Chapter Text
Go, return not die in war.
--The Oracle of Delphi to an unknown soldier
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It was supposed to be quick.
That’s what she was thinking--she wasn’t thinking about it much, so focused on stopping the bombs from reaching New York, from not letting anyone find the location of the Tessaract, listening to the crackling radio and Delphine’s voice, holding onto Delphine’s voice, trying not to let Delphine hear her cry.
She could hear Delphine crying.
And then she couldn’t, and the plane’s nose was inches from the water, and she couldn’t hear Delphine crying anymore, and she couldn’t decide if the static was better or worse than that.
It was supposed to be quick.
It wasn’t.
The water punched through the glass, and she clung to the joystick, pressed into the seat, the air smashed out of her lungs as the glass and freezing water sliced through her like knives, like swords, like nothing she’d ever felt or ever wanted to again.
And then she was falling forward as she felt the plane sink, shifting and tilting forward, and the water kept pouring in.
It was cold.
That was all she could think, over and over and over, the water rushing in and filling the gaping cockpit in what felt like seconds and hours all at the same time, slamming her into the back wall of the room and surrounding her, burning her eyes even though they were shut, freezing her down to the core of her bones.
Her arms dragged through the water, weighed down by the cold and her clothes, but she tried anyway, reaching upward--
She didn’t want to die.
Her mouth opened against her will, some animalistic instinct telling her to breathe, and then ice and salt was blazing down her throat, into her chest, and numb fingers sprang to life as she tried to claw it out, the pain unimaginable, unbearable, paralyzing, crushing her and freezing her and burning her and there was nothing but pain and cold and pain and she didn’t want to die, she didn’t, she--
“Don’t be afraid.”
The world was white and soft around the edges all of a sudden, and Delphine was there above her, golden curls waving in a warm breeze, her face gentle.
Delphine’s fingers felt like a summer afternoon as they caressed her cheek, and she smiled so kindly, so lovingly.
“I will never leave you.”
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Cosima opened her eyes.
She was still gasping as she disentangled herself from the bedsheets, fumbling for the glasses she didn’t need to see but whose familiar weight and feel she needed. The clock on the bedside table read 6:01 in too-bright, too-red letters, practically burning her eyes.
The room was exactly the same as it was when she’d fallen asleep the night before--bare white walls, beige curtains hanging limply over the windows, a calendar across the bed open to the March page and its picture of the Orion nebula, next to a half-full black bookshelf. She shoved the sheets away and stumbled over to one set of curtains, pushing them aside and pushing through the french doors that were beyond them.
Only when she was leaning heavily on the balcony railing, a breeze running through her loose dark curls, did she stop to breathe, closing her eyes and inhaling.
This century had its own smell, gritty and heavy with exhaust and metal, always noisy, always moving. Two years later it was still strange, still grating, still nothing she wanted. But it was familiar, at least, and impossible to recreate.
It meant she was still in this century.
She hadn’t lost another 70 years at least.
Cosima let go of the railing slowly, trailing her fingers along the metal as she crossed over to the little table on the balcony and opened the drawer there, pulling out a thin blunt and a box of matches.
The sun was creeping across the horizon, turning the once-black orange and pink. She struck the match against the railing and for a few moments, as she lit the blunt, the tiny flame burned brighter than the sky.
In one movement she dropped the match into a chipped mug half-full of rainwater and raised the joint to her lips and inhaled, her eyes fluttering closed.
She sagged against the railing, her hair tumbling down her shoulders, her dark sweatshirt and black sleeping pants hanging shapelessly over her small frame.
She tilted her head back and exhaled grey into the vibrant sky.
The orange had faded to blue and the second blunt is burning down to nothing between her fingers when a voice came from her left.
“Morning, neighbor.”
Cosima jerked, nearly dropping the blunt, and her neighbor winced apologetically.
“Sorry, didn’t meant to startle you--”
“It’s fine,” Cosima said quickly, stubbing out the roll against the railing. “It’s Shay, right?”
“Mmhm,” the blonde woman on the other balcony replied, her blue eyes twinkling in the early morning light. “Sorry, I’m terrible with names, it’s Cosima right?”
“Yeah,” Cosima said, trying to be embarrassed by the fact that she was staring at a gorgeous woman while wearing the clothes she’d slept in, but not quite managing it. Shay smiled and turned away, setting down the laundry basket she’d brought out with her, hanging a few pieces up on the line. Cosima raised an eyebrow. “Bit early for laundry, isn’t it?”
Shay tilted her head back and sniffed the air. “Bit early for pot, isn’t it?”
“I’m not getting high,” Cosima clarified quickly. I don’t think there’s enough pot in the world to get me high. “Just enough to make the world a little soft around the edges.”
“You sound like a real San Francisco kind of girl.”
