What in the ever-living fuck is she doing here?

Maybe she's just lonely. (You're really the only person left she can call friend, after all. Isn't that sad? Her one and only friend dates back to when she was a waddling fucking toddler who couldn't distinguish together her 'o's from her 'u's but could blow four sets of foster parents' limbs off.) Great. She hasn't talked to you in years. She knows you've seen her on TV. Doesn't wonder what you think of her, now—you haven't reached out, haven't shot her a cheeky email or nothing. You probably know better.

There's Hughie, technically, except she ruined that a long time ago and he was wonderful but still Hughie, and bless his sorry ass, he was never enough. She just wants so much more. Wants to look into the eyes of a person who can look back and see her. Like, really see her. Without all the stakes involved, all the batshit crazy bullshit like corporate assassinations and quote-unquote terrorism and political manoveuring and just—

There's only one person in this world she'd let the name Nadia fall from their lips and let live. It just so happens that she's standing at their doorstep; scared for it. Craving it.

Either way, she's here twiddling her thumbs and pacing like a fucking idiot. She could've called you, she knows. Could've mailed a letter or her business card or something—anything to let you know she was coming. But she thinks if she did, she would've chickened out. Would've maybe had to pop your head, if you were the one who came looking, instead.

The door opens, and she freezes, and all her (meticulous, rehearsed-to-utter-death) plans go flying out the window. Her first thought is, instead, Fuck, you look so fucking good.

She feels like a kid again.