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This is it, you think, seeing red as you charge through the doors of the office. Today is that day I finally murder him.
Your morning had started well enough. You’d woken up on time, (relatively) well-rested. There hadn’t been a line at the coffee shop, which meant that it was supposed to be a good day–a lucky day, free of worry and anything even resembling stress.
With hours to kill before you had to be at the agency, you’d settled yourself at a table, content to lounge about and sip your latte. Sitting there, it had been easy to forget about everything, lulled into a naive sense of calm by the smooth jazz resonating through the air.
The stares–particularly those that you got from the two old ladies sitting in the corner–had been enough to shake you from your trance. You were used to people watching you, but usually, they snapped a picture or two when they thought you weren’t looking and went about their business. These ladies had been different. They’d alternated between peering up at you with beady little eyes and gazing down at whatever stack of papers it was they’d had strewn across their table, shaking their heads the entire time. Now, you were no mind reader, but you’d seen that look enough to know what it meant. They were judging you. For what reason, you hadn’t had the slightest idea. It wasn’t until they left and you’d marched over their table and seen the newspaper lying there, that you’d finally understood.
Plastered across the front page was a picture of you and Hawks on your most recent patrol. In it, you were chatting with a group of civilians, wearing a toothy grin that stretched out beneath the shadow of your visor. The winged hero stood to the back, smiling, but very clearly apart from the conversation.
He’d been too busy ogling your ass to contribute.
It’s funny, on a typical day, it took you ten minutes to get to the agency. Today, you made it in less than five. Who knew that pure, unbridled rage could be a cure for tardiness?
“Where is he?” You hiss through gritted teeth. The young woman at the front desk flinches at your harsh tone. She knows better than to get involved in one of your spats with Hawks.
“His office.”
You ball your hand into a fist, sending his secretary a look says look for a new job, because your boss is going to be dead in a few minutes. Then you barrel down the hallway.
When you kick open the door, Hawks shoots up from his chair, and you can just tell he knows he’s screwed up. Holding up the newspaper in plain view, you take steady, ominous steps towards his desk.
“Any last words, birdbrain?”
He holds up his arms in a show of surrender. “Okay dove, I understand that you’re angry–”
“Oh, I was angry the first time this happened.” You growl, hurling down the paper in favor of clutching the edges of Hawks’s desk, poised to chase him should he bolt. “Now, I’m out for blood.”
“Right, right, I get it.” He takes a tiny step to the side, like he really thinks you won’t notice him trying to mount a speedy escape. “But do you really want to hurt your loving husband?”
You mimic Hawks’s shift in position. “He’s a little too loving for my tastes.” His eyes dart around the room, desperately searching for something, anything that might offer him a chance at surviving the situation with all of his limbs intact.
“Your partner in crime?” He continues, his gaze falling on the stack of documents strewn across the top of his desk.
“I’ll find another.”
He presses his palms against the desktop and his wings twitch. You’re convinced he’s going to try to vault it. “The father of your two, wonderful children?”
“Photo albums exist for a reason.” You assume a wide stance. “They’ll remember you as a hero, and not as the shameless sleaze that you actually were.” If he was going to jump, you were going to tackle him before he made it out the door.
You never expected him to shove the upwards of a hundred papers your way. It was just the distraction he needed to retreat towards the window. Before you even have a moment to react, he’s got it open and is flinging himself out into the open air. You get there in time to catch a glimpse of crimson before he disappears behind a skyscraper.
As you storm out of the office, stringing together every curse word you know into a single sentence, the rest of the agency takes bets as to how long it’ll be before you and your husband are making headlines again.