1963-09-14 - All The Blind Places
Summary: Heather and David process the fallout of not knowing Weapon X was going on right under their noses.
Related: None
Theme Song: None
maverick heather 


Files. Heather has never been so happy to see files before. There are so many. She also has maps. And charts, organizational charts. While there's really nowhere to properly put the maps, she's made do with kitchen twine strung between cupboards and clothes pegs. Her kitchen, and spilling into the living room, has turned into the world's most domestic mission control center.

With David off doing David things — Heather is good at not worrying too much about all that, he's survived this long, it's the emotional things that concern her — she's changed into an old pair of high school gym shorts and an oversized flannel shirt that was once Mac's before she claimed it. Work clothes, Mac used to tease. Not her fault she does some of her best work after she's tried to go to sleep. She's got her hair up in something that is failing completely at being a bun, in spite of the pencil stuck in it to hold it together a little better. Her old black-rimmed glasses are sliding down her nose at intervals as she pads around the apartment while she works.

She's making notes now on unrelated — but possibly related — money movement and exchanges of favours in government around the time that Weapon X was genuinely going astray. For every favour given, there is an equal and opposite favour to be done. Stryker might be hiding his work but others are not so secretive — it's hard to hide things like oil rigs, pipelines, and promotions.

*

When the door to the apartment opens, it does so very quietly — David is acutely aware of what time he's finally getting back and, on the off-chance that Heather is not awake, does not want to be the reason she loses sleep. Well. Any more than he already is, at least. With a heavy backpack slung over one shoulder, he blinks owlishly as he is greeted not by a dark, silent apartment, but by… this.

David smiles.

Slowly shaking his head, David closes the door behind himself and throws the locks back into place. Then he's pacing inside to try and get a look at the array of maps that have been strung up, lightly rubbing his nose with a finger. "Someone's been busy."

*

Heather does not squeak. That is not a squeak. And she does not vault the couch to put her back to the fridge and her hand in range of the rolling pin. The knife block has been put away in a low cupboard. Out of sight, out of mind. None of that happened at all, in a better world where Heather still has her dignity and is not standing here looking like a bedraggled co-ed…wielding a very nice French rolling pin.

"David!" Heather stamps one bare foot. Being annoyed with him helps her pretend that she's not blushing fiercely. With an angry huff, she puts the rolling pin down before goes to retrieve her pen and clipboard. "Men," she mutters under her breath. Really.

*

Please let the record show that David does not laugh at the squeak that absolutely did not happen. No sir. He does turn to look in Heather's direction, though, still smiling — and then the way that she's dressed finally seems to register on his awareness.

"…oh." Yes, David, that is a good defense to offer up. He quickly holds up both of his hands, backing up several steps and looking flustered. This is not a look she has likely ever seen on him. "I am so — Heather, I'm sorry. I'll just -" Abruptly, the thought that looking is the problem finally occurs to him and he clamps a hand down over his eyes. Like a mature, reasonable adult man.

"I'll just. Ah. Go… put these away."

*

Heather snorts with some annoyance. "If I'd known you were coming back tonight, I'd have put pants on. Unless it's the hair that's upsetting you in which case, you should be grateful I don't have curlers in. I could have left my cold cream on, then you'd be out the door again." She's more curious than she is embarrassed now but she does patter off toward the bedroom to retrieve her jeans. "What did you get?" she calls from the bedroom. "Do you have any news?"

*

A very weakly-offered "You gave me a key…" floats along after Heather's retreating back. David listens quietly, waiting for the footsteps to sound like they've rounded a bend before he cautiously peeks out from between his fingers. Ah. Good. With a quiet cough, he drops his hand and heads towards the study to drop off the bag just inside the door. "No news yet, unfortunately. Just the last of my things from the hotel. Nothing exciting."

*

"Well, we'll have to make our own excitement," Heather suggests as she shimmies into a pair of old jeans. "I think I'm getting somewhere with the numbers. I mean, I know I'm getting somewhere." She pauses long enough to brush out her hair, which doesn't help as much as one might hope because now it's all wild and loose and trying to do a Medusa impression of a sort. "I just don't know where. I could end up uncovering something else entirely." She emerges from the bedroom, scowling darkly.

"By the way, I need you to find me a gun," Heather continues, conversationally, as she goes to put the coffee pot on. "Nothing too heavy because I'm wretchedly small in the wrists. And everywhere else." She doesn't sound happy about that. "But it should have some stopping power. And a silencer if you can find one. It's not my preference but I don't want to get caught out. Maybe a shotgun, too, for the house."

