#mostly canon-compliant

[steppin-on-the-last-train]

The End of Love

Natasha Romanoff x Taskmaster!Reader

Although I encourage everyone to read this, full disclosure it is male!reader. I tried to keep specified pronoun use to a minimum, but it can’t always be helped. There might be some mental rewriting required if you decide to go on.

Synopsis:

“You think too much,” she says.

You can’t argue with that. Because now that you’re looking at her in the light and you’re so close you can see each fractal of green in her eyes you're thinking there’s nothing more intimate than this.

She’s not your friend but if she were she’d be your best one.

Or, a look at who Natasha Romanoff was before the Avengers. Told through the eyes of the person who loved her the most.

Word Count: 43,000

Foreword: I wrote most of these scenes out of order and then proceeded to edit nothing so if something disagrees with something later on that’s why.

Acknowledgements: One) Title from the song with the same name by Florence + The Machine. Two) The final scene with Willem is indeed a copy from that scene in Good Will Hunting. Three) All rights to the original media.

It’s spring and something has shifted. You’re in bed with her when the feeling hits you. You are in bed together, legs twisted together under the sheets, the callous pads of her feet warm against the inside of your calf. You wonder if she feels it too.

You’ve been like this for hours. Nothing more, not tonight. Just the simple act of breathing in tandem with someone. Of holding tight until you don’t know how you could ever part again. 

She likes you because you are hers. Her mission partner, her choice, hers. There is power in choosing who you give yourself over to. And you understand but you prefer this. You hate to disappoint her, to stop her after just a kiss, knowing there is want for much more.

But her head is tucked beneath your chin and she’s so close she might as well have burrowed herself inside you and you hope it’s enough. Because this is safe. Her, always. But there are some things which you can’t speak. So she starts with a kiss on your cheek and you end with a kiss on her lips.

You are not at peace, but for now, wrapped in her arms and the scent of something that is so distinctly her, you are content. And you’ve done this so many times before, too many but somehow not enough all at once. 

The first time had been after your plane went down shy of returning to the Red Room. You were smaller then, less muscle and too long limbs and grief enough to suffocate. The walk back had taken two nights to complete. You would freeze to death if you didn’t share body heat after the sun went down. You both knew this. You slept back to back, bundled in extra shirts and the parachute from the jet. You both pretended you didn’t trust each other just a little more in the morning. 

Now you roll and stretch and Natalia makes a small noise of protest. You tell her you’re getting a glass of water, ask if she wants one too. She doesn’t answer.

The air in the motel room is stale and the light in the bathroom stutters like a heartbeat trying to stave off death. You fill a glass under the tap and drink until it’s empty again. Your breath wavers ever so slightly. You push down on the countertop a little too hard, your palms beginning to sweat. 

Then she’s behind you with a steady hand creating a rhythm of up-down, up-down on your back. You had tried to be silent, hoping she would not notice. You didn’t want her to see you like this. But she extricated herself from the warmth of the bed to be by your side anyway.

She knows you. And it’s terrifying.

She is not gentle but in these moments she is human, and so are you. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. You are not a person who apologizes. So you say it when the only thing it can mean is nothing. When it’s as weightless as the breath from which it comes from.

“It’s okay.” She is not a person who forgives. She is both the bullet and the finger behind the trigger. She is the dazzling starlet who shines the light in your eyes so you do not feel the knife in your back.

Your reflections in the mirror do not feel real. You make a point not to look too closely. Because when you do you see with the eyes of those who would put a bullet in your head for this. No, not quite. Because they would do much worse.

Lately you’ve been dividing time by the moments with Natalia and the moments in between. By one stolen night followed by a week, five weeks, a dozen. You never know. And it’s an adjustment because you can’t quite pinpoint the moment you stopped sleeping down the hall from her more nights than not.

You spend the time without her taking orders, putting on the Taskmaster mask, leaving messages in the form of bodies with sword-shaped slits. Then you’re still taking orders but wearing a different sort of mask, one where they can see your face but still can’t see you and you’re shaking hands and learning real politics is nothing like what you’ve studied. 

“You see what sort of dogs I have to deal with?” General Dreykov asks. Ever since the military dress uniform appeared in your room and you flew to Moscow as his “second” he’s been speaking to you more and more as a peer. Far from most of the time. But occasionally. Enough for you to remember and collect like they were some sort of medal. 

And Madame B, who has always detested you for being too emotional, had finally seemed to approve. One day on your way out after you had been training some of the young recruits she spoke to you across the wasteland of the dance studio. You stopped at the doorway to turn back toward her, but she stayed facing the wall like it was a window to another studio where she must judge a dozen more girls with bleeding feet.

“I never understood why he kept you around.” She always spoke clipped, enunciating each syllable like the crack of a cane. “You were an insolent child. Yes, you can dance but this power makes you think you’re invincible.” You watched her, too stunned to feel indignant about the criticism, too apprehensive to notice how small she was now that you were grown. “But. Perhaps it was not such a bad idea to rear you here. You will lead with an iron fist. And most importantly, you will understand.”

You left without saying anything.

What was there to understand. This place was all you knew.

You come back with a hand on your cheek. Natalia is staring into your eyes like they reflect the answer to life. But if your eyes were mirrors all she’d see was herself.

“You think too much,” she says.

You can’t argue with that. Because now that you’re looking at her in the light and you’re so close you can see each fractal of green in her eyes you're thinking there’s nothing more intimate than this.

She’s not your friend but if she were she’d be your best one.

She asks you to come back to bed. You nod and follow her into the dark. She is sitting up. On your stomach you drape yourself over the edge of the mattress and take her hand. Already you mourn this night. You cannot enjoy the time you have when you don’t know if it will be your last. You have become far too important to each other.

You can tell she feels the same. Misery has settled over the both of you like a cold, wet snow. She is tense as she runs her fingers through your hair. You lay your head in her lap and close your eyes against the danger lurking outside.

It is spring and something has shifted.

��

And it is that stupid feeling which makes you turn yourself over to the Americans after she is captured. That feeling which has transformed since you were small and angry. That feeling which has always been evolving; this new chapter taking an ugly turn. Perhaps you have let this go on for too long.

You are grown now, but still very much full of rage.

They show you a file they have on you which you think looks very hastily put together. Because they would have no reason to suspect you of anything. That’s the way your life has been curated. There is what you do in the daylight and what you do in the dark with a skull mask over your face and a hood over your head. These people are not the same. 

But you’ve made a purposefully big mess on American soil as Taskmaster and they’ve finally connected his face with the official headshot of one Junior Lieutenant of the Russian military.

Is this you, they ask and despite the handcuffs cutting into your wrists and the four guards with guns on their hips you laugh and call the man asking an idiot. The other guy is your twin brother. 

You don’t think he appreciated your answer because the next thing you know you’re being cuffed on the ear.

Along with the picture of you in your official uniform there is a mugshot of you from the day they brought you in. You don’t often see photos of yourself. The guy in this one looks dangerous. There are also two very grainy, very dark photographs pulled from security cameras of a figure who might be you from assassination runs you went on. You recognize yourself in one, and you’re pretty sure the other is of someone in a Halloween costume.

They’ve taken you in with nothing but the clothes on your back and your weapons and a watch of Dreykov’s he had given you a few years ago.

Even though your stomach is empty and your face is bruised you don’t help them put the pieces together. You tell them the same thing you’ve been saying. You know they have the Black Widow. You want to talk to her.

And weeks later when they think they have broken you down and built you back up with S.H.I.E.L.D.’s name around your neck they let you out of your cell.

The guy who slapped you that first day is your new handler. His name is Richard Kremer. You don’t think he likes you all that much. He’s old and he acts like he can go back and win the Cold War if he gets you to roll over.

But you’ve learned he can’t hit you now that you’re not a prisoner. So when you tell him you know his type, that he probably got discharged from field service because he broke down and nailed some kid in the head all he can do is tell you to shut up. I’m right, aren’t I? You ask and he is silent. Oh come on G.I. Joe. He tells you to get out and you happily oblige.

It is when you are outside on the track one day that you finally see Natalia again. You are allowed time outside with supervision–like you are a dog–and you don’t think you’ve ever been happier to see the sun. It’s just you, the rubber beneath your feet, and the wind in your hair. Because you are not worried about the rookie who’s been assigned to watch you. You can pretend you are somewhere else. You can pretend you are running back home instead of pacing holes through this American ground.

You tense when you hear another pair of steps. You do not want to go back inside. Five more minutes. But you look over your shoulder and the figure has bright red hair and astonishment in her eyes. 

You are so surprised to see her because you thought maybe you weren’t going to again that you stumble in your haste to stop. You skid and your feet fly out from beneath you. You catch yourself on your hands, bits of track sticking to your palms. 

Natalia laughs and you can’t fight the grin on your face. She offers a hand and you take it. You let her pull you to your feet. She doesn’t stop there. She is strong and you fall into her. You throw yourself over her, wrapping your free arm around her back. Your hands are still clamped tightly together. You are too relieved to see she is okay to care about who may be watching. Let them see. They know why you came here. And right now, she feels so familiar. 

She pulls away first. “You’re here,” she breathes, eyes wide. Her irises glitter in the sunlight. “Блять. I didn’t believe it.”

“You’re okay,” you say, still breathless. “They didn’t kill you. I thought they were going to kill you.”

“No, they didn’t.” She grows serious, the initial shock wearing off. “Change of plans, I guess.”

You switch to Russian now because you are finally leaving this place. “What idiots. To spare us both. Natalia, we can be out of here tonight.”

She stares at you for a moment, looking guilty. Finally, she shakes her head and very slowly explains, “I’m not going back to Russia. I’m staying here with S.H.I.E.L.D. We’ve come to an agreement. I’m going to defect.” You are bewildered and it must show in the whites of your eyes because she reassures, “I’m okay. This is my choice.”

You don’t know what to think, much less what to say. “Are you serious?” 

“Yes.”

“Look, it doesn’t matter how they’re threatening you. I can get you out.”

“I’m not under threat.”

You narrow your eyes at her and back up a step. They must have messed with her mind, then. Because the Natalia you know would never do this. She was vicious like the edge of a blade and she was strong-headed like no one you’ve ever met. She could not be harnessed.

She grabs your hands. “Look at me. I’m still here.” You jerk because it is like she can read your mind. “It is better here,” she says. “They’ve offered me freedom and protection. That’s all.”

“How could you–” you start, but words don’t feel like enough to convey your disbelief. You shake your head. This can’t be happening. Because you’ve quit and run without permission. You were going to get forgiveness on your return. But you can’t go back without her. You tell yourself it’s because they wouldn’t accept that kind of failure, but you think she would be a tolerable loss compared to you. No. You don’t want to go anywhere without her. “You have to go back. We need to go back. I came here to free you from them.”

“And I’m telling you there’s nothing to free me from,” she says. “I’m using them to free myself.”

But you don’t hear her. You leave, a new word coloring the image of her.

Traitor.

And she’s dragged you to hell with her.

—

Inside your pillowcase is the newest spot you’ve chosen to hide your stash of stolen items. It’s not much, a rock from outside, a fork from the cafeteria, a broken matchstick you found on the ground. 

You are not allowed to have things. Nothing is yours, they tell you. Everything is shared as part of the collective. Don’t get caught up in the scheme of materialism. That’s why everyone takes turns doing the laundry and scrubbing down the showers and disposing of waste. But you don’t really want these things to own. You only do it because they tell you not to.

They found your collection when you put it under your bed and when you began carrying the things in your pockets. Both times they beat you for it. You’re sure they’ll find this one and make you count to fifty instead of twenty-five but there is something rotten inside you and you can’t help it. Maybe after this time they’ll finally thresh it out. 

It is night and you grope through the dark until you find the items. You find all three tucked safely where you left them. But something else pokes your finger as you retrieve your things. Your hand grasps a fourth item and you can’t see it but it feels like a small needle. You don’t remember taking this. Did someone put it here? How did they know about your stash? 

You lay curled on your side and take turns holding each item. You decide the mystery object is definitely a sewing needle. Maybe you did take it and you forgot. You move on. You’ve found a good rock this time. It is small and smooth and almost perfectly round. 

You think about throwing it at Madame T’s head. Then, you hide them again and fall asleep.

You wake up with a cold hand over your mouth. You slap it away and tackle the offending person to the floor before you’ve formed your first conscious thought. 

“Сука!” She hisses as her back lands on the wooden floor and you sit on her stomach. “When are you going to stop doing that?”

You stare down at the vague outline of a body before you slowly let her up. “When you stop waking me up by choking me out.”

“I’m not choking you. And it’s not my fault you cry in your sleep. I’m helping you. Would you rather have a guard come in here?”

“I do not cry in my sleep.” You wrinkle your nose.

“Yes you do. Like a little baby.” You imagine her smirking through the dark. You don’t know who keeps visiting you in the night, only that it’s the same girl each time and she’s probably in your class. You can’t see anything at night here. You know her voice, but there is little speaking during the day. And none of the girls talk to you anyway. Her hair is a little past shoulder length, but that’s the way most of theirs is. 

And she won’t tell you who she is. 

“Shut up,” you say, shoving her in the shoulder. 

“Hey, no fighting in the dark. It’s not fair.”

