Home of Atlas

They meet before their building. Exchange tired smiles. He opens the doors. She thanks.

They slowly proceed upstairs. Shoulders slumped, steps sluggish, gaze turned downwards.

The weight of the whole world finally catches up to them.

Arrival at their destination is a blessing, the warmth of the flat is radiating through the door, harshly contrasting with the coldness that resides deep inside their bones. She tries to find the key in her purse. It's old-fashioned, worn in few places, but it still manages to keep most of her important belongings, even if nowadays they expanded beyond things that only she owned. Her efforts to find keys didn't matter as he had already fished them out-of-pocket from his winter jacket and put them in the lock. They jingle as he turns them with clicks of the lock accompanying every turn of his wrist.

He opens the door, they are greeted by a big ball of white soft fur which makes quiet woofs as to explain the situation inside the flat to them. Tired smiles are exchanged once again.

Front doors are closed, they don't register who even did that. Franky greets them quietly. Everyone indulges in the quiet small talk. She excuses herself and heads for her bedroom.

Forger gives cash, Franky takes it and puts it in the inside pocket of the coat he had just put on. Informant gives the new intel, Twilight acknowledges.

With his friend out the door, he heads for the kitchen and puts the soup that had been prepared the day prior, on the stove. He doesn't hear the quiet, cat-like steps approach him, he doesn't see or even sense her presence before she stands next to him. It startles him, mask of eternal calm slipping for a brief second.

He would wonder why, but not today.

She smiles, he reciprocates the gesture. For the mission of course. She fills the kettle with water and puts it on the stove. He takes out two bowls, and two sets of utensils. It will take a while for the meal to reheat, he heads towards his bedroom.

She stands alone in the darkness, her features only illuminated by the stove. Instead of doing nothing or dwelling on that, she busies herself by taking out two tea cups and setting them on the counter next to the bowls. She waits. He comes.

The steam of the kettle signals that the water has boiled, she pours water into two porcelain tea cups. They tell everyone the set is an old family heirloom. They bought them while shopping one day. Anya liked the set.

He stirs the soup, successfully preventing it from boiling. He turns off the heat and puts the meal in two bowls and carries them towards the sofa on which she is already sitting with their tea. Tired smiles are exchanged again.

Metal against porcelain. First bowl is put on the wooden coffee table, the second follows quickly. Both don't drink their tea as fast as they ate their food. They cherish the warmth spilling inside their bodies, taste filling their mouths and slight bitterness lingering for a bit as no sugar had been put inside. They don't indulge in such comforts. Anya, though, likes her tea extra sweet, two tea-spoons of sugar.

They finish their tea. She takes the dishes to the kitchen, after her departure the sound of water running, metal and porcelain fills the house. He gets up and lets his legs take him to the door. He stands before the room, not daring to go in. Leans on the door frame and observes. For the mission of course. She appears again, leans on the opposite side of the door frame. She doesn't notice he is observing her. Seconds and then minutes pass. They both reach to close the door, and for the first time don't jump when their hands touch. This isn't a place for such nonsense.

Sofa creaks as they sit down yet again. Beds would be a lot more comfortable for their sore muscles, but they'd burn with how cold they would be. Both wanted to postpone the coldness just a bit more.

Shoulders slump, both sink into pillows behind them. Quiet sigh, undetectable to the untrained ear, yet he turns his head towards her.

She would wonder why, but not today.

She asks without saying anything, he nods without hesitation. For the mission of course.

Silky hair collides with a wool sweater. He can smell strawberry, with a hint of something familiar, yet he can't quite put his finger on it. He's used to this by now.

Sigh.

Sigh.

Silence, only broken by distant snoring of the big, soft ball of fur, hum of the fridge and of two heartbeats that easily could've not been beating right now. Each beat echoes bullets hitting flesh, metal piercing skin with surgical precision, broken bones, dripping liquid, loud thuds of weight hitting the floor, and the blood-curdling screams and pleas for mercy. Echo will only stop when the beats stop, it's loud, deafening at moments,, but after years one learns to tune it out.

Questions and answers are on the tips of their tongues, they seem to lazily float in the warm air of their living room. They threaten to spill. They don't. Silence preservers for at least one more evening.

Instead of life changing truth, song slips from her lips. For him it was meant to be forgotten, yet he can hear it so clearly. Lone tear hits the floor. They exchange tired smiles once more. He embraces her, she leans into it. It's warm.

Shoulders don't seem to be as heavy as they were before. They would wonder, but today they know that for at least a moment Atlas isn't holding up the world alone.