*

David takes two steps away from the study before he abruptly halts, turns back, and returns to crouch in the doorway and go rummaging in the backpack he just brought home. When he finally moves back into the kitchen to catch up with Heather, he just offers her a handgun, gripping it by the barrel to offer it to her grip-first. "Here. One of the Project's," he says with a slightly odd smile. "Untracable. I tried. No silencer, though," he says apologetically. He'll have to do some shopping.

*

"Oh, thank you." Heather takes it competently in both hands, holds it properly, hefts it a little. She's not wrong about being too small to handle anything bigger when it comes to a handgun. "I don't suppose this building has a firing range. I'll ask Sue." She aims out toward the balcony, lining up the sights with the yellow glow of a window far out of range. "It's very nice, thank you." There's nothing ginger about the way she handles it. She looks quite serious and determined — and experienced.

"I know it's probably useless against half the people we need to deal with." She takes the gun over to the table and shakes out a piece of yesterday's newspaper that's in the pile at the end. That way she won't scuff or smudge the table when she takes the gun to pieces to inspect it from the inside out. "But there will be those it does work on, and that'll have to be enough."

*

David is not at all perturbed by the ease with which Heather handles the gun. He just offers her a small smile and nods once, running his hand back over his hair. "You're welcome. And it may work on more than half — most of the people at Coney Island were either doctors or grunts," he notes, turning to take a few steps towards the couch. "The ones like Laura or even me, we're a little more unusual."

*

"Did you eat? I put the coffee on, I can make you up a plate if you're hungry. Or there's cookies," Heather looks up from stripping down the gun. "Not home made this time, I'm sorry. The kitchen…well. It is smaller than the one I used to have. I didn't want to get butter on the top secret documents." She laughs quietly, leaving the gun for now to get out two coffee mugs.

"I did that, you know. I think I've gotten every kind of food there is on schematics, documentation, maps, blueprints. But when you have to work and run a household, you do what you have to do. Where we were, there wasn't takeout. I don't think Mac forgave me entirely for getting marinara sauce on his presentation blueprints of the Guardian suit one year."

*

"Oh, I'm sure he got over it," David says with a laugh, turning around so that he can not so much sit on the couch as rock back on his heels and land on the couch. Whumpf. "Coffee would be nice. And whatever takes the least effort, leftovers or cookies would be fine. Thank you." If she's already cooked, he'll eat — but he doesn't want to make her cook now.

*

Heather brings coffee and a plate of leftovers — cold meat, cheese, pickles, potato salad. It's almost the end of season for that kind of food. "Eat," she says, setting the plate and cup on the coffee table. "You can't afford to miss a meal right now," she chides, brushing a hand over David's hair before heading back into the kitchen to look at the gun and think about her numbers.

"You should tell me what you like to eat," she says almost absently. "I'll make sure to tell the butcher what to order."

*

David's leaning forward to reach for the plate and mug when her hand finds his hair and he stops where he is, blinking once and looking vaguely baffled. It's a very casual gesture of affection that he just… isn't accustomed to anymore. At all. After a moment of genuinely confused silence, he finally seizes his meal and, slowly, eases back into his seat, trying not to look as flustered as he feels.

"I… food?" David supplies weakly, frowning thoughtfully down at his mug. "I've never had the luxury of being picky, so I just… I eat what I'm given. It's fine."

*

"No aspic. I promise." Jellied tomato juice and beef stock — or worse — is not something Heather is going to inflict on anyone. "I guess you'll have to decide what your favourite is as we go along." Heather bites her lip as she dismantles the gun, frowning slightly. The expression hastens the slide of her glasses down her nose and she pushes them back up with an irritable noise.

"How are you doing?" she asks, after a few minutes of silence.

*

The silence is allowed to simply be. It gives David the chance to actually eat the food she's given him, which he barely even looks at long enough to identify before doing so. It's food, Heather gave it to him, he trusts her. Eat the food.

To his credit, David actually considers the question before he answers it. "Better," he finally murmurs, keeping his eyes on his plate. "This has… it's helped. You've helped."

*

"Well, it's not going anywhere. And neither am I," Heather assures him. Heather's bare feet are silent on the polished white floor but she exhales a little, which is warning enough for the hypervigilant. She perches on the back of the sofa and rests one cool hand against the nape of David's neck. "You look better," she says. "Not as much as I'd like, but some. I'll keep working on it."

