perfectly acceptable one underneath it. Two bedrooms, right down the street, and ooh! Recently renovated." Becky leaned across the table, jabbing a finger at the listing.

Anya moved in to inspect it, her eyes immediately searching for the rent figure. "Very funny, Becky. Eight hundred dalc a month?"

"What? That's not that much."

Anya groaned. "Yeah, I walked right into that. Lemme guess, that was your allowance when we were little?" she asked dryly.

"Oh please, Anya." Becky giggled mischievously behind a hand demurely raised to her lips. "It's far less than that."

Anya slouched back into her chair. "I shoulda gone with the real estate agent," she muttered despondently. Maybe it's not too late to get the number from Damian…

"You're using a real estate agent? So what's the problem?"

"No, the problem is I don't have a real estate agent."

"Well, why not? Did you talk to one?"

"Uh, no, I haven't, but someone offered to let me use theirs."

"Who? Someone at the museum?"

"N-no, someone else." FUCK, why didn't I just say yes?

"You're saying you saw someone else between dinner with me, your interview, and now?" Becky leaned onto the table, chin in hand, a smirk curving onto her lips. "What was for breakfast, Anya? Or maybe dessert? Gotta admit, you work much faster than I expected."

"Would you knock it off? It's not what you think."

"Oh? So you didn't go walking down Veidt Street with Damian last night?"

Anya's jaw dropped and she went pale. I…Is Becky a spy? For a moment, she sincerely considered peeking into her friend's thoughts to make sure.

Becky burst out laughing at her stunned silence. "I saw the two of you on my way to the firm; Lionel was working late, so I brought him dinner. I'm guessing you did a similar favor for Damian after your interview? Or did you even have a job interview?" She started giggling again. "It'd put how quickly you rushed out of our dinner into perspective, that's for sure."

A wave of agitation brought the color flooding back into Anya's cheeks. "Shut up, no it doesn't. I was in a hurry because I was late for my interview, thank you very much, and I ran into him afterwards. He offered to walk me to my hotel. That was it."

"Well? And then what?" Becky had dropped the teasing and opted to soak up Anya's brief explanation with gusto, leaning into the conversation with her hands clasped closely under her chin, eyes shining.

Anya scoffed. "I just said that was it."

"Seriously? You didn't invite him up? You had him right there, Anya!"

"Actually, he never even made it to the hotel. That's how quickly I managed to piss him off this time."

"Why, what did you say? Please tell me you at least tried to be civil. Did you do that back-of-the-hand-brushing thing I showed you?"

Anya's annoyance abated, and she regarded her friend with perplexed affection. "I will never understand your obsession with the two of us," she said with a defeated chuckle and shake of her head. "I just told you that he and I couldn't even get through a ten minute walk, and you're asking me if I managed to work in some flirting?"

"Oh please, Anya, everyone knows that's just how you two operate. It's essentially foreplay for you weirdos."

Anya choked, shocked mid-sip from a water bottle. "Umm, okay, what?" she said through nervous, strained laughter. "Please don't say things like that. We were teenagers when we dated."

"And what's more romantic than school sweethearts? Let alone ones parted for years due to circumstances outside of their control?" Becky insisted, slamming a fist down onto the tabletop.

"'Outside of our control'? What was outside of our—"

"I'll admit," Becky continued, wrapped up in her analysis and completely ignoring Anya, "I've never been totally on-board with your decision to play the long game, but I can't deny how juicy the 'will-they, won't they' shtick has been to watch. It's made the whole situation way more intriguing."

"You're so gross, Becky," Anya deadpanned.

"No, I'm not; you're just naive. Grow up and get your man!" Becky concluded with an imploring look.

Anya sighed dramatically, melting lifelessly back into her chair and casting a glassy, far-off look just over Becky's head. "Can we please go back to talking about how I'm gonna be homeless?" she asked in a frail voice.

Becky laughed again at her expense. "Oh, come on, Anya, take the drama down a notch. You can always just stay with me—"

"No." It was a reflexive, unintentional interruption, and Anya cringed inwardly at the flash of hurt that crossed Becky's face.

"Jeez, okay then."

"No, Becky, it's not—"

"You don't have to explain. I don't care." Becky brushed imaginary crumbs off of her lap as she straightened in her seat, now glancing around with a disinterested affect. "Does anybody actually work here? Why haven't they taken our order yet?"

"Beckyyy," Anya whined remorsefully. I can't risk her noticing any spy stuff, especially 'cause I know the second the dating crap starts she's gonna be obsessed with our every move. "You know I appreciate the offer. But it's really far from the museum, and I don't wanna end up relying on you all the time for rides and stuff. Also, you have to order at the counter here."

"Ugh, seriously? I knew I should have picked the place. Come on." Becky snatched her purse off the table and stood from her seat. Anya blinked up at her, momentarily stunned by the abrupt change of plan.

"Well?" Becky waited next to the table impatiently tapping her foot. "I know a better restaurant nearby. Plus, I had Renate and Andreas put together a list of Blackbell properties for us to tour as soon as you called. I don't want to spend all day doing this, especially since I get the feeling we'll need time to find you a whole wardrobe by Monday, too." She razed Anya's oversized sweater, jeans, and sneakers with a disapproving look. "You looked so nice yesterday, what happened?"

"I look fine," Anya retorted, her fingers self-consciously clutching at her light yellow crewneck. HQ only gave me one outfit, and I didn't wanna spend too much at the boutique. Plus, I liked this one… "Isn't it normal to dress up for job interviews?"

"Right, among other things." Becky said with a suggestive air.

"Ugh, you're unbelievable."

"I believe you mean 'incomparable,' as in, 'incomparably patient with her slowpoke best friend.' Come on, let's go." Becky started playfully tugging on Anya's arm, feigning attempts to pull her from her chair.

"Okay, okay," Anya laughed, swatting Becky's hands away and freeing herself to lean over and grab her tote bag, "but can I meet you there? I have to make a quick stop nearby." Gotta pick up the binder from Handler's office. She suppressed a shiver as she stood up. There's definitely gonna be yelling…

"Fine, but don't take too long. Renate?"

Becky's attendant seemingly teleported to her side. "Yes, Mrs. Lawson?"

