Work Text:
Women are often compared to flowers. The comparison is all too flattering for young girls, who are not yet old enough to be plucked yet forced to anticipate it all the same; as time goes by, it becomes less and less of a compliment, more and more a bane. It is a reminder of their role in the grand scheme: a fleeting luxury, a trinket.
Diana has never shown that flower-like quality. Her roots went deep, holding her steady through rain and hail. She was bound to flourish for many years. She has only grown stronger now that ICA no longer confined her potential within the artificial game of cloak-and-dagger, and after a year of hard work was well on her way to undoing Edwards' creation brick by brick. A lot still had to be done, yet she felt none the more tired for it - on the contrary, it was exhilarating.
It was then, in midst of new possibilities, when the message came.
The journey proved uneventful, for better or for worse. She stood now in front of a small establishment that bore a mixture of impressions: Like someone kept adding and renovating it until the concept of architectural style has become more of a framework to his unique tastes. She smiled; there was a sense of reassurance to that image.
Inside she was greeted with elegant minimalistic interior; despite the hour, no customer was in sight. She took pleasure in sparkling-clean surfaces and gentle lighting, but her eyes were locked on the figure behind the counter. He hasn't changed much; he never did. Perhaps a bit more color to his cheekbones, a tan line just above the collar. Little things that were not allowed to linger with an assassin but settled nicely with a bar owner.
"You're just in time." He made a curt bow; his hands kept fluttering over the counter, juggling cubes of ice and a silver shaker. The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly, awkward and shy, making her own lips part with a chuckle.
"In time for what?" she asked, perching on a tall stool.
"The celebration."
He pressed a button on a small remote, and a wall panel behind him slid away, revealing a huge window with a view on the rest of town. Broad summer sky glowed golden with an early stage of sunset, crossed every now and then by a flock of birds or a stray cloud. She could see a faint glimmer on the horizon - a sea of ships over the sea of rooftops. Of course he'd choose a high spot like that. An eagle's nest. A sniper's point.
"It's certainly very you."
"Yes. I'd like to think so."
He filled a narrow glass and pushed it toward her. The dark-purple liquid smelled of grapes and a hint of lavender.
"I call it the Mendoza Syrup," he commented, watching intently as her lips touched the cold glass ridge. He seemed agitated, uncertain if he should ask how she likes it. The cocktail is smooth, not too sweet, with a dry tang of wine.
"It's perfect."
This time he actually smiled. She always made a point of praising him as often as possible, ever since she noticed that light twitch and the instant relaxation in his shoulders - the only two subtle betrayals of joy. Seeing it pay off brought warmth to her chest, which she couldn't altogether ascribe to the drink.
"How is the work going?" He poured himself a common shot of whiskey, though the label on it indicated high quality.
"Slow but steady. How is normal life treating you?"
He paused and then answered slowly, as he did often when trying to express his feelings.
"I... find it difficult to blend in."
She nodded. She understood.
"You shall adjust. You always do."
"Yes," he agreed easily, with the kind of quiet determination reserved for mission briefings.
The sun began to climb down over the roofs, basking the bar in its warmth and light. The two of them were content to drink in silence, savoring peace of each other's company.
"How did you know?" she asked at last, placing the empty glass back on the counter.
"Know what?"
"That I wouldn't... crack after Mendoza. That I wouldn't betray you the way Soders did."
"I took a chance. Same as you."
He smiled again and procured a tiny vial from one of the drawers. It bore no name or marker, but she recognized it: a standard-issue dose of poison, packed and shipped by the ICA. The vial was full, its lid sealed shut, never opened.
"Happy birthday, Diana." He lifted his glass. "To us."
"To us, Tobias."