“Born and bred,” Cosima laughed, already feeling the pot’s effects fading. “Raised in Brooklyn, though. Is the pot a problem? Because I can--”
“No,” Shay said, her eyes lighting in a strange way as she met Cosima’s gaze. There was something almost cool, almost calculating there. “You’re just not what I expected.”
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The phone buzzed brightly next to Cosima’s leg. She didn’t even look up from the book in her lap as she answered.
“Let me guess--the Invisible Man’s running rampant through San Francisco.”
“How many times do I have to tell you that’s really not what the future’s like?”
Cosima huffed, shutting the Origin of Species and setting it aside. “You woke me up after 70 years to fight aliens and expect me to not have sci fi ideas about this century?”
On the other end of the line, Natasha Romanoff sighed heavily.
“Believe it or not, I’m not actually calling at Fury’s request. We both have the day off.”
“...And?”
“And you need to do something with your time, Sadler. There’s a new rom-com out--”
“You’re calling me about this?” Cosima asked, half-incredulous. “Where’s Hawkeye?”
“Clint’s on a mission somewhere classified, won’t be back for a few weeks. You have seen nothing of this century but aliens in New York and the inside of your apartment.”
“Yeah, well rom-coms aren’t really my thing. Not in 1945, not now.”
“Fine,” Natasha sighed, and Cosima started reaching for the book again, hopeful that she’d convinced the Russian to leave her alone for now. “In that case, I know a great manicurist. Salon’s got a sale.”
Cosima groaned, looking longingly at her book. “Nat--”
“It’s manicures,” Natasha said, in that deadly voice only she could pull off, “Or ‘Winter’s Tale.’”
“Fine,” Cosima sighed, pushing her glasses aside to rub her forehead. “But if the next big bad Fury calls us in to fight ends up laughing at my nails, I’m blaming you.”
“Wear something nice.”
“I will.”
“Sweatpants and a t-shirt don’t count as nice.”
“It’s clothes that would get me arrested 70 years ago, isn’t that enough?”
“Cosima…”
“Fine.” She slid off the bed, padding over to her closet and rifling through it. “You know I’m only doing this because I’m scared to piss you off, right?”
“Damn right.” Natasha hung up and Cosima tossed the phone onto the bed, staring at her closet of mostly SHIELD-issued workout clothes.
The nice thing was, no pantyhose. The bad part was…
Well.
Giving it up as a lost cause, she slipped into her bathroom instead, and painted on eyeliner with a steady hand.
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Natasha raised an eyebrow when Cosima met her in front of the salon that was far too pink and bubbly for Cosima’s taste.
It was like something Alison would’ve thought up, not where she expected Natasha could-kill-you-with-her-thighs Romanoff spent her time.
“It’s one of the few actually secure locations in the city,” Natasha clarified when she saw the skeptical look on Cosima’s face. “And you need to get out of your apartment for something other than missions.”
Natasha wasn’t wearing her mission suit, having traded it in for skinny pants that were basically painted on and a white flowy top, her red hair curled and loose. Cosima readjusted her glasses.
“What’s so great about this salon, then?”
“You’ll see.” Natasha turned to face the door and her posture shifted, her eyes widened, and she pushed open the door.
“Ohmigosh, Nattie!”
“Krystal!” Natasha chirped, bubbly-bright, and Cosima blinked in shock before following Natasha through the door.
Inside the bright and acetone-smelling salon, Natasha embraced an enthusiastic blonde who seemed to be wearing nothing but pink. Scratch that, Cosima thought as the blonde stepped back to talk excitedly. Black physics-defying bra.
“You haven’t even called in weeks, Nattie! God, I was like, so worried, you could’ve just died or something and I wouldn’t even--what have you been doing?” The woman stopped suddenly, grabbing Natasha’s hand and pulling it up to her eyes. “Just look at your poor hands! Anyone would think you were like, climbing a mountain using only your nails or something.”
Natasha laughed, easily ignoring Cosima’s look. “You have the most ridiculous metaphors, Krys.”
“I’m serious! Just look at how ragged these are! I’m gonna need like, three emery boards--”
“Krystal, Krystal,” Natasha laughed, running her hand down the blonde’s arm. “I’m sorry, I was out of the country for a bit--”
“Your photography, yeah? You’ve gotta show me some of them, sometime, I’m sure you’re like, insanely talented. You’ve just got that look, you know?”
“You’re too nice, Krys,” Natasha giggled. “You’re gonna embarrass me in the middle of your salon! And in front of my friend, too!”
“Ohmygod!” Krystal turned to Cosima, who blanched as the full weight of the blonde’s attention landed squarely on her. Krystal’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open, and Cosima sucked in a terrified breath when she thought she saw recognition in the blonde’s eyes. A second later, however, she closed her mouth and had a bright, customer-welcoming smile again. “I’m so sorry--I totally didn’t see you there--hi,” she said eagerly, holding out a rhinestone-studded hand. “I’m Krystal. You’re a friend of Nattie’s?”