"Please let Andreas know we'll likely be doing the showings a bit later than planned. And get Anya the address for Le Maison."

"Yes, ma'am,"Renate responded, promptly withdrawing a pen from inside her blazer.

"Thank you." Becky turned to address Anya. "You better make it quick. Like I said, we don't have all day."

"Oh, yeah, that reminds me: I need to be back at the hotel by six."

"What? Why? I was going to talk you into joining us for dinner at the estate."

"I can't tonight, I'm sorry."

"Why not?"

Anya squirmed in the face of Becky's blunt questioning. I know I gotta get in the habit of lying to her all the time again, but… "I just can't."

"Oh really?" Becky gave Anya a sly look, crossing her arms and settling into her left hip. "Okay, I won't pry. Gee, I wonder if anyone else would be free tonight." Anya's eyes narrowed as Becky started tapping her chin, her tone and expression now exaggeratedly thoughtful. "I could ask Meg, maybe Emile—oh! Think I should check with Damian?"

Anya's anxiety spiked in response to Becky's uncanny perception, but she hid it behind a childish sneer at her friend's performance. "Real funny, Becky. I'll come by for dinner tomorrow, okay?" Please drop it please drop it please drop it—

"Oh, you definitely are; as if I'd let Damian keep you all to himself." Becky winked and spun around to take her leave, her skirt swirling elegantly with the movement. "Let's go, Renate," she said as she strode briskly towards the exit.

"Here you are, Miss Forger." Renate handed her a small card with the new restaurant's address neatly scrawled on it. "I trust we'll see you soon," she said with a polite smile. You always manage to leave Miss Becky waiting, don't you?

Anya forced a strained smile onto her lips. "Thanks, Renate. I won't be long."

Renate nodded curtly in response, then took her leave.

Anya waited a moment before stepping out of the cafe after the two. She paused on the sidewalk, pretending to root around in her bag as she watched Becky and Renate enter a sleek black sedan parked by the curb. The moment the car rounded the corner and disappeared from sight, she took off running in the opposite direction towards HQ.

Maybe I'll be lucky! Yeah, she might not even be there. After all, she's a busy woman, she has loads of other agents to worry about and-ugh, who am I kidding. Anya put an end to the false stream of optimism, letting out a lamenting moan as she barreled down the sidewalk. I'm getting chewed out for sure. Hopefully it's quick…

=================================

Anya was still trying to catch her breath when the doors to the elevator opened. She stumbled out into the dark hallway, doing her best to quiet her breathing as she sidled up to the wide entryway of the bullpen.

She peeked around the corner. It was mostly empty, as she'd predicted; even spies took lunch breaks, and the ever-industrious Handler often used the time for briefings with agents in the field. Emboldened by the scant number of witnesses, she sped across the room. Yeah, that's right, who else would even care why I'm here? I'm just stoppin' in, gotta pick something up real quick, no biggie.

A quick skim over the thoughts of the few agents present left her feeling confident as she made it to the end of the hall. She paused at Handler's door, and gently knocked: No response. Her hand shook slightly as she reached to test the doorknob: It was unlocked.

Yes, yes, yes! Anya silently celebrated as she entered, slinking quickly around the doorframe and closing the door as quietly as she could behind her.

"Good afternoon, Starlight. I was wondering when you'd get here."

Anya jolted, whirling around and pressing her back into the door. Handler stood by one of the cabinets behind her desk, papers in hand, expressionless as she regarded Anya.

"O-oh, good afternoon, ma'am," Anya said, trying and utterly failing to sound guiltless and nonchalant. "I just stopped by to grab my binder. I came now 'cause I knew you'd be here, and it's so nice to see you."

So her acting skills still need improving. "Nice to see you, too," Handler said out loud, pretending to inspect the document in her hand as she turned to fully face Anya. "You even knocked for once, which is a very important step to breaking into someone's office." Her eyes flicked up to Anya underneath the brim of her hat. "Good to know you're still sharp."

Anya gulped, hanging her head sheepishly. "Y-yes, ma'am."

Handler shook her head as she stepped behind her desk. She tossed the papers she was holding onto it before reaching down to open one of its drawers. "I suppose I'd rather you leave it here than somewhere it could be discovered, but the fact of the matter is it was forgotten." She'd straightened up and unceremoniously dropped Anya's binder onto the desktop, the blatant slam punctuating her sentence and eliciting a wince from the younger agent. "As you can imagine, I'm heavily considering outright forbidding that any briefing materials leave headquarters from here on out. I thought I'd adequately stressed the gravity of this operation, but perhaps not." If she's going to be rattled this easily, this will never work.

"I'm sorry for being careless, ma'am." Anya found her voice, but kept her gaze fixed on the desktop. "I won't let it happen again. Seeing Damian caught me off-guard, I admit. I just never thought…" She hesitated. "We don't normally have agents reassume previous aliases, do we? And especially not…" She chewed nervously on her bottom lip, carefully considering her next words. "What if someone realizes I know these people a little too well?"

Handler's demeanor softened somewhat, but her response still sounded flat. "Those are valid concerns, Starlight. And they are addressed," she swept a hand over the desk, "in your binder." I oversaw most of the planning myself, I'm insulted she thinks I'd overlook that. Maybe she is too personally involved here…

Anya gulped, deciding to take the plunge. "It's just…I find it hard to believe there's a lie good enough to account for the fact that I've known everyone since we were kids. I'm…I'm wondering if I'm the right agent for the job." She stared down at her toes. "Damian even said so himself: Any agent could pose as his girlfriend, it doesn't have to be me." The girl who can't even remember her mission binder. Her expression tightened as she felt a wave of shame wash over her.

She isn't seriously considering backing out of this, is she? None of this works without— Handler's inner monologue abruptly cut off as she slowly raised a hand to her mouth. She angled away from Anya and started to meticulously work her way down the list of agents in and around Berlint name by name.

Anya's heart plummeted, a faint ache taking root in her chest. Jeez, she can't even wait till I'm gone to start looking for my replacement? "A-anyway, I understand if it's for the best—"

"Starlight, I will not be removing you from this assignment. Please take a seat."

Anya hesitated a bit before shuffling over to sit down.