“I’ll stop when you tell me who you are.”

“What, so you can rat me out?” You’re sitting close so you don’t have to talk very loud. You can feel her breath against your face.

“I won’t,” you say. “I promise.”

She laughs. It is too bitter a sound for someone your age. “Like that means anything.”

“I’m going to figure it out eventually.”

She shakes her head, hair swishing against your cheek. “You haven’t yet. And you never will.”

“Yes I will.”

“No you won’t.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Yes,” you say, pouncing on top of her. You’ve taken her by surprise. She reacts quickly, rolling the two of you an extra time so she can sit on your chest. 

“I’m too good for you,” she says. 

“Arrogance will get you killed,” you retort. You struggle beneath her but you’re about the same size and she knows exactly how to pin you down.

“That’s a big word for you. Who’d you copy that one from?”

You ignore her, still focused on trying to get up. 

“Stuck?” She asks, her voice light. “Don’t start fights you can’t win, Markov.” She lets you up and pads toward the door. “See you tomorrow.”

Another week passes and something else appears inside your pillowcase. It’s a ribbon from a ballet shoe. You take it out and hold it up in the light of day. You know for sure, you did not take this. Someone else was messing with you. Or helping, you don’t really know.

You watch the girls around you. There are the mean ones–which are most of them–and the nice ones–of which there used to be more. You think it’s one of the nice ones who comes to you at night because she is waking you from bad sleep. But then again she likes to argue and wrestle with you. So maybe it’s a mean one.

You keep fighting and dancing and learning things like how to blend into a crowd and how to craft the perfect lie. You don’t find out who’s been adding things to your collection. But you hope you do before the guards find this new hiding spot. 

They find it when you have to strip your bed for laundry day and realize you have nowhere to hide the new things. You stuff it all in your pockets again and they call you stupid for not learning your lesson last time. So they drag you screaming and kicking downstairs and strip you naked. You bite one of them when they try to tie your hands to the pole because you remember what they told you would happen for the third time you were caught stealing. A boot collides with the side of your head and you go limp for a second. The big things in your life make you forget how small you are. 

There is a moment to breathe and for the ringing in your ears to subside. Then, just as the world refocuses, hellfire is released upon your backside.

You lay upstairs on your stomach and do not sleep. There are deep trenches of blood carved into your back. You could barely crawl into your unmade bed after they dumped you back on the floor in your room. 

You find a flower when you have to go outside the next day. It is bright and yellow and a rarity out here where everything is dead most of the year. You don’t take it.

The fourth night after you finally sleep, your body forcing itself to shut down despite the pain. You are getting better. But not fast enough. 

You only groan when you wake and realize there’s a hand on your face. 

“Shhh,” she says. Then she is silent. You think she is looking at the door. 

You push yourself up, drawing blood as you bite your lip. You slide into the corner away from her. “I can’t do this tonight,” you say. “I’m so tired.”

“I had to. It was going to be them or me.” She pauses. Then, slowly, the mattress dips as she climbs onto the bed.

“I’m serious,” you say. You are hurting and she is strong. She cannot know this. “It’s not fucking funny anymore.”

“Geez, I’m not going to hurt you,” she says. “I would’ve done that a long time ago if I wanted to. Here. Take this.”

“I can’t see you.”

“You are impossible.” She brushes your arm. You recoil. She grabs your hand. It feels odd, like she’s trying to be gentle. She flips your palm up and places something in your open hand. It’s soft and delicate and feels a little like rubber. You roll it carefully through your fingers. You brush your other hand over the top and feel the petals. They are silky. Nothing can compare. It still smells like outside, like life. 

You realize she is the one who has been collecting prizes for you. 

“You’re trying so hard to watch out for me you forget I’m looking out for you too,” she says.

“I can’t take this,” you say. “They’ll find it. You have to take it back.”

“No,” she says. “Scoot over.” 

You obey, trying to hide how much it hurts to move. She takes your spot in the corner and you hear a ripping sound. “What are you doing?” You hiss.

She doesn’t answer. “Give me the flower.” You hand it to her, brushing her hand as you do. You wait in silence until she turns back around. “There’s a little hole in your mattress. I put it in there. They won’t find it. I promise.”

“Like that means anything,” you say, mimicking her tone. And as you do, you realize who you’re speaking to. It just clicked. You know this voice. “Natalia.”

“Look who’s finally earned his detective badge.” You wish you could see her smile instead of just hearing it.

—

You stay at S.H.I.E.L.D., thinking she will see sense eventually. You can’t leave the campus yet so you spend a lot of time wandering and watching. You count how many paces it takes to get from one building to another, estimate how quickly you could run. You look up at the buildings, wonder if you could climb any of them. Every day that passes is excruciating. You can feel the Red Room getting farther away. It’s been far too long since you’ve been in contact with them. You haven’t had the chance to tell them you’re coming back. That you’re not a traitor.

The only thing that makes life bearable is Natalia. She said she just wants to be called Natasha now and it confuses you even more. She really is changing.

You tell them you want to defect too. You pretend like you are fine. Like you are not in fact drowning.

You spend time in Natalia’s room, which is exactly like yours but she has a couple of books and a badly drawn picture of what looks like a person. You can’t really tell.

You point to it. “What’s this?”

She smiles. She’s been doing a lot more of that lately. It’s certainly not the worst thing. “It’s you. In your combat suit. You like it? Clint drew it.”

“He must be some kind of artist then. I could barely tell that that thing was a human.”

She laughs, and for a second the sound makes you forget how she has turned traitor. Because it is sweet and real and uniquely hers. “Look,” she says pointing. “This is your mask. See the eyes and the jawbone?”

“So those are teeth?”

“Yeah. And this arc is the hood, and these lines are the cape.”

“What are those?”

“Your katanas.”

“Why are there five of them?”

“There’s not. These are the swords,” she says, pointing to two lines angled toward the bottom of the page. She moves her finger to three lines above the figure’s head. “I think these are anger lines.”

“Anger lines?”

“Yeah. To signify danger. You know you’re pretty scary in that thing.”

You shrug. “Sure, I guess. And what did I do to have this honor?” You ask.

“You put yourself on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s shit list.” She takes her attention from the sketch and looks at you. “Clint said they didn’t know who they had at first, so he drew me this.”

“And you kept it.”

“I needed decoration. What’s better than a picture of you?” She smirks and nudges you in the ribs. “Like a guardian angel.”

You nod because she’s flirting with you and it’s making your head spin just a little bit. You like her even though you know you shouldn’t and you think she likes you too. You aren’t dating because people like you don’t ‘date’ but there’s something, just below the surface. Like an undertow waiting to drag you under if you wade out too far. You can sense it, like a coming storm.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” she says. “Why did they send you after me? And in such a dramatic fashion. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I don’t know,” you lie. No one sent you. Maybe you were already out in the middle of the ocean. “You’re the best they’ve got. There’s two dozen widows but there’s a reason you’re the one everyone’s been chasing.”

She shakes her head. “No. You’re the best they’ve got. Dreykov would never trade you for me.” She’s looking at you like she knows you’re lying. You hate to find that there’s hope in her expression. Like she’s waiting for a confession. But the truth is unacceptable. You cannot say you ran after her like a prince in a storybook. You cannot open yourself up. 

She has never hurt you. And you will not give her the opportunity now.

So you gamble on the chance she doesn’t know for sure. You shrug and look away. Because you’ve never been as good as her at hiding things. “Guess he did.” You open your mouth again.

“I’m not going back,” she interrupts because she knows what you’re going to say. She puts a hand on your chest, the other on your cheek. “We can make a place for ourselves here.” Despite her conviction she still sounds disappointed. Doesn’t she know she’s won?

“I know,” you say.

Eventually a month goes by but you have not left. By some sickness she has you trapped. This is why Dreykov had warned you against the widows. Because they spun and they lied and now you could not bear to leave her in this strange place.

There are weekly mandatory shrink sessions you must attend as part of your agreement. You aren’t cleared for missions unless you get their green light. It’s a whole fraud that seems to have everyone in this country up in arms but you are sure it’s just S.H.I.E.L.D. trying another clever way to extract information from you. The discussions at least have been mildly amusing. You don’t have much else to focus on right now.

You’ve been transferred to a different “professional” twice now. The first one had obviously been scared of you so you played into it. He was asking you about your life and about guilt so you spent the entire hour making up stories that were unbelievable even by your standards. You told him your job used to be to torture political enemies and captured agents. You stared him down and tried to blink as little as possible when you told him you enjoyed skinning them alive and hearing them scream.

So the next time you go in it’s office 109 instead of 212 and there’s a woman instead of a man. She’s kooky and has you lay on a couch as she asks about your childhood. So you tell her a story too. 

“My father,” you start, even though you hadn’t had one since you were six years old. But none of these people knew anything from where you came from. “He was a terrible alcoholic. He used to slap my face and shake me like a rag doll. I mean, is that what a real man is supposed to be?”

“No, honey. But it’s okay. You’re safe now. Go on,” she says. “How did that make you feel?”

“It made me so angry, doc. So one day I said to him, ‘I’m gonna show you what I’m made of.’ I grab his shotgun that he keeps under his bed and blam! Gunpowder and lead.” You open your eyes and her face is looming over you, confusion starting to bloom. You break out singing, because this is the good part. “I’m goin’ home, gonna load my shotgun. Wait by the door and light a cigarette. He wants a fight, well, now he’s got one. And he ain’t seen me crazy yet!”

You’re smiling because you heard the song on the radio once and you’d remembered it and the singer’s accent after all these years. Her confusion has turned to anger and suddenly the session is over. Oh no.

Kremer has a talk with you after this incident. He tells you to cut the shit and sit through it like everyone else does. Then he reminds you what will happen if either him or one of these therapists deems you unfit for work at S.H.I.E.L.D. But you don’t care. They’re not going to get the best of you twice.

But you go another week to a new office with something to prove. You’ve got a winning streak to maintain. This guy has glasses and graying hair and a stomach that’s a little round. There are shelves and shelves of books and you pace the room, grazing your hand over the spines.

“You got one in here that’s going to tell you how to fix me?”

“Hello,” he says. “My name is Dr. Francis, but you can call me Willem.” He is soft spoken and you think you can break him like you did the first one. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

“Okay Willem. Sure.” You slouch across from him in a chair level with his. He’s not behind a desk like the first man or hovering over you like the woman.

“Do you like to read?” He asks, because you’re still scanning the shelves.

You used to, but not really anymore. “I’m not working here because I’m some genius who sits around reading all day.”

“No. Certainly not.” Was he making fun of you? “Has anyone told you how this works?”

You shake your head.

“Well I, along with my colleagues, are not ‘S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.’ We’re privately contracted. You know what that means, yes?”

“It means you probably get more money for sitting around and talking nonsense all day.”

“Sure. You’re not wrong. But it also means I don’t owe S.H.I.E.L.D. anything. Whatever is said in this room stays in this room. My only obligation is to make sure you’re not a danger to yourself or others.”

You eye him and his cardigan, wondering how he could walk out of the house with something like that on. “That’s what I’ve been missing!” You snap your fingers. “You’ve got my full trust now Willem, goodness I can’t believe what a great resource this is. What do you want to know? I’ll tell you everything.”

He chuckles. “You’re funny, aren’t you?” 

“I’m only as serious as this whole charade is,” you say gesturing around at the office which looks so out of place here at S.H.I.E.L.D. The clutter on his desk in the corner, the old wood furnishing, the acoustic guitar lying among stacks of books. “But okay sure. Let’s say you’re not going to turn around and blab to Kremer so he can be more efficient about making my life harder. You’re only here to make sure I’m not a danger.” You make little air quotes with your hands when you say this. “You do know what kind of missions are conducted here, no?”

“Of course. I did my time in the military.”

“Really?”

“This surprises you.”

“Yeah, I mean, come on,” you wave your hand at him. “I could kill you with my eyes closed.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I have no doubt you could. But as I was saying. I don’t mean you can’t be dangerous. Just that you have to know when to pick it up and put it away. For example, now was not the time to threaten me with mortal violence.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, getting out of the chair. You couldn’t do that. Violence was who you were. And you were tired of this anyhow.

 You make it to the back wall where there’s a window and on the sill there’s a picture frame. You pick it up, showing it to him. “Is this your family? Your kids are pretty cute.”

“Watch it,” he says.

 You flip the frame around and look down at it. “How old are they? The little one can’t be older than eight, no? What a shame I know her father’s name.”

Maybe it’s because you don’t actually plan to find his family or maybe it’s because you’ve underestimated him that your heart pounds when you look up and he’s in your space with a serious look on his face. 

“Don’t fuck with my family or I will end you.”

“Touchy, touchy,” you say.

“Get out.”

And that’s how your first interaction goes. So you’re surprised the next week when you hear you’ve been ordered back with Dr. Francis.

You stroll into the office like nothing ever happened. “You again. How are your kids doing?”

“Shut up and sit down,” he says.

You mock pout but sit anyway.

“How old are you?” He asks.

“You’ve got my file. I’m sure it says somewhere in there.”

“Yes, but I want to hear it from you.” He’s wearing another ridiculous outfit. A gray polo shirt with a brown patched cardigan.