*

David tenses under the touch, not quite a jolt but certainly enough to notice, although he doesn't flinch or shy away. He gives a short nod, blinking hard and taking a slow, even breath. Relax. "…getting there. I don't remember the last time something hit me this hard," he admits with a tight laugh, a hand coming up to his face. It's a lie. He knows exactly what the last time was.

*

"I'm sorry," Heather says gently. "For all of it." She leans over to wrap her arms around his shoulders and leans her cheek against his hair. "I don't pretend to think I can fix the other things but I can feed you and give you a place to sleep. The physical. I wish it were more effective."

*

"You don't have anything to apologize about," David says, his tone one of very gentle dismissal. He actually shifts in place to make it easier for her to wind her arms around him, one of his hands coming up to lightly rest over her wrist. It's the additional contact of her cheek against his hair that has him momentarily pausing and looking down at his hands, uncertain. "This is… it's more than enough, Heather. Truly."

*

"I feel guilty," Heather admits. "Logan wondered if I knew — he knew I must not have but he wondered. This was so close, David. And I didn't know. I'm supposed to know things. It's my job. I knew there were…projects. I'm not foolish. I knew there was research. There's always research. But I thought that just because we tried to be good that everyone else around us was trying. Even when I had glimpses that it wasn't that way. And so I feel at fault." She gives him a little squeeze before straightening. "Nothing will change the past. And the past was unforgiveable. It's hard to adjust to that, spending all this time looking at those files."

*

David lets out a rather harsh snort at that, twisting in place so that he can look up at her. "If Logan truly knew you, he would never have even asked," he says darkly, the words coming fast and clipped as his nostrils flare in irritation. If she or Mac had known, it would have been ended. He knows it. And the idea that Logan could have even a moment's worth of doubt is infuriating.

Before he says anything more, he just clenches his jaw and quickly looks down at his hands. Deep breaths, David. Steady.

*

"You know him. He has his reasons not to trust." Heather puts her hand on David's shoulder. "I ask myself that question, though, David. I keep wracking my mind, trying to quiz myself — did I know? Did I miss a clue? Misdirected funding. An unexpected handshake between two people at a party. A promotion not previously on the books. There are ways to know things, David, and even the best of us might miss something — sometimes just because we want so badly for it to be a different thing. I don't think Mac and I would do a thing like that but we were in the business a long time. Sometimes. Sometimes you love a thing so much you can't see what it really is. It's okay to ask. To question. It's okay to question me."

*

"Why would I question you? I worked for them," David points out, his eyes still fixed on his hands. This time, he doesn't even react to the hand against his shoulder, almost as if he doesn't even register its presence. "Eight years I was inside and I never even suspected. Of course you couldn't have known."

*

"We're a pair, aren't we." Heather laughs and then lets herself slither down the sleek red leather sofa so that she's lying awkwardly with her back on the seat beside David and her feet on the back. When she lets her head fall back to cover her face with her hands, her hair pools on the floor. Dignity is overrated and things are already upside down. "All pride and responsibility and competence. So much damned competence. How could we not have known a thing we weren't meant to know, designed by the ones who first shaped us to be what we are? Of course they know all the blind places. They're the ones who held the lights."

*

David blinks a little bit when he's joined on the sofa. Well, when he's joined like that. His expression is somewhat difficult to put a tidy label on as he stares down at her, but after a moment, his eyes quickly dart back to his own hands where they rest in his lap. Flustered. Again. He quietly clears his throat. "I won't beat myself up too badly if you agree to the same," he offers, reaching over to offer her shoulder a very brief squeeze.

*

"Agreed," Heather says, muffled, unmoving. The position leaves her oversized, untucked shirt riding up, not helped at all by the widely spaced buttons, since it's a man's work shirt. "I mean I could try to beat you up if it makes you feel better. We could take turns. But you probably just want to go pick on some bad guys for that. And I can go to the firing range or something."

*

David is trying very hard not to pay too much attention to such things. He'll just. Um. Lean forward to retrieve his coffee. "Nothing wrong with a friendly spar," he notes lightly, wrapping both hands around the mug and staring down into it. …okay, maybe his own reflection was not necessarily the best alternative available. Solve the problem: drink.

*

"I'm hardly up to your standards, David. I can manage in the field well enough not to get myself killed but I'm not exactly a challenge for someone like you." Heather reaches out to pat him on the arm, somewhat blindly. "And you're twice my size." Not a complete exaggeration. "I'd just bore you."