Handler remained standing for a moment, taking a deep breath as her thoughts settled. How should I put it… "I'm going to level with you," she warily began as she eased herself into her own chair, "I had the same concerns and tried to convince the higher-ups that we should assign a different agent to Damian." She leaned her elbows onto the desk, hands clasped, looking sympathetically at Anya. "Reassuming their original identity would be a daunting task for any agent, but I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been concerned about you specifically being capable of navigating the…complexities of it, so to speak."

Anya nodded, keeping her eyes trained on her lap.

"We've been watching Damian for a long time now. He's not nearly at the level his father was, but even so, he's been difficult to reach over the years beyond surface surveillance. As much as we'd like to believe he's come to us in good faith, we don't actually know what his motives are or what he's thinking. What we do know is that he almost exclusively interacts with coworkers and people he's known since he was young. In light of this, you were deemed to be our best shot at gaining his trust."

"Trust," Anya echoed in an empty voice, picking at her cuticles. That was sort of our whole issue in the first place.

"Even if there's some tension at the beginning, I think you'll be pleasantly surprised at the outcome. You're one of his oldest friends, and based on the intel we've gathered, we're sure that the familiarity will win out."

Anya finally looked up, cracking what she hoped was a dry smile. "I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I can tell it doesn't really matter how I feel anyway." She stood and picked up her binder from the desk. "I'll make it work."

Handler regarded her with a gentle expression. "I'm confident you will." I never wanted to put either of them in this position…but we're here now, and I know she can do it.

The mental declaration seemed forced, and only served to bolster the anxiety and self-doubt that had been steadily growing in Anya since that morning; she merely smiled tightly in response and took her leave. The moment the door softly clicked closed behind her, she darted down the hall, binder clutched tightly to her chest, apprehensively nibbling at the thumbnail of her free hand.

By the time she reached the hall to the already awaiting elevator, Anya was practically running. She swept inside, spinning to locate the hidden panel, when the memory of Damian frantically retreating from her as she'd reached for it the day prior materialized in front of her eyes; her arm jerked back, and her throat suddenly felt tight.

Anya shook her head violently to dispel the image. She roughly shoved the panel open, pressing the button it concealed with slightly excessive force, and dropped onto the stool as the doors slowly shut. Jittery nerves overtook her every movement as she fumbled around with her tote, struggling to jam the binder inside, and her mind ran wild.

She was just saying that because she doesn't want me to freak out, why else would she have all those agents on standby? Even Damian knows he'd be better off, and he's supposed to trust me? Her eyes welled with tears as another memory involuntarily surged, this time of his hard stare at her on the sidewalk, summoning the ghost of his vice-like grip on her arms along with it. I spent that whole time tuning him out and he still treated me like some sort of mutant freak. I don't get it, why does he think I'd go to all those lengths to hide it from him? I was being SO obvious—

The elevator shuddered, a soft ding heralding her arrival to the surface and abruptly stifling the flood of insecurity. She looked around in a daze, her eyes unfocused and blurred with tears. She roughly swiped at the ones that had spilled onto her cheeks, her face turning a splotchy, ruddy hue as she took deep breaths, not moving from her seat, taking time to center herself.

It's okay. Things could be worse. Her thumbnail returned to her mouth. I just need to convince him I'm not doing the thing that made him dump me and avoid me for years. She fought the surge of anxiety with another furious shake of her head. Focus, Anya. He didn't care at the wedding, what was different then?

All the details were hazy; she'd drank more than what was advisable for a technically-on-duty agent that night, and had separated from the rest of the reception to pull herself together. She ended up settling on a bench in the spacious screened-in patio overlooking the beach, where she watched the other wedding guests sway on the dancefloor to the sweet voice of some pop singer Anya didn't recognize, but she knew Becky adored. Her focus kept drifting to the sun setting over the ocean behind them, tinting the water with rich pinks and oranges, although it was the thin band of gold bordering just where the sun sank into the horizon that dominated her attention; it reminded her of something, and she squinted at it as she searched her mind for what.

A throat cleared behind her, and she drunkenly tossed her head back to appraise the source: She found Damian lingering by the door. "Hey! Howsit goin', Sy-on boy?" she greeted cheerfully, a lazy smile spreading across her face.

There'd been a trace of hesitation in his body language and features that abruptly vanished, mild exasperation taking its place. "Wow. So I take it you're having a good time?" he asked sarcastically.

Anya's face scrunched into a dismayed pout. "Lighten up," she replied, swaying slightly as she turned back to the sunset. "Itsa wedding, maybe try enjoying yourself for once."

She heard him scoff behind her, then his footsteps as he approached. Some of us have real reputations to maintain, not some airheaded cover we can goof off with, he thought as he joined her on the bench.

She giggled at the haughty jab, ineffectively stifling the laughter behind her hand.

"What's so funny?" Damian demanded with an irritated scowl.

"Nothin'," she replied, her laughter gradually abating. She looked up at him sleepily. "I know you don't mean it." He immediately blushed, and the lazy smile that had returned to her face deepened a bit before suddenly fading, and she leaned towards him to stare intensely into his eyes. Damian reddened further, retreating like an opposing magnet, his eyes darting around nervously.

"W-what are you doing?" How are you already acting so weird—

"Thas it!" Anya finally bellowed triumphantly, startling Damian back onto his hands as she abruptly pulled away. "Thas the color!"

Damian righted himself, straightening the sleeves of his tuxedo and tossing another annoyed glare her way. "Do I even want to know what you're talking about?"

"Maaaybe," she lilted playfully, a mischievous smirk alighting her lips. "Is your ego still the size of Ostania?"

He gaped, offended anger now the fuel to the flush in his cheeks. "It is not. You're one to talk, waltzing around like some hotshot when you're just here to sp—"

"Shhhhhh," she loudly hissed, her hands frantically flying up to cover his mouth. "Someone might hear you," she added in an exaggerated stage whisper, peering conspicuously around them for any witnesses.

Anya could feel his face burning under her palms until he grabbed each of her wrists and roughly ripped her hands away. Damian kept his grip on them to pull her in close and glare deeply into her eyes.

When you're just here to spy on everyone, he thought tauntingly. Weren't you just telling me to chill out? We're the only ones here. His eyes suddenly widened, and he shoved Anya's hands back at her, slouching grumpily at her side. I don't even know why I came out here. You're so infuriating, he silently sulked.