“So you can make some big point about how I’m young and don’t know anything, right?” You ask. Because this feels awfully familiar. 

You remember a time when you were twelve and told this Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR) officer named Evgenia you were eighteen when she asked. Zhenya laughed and said, yeah right, if you’re eighteen then I’m forty. When you’d finally told the truth she looked at you funny. Do you know what this assignment is? You told her this was a joint mission to take out high-ranking members of a certain Russian mob family who had overstepped the line between civilian and state.

You’re a little young for this, no? She’d asked. 

No one had ever given pause because of your age before. You assured her you were capable of this assignment. 

She let it go but didn’t stop calling you “kid” for the whole two weeks. You hated it until you realized she didn’t mean it in a bad way. It was kind of nice, actually. To feel looked after. Carrying things on your own was so exhausting.

She made you try Oreshki as you sat in a hotel working on the mission reports because she couldn’t believe you’d never had it. Then she asked what your parents were feeding you at home because she’d never seen someone your age so strong. You told her your parents were dead and she’d stared at you for a few minutes. You pretended not to notice. 

When it was time to go back she told you to look after yourself. She seemed reluctant to let you go.

You assured her you would be fine. You always were.

Now you stare at Willem and wonder where he wants to go with this question.

“Something like that,” he says. “Come on, it won’t hurt you.”

“I’m twenty-eight,” you lie. Because there’s no way the number in the file isn’t just an estimate.

He’s quick with his response. “No you’re not.”

You’re about to tell him yes, you are but there’s something in his eyes, in his posture. He’s confident you’ve lied. “Fine. I’m twenty-two. Happy?”

“Exactly. You’re twenty-two. You’re a kid. You’ve barely reached the age we let kids have alcohol in this country. Tell me, have you ever read anything by Shakespeare?” You shake your head. “You ever swam in the ocean?” Another no. “Been to an art museum? Hiked up a mountain? Fallen in love?”

You stop him then. “Love is a scam. It’s some great ideal everyone chases like an idiot because they think their worth resides with another person. It’s an opiate for the masses. You tell someone they’ll be fulfilled if they find this ���love’ and they’ll blind themselves in pursuit of it. People are more easily controlled when they are distracted by emotion.”

“I don’t think so. And I’ve been in love for twenty years. Almost as long as you’ve been on this earth. Love has brought me great joy and great sorrow. But you wouldn’t know about that. About giving yourself over to someone else. About allowing someone to open your eyes, to challenge you. I am not distracted by emotion, and even if I was I wouldn’t care. Because at least I’ve lived.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

He raises a hand. “Or you’re a coward. You want to think you’re above it all. You had Dr. Casey thinking you were a psychopath. You wanted me to think you were a monster. But you’re not. You’re a scared kid with his chest puffed out. You’re the kid who pushes others on the playground because you’re getting pushed at home. But guess what. I can’t be pushed.

You’re scared to talk because you don’t know what might come out. Scared to let people in because you think they won’t like what they see. How many people have you talked to since you’ve been here? How many people knew you, and I mean really knew you back in Russia? What about that young woman who got here a couple weeks before you? You’re unique. I’ll bet I’ve never met someone like you and I never will again. So I can’t get anywhere, I can’t start if you don’t help me. You have to talk to me.”

And after that he dismisses you, just like that.

The next time you come back the ball is in your court. He doesn’t talk to you, just sits and stares expectantly. Well two could play that game. You’ll show him you won’t talk if you don’t want to. So you sit and count away the seconds and leave when the hour is up.

Another week passes and you’re in his office again. And he’s silent, again. 

You won’t be the one to break. But you’re looking at the guitar on the stand in the corner with all its dust and you think it’s as safe a conversation starter as any.

“Do you play?” You ask, nodding at the instrument.

Willem sits up and blinks a couple times like he hadn’t been expecting you to speak. “No. Not really anymore. And to be honest I could never really play even when I used it. Shame, it’s a beautiful instrument.” He gets up to retrieve the guitar and begins to tune it. “I’ve never really had the ear for music.” He plucks at a string and goes onto the next one.

“Wait,” you say. “Go back. That one’s not right.”

“Too flat or too sharp?”

“What?” Just turn it a little more.” He complies and finally it sounds right. You nod and he goes to the next.

“I didn’t peg you as the musical type,” he says as he plays and you nod or shake your head.

“I’m not. Just a feeling, I guess. I know what notes sound like.”

“But you don’t know this is the ‘E string?’”

“No, nothing like that. I can play a song though.”

“Let’s hear it then, champ.”

He hands you the guitar and you play a song you saw someone playing one time on a mission in Mexico City. There are the movements of the man in the street who had captivated you to stop and watch, and there are your own hands, years later, mirroring his. 

When the song finishes Willem is quiet, then asks, “When did you learn that?”

“I didn’t really learn,” you shrug, like it’s not a big deal. “Saw a guy do it once. Copied what he did.”

“Do you know what chords you used? Can you play anything else?”

“No.”

“Unbelievable.”

You smile, because you have impressed him. “Neat party trick, huh?”

“Seems like it could be more than just a party trick.”

You tilt your head back and forth because he’s right but you don’t want to talk about that. “I don’t use it to sing pretty songs, that’s for sure. Where’d this interest of yours come from anyway?”

“My wife got it for me actually. When we were overseas I used to go on and on about missing music. About how I was butthurt having to join the army because it meant I never got to learn how to play the guitar. And she remembered. And the first Christmas after we got home, even though we barely had enough money to get by, she got me this. That’s part of what love is.”

“She’s ex-military too, then?”

“Yes,” he says, like he’s trying to recapture an old dream. “Let me tell you something. Wait, actually, this first. You ever been in a warzone?”

You hesitate for a second and he must see the debate in your mind so he clarifies.

“I mean a real warzone. Out in the trenches with a couple hundred other guys trying to fall asleep to the sound of bomb fire. Not knowing who’s going to have their leg blown off or their head opened up before the next sunrise. Knowing you’re all out there as nothing but cannon fodder, that everything they told you about the army before you left was nothing but a load of horseshit. And you ate it because your life was shit too.” You shake your head. “Well, it’s damn lousy. You have to keep each other’s chins up somehow. There was this joker in my squad, you see. Terrible sense of humor but we all laughed anyhow because things were just that bad. One day, she looks over at me and says, “Imagine this. Two fish are in a tank. One looks at the other and says, ‘Hey, do you know how to drive this thing?’””

You blink at him but can’t help the laugh that escapes. “That has to be the most awful joke I’ve ever heard.”

“It is!” Willem agrees. “But you know what? That’s the moment I fell in love with my wife.”

Now you are surprised. “Because she told you a bad joke?”

“No. Because she was so serious she didn’t know how to be funny but she always cracked herself up anyhow. And I loved her for it.”

“She was?”

“Pardon?”

“You said she was serious. Is she dead?”

“No. We are,” he pauses, quieter now. “We are separated for now. I suppose it’s been long enough that I've started talking about her in the past tense.”

“But you said she’s your wife.”

“She still is, nothing’s official, but,” he trails off, like he’s given up already.

“What?” You smirk. “You cheat on her? She cheat on you? Found some other guy who thought she was pretty and laughed at her dumb jokes?” When he doesn’t react you try something else. “You beat her up?” His head snaps to you and his eyes harden like you’ve pulled out a gun. “That’s it, isn’t it? You talk about war and all this stuff like I need a lesson but you can’t even handle it yourself so you spend all night drinking and you come home and she’s there with her ‘where were yous’ and her idiocy that you didn’t see before because you told yourself you were in love but now she’s annoying the life out of you so you try and put her head in the wall. Right?”

His glare has faded and it makes you a little nervous because it was always a bad sign when Dreykov stopped yelling and got quiet. “Yes,” Willem says calmly as if you hadn’t just gutted him open. “There’s one thing you’re wrong about though. I never had to tell myself I was in love with her. I just was. And I still am. She was right to kick me out.”

You puff your cheeks and blow out air. “You are a bigger идиот than I thought. Have you apologized?”

“Yes. I did the next morning when I realised what I’d done.”

“And she didn’t accept it.”

“No, she did,” he says, dragging a large hand down his face. “She did but I thought some time apart would be for the best.”

  “So you could get yourself a shrink.”

“Not exactly. They say therapists make the worst patients. I’ve found that to be true.”

“Well,” you say. “Sounds like you’re a coward too.”

Willem smiles. Just the smallest upturn of his lips. “Time’s up.”

—

The wilderness is no place for two children. Especially not the barren wasteland of Siberia. The boy has a rifle slung around his shoulder and no coat. The girl has two coats. Blood from a wound on her side drips out onto the snowy terrain underfoot. But she is strong. She refuses the boy’s offers to help her walk.

A long trail of footprints in the otherwise unblemished landscape leads back to a small massacre site.

The children are hungry but cannot stop because something is chasing them. It’s why they had to leave the little house with the fire and the old woman. 

They will hide, they will kill, they will walk until they collapse so the ground may swallow them whole. 

Because the wilderness is no place for two children. It certainly cannot be the place for three.

—

More weeks pass and you keep living and you try not to think too much about how Natalia is doing fine for herself. She has a team now with agents called Barton and Hill and Coulson and May. 

You do not talk so often, even if this is the most freedom you’ve had to talk since you’ve known each other. At first you tried to convince her to go back but no. She is adamant about staying here, about untying herself rope by rope from the Red Room.

The things you exchanged seem so trivial now. You know her favorite color is blue and that she is fine with coffee but would much rather have tea and that she has a scar beneath her collarbone. But here such information is freely given. 

You see other men talk to her in the cafeteria, watch her in the gym. She has always been the most beautiful woman in the room. 

And it is one day when you are eating lunch together that another agent approaches. He has an apple in his hand and sits next to Natalia like he knows her. “Natasha,” he greets. You don’t like how close he is. He extends a hand across the table. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting,” he says. “I’m Agent Matthew Hunter.”

You take his hand and shake it, squeezing a little harder than necessary. “Nice to meet you.” This is a lie. He is entitled and he is American and you would prefer he left you alone.

“Matt,” Natalia says, smiling.

He turns to face her like you aren’t there. “Listen I got to run, but I haven’t had the chance to say how great of a job you did on the Berlin mission last week. I wanted to catch you before I forgot.” 

She licks her lips and turns her shoulders toward him. “You weren’t too bad out there yourself.” 

He waves her off. “Are you kidding me? I have never seen someone handle a room like that before.” Agent Hunter looks at you next but his body is still facing Natalia. “Did she tell you about this? I mean what a fucking bombshell.”

“No,” you say. “We haven’t had the chance.”

“Ah, well. You should really ask her. Hell of a story, hell of an agent.”

Natalia looks down at her lap, her cheeks reddening ever so slightly. 

“Anyway. I have got to go hit the gym. No days off, am I right?” 

He is looking at you and expecting a response so you just say, “Sure.”

“Alright, nice to meet you, man. See you later Nat.”

You watch him walk off like he owns the place and it’s only when you turn back that you realize Natalia had been watching him too.

You take a drink of water and ask, “Do you like him?”

She snaps her attention to you. “Who, Matt? Yeah he’s nice. A bit talkative, but that’s all right. What did you think?”

You ignore her question. “No, I mean. He was flirting with you.”

“I know that.”

“So,” you gesture. She would lead you in circles until your head twisted off if you let her. “Are you going to get with him?”

Her smile fades like you’ve asked if she was planning to kill him instead. “No. I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Why not?” You ask. “He’s handsome, young enough. You said you liked him.”

“Because I don’t want him.” And there is this look on her face like you have grown a second head. “I’m not just going to go run around sleeping with people.”

“I didn’t say you should. I was just wondering because I could tell you were into him.”

She scoffs. “I’m not ‘into him.’ He’s friendly. He gave me a compliment. What's so bad about that?”

“Nothing. It was just a question, that’s all.”

She is quiet for a moment, dragging her fork through the last grains of rice on her plate. “You know I like you too, right?”

“Of course. And I like you.”

“No. I mean, in the way you think I like Matt.”

Now it is your turn to choose silence. The two of you kissed and shared a bed sometimes when you had only ever slept alone before. And Natalia was the only person you’ve had sex with, at least in any way that counted. But that didn’t mean anything. You didn’t know any better and neither had she. There was bad and there was worse. You just happened to be sufficient for her when the bar was six feet under the ground. 

“You know, that doesn’t mean anything. You don’t owe me,” you say.

“I know I don’t owe you anything. It’s not about owing,” she says, shaking her head in incredulity. “You’ve been weird since we’ve been here. It’s not a death sentence anymore.”

“I’m saying just because we got together before doesn’t mean you can’t go after this guy now. It was a matter of circumstance you know. There was no one else to choose so you chose me, I get it.”

Her eyes narrow as you say this. You speak for her, but you do not know.  “What are you talking about?”

But you’ve built up steam now and you think if you stop you won’t get the words out because you’re sure they’re not true. You speak for the man you want to project. The one Dreykov would approve of. “And you’re pretty and you came on to me so,” you shrug. “But come on. You were a warm body. So were a lot of the other widows. And so was I. Let’s not make it a bigger deal than it is.” 