*

"You do realize that just listed a number of very good reasons for me to let you try to beat me up." With a small, crooked smile, David glances over at her face and raises both of his eyebrows. "If not for my benefit, then for yours."

*

Heather giggles at that and lifts her head enough to meet David's eye. "You just want to watch me be ridiculous." With a certain amount of wriggling, she props her elbows against the seat cushions to push herself up a little. It does not do the shirt any favours. Her cheeks are flushed from being upside down and giggling and her hair is in dramatic disarray. "I'd probably just bruise myself on you. But. I'm willing to look ridiculous, if only long enough to show you what a silly idea it is."

*

David couldn't swear to it, but he thinks this might be one of the first times he's actually seen her laugh. He actually just stops what he's doing for a moment to look, blinking slowly, before he remembers himself and quickly shifts to return his mug to the table. "Everyone feels silly at the beginning," he says awkwardly, leaning back and offering her a hand just in case she's actually trying to sit up. "But you keep at it and eventually you can kill a man twice your size without leaving a mark. Simple."

*

"Well, when you put it that way." Heather takes David's hand and pulls herself up to sitting crosslegged beside him. "I can defend myself. But that's not enough anymore." She runs a hand through her hair, pulling it back from her face, then gives David the flash of a cutting grin. "That's an attractive proposition."

*

He grasps her hand and helps pull her upright, an odd smile on his face. "I should probably find this more concerning," David admits quietly, his head tilting ever so slightly to one side. "But you're right. I'll…" He pauses, his gaze going a touch distant as a memory flutters to the forefront, and he pales. Just a little. He still offers her a smile, but he does release her hand and look away. "…I'll teach you as much as I can."

*

"I don't want to be helpless." Heather puts a hand on David's arm. "And if this disaster has taught me anything it's that, sometimes, that means making the first move. I need to be better at field work, at fighting, so I can take care of myself. And you. I know you. You'd risk yourself to take care of me. This is my way of protecting you, too."

*

Whatever's troubling him isn't bad enough to stop David from looking over at that, his mouth twisting into a wry smile. "Heather. You have never been helpless." Without thinking, he reaches over to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, even though he's still having a little trouble meeting her eyes. "But we'll do what we can. I got you into this, the least I can do is make sure you're safe."

*

"David," Heather says firmly. "No one has ever gotten me into anything. Pointed the way, maybe. But jumping in with both feet? That's always been my choice. Risks and all, it's on me. I can't be someone else, this is me. I'm no good at half-measures."

*

Whether David agrees with her or not, he knows better than to argue. He just nods once with a murmured 'yes ma'am,' letting both his hand and his eyes fall back to his lap.

*

"That's what I like to hear. Finish up." Heather untangles her legs and stands up, on the sofa first, then hopping over the back of it. She's going to ignore his uncertainty for the moment, they'll work on it. "I'll get this gun sorted and then we can go to bed — if you think you can sleep. If not, I have summaries of some of the research I've been doing for you to read. I have work in the morning, but I'm going to meet someone at lunch. Hopefully they'll have something for me."

*

David's face stays downturned but his eyes flick to the side to watch when she stands, his brow creasing in mild surprise. Over she goes. Well. Alright, then. "I can sleep," he says confidently, despite the fact that he is in the process of picking up a mug of coffee to finish drinking. "I'll go over those while you're at work."

*

Coffee helps mercenaries sleep. Known fact. Because you don't have time for coffee when all hell is breaking loose.

"Oh, since I'm busy at lunch tomorrow, can you pick up my dry cleaning?" Heather looks up from the gun. "I have a meeting I can't miss in two days and I need my blue suit." She's sure David is man enough not to be emasculated by a little dry cleaning. "I promise I wouldn't ask except that I can't get there after work and make the train home in good time."

*

"Hmm? Oh, of course." David gestures vaguely with one hand as he rises to his feet to carry his dishes to the kitchen. "Just write the address down so I go to the right shop and I'll get it for you after breakfast. Do you want me to leave it in the hall closet, or..?" He casts a questioning look towards her bedroom.

*

"Bedroom's fine. I made Sue turn off the klaxon that sounds if any man crosses the threshold." Heather winks at him. "I won't tell if you won't."

*

Chuckling as he sets his dishes in the sink, David offers Heather a wry smile. "I wouldn't dream of it."

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