Anya started giggling again, planting her hands in her lap and gleefully swinging her feet. "And you're so moody. I've missed that." She ignored Damian's jolt at her side and casually continued, "I'm glad you came out here."

He was speechless at her side, but she could make out the whisper of a thought: I've missed you, too.

The concentrated frown Anya had fixed on the photobooth's monitor throughout her reminiscing deepened. So…he trusts me when I'm drunk? she thought, but immediately shook her head to dispel the idea. That can't be it…plus, that wouldn't be sustainable. She propped her chin up on her fists, frown deepening further. Ugh, I don't get it. Why did he just go with it? It can't—

Her back straightened as the epiphany struck her. He just went with it. I didn't do anything. She shot triumphantly up in her seat, chest puffing as a newfound confidence filled her. That's it! From now on, I'll just—

Anya's entire body contracted as the photobooth curtain was tossed open, flooding it with light and scaring the absolute shit out of her.

"Oh. Excuse me, ma'am, I didn't realize this was occupied."

Her suspicions surrounding the source of the voice were confirmed as her eyes adjusted: Blizzard stared flatly down at her behind dark sunglasses, the curtain in one hand and a varsity-style sweater swung over her shoulder in the other. She wore cropped jeans and a fitted tee, and her hair was styled into neatly sectioned braids gathered into two buns at the nape of her neck. She stepped aside, pulling the curtain further open, and gestured for Anya to exit. I swear to god if she makes me late, it's bad enough I had to rush all the way back here—

Anya scrambled out of the booth, praying that the telltale signs of a recent cry had already faded from her face. "M-my bad." She paused after straightening up from her exit, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder and smiling sheepishly at her fellow agent. "Good to see you again."

Blizzard sighed deeply, wasting no time pushing past her to climb into the booth. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I don't believe we've met before." Why does every day I see her feel like her first on the job? "Now if you'll excuse me." She yanked the curtain shut in Anya's face.

Anya remained rooted in place, stunned, as Blizzard's mental tirade about travel fatigue and yet-to-be-honored expense reports faded down the elevator shaft. She cleared her throat, composing herself before exiting the alleyway.

There seem to be a lot of agents in Berlint right now, I wonder what's going on? Anya idly wondered as she joined the crowd of people on the sidewalk. Could it be 'cause of Typhlo? Not really sure what we'd need backup for at this point. Well, on the bright side, maybe there's a chance Blizzard and I will get paired up, and she'll finally warm up to me. Unless… Anya's grip on her bag tightened. Is she on standby to replace me? A shock went through her body, accompanied by a vision of Blizzard and Damian interacting springing before her eyes.

Blizzard coquettishly extends a gloved hand to him, dressed in a stunning icy blue evening gown. "Charmed," she says as Damian accepts and drops a kiss onto the back of it. "I must say, you're nothing like the jerkish brute Anya described."

"Oh? Well, she does have a penchant for childish exaggeration, doesn't she?" Damian replies with a devilish smirk up at Blizzard, not releasing her hand.

Blizzard gives a posh laugh. "You can say that again. It's a miracle she hasn't already blown this entire operation. Thank goodness our superiors came to their senses."

"Indeed," Damian agrees with his own pretentious chuckle, straightening the bow tie of his tuxedo. "Such a relief to be working with an agent that possesses actual class and skill," he adds, shooting Blizzard a winning smile and subtly tugging her closer to him.

"Oh, Senator," Blizzard giggles coyly, cozying up to him. "Pardon me for being forward, but I daresay this shall be a piece of cake."

Anya clutched at each of her ears as their imaginary pompous laughter faded. That's totally it, she catastrophized, trudging off to the side of the walkway to lean dejectedly against a building. If I can't get him to trust me, I might lose my first undercover op—

Her head snapped up as her panic was interrupted by the loud clang of a bell tower, signaling the top of the hour. CRAP, it's already that late? I gotta get back to Becky! She straightened up and darted to the curb, frantically signaling for a taxi. It hadn't even rolled to a complete stop before Anya had thrown its door open and flung herself inside.

"Can you take me to, er, wait a minute." Anya slouched dramatically in the seat to gain access to her jean pockets, digging around for the card Renate had given her. "Le…My-son?" she asked with an uncertain glance up, catching the driver's eye in the rearview. A beat passed as he stared back, his expression floored, clearly still processing her chaotic entry.

She huffed and unceremoniously tossed the crumpled up business card through the divider, then began wrestling with her seatbelt. "The address is on the card, please hurry!"

This chick better tip well, she heard him mentally grumble as they took off from the curb, tires screeching.

Chapter Text

Damian's Friday morning proceeded as follows:

5am - Shut off his alarm clock (he'd already been awake for almost an hour). Spent several minutes staring lifelessly up at the ceiling before getting out of bed.

5:50am - Returned from his daily jog in the park. Showered and got dressed.

6:30am - Sat down to eat breakfast. He read the newspaper, went over his schedule and briefings for that day, and rooted around in his office for 20 minutes in search of that guy's business card.

7:45am - Left for Parliament.

8am - Arrived in his office. He called the closed real estate office as soon as he was settled in, and left instructions for his aide, Ralph, to reach out to them again while he was in his first meeting.

9am - Returned from meeting with space exploration committee. He checked with Ralph for any messages, and was informed there were none.

9:15am - Sat with reporter from The Berlint Eye to talk about his first 180 days in office. The interviewer commented on how impressed she was by Damian's obvious dedication to his work, being so clearly preoccupied throughout their talk.

9:45am - Escorted the reporter out of his office, making sure to stop by Ralph's desk. The only message of note waiting for him was from his brother confirming they were still on for breakfast at the Club tomorrow. He had trouble focusing as he prepped for his interview about the cosmonaut program, wondering what could possibly keep a realtor so busy.

10:15am - Left for the Berlint News One station.

11:45am - Returned to Parliament. Ralph rushed down the steps to meet him by the curb, triumphantly brandishing the message he'd been waiting for.

=================================

"Yes, the university district." Damian stood behind his desk as he spoke on the phone, hand propped on his hip, idly glancing over the numerous law and history books crammed onto his office bookshelf. "As close to the museum as you can get." He turned from the shelves and started fidgeting with a paperweight, listening carefully to the response. "No maximum, just whatever you can find us. I'd like to get all of our options on the table before we worry about numbers."