But it is a big deal. You ignore all the times you held each other in the middle of the night. The time she taught you how to braid her hair. All those times you made each other laugh. These are the things you take great effort to minimize.

And you are so focused on pushing her away because you are a bird with its wings clipped hurtling toward the ground that you don’t notice her own rage building.

She is used to being silenced. She just never thought you would join the long line of others who’ve treated her as lesser than. She thought you understood, that you were different.

“Fuck you,” she says, looking you straight in the eye. You can’t read the expression on her face. She has always been good at making her face vacant, like marble.

She leaves. Not that there was anything to leave in the first place. 

You tell yourself this is what you wanted. For her to be free. Free of you and free of any guilt that might plague her. Not that the Black Widow felt guilt.

But if this is what you wanted, then why did you feel like you had just severed a limb?

But you are fine too. You have a team with agents called Rumlow and Ward and Rollins. They are callous and crass and they remind you of the guards back home. They do not care where you have come from, despite the fact you still bear the title Junior Lieutenant, technically. Despite what everyone else thinks.

You are strong like the fabled Captain America and could home a bullet into any target with a blindfold on. That’s all they care about.

They say they do not care about your accent that you wear like a scarlet flag. And sometimes, you join them when they go out to drink. Ward and Rumlow are outspoken. Rollins is not. But they all share the same cynical view of the world. And so do you. Maybe that’s why you get along.

There is control and there is chaos. You are all agents of the former.

After word about your squadron placement gets around, no one eyes you in the hall like they want to fight. No one questions your–albeit minimal–authority. At least not to your face.

Missions with them are quick and bloody. You use a rifle most of the time now. One that is bulky and can fire an unnecessary amount of rounds per second. You are a strike unit, so you creep up to the outside of an office or warehouse or home and when everyone is crouched like predators in the shadows you jump out with blazing muzzles. You can’t really call what you do fighting.

It is one day you are out with them that you run into an old friend. She is one of the ones you are hunting. S.H.I.E.L.D. likes doing that, you’ve figured out. Sending you out on missions to destroy what you’ve spent your life building. What you were supposed to sit at the head of the table of one day.

They want to see when you might snap. They want you to cut and run. They do not believe you can change. You don’t believe it either.

But she tells you, and oh is it nice to speak Russian again, that Dreykov wants your head. You cannot go back. You hadn’t wanted to be a traitor, but you’d lit the torch when you let the Americans take you in. And now when you look back, the bridge is engulfed in flames.

She says rumor of your defection has grown and spread like a tumor on Dreykov’s name. You’ve humiliated him by turning your back, and now he is losing power.

“But,” you say. “I didn’t. I don’t want–I’m not loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

She stops you. “It doesn’t matter.”

“But I’m still–”

“You’re not listening to me.” She grabs you by the arm. “If you go back there you will die. Apparently Dreykov was kind of a black sheep. They were all looking for a reason to strip him of his rank, and now that he’s lost his two best weapons no one will listen to him. The entire Red Room is on alert, looking for a way to capture you.” She stabs a finger to your chest.

“Oh,” is all you can manage to say. “But there must be some way to clear this up. If I could talk to him I know I could explain. Or if I could get back. If I talked to the Headmistress.” You know she would understand and she would not be mad. Because she was stern but she never hit you. You used to talk every week in her office, just the two of you. You missed her.

Your friend shakes her head. It’s a “no,” but it’s also full of admonishment. 

“What?” You ask.

“Always so eager to please.”

“It’s called having honor.” 

There are footsteps outside the office you’ve pulled her into. She tugs on your arm and you retreat around the corner.

“We don’t have much time,” you say.

She’s silent for a moment, then, “Come with me.”

“What?”

“I’m leaving. It won’t be hard. No one will be looking for me as long as you have that S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem on your chest. I’m saying you should leave too.” She puts a hand on your cheek, makes you look her in the eye. “We could be extraordinary.”

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Why not?” There is disbelief, there is frustration. “You just said it yourself. You’re not loyal to them. And these brutes have nothing on us. We can disappear.”

“You should go. I really think you should. It’s what you’ve always wanted, right?”

“I wanted it with you.”

“Goodbye, Svetlana,” you say, kissing her on the cheek. She is still.

On your way out, she speaks up. “It’s because of her, isn’t it? It’s funny. You’ve always been so blind when it comes to her. You think anyone can know the Black Widow? She will drain the life from you.”

She leaves you with a note with an address on it.

“In case you change your mind.”

When you get back you hide the slip of paper in the nightstand with Dreykov’s watch.

—

You pull on the hideous shirt with the too large sleeves and try not to think about how ridiculous wearing tights is. You grab your shoes and head down the hall to the other dressing room. 

When you enter the dancers that are actually a part of this company stare at you. The four widows–excluding Natalia–don’t bat an eye. Modesty was a long lost concept for all of you. Especially around each other. Nastya looks over and smiles at you. You wink back.

The understudy for the lead part–who like the rest of you earned the role after members of the main cast suddenly became ill the night before–finds you like a heat-seeking missile. Her blood red hair is pulled back tight in a bun, and the fluorescent lights pale her skin to a moonlight shade. She looks like she has come from another world to ravage war upon this one. She is muscle and sinew and bone. She is magnificent. 

She snakes an arm around the back of your neck and kisses you on the jaw. She wants them all to see. You are hers in this show and hers backstage. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

You go out and perform on auto pilot because you watched a recording of the show once and now the movements are ingrained in the memory of your muscles. You focus on the crowd, try to spot your targets. There is a war going on in the shadows. You’ve all been sent to end it. To show them the Red Room is superior. They won’t even know what hit them. 

You have a break to watch Natalia perform her solo. You stand in the right wing and watch her under the spotlight, dazzling the crowd. Even here she is dangerous. She is like a panther getting upwind of its prey. Every move is measured, every step beaten into submission because of how many times she practiced. She makes herself delicate, but you know better.

There is a part where she almost rushes off stage as if reaching for something, but an invisible force drags her back to the center. You are standing in the spot she reaches for. Maybe you knew she would end up here, maybe you didn’t. It doesn’t matter because her eyes snap open and for a half second you lock eyes. The audience members aren’t the only ones she’s made believe in her desperation. 

After the first act ends Anastasia and Yeva leave for the targets’ hotel where they will be waiting. The four of you who are left finish the show and keep eyes on your targets. When you take your bow you are holding Natalia’s hand. Then you slink into the shadows, ditch the outfit, and put on your mask and hood. 

You leave as a unit out a back door and climb to the roof. It is raining outside. Not more than a drizzle, but the brick underfoot is slick and your targets will be hiding under coats and umbrellas. Stefanya kneels to assemble a rifle that had been packed into a violin case. You crouch in the shadows, feel the rain begin to soak through your pants. 

The crack of the rifle is loud like lightning and the crowd parts around the dead man. An ambulance is called but you know it is too late. The four of you split there. You will find each other later in an apartment building across town. 

You know Natalia will beat the ambulance to the hospital and an accident will befall the entourage of the dead. Nowhere is safe.

You follow a fleeing family of four to their car. The father is a high-ranking official of your enemy, the mother a scientist. They both know tonight is no accident. They run into the dark, down an alleyway instead of along the main road. Smart. You watch them go. You know where they will end up. 

You get in a vehicle which has been left for you and follow them out of the city. You drive until the houses have become sparse and so has the light. The rain is pouring down in sheets now. You step on the gas and flip the car’s brights on. The front of your car rams into the back of theirs. The sedan spins out of control, tires squealing against the wet asphalt. The car drifts into a ditch and you pull up beside it. 

You step out of your car and draw your swords. Because this is a message, not an accident. Two shots are fired your way. You duck behind the car and let the guy shout insults at you. But you hear the fear in his voice. He saw who they’d sent for him.

You rush through the dark, cape heavy and soaking behind you. You ram your fist into the passenger window and slide the end of one sword through the woman’s mouth. There are more shots but you have already disappeared again into the night. 

The children in the backseat scream. Their anguish refuses to be drowned out by the storm. You hear them as if they are crying right into your ears. The man gets out and slams the door shut. You see him in the flashes brought by the lightning. He yells for you to come out. So you oblige. You launch yourself onto the car roof and stare down at him. Here I am, you say. He points the pistol at you and you slice his hand off. He goes down, still cursing. The last thing he does is ask you to leave the kids out of this.

You go up to the backdoor. Didn’t he know? This was a family affair.

You tell yourself what you have done tonight is for the greater good. Many more will live off the blood of this sacrifice. 

When you get back to the rendezvous point you find only Stefanya and Marina. You were supposed to be the last one back. Where are they, you ask. They are quiet. Stefanya looks you in the eye and says none of them ever showed. You know she is lying. You take a breath and step closer so you may look down on them. They are not intimidated by you. Even in the dark, even with the rain outside, even with your face behind a mask they know you will not hurt them. 

Because you all grew up together. And that means something. 

So you draw back your hood and remove the mask. You let them see the worry in your eyes. Come on, you say. What happened.

They are quiet for a moment longer. Then, Marina whispers. Yeva and Nastya never returned. Natalia went after them. She told us not to tell you. 

You put your gear back on and rush out the door. Stay here, you call over your shoulder. You fly through the night to the hotel they were supposed to be at and find Anastasia sitting against the wall bleeding. She raises her gun at you when you barrel through the window. You take off your mask and rush to her. Nastya, you say. She is shot and she should be dead but widows are not ordinary humans. You ask if she is all right and she laughs. Clearly, I am not. She already has a shirt tied around her stomach and she is holding another tight to staunch the bleeding. 

Natalia has been here, you say. Yes. You ask where she has gone and where Yeva is. She tells you she doesn’t know. That Yeva and she were ambushed and overwhelmed. The room is trashed. Bullet holes in the walls and broken furniture. There are bodies littering the floor. They must have had two dozen men up here to overpower just the two of them. 

You ask if she will be all right if you go. She tells you yes she thinks so. Then you hold a hand out. She takes it. Her hand is clammy and cool to the touch. Are you sure, you ask. Because Katya might actually kill me if you die on my watch. Go, she tells you. Find Yeva. 

So you leave out the window and try not to think about it all being too late. If they had the chance to drive off they could be out of the city by now. You weren’t even supposed to be out hunting for them. You should’ve taken Stefanya and Marina and gone back to base. The others’ failure was theirs alone to bear. So you stand in the dark collecting raindrops, wondering why this has come as an afterthought. You realize in your haste you’d left your mask back in the hotel room. Water drips down your face as you stare up at the sky. Maybe the stars know.

Then, through the stench of the storm and the dirt and oil the rain has sloughed from the ground you smell blood. It is sharp and metallic and unmistakable. You trot down the near pitch black alley in search of the source. There are a number of irregular shapes down a perpendicular alleyway. You can barely see they are there. You stop, your boots splashing in a puddle. 

With measured steps you stalk forward, unsheathing the swords on your back. The shapes are bodies of men in ruined suits with ruined faces. One’s eyes have been gouged inward, pushed deep in toward his brain. Belly-up he stares unseeing into some void. And as if he hadn’t suffered enough he is also eviscerated. Guts and blood leak from him onto the dirty ground as if from an overfilled trash bin. No wonder you were able to smell it.

There is another with his throat slit and his head bashed in. Another with his jaw ripped wide open. He has been shot, but only in the leg. None of these men went out with a clean death. All of them suffered.

You find Natalia in the middle of the carnage, holding another body. Yeva is limp in her arms, eyes closed. You kneel beside both of them. She’s gone, Natalia whispers. You try to ignore the awful pang in your chest. Because she died in the service of her country. She died a soldier’s death. It is an honor. 

But alone in the rain in a struggle is no way to die. Dark blood is still seeping from the hole in her forehead to stain her blonde hair. She looks so young. 

There are footsteps at the entrance to the alleyway. Stefanya and Marina have Anastasia supported in between them. Stefanya is taller than them both which makes it an awkward position but they have made it. You’re not surprised they didn’t stay at the rendezvous either. 

The cops are here, Marina says. We need to go.

Natalia stands, Yeva in her arms. You pull your hood deeper over your face and lead them away. In a stolen car you drive out of the city. There’s a field and it’s on its way to being flooded but it will have to do. You have no tools so you dig with your hands and you try to ignore how familiar the action is. Even Nastya insists she helps. 

Dawn has already broken when the grave is finally dug. You lower Yeva’s body in and replace the dirt under the young sunlight. None of you care about the consequences the day will surely bring.

Very few will ever know that she lived. And only you will know about her death, about this gravesite. It’s only fair you take a moment. They tell you you are nameless, faceless, inconsequential and that it is selfish to believe otherwise.

But dammit Yeva was a person. They refused to give her a place in the world. So you suppose that’s what the four of you have done now. What a shame it could only be given after her last breath.

—

The next time you’re being briefed on a mission there are forty agents in the room. You go to the side of the room where your squad along with the rest of the platoon are standing. Rumlow tells you there must be a big fucking fish to fry.

Crowded on the other side of the conference table are members of STRIKE Team: Delta, including Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff. You lock eyes with her for a moment but you turn away because Agent Matthew Hunter is right there next to her. Rumor has it they’ve been “going out.” Last week Ward asked you how it felt to have some tool like Hunter steal your girl. You told him she wasn’t your girl. That she’d be fucking a new guy in another week. You don’t know why you said that last part.

