Chapter Text
The red scarf flashes in the autumn breeze, bright against the brick and concrete of the courthouse sidewalk. For an instant, Mia finds herself back at college – a different sidewalk, coffee and a backpack instead of a briefcase and blazer, but the same fluttering scarf.
“Lana?”
She doesn’t really know what to expect – ex-girlfriend doesn’t feel like the right word, but it’s the closest she’s got – but Lana turns, with a faint, startled smile. “Mia?”
It hasn’t been that long; Mia supposes she shouldn’t really have expected much change. Still, it’s a bit of a surprise that Chief Prosecutor Skye doesn’t look much different from Detective Skye, or even fellow college student Lana. A little tired, a little warier, but she’s not the only one who looks like that these days.
“I thought that was you,” Mia says (as if she could ever mistake anyone else for Lana). “It’s been a while.”
“I heard you’d left Grossberg’s,” Lana says. They fall into step together on the sidewalk without discussion; Mia feels even more like she’s hurrying between classes, comparing notes with Lana on the way. “Fey & Co. now, right?”
“That’s right.” Mia’s not sure if the ripple of indefinable emotion is because Lana’s kept up with her career after all this time, or just the familiar sting of everything associated with her former employer. “It’s been a lot to adjust to, but I just hired an assistant – he helps. What about you, Chief Prosecutor?”
Something tightens in Lana’s face. Mia hasn’t used a magatama in a long time, but she can picture the locks across Lana’s heart clear as day when Lana smiles and says, “It’s good. There’s…a lot to keep track of. Not much time in the courtroom.”
Hmm.
“I have a free hour,” Mia offers, surprising even herself. “Join me for coffee?”
Lana hesitates. “I wish I could,” she says; Mia thinks it’s genuine. “I have a meeting at the precinct. Next time?”
“Sure, of course. I understand.” She does. It doesn’t feel like an excuse, just the truth.
Still, when their paths diverge, Mia watches Lana’s scarf flutter down the sidewalk, and wonders if she should have pressed a little harder.
If not for White, and Grossberg, and her mother –
If. There always were a lot of ifs between them.
Maybe someday, when Mia’s sorted out a few of those ifs – maybe then she’ll ask again.