He rustled around the desk for something to write with. "And those are two-bedroom units, right?" He clicked a pen open and hastily scribbled an address on a random scrap he found. "No, no, one-bedroom would be fine; just want to keep our options open. Alright, I'll send confirmation of the time over tonight. Again, really appreciate you giving up some of your Saturday for this, Rich. Yeah. Alright, see you there—bye."

He glanced up at the clock— Shit. —and hurriedly shoved the piece of paper with the details of their appointment the following day into his satchel. He snatched the bag off of his desk and rushed to leave, pausing to grab his coat and hat from where they hung by the door.

"Running out for lunch," he tossed over his shoulder at a bewildered Ralph, shoving his arm into a jacket sleeve as he went. "I'll be back soon."

Damian hurried down the streets of Berlint towards the shopping district. His pace slowed as he arrived at a busy pedestrianized lane jam-packed with vendor stalls. He weaved through the bustling crowd, collar up and hat drawn down over his eyes in an overblown effort to seem inconspicuous.

Towards the end of the lane, where the crowd thinned as the buildings grew shabbier and shabbier, he bolted down a dark, narrow alleyway. There was a beat-up olive green door nestled at the end of it that dinged as he pushed it open, signaling his arrival to an empty cafe. Without missing a beat, he strode across the room, bypassing all tables and the counter in favor of a paint-chipped door against the back wall. It creaked loudly as he carefully opened and shut it behind him before climbing the steep, narrow stairs just across the threshold. There were two doors at the top of the landing; he picked the one on his left, gave two curt knocks, and entered without awaiting a response.

A man with curly salt-and-pepper hair was hunched over a desk in the cramped office. He turned and looked up at Damian just as he entered, his left eye comically enlarged by a monocle with numerous stacking lenses perched atop his usual square frames.

"Cutting it pretty close there, buddy."

Damian merely grunted in response, trudging over to a wooden chair and collapsing into it. He removed his hat and tossed it on top of the filing cabinet to his right before throwing his head back and attempting to relax, his left arm propped on a tall stack of boxes.

The man turned his attention back to his work. "Don't we seem a little distracted today. You're positive no one followed you?"

"We've been over this, Franky, the SSS doesn't tail me. You've got the wrong Desmond," Damian responded tiredly.

"First of all, that's what they want you to think," Franky muttered in response, thin wisps of smoke rising as he poked at a small device on his desktop with the tip of a red-hot tool. "And secondly, you know that's not who he's worried about. Have you really thought all this through? Buh-lieve me when I say getting too wrapped up with these people is—"

Damian's head snapped up. "It's none of your business," he barked at Franky's back.

Franky's hands froze over his work. The wheels of his chair rumbled across the hardwood floor as he swiveled around to cast a raised eyebrow at Damian. "Wow, extra touchy today. Something happen that I should know about?"

"No," Damian responded flatly, and closed his eyes as he settled back into his exhausted pose. "Stop acting like we're pals or something. Payphones are cheaper, I can always go back to doing that."

"Tch, the apple doesn't fall far, huh." Damian popped a single eye open to point indignantly at Franky as he laid down his tools and gingerly removed his monocle. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked to the door, casting a condescending look down at Damian along the way. "Well, I'll just get out of your hair, then. Would hate for you to not be able to enjoy the privacy of my own office while you talk to your weird, surrogate father."

Damian didn't respond, just listened to the creak and slam of the door behind Franky. He sat in silence, not moving, trying to keep his mind completely clear, and calm, and peaceful—

He flinched and sat up, startled by the piercing ring of one of the eight or nine phones crammed on the top of Franky's desk. He took a deep breath, relaxing his muscles before he got up from his seat and walked over to answer.

"Hi, Loid."

"Hello, Damian. How are you doing?"

"Been better," he replied honestly. "How about you?"

"Quite well, actually. You know, Anya called last night. It was the first time we'd heard from her in months."

Damian felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped down his back. "O-oh?" was all he could manage to reply. He never beats around the bush, does he?

"Uh-huh. So I take it you've already had your first briefing with her?"

“E-excuse me?” Damian said in exasperated disbelief. That blabbermouth… "What did she tell you?"

"Just that she was back in Berlint, and coupled with the fact that you've mentioned growing suspicious of your brother, I knew it was only a matter of time before you called WISE, and I knew exactly who they'd be calling the moment you did."

Damian deflated, his knees buckling. "I guess I see what you're saying?" he said as he fell into Franky's desk chair, propping an elbow on his knee so he could rub tiredly at his forehead. "But how were you so sure it'd be Anya?"

"I'm shocked you didn't assume the same, Damian."

"Are you serious? What is wrong with you people? It seemed like an obvious conflict of interest," Damian said defensively.

"I'm realizing now that there's no reason a civilian would know this, but it's standard practice for WISE to burn a new agent's true identity."

"I-it is?" Damian stammered, taken slightly aback by how casually Loid referenced his shadowy former employer staging his daughter's death.

"Yes, it is, but for sake of argument, let's say it was merely an oversight. Do you honestly think they'd tolerate this agent repeatedly abusing this oversight to maintain contact with her family and friends? To be frank, it's unusual that WISE would take on an agent with so many personal connections in the first place: The fewer they have, the easier it is to make them disappear."

"I mean, I don't know." Damian grappled for words, an embarrassed blush creeping into his cheeks at Loid's matter-of-fact tone. "You were their best agent, a-and she and I didn't really stay in touch—"

"Really, Damian, she was at Becky's wedding. You didn't find that strange?"

"No, I didn't," Damian tersely retorted. "I figured they turned it into some twisted infiltration mission for her or something. She was there with some guy who totally screamed 'agency'. He laid the whole wedding date thing on obnoxiously thick, like wouldn't keep his hands off her the whole damn—"

"That's enough, Damian. Thank you for the details."

Damian winced. "Sorry."

"Anyway," Loid continued with a subtle clearing of his throat, "it’s clear to me they've always intended to leave that channel to Berlint high society wide open. Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm certain they caught wind of Demetrius's movements long before you did, and your call simply forced them to move up their timeline. If it were me planning this op, I'd want to get a handle on you as soon as you were cognizant of the situation, especially if I knew you were guaranteed to cooperate."