Then everyone is quiet because Fury is here and the Director never bothers with things as trivial as mission briefs.

Turns out there’s a huge freaking terrorist compound in Iraq and you’ve been authorized to take it out. Agent Barton is in charge of tagging the leader. Everyone else, don’t get killed.

So you fly out in three separate jets and you’re on the one holding a mix of both teams. Everyone’s keeping to their own side but Natalia comes over to stand by you.

“Hi,” she says. 

“Hi,” you say back. You hadn’t realized how much you’d been missing her. But now that you’ve heard her voice and she’s so close your shoulders are almost brushing it hits you like a bucket of ice water. “How’ve you been?”

“Good. It’s odd though, you know.” 

“What is?”

“Not speaking with you.” she says. “I mean we’re in the same building most of the time now. It’s just been too long.”

“I agree,” you say. And because you cannot bring yourself to admit you feel less alive when she’s not around, that now that she’s here you have to stop yourself from grinning like a moron, you say, “I don’t think we’ve been on a mission together yet. Not since coming here.”

She’s looking at you and now you’re thinking about the furrow in her brow and the shine in her eye when she’s thinking hard. The little things you’re sure only you know because you’re the only person she’s shown them to. “You’re right,” she says. “We haven’t.”

“Kremer was probably scared shitless about the potential the two of us have together.”

“Kremer?”

“My handler. He’s an absolute asshat. I feel like he had one look at me and has already sentenced me. Nothing I do can change his mind.”

“That’s too bad for him,” she says. “He’s missing out on a great agent.”

You finally allow a smile to crack through. “How’s Barton?”

“He’s good. I think the two of you would get along.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you both know how to be a huge pain in my ass.” She smirks and you shove her lightly on the shoulder.

“Oh you don’t know what you’ve got yourself into Romanova.” 

She takes your hand and traces circles on the inside of your palm. “You’re the only one who calls me that anymore,” she murmurs.

Your face flushes because you hadn’t even realized what you’d said. “I can stop. I just, I forget sometimes. And besides.” You lean in and switch to Russian because someone is always listening in. “Natalia Romanova is the strongest person I know. I don’t think you should be ashamed of her.”

She turns her face toward yours and responds in kind. “You don’t have to stop. I like what it means when you say it.” You can feel her breath on your cheek and you wonder if she might kiss you. But she pulls away to smile at you again. “And you’re the only one who can pronounce it right anyway.”

You touchdown and by some force of habit you and Natalia pull away from the others and slink into the shadows. You pull your pistol out and shoot a figure with his gun out before Natalia can get to him.

She turns back to you. “Since when do you use a gun?”

You shrug. “Since I became American.”

“You don’t have your swords?”

“No. Those are still confiscated. But,” you take a retractable blade from your belt and unsheath it. “I’ve got this.”

“Can you use it?”

“Well enough,” you say. You could use a sharp stick if you needed to. “Actually, it’s quite different from using my katanas. First of all there’s only one of whatever this is. It’s pretty terrible. Americans have no idea about blades. Whoever made this shaped it like a toothpick.” You thrust it forward into the empty air. “You can’t slash with it, which is what you want to do,” you say, drawing an arc this time.

“Easy, tiger. I can’t believe I almost forgot how much of a nerd you are.” You’re about to retort but she stops before a corner and gives you a look. Down the hall there’s an open door and a light on. You edge up to it and count four guys smoking and playing cards. As one you jump out, Natalia covering you as you barrel into the thick of it. There are two guys with bullet holes in them and one writhing on the ground from one of her taser discs.

You’ve plunged your sword through the last one and are still trying to wrench it free when she kicks the one getting shocked in the head. Finally you get it free, his ribs cracking from how hard you had to pull it out. 

“That’s disgusting,” she says.

“Oh please,” you respond, wiping the blade off on your sleeve. There’s blood on your hands and face and more spreading over the concrete floor. “You’re the one who likes making messes on purpose. I told you this sword is atrocious.”

She shrugs. “I only do that if they really deserve it.”

“So that’s like everyone, right?” You turn away from her, shaking your head hard enough you know she must see. “It’s appalling really. I mean have some decorum Natalia. Twenty-three times is a lot to stab someone, you know.” 

Silence is the only answer you receive. But the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and in a flash she’s on your shoulders trying to bring you down.

You keep talking in between the short bursts of laughter rising from your chest. “At that point it’s disrespectful.” She covers your eyes with one hand and your mouth with the other. Then she twists with just enough force to signal she wants you down and you get to your knees to soften the blow before you completely collapse on your back. 

“The cops can’t even recognize the poor bastards.” She’s on top of you with a glint in her eye like she’s hungry. You put your hands up. “Please don’t, oh no I have an ounce of cocaine I still need to snort tonight.” She puts the handle end of a knife against your cheek and drags it down toward your chest. “I have so much to live for,” you say, suddenly putting on an American accent.

She cracks, a little smile emerging on her face. She stands before she thinks you’ve seen and leaves the room. “Get up. We’ve got a job to do.”

“I saw that,” you say, jogging after her. 

“Saw what?”

“You think I’m hilarious.”

“No, I think you’re dumb.”

“I can be both. It’s called having range.”

You wouldn’t say you enjoy what you do, but it’s all you know. At some point you had to become numb to it or you’d drown in the guilt. But you have missed working with Natalia. Your team is fine. But it’s different when she’s had your back in the field since you were ten years old. When you could pass out right now and know she’d keep you safe. When you know exactly what move she’s going to make next.

The end of the hall splits off and you go left while she goes right.

You pass a couple of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and give them a nod before turning down another hall. You check another room and there’s a woman in there with a gun.

You raise yours, and you don’t know why but something makes you hesitate. Maybe it’s because you don’t think she’ll shoot. Maybe it’s because there’s been this bug in your ear nagging about innocence until proven guilty. 

But she doesn’t and there’s a shot and a bullet in your side. You don’t waste time before you fire a return shot that shatters her kneecap. She drops her gun and goes down screaming.

Rage explodes hot in your chest. At her, for shooting you. But mostly at yourself for slipping. “You bitch,” you seethe in Russian. The pain in your side is mixing with the anger in your chest and the storm is deafening. 

“I’m sorry. Please don’t kill me,” she sobs, laying on the ground. “I didn’t mean to. I’m not with them. I won’t fight anymore. Just don’t kill me. I’m sorry.” But you’ve seen this act before. You won’t underestimate her twice.

“Shut up,” you say in English. You put your foot on her broken knee and stand on it. She wails even harder. You’re looming over her as you unsheathe your sword. Her sobs are the only sound left in the room. You seethe in silence. Like you always have. 

You raise the blade above your head like an executioner with his axe and bring it down over her neck. Her head comes apart from her body. There’s a thud as she settles on her back. The sword snaps as it strikes the concrete from the weight of your full strength. You stumble forward. Sometimes you forget how strong the serum has made you.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Just the sound of your ragged breathing. You can’t tell if you can’t catch your breath because you’ve been shot or because of something else.

Then, “Holy shit.”

You whip around and aim your gun at the voice by the doorway. 

“Woah, woah, woah. Don’t shoot me, partner,” says Agent Hunter.

Блядь.

You put your weapon away but don’t say anything.

He looks at the blood on your face and the broken sword you’re holding onto like a lifeline and the body at your feet. The woman’s eyes are still open. Locked in a panicked gaze. Then he blanches and turns away. The sound of him throwing up almost makes you hurl too.

“Hunter,” you pant, finding your voice.

But he’s backing away with his hands out like you’ll get him next. “You’re sick.”

More footsteps come down the hall and a group of agents checks on him. It’s over for you as soon as the first new arrival sees the body and the blood on your hands. Oh my god, he says. The judgement rolls through the crowd that’s begun to amass. 

Agent Hunter is out of your sight now but you can hear him. “He fucking killed her. She was on the ground begging for her life and he fucking chopped her head off.”

Your face heats up and your heart is pounding something crazy in your chest because you still haven’t caught your breath. There’s too many people in the room. Too many eyes on you. You can hear every gasp, every hitch in their breathing, every whisper. It’s driving you nuts. Why can’t they just mind their own fucking business. 

They’re going to kill you for this. You’re injured and vulnerable. There’s a dozen of them now and they’ve all got guns. 

“What the fuck are you all looking at?” You yell. “Get out!” 

They stare at you for another moment before shuffling away. 

You think you see a glimpse of fire-red hair in the crowd. There one second, then gone. Like the flicker of a flame.

Rumlow is the first one to approach you. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t come too close. “Come on, man,” he says in the same rough voice he always uses. The familiarity is good. “It’s time to go.”

—

The girl with the blood red hair stops at a small grove of trees. She tells the boy it is time. She cannot go further.

The boy stops because the girl is the strongest person he knows. If she says she cannot go on she must mean her feet have fallen off. But he is also confused because there are supposed to be weeks and weeks left. This is not right. 

The girl curses and curls into a ball at the base of a skinny, bare tree. Because she knows this too. Stupidly, she thinks if she makes the area around her stomach just a little warmer everything will be okay. She is desperate.

But their luck has run out. The girl was good at keeping secrets and when the secret could not be kept any longer a man named Ivan put her on a long-term espionage mission. The boy has always disliked this man whom the girl looks to like a father but he owes him for this. 

But things went sour as things happen to go and when the girl sent the message from the cabin the boy should not have come. But this was a thing worth running for. 

Miracles do not exist.

The boy sinks into the snowy ground next to the girl. She turns her face toward his and they press their foreheads together Like a kiss, but with the tenderness that can only be born from the innocent. I love you, the girl tells him. 

The boy tries to be brave even though he is scared. I love you too, he says. No matter what happens.

—

They make you go to medical when you get back because everyone was watching you on the plane and it was obvious you had a bullet in your side.

You sit in a private room that’s got a door instead of just curtains between beds. But it’s not really private because there’s a doctor and two armed guards at the door. All three of them stare at you. They haven’t gone so far as to handcuff you but you know you’ve taken a huge step back. 

The doctor introduces herself as Helen Cho and asks, “Are you able to remove your shirt?”

You don’t want to take your shirt off. It leaves you too vulnerable. And you don’t want them to see your back.

“Agent, there’s a bullet in your torso. Remarkably it hasn’t hit anything vital. And by some miracle you’re sitting up like nothing’s wrong. But I still need to take it out. It’s not supposed to be in there.” She is direct but still somehow soft-spoken. You don’t like being in this white room with these strange people but you suppose she could be worse.

You fidget with your hands. You’ve washed them but there’s still red on your palms, dried flakes under your fingernails. Finally, you say, “I can get it out myself. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”

“I would be more comfortable if you would let me do it. Have you ever extracted a bullet before?” You shake your head. “It’s tricky, it requires precision, and it hurts the person it’s in. It’s hard to keep your hand steady when you’re in pain.”

You glance up at the agents keeping guard. “Sure I know.” 

Doctor Cho notices and waves at them. “Would you mind giving us some privacy?”

“Ma’am, we have orders to keep him under supervision.”

“He’s injured. You can stay right outside the exam room. Nobody is going to disappear into thin air.”

“But–”

“I’m the doctor. And this is my patient. You can wait outside,” she says sternly.

And this time they listen. “We’ll be right outside.”

She turns back to you. “Better?”

You nod slowly, finally drawing in a larger breath. Your side ignites in fire and you gasp, which only makes it hurt worse. Your hand flies to the wound, hovering over it. 

“Getting shot isn’t fun, is it?” She asks, not waiting for an answer. “Now there’s two ways we can do this. You can lay here and let me help you or I can have you sedated.”

“No,” you wave a hand at her. “No, don't do that.”

“Okay I won’t,” she assures. “But I’ve been at this long enough to know some people need a little extra help. It’s all right.” She pauses. “I still need to see the wound site. I’ll walk you through it every step of the way,” she offers.

“You will?” 

“Of course.”

You hesitate. Maybe it’s to stall a little longer. Maybe because you actually care. “You’re not worried about being in here alone with me?”

“Why would I be? You’re not going to attack me, are you?”

“No,” you say. “But you have to be wondering why I’ve got a couple of angry looking sitters.”

“Sure,” she shrugs. “‘I’m curious. But I don’t make a habit of judging people I don’t know. And besides. I’m a doctor. I’d treat you no matter what.”

“So there’s no limit?”

“No, I’ve got a limit.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“It’s for people who think they can talk their way out of treatment,” she says, looking you in the eye. “Come on.”

Slowly, you maneuver your right arm out of the t-shirt. The movement stretches your side and it hurts but you grit your teeth and push through the pain. You leave your shirt on around your neck and left side. The wound is still oozing blood just above your right hip. You figure she has enough room to work.

Doctor Cho sighs. She takes a once-over glance at your body. Her attention locks on the bullet wound then flickers to your back then refocuses again. 

“You’re probably going to want to lay down.”

You oblige and she comes over with gloves on her hands but no mask on her face. You’re grateful for this. The doctors in the Red Room always wore masks and headgear that made them look less human. They also didn’t talk. Not to you anyway. And their notes always had the word “Subject 094” instead of your name.

You swallow as she sits on a stool by your side with a pair of forceps and a pen light. You don’t know when you'd gotten so sweaty. 

