The soft glow from my computer monitor and backlit keyboard is the only light in the room. Outside, San Francisco is still asleep, shrouded in a pre-dawn fog that presses against the windows like a wet blanket.
I take a sip of cold coffee, my eyes scanning the scrolling lines of code one last time. The bypass script is clean. The camera loops are queued. The comms units have been checked, charged, and are encrypted with a key that would take a hacker days to crack. Everything is perfect. Logically, statistically, we are ready but my gut is churning.
I glance at the hallway leading to the bedrooms. Andre is in the guest room, probably sleeping with one eye open and a gun under his pillow. Marcus is on the couch behind me, snoring softly, one arm dangling off the edge, twitching occasionally like he’s dreaming of running a hustle.
And Demi…
I push away from the table, the chair scraping softly against the hardwood. I can’t hear her, but I can feel her. It’s like adisruption in the force field of the house. I walk down the hall to the master bedroom. The door is cracked open a few inches. I push it gently, peering inside and find the bed empty. The sheets are tangled, kicked off in what looks like a restless fit.
I find her in the attached bathroom. She’s sitting on the closed toilet lid, wrapped in a fluffy white robe that swallows her small frame. Her red hair is rumpled and cute, and her face is pale, devoid of makeup. She’s staring at the pile of clothes on the counter, the black slacks, the stiff blouse, the orthopedic shoes, like they’re a hazmat suit she has to step into.
Skipper is sitting at her feet, resting her chin on her knee, looking up with big, worried eyes.
I lean against the doorframe. "Happy Valentine’s Day."
Demi jumps, her head snapping up. When she sees it’s me, the tension bleeds out of her shoulders, but the fear in her eyes remains.
"Is it?" she asks, her voice raspy from sleep. "Feels more like D-Day."
"Technically, D-Day was June 6th," I say, stepping into the room. "And the Allies won."
She manages a weak smile. "You and your facts."
"Facts are comforting," I say, kneeling in front of her. I nudge Skipper over gently so I can take her place between Demi’s knees. I rest my hands on her thighs, rubbing my thumbs over the soft fabric of the robe. "Fact: The plan is solid. Fact: You are the best operator I’ve ever seen. Fact: We are not going to let anything happen to you."
She sighs, covering my hands with hers. Her fingers are ice cold. "I know. It’s just… putting Martha back on. It feels like I’m erasing myself. Like I’m going back to being invisible."
"You’re never invisible to us," I promise. "Even under the wig. Even behind the glasses. We see you, Demi."
I stand up, pulling her with me. "Come on. I’ll help you armor up."
She lets the robe drop. She’s wearing simple cotton underwear, nothing like the lacy things she wore for us in the past, but the sight of her skin still makes my breath hitch. I force my brain to stay in 'support mode' and not 'ravage mode.'
I pick up the restrictive body shaper she wears to flatten her curves for the Martha persona. It’s a hideous beige thing.
"This looks like a torture device," I mutter.
"It is," she says, turning around and stepping into it. "It reminds me to keep my posture bad. Martha hunches."
I help her pull it up, smoothing the thick elastic over her hips and waist. My hands linger on her skin, tracing the warmth before the fabric covers it. I lean down, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck.
"I hate covering you up," I whisper against her skin. "I want the world to see this."
She shivers, leaning back against me for a second. "Tomorrow. Tomorrow I can be me again."
"Tomorrow," I agree.
I hand her the blouse. She buttons it up to her chin, her movements mechanical. I hand her the slacks. She steps into them. With every piece of clothing, the vibrant, fiery woman I’m falling for disappears a little more, replaced by the drab, forgettable drone. It’s a terrifying transformation. It speaks to how much pain she’s been carrying, that she learned to hide herself so effectively.
"Sit," I say, pointing to the vanity stool.
She sits. I pick up the wig cap and the brown wig.
"Allow me."
I gather her red hair, twisting it carefully against her scalp. I’m gentle, mindful of not pulling too hard. I pin it in place, myfingers brushing her temples. She closes her eyes, leaning into my touch.
"You have good hands," she murmurs.