"Okay, okay, I get it, it's all painfully obvious," Damian grumbled. "So what are you telling me, that this is actually some long-thought-out elaborate scheme and I should be worried?"

"No, not necessarily," Loid answered nonchalantly. "Just remember that though it all may seem well-intentioned on the surface, WISE isn't your friend." Ice crept into Damian's veins. "There isn't a single doubt in my mind that Anya will do a fine job keeping you safe. She cares deeply for you—" Damian's stomach flipped, "—but as far as I can tell, she still blindly trusts the agency. One of you will need to stay mindful of their actual motives."

Damian shivered. "W-what are their actual motives?"

"I don't know," Loid replied simply.

Tension Damian hadn't realized had coiled into his muscles all drained in an instant, leaving behind a vague sense of fatigue. "Oh. And she and I need to figure that out?"

"Not right away; as with any situation, you'll have to gather information. At this point in time, I'm choosing to naively hope that their primary motivations haven't changed since Operation Strix, and that this is all in a genuine, continued effort to avoid war, and only to avoid war, but the two of you need to remain vigilant all the same."

"R-right…"

"And you'll have to keep me updated on how she's doing. She still seems a bit upset with me."

"Okay."

"And Damian?"

"Yeah?"

"You're not moving in with my daughter."

"Wh-you—" Damian blustered, his face instantaneously a glowing, beet red. "Y-you wiretapped my office again, didn't you? I'll have you know that was just to make sure w-SHE'D have as many listings to choose from as possible—"

"Of course. A noble strategy."

"Y-yeah. Exactly."

"Right. Can you get Franky for me? We can discuss your interviews today and the BASA bill another time."

"Yeah, yeah…" Damian stood up and sauntered over to the office door, loudly kicking it twice. He heard Franky's angry shout of protest from downstairs, then said to Loid, "He's coming."

"Thank you. I have to say, I look forward to reading your article. You've accomplished quite a bit in a short amount of time; you should be proud."

"Thanks, I guess," muttered Damian, feeling hollow despite the compliment. "I find it hard to believe that it's all on the merit of my hard work though," he added sarcastically.

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," he said bitterly. "It's not a coincidence these NUP bastards started showing an interest in the space committee just before I get dragged into one of their Demetrius fan club meetings. Everyone would try to use me to get close to my father, and now it's my brother. It's how it's always been."

Loid fell silent on the other line as Franky's cranky stomps up the stairs grew closer.

"Hey, Franky's on his way up. When should I be back to—"

"You know, you were one of my daughter's first friends at school," Loid suddenly began.

Damian was momentarily stunned. "U-um…duh? Wasn't exactly a coincidence, was it?"

"I suppose not. I certainly went to great lengths to arrange the conditions, and who knows if she would have ever approached you if not for being able to hear my thoughts on the matter."

Damian's grip on the phone receiver tightened. "Okay, yeah, what's your point?"

"I certainly never expected the two of you to stay friends, either. You were obviously infatuated with her, but so determined to keep your distance and bully her. And she would always come home calling you mean, and stupid—"

Franky burst through the office door. "You don't pay me enough that I'm okay with you trashing the place," he shouted at Damian. "What is it?"

Damian swiftly turned his back on Franky's entrance to shield his burning face from view. "I get it, Loid, we hate each other and she thinks I'm the worst," he said through gritted teeth. "Franky's waiting, can you just tell me when—"

"My point is," Loid interrupted lightly, "the way both of your lives have been personally affected by global politics and secret organizations is deeply unfair, and I'm sorry." Damian's lips parted in surprise, his eyes widening along with them. "Please don't forget she's as much of a victim of all of this as you are, even if she's a much more…spirited victim.

"That being said, I know my daughter very well. She wouldn't have had a single reservation about leaving your relationship in the rubble at the end of Strix if it had truly only been about the mission. Yor and I thought we'd have to beg her to put off joining the agency and weigh her options at school, and she surprised us by enrolling in university of her own volition. Believe it or not, I've always been thankful to you for that, Damian."

The room was silent. Damian swallowed thickly, at a loss for how to respond.

"Alright, we've left Franky waiting long enough. I'll have him pass on the details for our next call. Good luck with everything, and please help keep an eye on her for me, okay?"

"S-sure." Like she'd even let me. "Bye."

Damian whirled around and unceremoniously shoved the receiver into Franky's chest. "It's for you," he grumbled, head dipped in an attempt to conceal his still-burning cheeks.

"Hey!" Franky called after Damian, watching him with an irritable scowl as he raised the phone to his ear. "Alright, old-timer, what do you wa—"

Damian slammed the office door behind him, abruptly cutting off Franky's voice, and barged noisily down the stairs to the cafe.

Stepping back into the dirty alleyway, he took large, gulping breaths of air, as though he were just resurfacing from a long dive underwater. He trudged over to the brick wall closest to him, bracing an arm up and leaning against it, a dull ache setting in just behind his eyes as he pressed his forehead against the scratchy wool of his coat sleeve.

Franky's right, what the hell have I gotten myself into… He softly headbutted his arm, filled with fearful frustration. For all I know it's Loid who has some elaborate plot in store for me, where the hell else would that touchy-feely crap have come from? It's probably the only reason he's stayed in touch…And maybe… He suddenly froze with dread. Anya could be in on it too. Is that possible? Why else would he mention she's upset with him? She worships that guy, there's no way that's true. He must be trying to throw me off, yeah. But where does that leave me? I can't just ditch him and WISE now, who knows what they'd do to Demetrius? Would they arrest him? Or worse?? I'm so stupid, I never should have—

"Damian."

His eyes snapped open. Damian shakily lowered his arm from the wall and turned towards the voice, finding Franky standing in the open doorway of the cafe holding his hat. He'd staggered back a bit as Damian faced him, visibly shocked; Damian belatedly realized he hadn't bothered to school the wide-eyed anxiety and paranoia written all over his features, but made no effort to correct it, just stared numbly back.

Franky relaxed, tiredly shaking his head. "Okay, kid, come back inside."