“I’m going to locate the bullet and extract it. Sound good?”

You nod and she waits. “Yes,” you say. 

She clicks on the flashlight and puts a cool hand on your stomach. “Last chance. You sure you don’t want to go under for this?”

“I’m sure.”

She presses down lightly with two fingers around the entry site. It hurts but it doesn’t really hurt until the fourth spot she touches. You suck in air through your teeth and clench your fists.

“I started working in the medical field because I wanted to cure cancer,” she says. “My passion was research, but my parents wanted me to get my M.D. They said there’s no success in research. So I did both. I have an M.D. for them and a Ph.D. in biomedical research for myself.” 

You focus on her words, imagining a younger Doctor Cho in your mind. She can’t be much older than you. “You must be some kind of genius,” you grit around a clenched jaw.

She blushes, and even though there’s a pair of forceps lodged way too deep inside your torso the pain eases a little. “Nothing like that. I just worked hard. And you know the crazy part? I ended up loving the patient work almost as much as I loved running tests in a lab. So my parents had the right idea after all, just for the wrong reasons.”

You’re looking at her face now instead of her hands and trying to memorize the slight purse in her lips and the brightness in her eyes. This is her arena, her fight.

“Сука!” You curse and jolt a little.

“Steady,” she says. “I’ve got it. Just have to pull it out.”

You try to draw in deep, steady breaths through your nose and out your mouth. “Great.” You can’t watch anymore so you squeeze your eyes shut and tell yourself pain is only a mental construct even though it really doesn’t feel that way right now.

There’s a clink and a rattle and Doctor Cho says, “The hard part is done. I’m going to clean, stitch, and bandage you now.”

“So you’ve given up on curing cancer to take bullets out of idiots instead?”

“No. Actually, I work in research almost full time now. They’ve got a pretty nice lab here. You should stop by, if you’re not too busy catching more bullets.” She doesn’t look you in the eye as she says this. 

“This is my first time getting shot.”

“There shouldn’t be a first time,” she counters.

“You said you do research almost full time now. Should I feel special, then?” You smile.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re a disturbance to my day off, actually.” She takes a bottle of water and flushes it through your wound. 

You hiss. “Please remind me never to get shot again.”

“If you come through here injured again I’ll kick you out,” she says, smiling. “I thought you all had armor for this type of thing. What’s it called, again? Oh, yeah. A bulletproof vest.” She wipes the rest of the blood from your skin.

“I don't wear those. Too much of a restriction on movement. Agility is the most important thing out there.”

“I don’t know about that. Sounds like I’d want this thing that keeps me from ending up on the wrong side of this bed.”

You shrug. Because she’s running thread through your skin and it hurts more than you try to let on. Maybe she has a point.

Doctor Cho retrieves a roll of bandages from a cabinet in the corner. “This part will be easier if you stand up.”

You stand and stumble. You have to catch yourself on her shoulder. “Sorry,” you say. “Might have lost a little bit of blood recently.”

“You don’t say.”

You fix her nametag, the picture smiling shyly back at you.

She wraps the bandage taught around your stomach. “No strenuous activity until I clear you, understand? Nothing that raises your heart rate too much. And I want to see you back in three days. Think you can manage?”

You shrug back into your shirt. “Does that mean I can’t go to my underground fighting club tonight?”

She makes an overexaggerated frown. “I’m afraid so.”

“Thank you, Doctor Cho,” you say earnestly.

“Don’t mention it.” And as you put your hand on the door knob, she adds, “Call me Helen.”

You smile over your shoulder. “See you in a few days Helen.” 

Your personal guards march you down to Kremer’s office. You tell them you’re sure you can get there on your own but they’re not in all that talkative of a mood.

Kremer is standing over his desk, arms braced against the wood like he’s trying to ground himself. He has his glasses on but removes them when you enter. He makes a dismissive motion with his hand and the guards disappear, shutting the door behind them.

“Sit down,” he says. When you don’t move he says it again, louder. “Sit down! That’s an order.”

You sit but he doesn’t. He stands, hovering over you like some angry buzzard.

“What the fuck was that? I’ve got a dozen eyewitness reports saying you beheaded some defenseless woman. You want to tell me something different happened?”

“Sir,” you start, cautiously. Because even though a plan is already in your mind to bolt you would rather not have to sleep with one eye open tonight. “I don’t know how you have a dozen eyewitness reports. Agent Hunter was the only one present for the moment of death.”

“I don’t care,” he says. “I don’t fucking care if it was one person or fifty people or just God himself as witness. Did you do it?” “She shot me first. She wasn’t exactly defenseless.”

Kremer mutters to himself under his breath. “But you didn’t need to chop her goddamn head off! I’ve seen the pictures. Looks like an excessive use of force to me. Was she threatening you when you did it?”

“She could’ve had another weapon under her shirt or in her waistband. I made a call.”

“Hunter said she was sobbing, begging you not to kill her.”

“That doesn’t mean anything! She could have been acting. I’ve seen it done a hundred times.”

“You Reds and your excuses,” he shakes his head. “It’s my ass when you pull some stunt like this, do you understand? I don’t know how you did it back in Russia but here we don’t go around beheading people like barbarians. And if you don’t want to end up in some hellhole I suggest you get yourself up to our bar, quickly.”

“You think I did that just because? The bitch shot me first! I just spent twenty minutes having a bullet dug out of my stomach because of her.”

“Yeah, I think you did,” he points a finger at you. “I think you’re a fucking animal who was just waiting for some excuse to make another person suffer. I know your type. You get off on this kind of violence. If it was up to me you’d be rotting out in the middle of the ocean right now.”

“What the fuck?” You sputter. “I don’t–”

“We’re done here. You’re on a month’s suspension.” He sighs, putting his glasses on and sitting down. “But if you step one toe out of line you’re out of here.”

You stand up far too quickly. The ache in your side flares like you’ve ripped it open again. 

“And I think you should know,” he adds. “Fury has given me complete authority over this matter. Whether you stay or go is my call.”

You salute him before you go, pretending your eyes could burn holes through his skull.

The agents turned guards aren’t waiting for you when you leave Kremer’s office so you head back to your room. Your side hurts even worse now. The adrenaline has worn off. Every step you take makes you want to sink to the floor. 

By the time you make it across campus to the barracks you’re sweating a little and breathing hard. You’ll have to tell Helen you broke her rule. 

Natalia is in your room, sitting on the edge of the bed in her mission suit. Her hair is still braided back, little flyaways sticking to the back of her neck. 

“How did you get in here?” You ask.

“You’re all right,” she says in relief. She crosses the room, one hand on the side of your neck, the other on your cheek. 

“Yeah,” you breathe, putting a hand on her arm. “Can I sit? I’m not exactly totally good.” You don’t wait for her to answer before almost collapsing into the chair at the desk in the corner.

“What happened?” You look up at her, thinking about how you saw her in the crowd. How she didn’t come up to you. Didn’t defend you.

“I was shot,” you say. You lift the edge of your shirt up, just enough to reveal the bandage.

She sits on the bed again. “And?” She prompts, head tilted slightly. 

“And I got it patched. But it still hurts,” you say. Because you’re not going to give her what she wants to know yet. She has to play her hand first.

“I heard what happened. On the jet. People were talking.”

“People were talking,” you say, looking away and nodding your head. 

“They were,” she answers. “And I thought maybe you weren’t coming back. You know how people like to talk. Things get embellished. But you’re okay. They let you off. Right?”

“I don’t know,” you say flatly. You look right at her so she can’t hide. “Were they embellishing? You can cut the shit Natalia. I know you were there.”

She is quiet, but she doesn’t look away. “I saw the aftermath. That doesn’t mean I know what happened. Only you can know that.”

“Why don’t you ask your buddy Matt?” You spit his name like it is a curse. “He saw most of it. And I’m sure he wasn’t shy about telling everyone.”

She stands, says your name. She is already close, but takes two steps to completely close the distance anyhow. “I don’t care about what happened. I just care that you’re okay.”

You look up at her. She is frowning down at you like you are some wounded dog. You want to ask her why she did not ask this thing when you were standing alone, a dozen pairs of eyes on you. But you know. Oh you know. She did not want their judgement to pass to her, did not want to be seen with the outsider with blood on their hands.

And maybe, part of her was scared of him too.

So you don’t ask. Instead, you say, “And if I told you they were outside the door waiting to take me away?” You come back to a way she has already disappointed you.

She takes a breath. You search her face. She searches yours. “Then you would need to disappear.” You wait for the second part. About how she would let you go but in a month’s or year’s time it would be her sent to hunt you down. It would be her with the gun to your head. Because she was the only one smart enough to find you, ruthless enough to betray you. She was the only one you would ever lose to.

You lower your head. You need to stop pulling open this wound. Things are hard enough.

But then. She rakes a hand through your hair. “And I would need to disappear too. I’d kill everyone in here for you, you know that. If it came down to it, I would leave with you too.”

This is new. She has not yet chosen you over them. You feel an opening.

Your head snaps back up. “We can go.”

“But they’re not coming. They’re giving you a chance.”

“I don’t want a chance,” you say. 

“Don’t say that,” she shakes her head. “You can’t say that.”

“Why are you so adamant about staying here?” You are getting frustrated. “You left the Red Room because you were a pawn but now you want to serve some other cause. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Because I’m not going to spend my life on the run, in the shadows. Not when I can do something with it.” She sighs, her gaze turning melancholic. “I need. I need to make up for all the pain I’ve caused.”

“There’s nothing to make up for,” you argue. She was already perfect. “The world needs a little pain. Humanity will never go in the right direction without it.”

She shakes her head. “We can’t control everything.” She puts her hand on your cheek. You hate yourself for leaning into it. You hate her because she knows how to make you pliant. 

You think of all the other times she’s touched you like this, the times she’s made you feel chosen only to turn away the next moment with apathy in her eyes. Because she is a mask of indifference, a one-night flirt. But for you she’s made an exception. You’ve seen her come apart, seen her struggle to be human. But still. Some part of you whispers, “trap.” She is just using you to keep herself afloat. After all, she is first and foremost a survivor. If anyone was going to make it out alive it would be her.

“But we could,” you say.

“No,” is her only answer. She says it like she is watching you drift away and she cannot follow. 

Maybe you are. Or maybe she is the one leaving you.

—

You dread having to talk to Willem after the incident. You know what he is going to ask about before he opens his mouth.

“I heard you had an eventful last week.”

“Are you going to lecture me too?”

“Maybe,” he smiles. It’s a cheeky smile without teeth, but the corners of his eyes wrinkle all the same. “I heard you got yourself on some kind of double probation. I didn’t know that was possible.”

“You hear what I did?” You ask. Part of you hopes he hasn’t. You’d never admit it, but you don’t mind him. Whatever this was was weird. But it would be a shame for it to change now.

“No,” he says. “And I don’t care to. I want to know what you think. I’ve known Kremer for a long time. He’s a hard ass.”

“You’re telling me,” you scoff. “He needs to come in here.”

Willem laughs. It’s a nice, hearty sound. But he keeps whatever he had found funny to himself. He steadies himself with a hand on his knee. “You think he’s unfair.”

“I mean, yeah. He doesn’t give me the time of day. It’s like he’s out to get me.”

“Do you think he was wrong to suspend you?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know,” you shrug.

“Oh, come on, you can do better than that.”

You hated Kremer but you also hadn’t lost control like that in a long time. But that wasn’t exactly your fault either. She was dead the moment she pointed a gun at you. What did it matter how you’d done her in? And she’d only shot you because you’d hesitated. That was Kremer’s fault for yelling at you so much about restraint. You pivot instead. “Have you ever killed anybody?”

Willem frowns at that. You think it’s not so much at the content of the question, but at your lack of answer for his. “Yes,” he replies.

You wave your hand in a vague gesture. “Then you know.”

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

“The feeling,” you wave again. “I don’t know. That rush when you, you know.” 

“The bloodlust,” he supplies.

“Sure,” you say. “That seems a little extreme.” 

“That’s the name we had for it in the army. Everyone had a similar story. Some guy in their platoon you wouldn’t have thought would make it a week. He’s too skinny or he wets the bed or he cries at night. Whatever. But by some miracle he survives. And one day he’s toe-to-toe with some enemy combatant. Everyone thinks he’s a goner. But he gets his first kill. And it’s not from some machine gun a few hundred yards away or a mine he rigged up. No. This is personal, it’s bloody. From then on the guy’s an animal. Nobody makes fun of him anymore cause he might claw your eyes out. The bloodlust.”

You shake your head. “Not like that. Just in the moment. When it’s you or them. Everything else fades out. You get this urge. Like something has to break. And it can’t be you.”

“Sure,” he says. “In the moment. But you can’t go on living like that all the time. Or you end up like that batshit private.”

“That’s all it was,” you say. “I don’t get why it’s not acceptable for me to blow off a little steam.”

“Because it’s dangerous. If you can’t control yourself you shouldn’t be out there.”

“So you’re taking Kremer’s side, now?”

“It’s not about sides. But you have a job to do. And there’s standards you have to abide by. You think I could do this if I flew off the handle with every client?”

“You’ve yelled at me,” you point out.