“Uh, yeah,” Cosima said, shaking her hand. “Nattie and I go way back.”
“So you must be a photographer too!” Krystal beamed, seeming totally and genuinely delighted. “That’s so incredible, making art from ordinary things. I just find it really amazing, you know? And just...totally beautiful.”
“...Yeah,” Cosima said slowly, her smile feeling pale next to Krystal’s.
“Krys,” Natasha interrupted, linking her arm with Krystal’s and squeezing. “My friend’s new to the area, and I told her would never trust my nails with anybody else. I gotta dash, but you think you could squeeze her into your schedule?”
“Any friend of Nattie’s is like, absolutely a friend of mine,” Krystal said, and the next thing Cosima knew, she was sitting at a table with Krystal on the other side, turning her hand over and tsking sympathetically.
“Honey, these nails look like they’re from, like, a war zone. Have you ever had them done before?”
“No, I...never really had the time, I guess,” Cosima said, and Krystal hmm’d.
“I can understand that, especially if you do the same work Nattie does. She’ll like, disappear for weeks, you know? Her work’s super-important to her, and it’s totally admirable, but you’ve gotta take care of yourself too! My mom always said like, you’ve gotta put your own oxygen mask on before helping other people. She was a flight attendant, but I think there’s something really true about that, ya know? You can’t help other people breathe if you’re not breathing.”
“...Right,” Cosima said, trying to nod along to Krystal’s bright monologue. Her response seemed to be enough for Krystal, who beamed as she worked on Cosima’s nails, her own fingers hummingbird-quick.
“Ohmygosh, I haven’t even asked your name! That is so rude, you know like, my life’s story and I didn’t even ask a thing about you!”
“That’s fine,” Cosima said with a little laugh. “I’m Cosima. I work with, um, Nattie.”
“That’s such a pretty name!” Krystal looked Cosima in the eye as she gently massaged Cosima’s hand. “Like Captain America’s. You know, she was totally my hero when I was little. I had, like, a What Would Captain America do t-shirt and everything.”
“Really,” Cosima asked, and Krystal nodded enthusiastically.
“I even did a project on her in high school. Such a hero,” Krystal gushed, rubbing sweet-smelling lotion into Cosima’s hand. “I’ve always wanted to meet her, just to thank her, you know? She’s done so much, and…” To Cosima’s horror, Krystal started to tear up.
“Sorry,” Krystal squeaked, using one hand to fan at her eyes. “I just emotional, you know? She saved the world, and she’s so strong. And it’s gotta be tough, right? All the fighting in the war, and then waking up like, a hundred years later and saving the world again.” She picked up Cosima’s hand again, filing Cosima’s nails. “Like, I could barely survive when my boyfriend moved to Alaska. I just think it’s really incredible. Cuz she’s like, proof.”
“Of what?” Cosima couldn’t help asking, and Krystal looked up again, gently squeezing Cosima’s hand.
“That nothing can crush the human spirit.” The sheer optimism and faith in Krystal’s voice made Cosima take a shuddering breath and look away, staring at her lap instead of the manicurist’s bright face. Krystal squeezed her hand again, gently, before setting it on the table.
“So what color would you like?”
“I don’t, um…” Cosima glanced toward the rows of colorful bottles on the counter. “I don’t really know.”
“Okay,” Krystal said, just as cheerily as before. “That’s okay. D’you mind if I pick?”
“Go crazy,” Cosima said, the absolute delight on Krystal’s face making Cosima smile back. The blonde ran a perfectly-manicured finger across a few bottles before grabbing a yellow that was about as bright as it could get without being fluorescent and a little pack of rhinestones.
“You look like you could use a little brightness,” Krystal explained in a stage-whisper as she started painting. “Plus, yellow is like, my second-favorite color.”
“Is pink your first?”
“It is,” Krystal said, pulling a hand back to gesture to her pink skin-tight dress. “It’s so happy, you know? Sometimes a color can make all the difference. I mean, you must get that, being a photographer.”
“I think it matters more to you,” Cosima said, shrugging. “I can adjust the colors of a photo later, but being a nail artist must take a lot of skill.”
“Oh my gosh,” Krystal whispered, “That is like...one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me. Thank you.”
“Thank you,” Cosima replied, and Krystal beamed.
“You know what else can help when you’re like, feeling down? Running. I mean, you and Nattie are both so fit, you must work out, but this is like, a beautiful city, and it makes your brain like, release some things? Enny-somethings.”
“Endorphins.”
“Yeah, those,” Krystal said, smiling at Cosima before carefully placing a rhinestone on Cosima’s cuticle. “You should try it.”