Damian walked stiffly over to Franky's outstretched arm, dragging his feet all the way back inside the cafe. He plopped onto a barstool at the counter. Franky tossed Damian's hat on the seat next to him before stepping around to tinker with the espresso machine.

"Coffee? My buddy just smuggled in some new stuff from Albo, it's supposed to be pretty good." He glanced over his shoulder at Damian, who shook his head silently; his demeanor had graduated from distressed to catatonic.

Franky sighed. "Yeah, don't know why I asked." He opened one of the glass-doored cabinets, inspecting a row of dully colored canisters inside. "I think I've still got some of that herbal crap you like around here somewhere…"

The two fell into a comfortable silence, save for the sounds of Franky rooting around behind the counter. Damian allowed himself to sink into it, focusing on his breathing, running a hand along the roughly textured wood of the countertop, tracing the wavy lines of the grain with his fingertips. By the time Franky slid a saucer in front of him with a steaming cup of tea perched on it, Damian had calmed considerably.

He cleared his throat. "How do you do it?"

Franky had his back to Damian as he carefully poured steamed milk into his own mug. "Come again?"

"Hanging out with spies, always looking over your shoulder…" As he spoke, Damian watched the dark tendrils of tea unfurl into the water, brow furrowed. "How do you know who you can actually trust?"

Franky sighed deeply, setting the milk pitcher down. He paused for a moment before turning to face Damian, gripping the counter with both hands as he leaned back onto it.

"I don't know what to tell you, kid, 'cause that's the thing— you don't." One of Franky's hands flew up to scratch at the back of his head. "I've spent the last 25 years not trusting Loid any further than I can throw him. I doubt it's what a professional would call a 'healthy relationship', but against all odds, everything's worked out, more or less." He turned around to grab his mug and a sugar dispenser, bringing both over to Damian. "The stress and paranoia become second nature after long enough, but, that being said: If you weren't already in so deep, I'd tell you it's time to turn and run." Damian glanced up to find Franky watching him with a serious look. "I'd trust Anya with my life, but she's her father's daughter, and her father's a spy, through and through. 'World peace' or whatever is always gonna come first to them. They may not mean any harm, but when every decision you make is in pursuit of that pipe dream, there's bound to be collateral." Damian mulled this over as Franky paused to sweeten his coffee.

"By the way," he eventually continued with a frown at Damian, "you couldn't be bothered to mention my niece is in town? Acting all edgy and brooding is that much more important?"

Damian went back to scowling at his cup. "I'm not supposed to share details about the mission with anyone. I wasn't even gonna mention it to Loid, but of course he already knows everything."

"Of course. Isn't that shit irritating?"

Damian snorted, trying in vain to suppress a small smile that escaped onto his lips. "Yeah. It kind of is." He was slouched in his barstool, idly bobbing the tea bag in his drink. "Well, I'm getting dinner with her tonight, if there's anything you want me to pass on."

Franky rubbed his chin as he considered the offer. "She hasn't been back since I moved, so she'll need the new number and address." He leaned over to root around by the antique cash register at the end of the bar for a notepad and pencil. "Hopefully she knows better than to stop by the old place.”

Reminded of Anya's note, Damian rummaged around in his jacket pocket to retrieve it. "Speaking of addresses, do you know where this place is?" He offered the paper to Franky.

Franky looked at the note, his expression turning strained. He pulled his glasses down his nose, moving it around to appraise it at as many angles as possible. “Well…if it says ‘Black Hat,’ then that’s on the corner of Link and Earnhardt. If it doesn’t, then I can’t help ya.”

Damian sighed, reaching back for the paper. “Let’s hope it does, then.”

“Why not just call her and make sure? The one thing I could make out was her hotel info.”

“I could try, but I doubt she’ll be there. She’s apartment hunting today, she only has until Monday to find a place.”

“Tight deadline, but not impossible. Depending on how low her standards are, that is.” Franky smirked over his mug. “Tell her to stop by tomorrow, I’m sure I could find something on short notice.”

“Actually,” a self-satisfied expression alighted Damian's face, and he straightened in his seat, “I think she’ll be okay. We have a meeting with my realtor tomorrow.”

“Oh?” Franky waggled his eyebrows. “Pardon me, I forgot she was spoken for.”

Damian's content look vanished, switching back to an irritated glare. “Don’t start with that. It’s bad enough I have to pretend she's…y'know."

“Calm down, I’m just kidding. I don’t know what you expect when the mere mention of it gets a rise out of you, though.” Franky suddenly seemed thoughtful. “I had a feeling that’s what the mission was. Loid wouldn’t say, but WISE is so damn predictable.”

Damian huffed, jerking his coat sleeve up to check his watch. "I get it, everyone guessed it but me. My bad for reasonably assuming I'd never see my spy ex-girlfriend again." He pushed his cup towards Franky and rose from his seat. "I gotta go."

"Gee, glad I went to the trouble," Franky said flatly to the untouched tea, reaching to clean it up. "Don't forget the address for Anya. The other one's the date and time of your next call."

Damian picked up both sheets from the counter. "Thanks, Franky." He shoved them into his pocket as he turned to leave, hesitating before adding over his shoulder, "for everything."

Frank smirked at his retreating back. "Don't bother thanking me. It's like you said: We're not pals. But I'm a hell of a lot more useful than a payphone, huh?"

Damian chuckled, tossing a hand up in farewell as he pushed the cafe door open.

=================================

There's no way it's not running slow.

Damian briefly stopped pacing to compare the clock on the wall to his wristwatch for the third time, tossing his head back and groaning upon finding that the two were still in near-perfect sync.

He resumed his back-and forth tread (an impression of his path had begun to wear into the rug). She couldn't have humored me with an early dinner? Seriously? His agitation was rising steadily with each passing thought. She's a mind reader but can't be considerate of a guy's schedule?

He stopped in his tracks, taking steadying breath and flexing his hands at his sides. Okay, I guess there's no way she could have known my schedule. But would it have killed her to ask? He recalled how abruptly she'd taken off the night before, his hand flying to the spot on his chest where she'd roughly shoved her note. His fingers grazed his tie and he started, gripping it and walking over to the mirror that hung over the console table by his office door.

Should I have gone home to change? He readjusted the silk tie between the lapels of his custom-tailored suit. Ralph has me kind of worried about this place, I might stand out.