“You’re the exception.”

You roll your eyes.

“Do you feel good about what you do?” He asks.

“I don’t feel bad about it,” you say, although it’s only a half-truth. You used to feel terrible when you had to hurt someone. You didn’t want to do that. But time went by and you got used to it. You had to. There’s only a twinge left now. You call it respect for the dead.

“Let me rephrase. Do you like what you do?”

“Define ‘like.’”

He ponders for a second. “If you were free to do anything you wanted, would you still be here?”

“That’s a stupid hypothetical. No one is free to just do as they please.”

“I think we are. Or at least we should be.”

“So walk up out of here right now,” you say, gesturing at the door. “Try your luck begging for money on the street. See how you like your freedom then.”

“I’ve walked away once before. That’s how I ended up here.” Of course he’s got a story for everything. “My first job after I left the military was private security. Ex-military means a lot more to civilians than it does to anyone who actually served. It was nice. I never once pulled out my gun. I had to babysit these assholes who thought way too much of themselves but it paid. About two-and-a-half times what I’m doing here. And all I needed was my high school degree.

I worked awful hours. Wasn’t at home much. But it didn’t matter because I was supporting them. Giving them the life my father couldn’t give me.

Then I got this gig. Full-time bodyguard for some idiot who was going to pay half a million a year. I took it and realized I wasn’t happy. My family wasn’t happy. So one night I don’t show up. They called and I said I couldn’t make it. My kid had a ball game.”

“You just left?” You ask.

“Yes. I realized life is short, and you only get one. I needed to reprioritize, so I did.” Willem pauses to give you that look he always does. As if you can’t hear him if he doesn’t stare you down “It can be done. So let me ask you again.You’ve been given a second chance. What the hell are you going to do with it?”

“Of course that’s what this is about,” you say, throwing yourself into the chair back. “You just want to make sure I’m on the right side. You and Kremer playing ‘good cop, bad cop.’”

“Cut the crap,” he retorts. “I couldn’t care less about that. You’ve been given a fresh start. You have a world of opportunity ahead of you and you’re throwing it away. Do you know how many people would kill to have a re-do like this?

“I didn’t ask for this,” you say, throwing your hands up.

“Then why are you still here?” He asks, his voice flat. “Someone like you, the prodigy you are doesn’t just get taken in by the enemy without a fight. And he certainly doesn’t stick around for no reason.” 

You are silent. You can’t admit that you came here for Natalia. And you definitely can’t admit you’ve stayed because this place hasn’t been so bad after all.

“Nothing to say?” He taunts. 

You don’t answer.

“Then we’re done here.” He stands and walks to the door.

“What?” You ask, incredulous. Because he can’t just quit. That’s not how this works. You jump up and follow him.

“You think you’re some martyr,” he says, opening the door. “You’re crucifying yourself for things you’ve been given a real chance to overcome. I’m not here to watch you jump into an early grave.”

“Fuck off,” you yell, slamming the door shut. “You want to talk about martyrdom? Why haven’t you made amends with your wife?”

“Because I did a terrible thing,” he says in that annoyingly calm voice of his.

“You fucked up!” You pace a few steps away. “But you don’t want to put in the work to fix yourself. So much for all the love you have for your family.”

“That’s my call to make.”

“That’s right. It’s your fucking call and you’re making the wrong one. Some people they fuck up and they own up to it! What are you doing? Coming in here and hiding behind someone else’s problems so you don’t have to look at what a mess your own life is!” You’re shouting and you can’t keep your hands still. 

He stands across from you, hands in his pockets. He says your name, tells you to look at him. “Why are you here?”

You stop and put your arms down. Because he is calm, and you are not. It’s like nothing you’ve said has stuck. 

“Look at you, tough guy. You’ve got a smart remark for everything but you won’t answer this simple question. Because you can’t face the truth.”

He opens the door again. And this time, you walk through it.

—

You wake tied to a chair. It is because your eyelids are heavy like lead that you jerk and try to escape without reason first. You breathe from your nose because when you tried to take a panicked inhale through your mouth there was something gagging you out. 

Look who’s awake, a deep voice says. Looks like you won the bet.

You settle because the rope wrapping over the entire length of both your forearms and your ankles gives you no other choice. You are stripped down to your underwear but still you sweat. You are in what looks like an office with the furniture removed. There is a man you do not recognize and a woman you do.

Evgenia looks nothing like the woman you have been working on and off with for six years. Nothing like the woman who scolded you but not for the same reason as anyone in the Red Room. She told you you had to stop hiding your injuries because you are a kid and not a dog and showed you the real world was not as intense of a picture as you believed. 

She showed you new foods and taught you the songs her grandma taught her even though she could not sing. And one night after a particularly gruelling mission she told you you had to draw lines between what was okay and what was not. That nobody could tell you what those were except yourself. You have to listen in here, she said, pointing to your heart. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

There is more to life than just the fight. You just need to look up.

Her face was also the one you saw as you felt a prick in your neck and a tiredness began to consume your body.

You look at her now, at her cold gaze and think what a glorious trick she has pulled on you. You challenge her to be the first to look away as you search for an ounce of guilt in her posture and find none. In the end it is you who breaks away first.

The man, who is dressed in a black shirt and black pants approaches you and takes the gag from your mouth. He tells you he has a few questions about Dreykov and the Red Room. He tells you you all are an outdated parasite on modern Russia and need to be excised. Let me demonstrate, he says, picking up a thin knife. He grabs your bicep and you try to jerk away but the rest of your arm is tied down and even though you are awake the world still feels out of focus.

Everything becomes clear real fast when he starts sawing at your arm. You don’t scream, managing to minimize your agony into a series of gasps and grunts. This is a yet undiscovered pain. He comes away with a little piece of your skin. He holds it in front of your face and flaps it like it is some sort of banner. Like this, he says. You know the air is not burning even if your arm is trying to tell you it is.

You look at Evgenia. She is standing back a few paces, arms crossed. 

Where is the Red Room? The man asks.

I’m not telling shit, you say, even though it feels a little like your brain is having trouble connecting to your mouth. You think I’m some traitor? You would all be lost without us. Dreykov is going to–

He slices at you again, this time on your shoulder and you can’t stifle the yell that emerges. You clench your fists and fight to get away but it's no use. 

You can’t help but look at Zhenya like she is a source of comfort. Like she might help you. She says your name. Just tell him and this can end. Please, you don’t have to do this to yourself.

Go to hell, you grit. The man grips you by the hair and takes a large patch of skin from your neck. You scream. You had never thought there could be this much pain without a single drop of blood.

He steps back. Where is the Red Room? You stare at him, breathing hard. The rope digs into your skin. You ache to put your hands around his throat. You are going to regret this, you say. You should know who you’re messing with. 

Oh, he says, cocky. He waves the knife at you. But no one will know it was us, you see. 

Kill me, go ahead.

I’m not going to kill you, no. You’re very valuable property. Very marketable. You are only the second man in history to get Russian version of super serum and not go batshit insane. Did you know this? Yes, there are powerful people who would pay a lot to have you in their arsenal. And they already have. You’ll be someone else’s little hound soon. And guessing at who our buyer is, you won’t even remember this conversation after they do what they do.

He holds the knife to your cheek. Too bad keeping this pretty face intact was not a part of the deal.

Wait, Evgenia speaks up. Let me.

He backs off and shrugs. All right.

She takes the scalpel and kneels before you. Hey, she says. Hey, hey, look at me. You must still be pretty out of it because you thought you were looking at her. Just tell us what we want to know and this can end. Don’t make me do this. 

You are looking into her eyes and you think you see a little bit of the woman you thought she was. I trusted you, you whisper.

I know, she frowns, mocking. I’m sorry. She starts to cut at the skin on your thigh. It feels more painful than any of the other times because she is the one doing it. You watch the strip of skin come loose and then think you must be dreaming because she turns away and rushes at the man. 

She stabs him in the stomach with the scalpel and throws a punch at his head. He is caught off guard and stumbles back. Without hesitation he rips out the blade and swipes at Zhenya. She takes a couple of quick steps back. 

You strain anew at the rope holding you down but it is thick and unforgiving and wrapped around your arms and legs like a python. 

He presses forward with the blade out, forcing her to work around him. She takes a step too close and he slices her across the stomach. Blood begins to bloom and stain her shirt a shade darker. But she is quick, she cuts at his wrist and forces him to drop the knife. Then, without missing a beat, she tackles him to the ground.

But he is bigger than her, stronger. He shoves her into the wall and dives for the scalpel. It lies just outside of his reach. Evgenia seizes the opportunity. She kicks it farther from his grasp and scoops it up. 

She turns around just as he tries to get her from behind. The scalpel cuts deep through his throat. Blood sprays from his neck onto her face as if from a fountain. His hands raise and try to staunch the bleeding but it is already too late. He falls first to his knees and then flat on the floor. He gurgles as he tries to draw his final breaths and then it is quiet. 

Zhenya stumbles backward, holding the wound on her stomach. You are still trying in vain to break free from your bonds. She curses and comes to you with the knife. You flinch a little when she points it at you. She apologizes. I didn’t know what to do, she says. This was the only way. I didn’t want to hurt you.

It’s okay, you tell her as she saws through the coils and coils of rope. You forgive her easily, instantly. You don’t think you could have been mad even if she truly had betrayed you. Because you will always be that twelve year old kid with fists aching from the weight of your anger. And she will always be the one to catch your wrists and demand you let go. 

She gets your clothes for you and you try to ignore how the fabric sets your raw skin aflame. Then, you stare down at the body of the other SVR agent. Zhenya has made herself a traitor because of you. She has ruined her life. You are not worth that sort of action. You shouldn’t have done that, you say. You should’ve let him have me.

No, she says. You are where I draw my line.

Her words make your heart pound and your face heat up. You will not cry because you haven’t for years and it would be ridiculous to now. You have recently turned eighteen after all. You are a proper adult now with proper responsibilities. That’s why they came after you.

You’re going to have to disappear, you say. 

I know.

I can’t know where you go.

I’ll find you, she says. When it’s safe. I promise.

You want to say it will never be safe. But you cannot entertain the notion you will never see her again. When it’s time you walk out first. So when they ask you where she went you can look them in the eye and say you don’t know.

—

Two months later and you have been carving room out for yourself. There is no back so you look forward. You tell yourself you can leave anytime you want. 

The hole in your side has healed, thanks to Doctor Cho. You went and saw her three days later like she’d asked. You checked the medical wing first, asking after her. Most of the staff avoided looking at you, but one nurse told you she didn’t work around here anymore and that you should check the laboratory building.

You thanked her and apologized for the disturbance. Perhaps your reputation was getting a little too out of hand after all.

The scientists in the research building weren’t much better either. They all stared at you when you entered, but that might just have been because they’re not used to talking to a huge circle of people.

“I’m looking for Doctor Helen Cho,” you said.

You were directed down a hall and into a different room. She was there, black hair tied up in a bun, talking to another person in a white coat.

“Doctor Cho,” you said, feeling somewhat off-put in this place. You couldn’t even name half of the equipment in here. 

She turned around, a smile lighting up her face when she saw you. That was nice. It didn’t happen with a lot of other people. She greeted you. “Let me wash my hands,” she said. “We can talk in my office.”

She discarded her gloves and safety glasses and the two of you walked down the hall into a small office.

“How are you feeling?” She asked, sitting on the edge of her desk.

“Okay,” you replied. “All things considered.”

“Can I take a look?” 

You shrugged. “What am I here for?”

She unwrapped the bandage and stared down at your side. You could see the gears turning in her head. “Well this isn’t right,” she said.

You couldn’t help but smile, just the edge of your mouth turning up. “Am I going to die, doc? Don’t tell me it’s too late.”

She shook her head, still unable to look away from the wound. “No,” she replied, so enraptured she’d missed your joking tone. “This is. This is incredible. It looks like a graze wound. Are you sure you got shot?”

“I didn’t let you take a bullet out of me for kicks.”

Now she looked up at you, eyes wide. You were smiling because her awe was infectious. You’d never impressed someone like this before. You were never good enough. They always wanted you to be faster, stronger, more durable. But the way she was looking at you said this was more than enough.

“How?” She breathed.

“I heal fast,” you said. 

She laughed and you found yourself thinking of more ways to draw the sound out of her. “No shit,” she said. “But I mean, this should be impossible. It won’t even scar.”

“You’re the genius scientist,” you said. “I don’t know how it works either, to tell you the truth.”

“I’ve never heard of anybody having genetics like this. But I suppose it’s possible. People have different heights and intellectual traits. Your cells must be able to process energy at triple the rate of anyone else.”

You tilted your head. “Eh, not exactly.” Then you paused because you’ve never talked to anyone about this before. And it was sensitive information. You eyed the woman in front of you. If you told her about the serum they’d stuck in your veins maybe she’d tell someone else, and then you’d be a rat in a cage. You couldn’t. So you smiled and said, “I should get back.”

For a second you thought she might press for more. She looked like she had a million more questions. “Do you think you have time for me to show you the lab?” Was all she said. 

You sighed in relief. You decided you liked her. So you let her take you into the lab and explain all the things you’d never understand. She was excited because they were on the edge of a breakthrough, she could feel it. She told you she was working on growing tissue so they wouldn’t have to rely so much on transplants. She hoped their work would save a lot of lives some day. She would be happy if she lived to the day it would save just one.