"You need me to arrange a car to where?" he'd echoed.

"The Black Hat," Damian replied without looking up from the interns' timesheets Ralph had just dropped off. "But not to there, I just need a ride home. Can you take care of it?" A beat passed, and when the ordinarily eager-to-please Ralph didn't respond, Damian glanced up at him, surprised to find him looking taken aback. "Um…have you heard of it?"

Ralph jolted slightly, a hand flying up to awkwardly rub at the nape of his neck. "Yes, I've heard of it," he started uneasily. "A-are you sure that's the right place?"

Damian paused, his expression turning irritated. "Excuse me?"

"S-sorry, sir," Ralph said, head dipping self-consciously. "You said on Earnhardt? I know it. It's just…" He shifted uncomfortably in front of Damian's desk as he trailed off.

Damian slowly shut the folder in front of him, moving to rest his clasped hands on top of it. "Just what?"

"Well…it just doesn't seem like your scene, so I'm a little surprised."

"My 'scene'? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just…" Ralph tossed a look to the side, clearly choosing his words carefully as he avoided Damian's eye. "You usually have me book pretty ritzy-um, nice restaurants," he corrected hastily, "for your business meetings, and this place is…not like that."

Damian scoffed, leaning back in his chair, his folded hands coming to a rest on his torso as he leveled Ralph with a condescending look. "Come on, Ralph, I know I can seem a little unapproachable at times, but I won't burst into flames if I step into a place without a Machelin star."

"Right, sir. Sorry."

"No need to apologize," Damian breezily reassured. "I understand if it might be hard to imagine the lifestyle of someone like me, but at the end of the day I'm just a regular guy. I'm sure I'll be right at home in this place."

"O-of course."

He rolled his shoulders, adjusting his jacket over them, before casting a sideways look back up at the clock. Whatever. Not like I have time now, anyway. He sauntered over to take a seat behind his desk. This is Anya we're talking about, I'm sure the worst I can expect is whack-a-mole and a ball pit. He collapsed into his rolling chair, letting the momentum carry him over to the wide window behind his desk.

The window overlooked a sprawling park that served as the backyard to a majority of the buildings in the government district. It was all but empty at this hour, save for the infrequent flash of a sleek, black sedan between the trees lining its private lanes, the darkly tinted windows almost assuredly harboring some high-profile public figure seeking a low-profile exit. Damian scowled at one as it passed by.

'Discreet pickup.' I've never heard anyone call it that before in my life. He started steadily slouching deeper and deeper into his chair, his glare sharpening in tandem. Besides, why would she assume I'd know anything about that? As if I've ever had to act that shady, it's not like I have anything to hi—

His breath caught, and he let out a frustrated exhale, sinking even further into his seat. Okay, I guess now I have something to hide. But that doesn't make suddenly leaving out the back door every Monday any less suspicious. For the good of the mission, I'll fucking walk.

Another huffy sigh as he let his eyes fall shut. How long are we gonna have to do this for, anyway? They didn't mention any sort of deadline, unless they just conveniently left all the important details out of 'the asset's' binder. I wonder if An— His eyes snapped open as Franky's voice suddenly echoed through his brain: 'WISE is so damn predictable.'

He's standing at the altar of Berlint Cathedral. The pews are filled with expressionless wedding guests, sitting so straight-backed and stock-still they resemble mannequins. Demetrius, standing next to him in a matching tux, claps a congratulatory hand on his shoulder, while Becky Blackbell stands across from him at the end of a line of faceless bridesmaids sporting a smug victory smirk.

He slowly turns to face the aisle; Loid is escorting a bride in a fluffy white ballgown. He catches Damian's eye and shoots him a smile. It's almost reassuring, until he realizes Loid's teeth are jagged and razor sharp.

Damian's dread rises with each slow step the pair advance. The wedding march, played by a string quartet in the corner, gradually grows more discordant and sinister in tandem, making the hairs on his neck rise. By the time she comes to a gentle halt at his side, he's covered in goosebumps. He gulps and turns to the officiant only to find Handler, dressed as usual save for a priest's vestment and collar in the place of her usual bow and button-down.

"You take agent Starlight to be your lawfully wedded wife."

"Uh, don't you mean 'do you—'"

"No, Senator, that's an order." She snaps the small Bible in her hand shut. "By the power vested in me, you must now kiss the bride."

His turns shakily around to face her, reaching to raise her veil. He recoils as he slowly lifts it, first revealing her chin, then glossy pink lips—

Damian reeled back in his seat, heart pounding with anxiety, hands flying up to his burning face before dragging through his hair. No way, calm down. He stood from his seat, pacing in short bursts behind his desk. That's not what I signed up for, and it's not like they can make me… He stilled. …Right?

Two soft knocks on his office door saved him from having to seriously contemplate that thought. He heaved a sigh, letting his hands fall to his sides as he took another deep breath. "Yes?" he finally called out.

Ralph peeked his head into the door. "Just wanted to make sure you didn't need anything else before I head out."

What? Damian jerked his arm up to check his watch, then sagged slightly with relief. Damn, I really lost track of time. "No thank you, Ralph, I'm fine," he responded wearily. Thank god, I don't think I can stomach waiting around much longer. "Have a good night."

"You too, sir. Umm…good luck at your meeting."

The door shut abruptly, eliminating any chance for Damian to respond to the ominous send-off.

'Good luck'? Why the hell would he wish me luck? he wondered as he gathered his bag, his coat, his hat. He brought them over to the console table by the door, plopping everything down before regarding himself in the mirror for the last time.

He started at his reflection: His suit was wrinkled from all the dramatic slouching, and his hair a mussed mess from his most recent crisis. Okay…maybe that's why.

Damian fixed his appearance, glaring irritably at the mirror the entire time. Why the hell do I always have to be such an open book? I need to get it under control if…if… He faltered, the one arm he'd shoved into his coat slowly lowering, his expression turning pained.

I guess it doesn't even matter. I signed away all my privacy as soon as I agreed to work with them…with her.

Defiance suddenly flooded his senses, and he stood upright, his jaw set.

Whatever. They need me, not the other way around. He stubbornly tugged his bag over his shoulder as he marched to the door. There's always Plan B if it doesn't work out.