She was almost winded when she’d finished speaking. “Sorry,” she shook her head bashfully. “I’m not usually so talkative.”

“It’s all right,” you said. And it was. Because you’d had more attention on you in the last week than you thought you could handle. “The world needs more people like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re good. You’re not doing this for yourself. You’re going to help a lot of people.”

She looked down at her shoes. “I hope so.” When she looked back up at you her cheeks were a little red. “We should talk again. Outside of work.”

“That sounds nice,” you agreed.

Now you have come back from a mission gone slightly awry. The intelligence had been perfect, the lab waiting for you like a glowing jewel hidden beneath depths of concrete maze. There was nowhere to run when you broke the doors down and aired the place out.

The lead scientist put his hands up as soon as the bodies of his colleagues hit the floor. You were supposed to bring him in for questioning. You are looking right at the man and his empty hands when there is shouting and a single gunshot.

The target is dead, his head all exploded like rotten fruit. Ward holsters his gun. He says he thought the man had been reaching for a weapon. And that’s what all four of you report when Agent Hill asks you about it later.

It’s a problem because you are supposed to be the most seasoned strike team there is. It’s a problem because that scientist also functioned as an administrator and he could have led you to more cells.

It’s a problem because it’s not the first time something like this has happened.

It’s the third one since you’ve been here. There was the neo-Nazi who claimed he was part of a huge underground organization and the Russian politician who swore he would tell all in exchange for asylum. Both of them had become suddenly violent at the moment you tried to bring them in. Both are now dead.

The first time you had been confused. Then Rumlow looked you dead on and smiled, holding his index finger over his lips. Then you understood why they wanted you on their team.

Because they are imperfect, and so are you.

So you don’t tell your superiors the target had been subdued at the time of death. And they believe you because strikers are always like this, a little jumpy and a little imprecise. Consequences of pulling from ex-military and ex-police force pools.

But now you’re getting back from a long flight and an even longer debrief and Natalia is in your room with her arms crossed and an indecipherable look on her face. You’ve been on good terms. But you haven’t done that thing which is not a thing because it’s nothing where you lay with each other in the dark and communicate without speaking. 

So you find it odd that she’s in your room. 

“Hi,” you say, like a question.

“What are you up to?” She’s not asking what your plans are for the day. It’s dark out, and you’re exhausted.

You shake your head. “What are you talking about?”

“Maria is pissed. About the mission. And so is Fury.”

“So? It’s a shame the mission went bad but the target was hostile. He might’ve shot one of us. We’ll get the next guy.”

“Except this is the third time something like this has happened in as many months,” she says, slowly. “And you don’t make mistakes.”

You aren’t alarmed. She’s smart, smarter than you maybe. So you keep your face and body still like you’ve been taught and say, “I don’t. But they do. You must know I was never the one to pull the trigger.”

She huffs because you’re right. On paper nothing is afoot. But you know she has a feeling. You’re stubborn but so is she. “If something is going on you can tell me.”

“Nothing is going on,” you lie. Something definitely is. But you don’t care.

“I’m trying to help you,” she says. “Those agents you work with, you can’t trust them.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Because Clint,” she pauses to rub at her temple, “he doesn’t like them.”

“And that’s the end of the conversation?” You scoff. “Your new buddy says one bad thing and my team is suddenly suspicious.” 

“It’s not just him. Your ‘team,’ is made up of a bunch of assholes. Everyone knows it.”

“I didn’t know you held such high moral standards. Tell me, what is your squad up to, huh? You go out and you spy on people so you can throw them a big party?” You don’t want to be angry, not with her, but she is different now. She is jumping on you when she always used to give you the benefit of the doubt, when she always used to be on your side.

She has become a stranger and now she thinks she can barge back in and make you behave as she sees fit. Perhaps you never knew her in the first place.

“I never said that,” she says.

“No, but you think you’re better than everyone else. You always have. And now you’re acting all righteous because the director has made you his pet project.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“What does that mean?”

She scoffs. “Really? Dreykov Junior?”

“I’m not his son.”

“No, you just wish you were.”

You turn away and take a deep breath. 

Her voice is closer and softer the next time she speaks. “I didn’t mean for this to get so out of hand.”

You shake your head as if the motion would fling all the anger away like it was some pesky bug. “Me neither.” “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t in trouble. That’s all. I wanted to help you.”

You turn back to face her. “I don’t need help.”

“But you do.” Her face is a stone wall, a chiseled mask of indifference. 

You blink at her. It is dark outside, and you are exhausted. Your quarters which have always felt a little like a jail cell shrink in on you. “What?”

She sighs, like you are a child who doesn’t understand. “They think you’re a spy,” she hisses, like she’s not supposed to be telling you this. “They think you are a spy and that you are trying to find a way to bring them down.”

“I’m not.” They have it all wrong, you want to say. You’ve been exiled, but you can’t tell them that. Because then they’d know you’re cornered, and there’s nothing more vulnerable than being caught with your back to the wall.

“Then why are you here?” She asks. And you feel like she’s pushed you off the top of the building. Because she is truly asking this question. She thinks you are working against them too. Working against her. “You came here to retrieve me, right? And I said I’m not going back to that hellhole. So you have a new mission.”

You must have some sort of surprise on your face because something clicks in her eyes, like she’s solved a mystery. But you can’t tell her that no, no one sent you here after her, because she’d ask you why you had jumped ship like an idiot and you’d have to tell her you were scared. You don’t have the words to describe how panic had seized you by the throat when news of her capture reached you. How even the daydream of her death made you want to die too.

Because you are not a savior. And she is not supposed to be worth saving anyway. Everyone is expendable. No one is special. And she was just a warm body all those years.

And because you cannot say all this, cannot accept that you ruined your life like some emotion-poisoned whore, you say, “You don’t understand.”

She is quicker with her response, because she has the power. She has always had the power between the two of you. “Then help me understand.”

You shake your head more furiously and back away. “Why do you even care, huh?”

“Because I want to understand you! You have to give me something. You have to show them you’re trying.”

“I am trying.” Could she not see that? How you were killing yourself everyday you woke up in the name of S.H.I.E.L.D.? You shake out the wrist you normally wear your watch on.

“But they don’t think so. You can do better.” She approaches you a little too quickly. You can’t tell if her outstretched hands are trying to support you or strangle you.

You seize her by the shoulders before she can touch you. “That’s what this is about? You’re worried I might be a stain on your reputation?” You are loud but you don’t care because you are furious.

“No. No, I never said that. I don’t care about my reputation. I want to help you, but I can’t because I don’t recognize you anymore!”

Her face is flushed red like it’s never been before and it scares you so you let her go. “You think I need help?” You throw your arms up because she is ridiculous and so are you. “You think I can’t handle this?” And she is shaking her head and getting redder and the corners of her mouth are turned down in the shape of a frown. She is saying no but you aren’t hearing her. “My whole life I’ve been handling everything just fine! And guess what. I have never needed you.” You’re pointing at her and every time you shake your fist it feels like pulling the trigger of a gun.

“You think I don’t know what you’ve been through? I was there too. I get it but it is no excuse to keep protecting them!”

“It’s not that simple.” Because you had fought and you had suffered and you had had a role to fill. You still do. No, you weren’t just going to accept that you’d lost and roll over for the enemy. You can’t.

“It is!” She says. “S.H.I.E.L.D. is not perfect, but it is a fucking haven compared to back there. Why can’t you see that?”

“Because I’m not willing to turn my back on things so easily. I can’t just run from one thing to the next, changing who I am to fit in. I’m not like you.”

“Well then you are an idiot and a coward. And I see right through you.” You believe her. You feel so exposed under her gaze. “I’m not pretending to be someone else to fit in. I’m trying to be more than them, to be better. Fuck you.”

“Yeah? At least I’m not a spineless traitor. How could you leave? What has S.H.I.E.L.D. ever done for you?”

“Are you being serious right now?”

“Yes! The Red Room gave us everything.”

“The Red Room didn’t give us anything. It took our choices and our lives and it’s taking still. Look at yourself!” She thrusts her arms out at you and you flinch. Just a little, but you know she sees. Because you thought she didn’t care about all the ways in which you are ruined.

“I am better for all they put me through. It wasn’t easy, sure, but I’m not crying about it. They saved me!” You eye her, up and down, pretending you hate her. “And where would you be without them? Starving and pregnant by some guy you married who spends all his money on booze?”

“You’re fucking unbelieveable. I am not who I am because of them. I made myself.” She glares at you. You can’t look away. You hate this intimacy. She speaks slowly, making sure you hear every letter. “But they broke you.”

“I’m not broken,” you say, low, like the warning of thunder. You’ve been made in their image.

“You are! It’s not normal to beat children because they do not act like soldiers. It’s not normal to think of sex as a means to an end at twelve years old. But you still think it is! You think it’s all okay when it’s not! You are stuck with what they have told us and you’re too scared to break out.”

“I’m the scared one? You’re the one who ran away because she couldn’t handle it!”

“Maybe you’re not scared. But you should be. You should be terrified of the person you’ve become. Because the boy I knew, the boy who would take a slap over having to slap someone else wouldn’t be okay with this. But they told you you were the chosen one and suddenly it’s okay to let others suffer because you’re on top, right? You’ve forgotten what it was like to be treated like a slave.

Things changed for you. You got your uniform and they told you your name meant something. But things didn’t change for me, or for any of the other widows. They are still trapped like the dirt under someone’s shoe. Their names don’t matter because they are called ‘whore’ and ‘weapon.’ Just like mine didn’t. Until I forced people to see me.”

Her words scare you because there is a truth in them you’ve pretended like you could manage. It’s why Svetlana always dreamed of running off. Why Ekaterina tried to kill you after you’d accidently walked in on her and Anastasia. 

But you can’t let go. There is fear and pain when you submit. But there is so much more if you dare to go against them.

You scowl. “Well who had a hand in making me ashamed of that kid? I changed because I was chasing after you.” You point at her. “Perfect little Natasha.”

“You think I wasn’t scared too?” She retorts.

“Fine,” you say. “I’m evil then, is that what you want to hear? If I’m so bad, why don’t you just kill me for it?” Your heart is racing like you’ve been in a fist fight and your muscles keep flexing like you’re about to hit something.

“I don’t want you dead. I don’t. You придурок, I never said that.” Her eyes are shiny like she might cry and it spooks you because you can count on one hand how many times she’s looked like that. “I want to help you. But I can’t when you don’t talk to me.”

“And I don’t need help. I’m not some victim! You want some explanation for why I’m not good like you? You want to hear how they used to take me downstairs and whip me until I passed out and that’s why I’m so messed up? How I got into an argument with Dreykov once and he broke my jaw? You don’t want to know that shit!”

She is shaking her head and speaking calmer now, but you don’t hear her. You are somewhere else, lost in the storm of all those nights you can’t quite remember right. You are drowning in anger. Yours and Dreykov’s and the Widows’ and the Madames’ and the guards’. Building and building in your chest because you cannot let it go, it is not in your nature to not feel, to not care. 

She is coming at you again and she looks a little like Marina did that one night you slept together only because you had never been taught to say no.

“Get off!” You yell. She is blocking the door so you make a fist and pound it into the drywall next to her head.

She grabs your wrists and tells you to calm down. She says your name. “Look at me. Look at me.”

“I am looking at you!”

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know. But this is what I’m talking about. These are the things you have to say. The things I don’t know about you.”

You sneer back at her because she is strong and you are not and it’s the only way to protect yourself. “Don’t act like you don’t have your secrets too. But you wouldn’t tell me because you have to be so perfect all the time.”

 “I couldn’t, you’re right. But I will now. I will. Trust me.”

“But you’re a widow,” you say, cold and sober. “How could I ever trust you?”

“You don’t mean that,” she says. Because what she hears you say is that she is not human. That all she’s ever been and ever could be is a weapon. “Look me in the eye and say you don’t trust me.”

So you do. You look her square in the eye and say, “I don’t trust you.” 

Then there is fire in her eyes as she stands there and stares. “I hope you’re proud of yourself. You really are just like him.”

You almost slap her. She is standing tall with her chin up like she is waiting for it and you think you should knock her down a peg. 

But you don’t. You just walk around her and leave. Because she isn’t worth it.

Continue

[topzsun]

TO FIND YOU

── ♡ SATAN

you held no ill will towards lilith. all she had done was exist. that doesn't stop others from warping their perception of you. luckily, satan understands how you feel.

His world began with the scent of copper and scorching heat that nipped at his skin. Yours began in the arms of your mother and the fluorescent light of the hospital room. He was bathed in blood that was not his own whilst you were dressed in warm, cotton gowns. His father mourned not for his birth, but for the loss of someone of greater importance than him. Yours will kiss your chubby cheeks and hold your tiny clenched fists.

Your beginnings couldn’t be any more different. However, that will not change the antecedent of your and Satan’s existence. Lilith, a woman neither of you met, but suddenly became the forefront in your and Satan’s minds. Belphegor’s attack, your ancestry and the proceeding actions of the brothers muddy the sight behind your eyelids. Your late-night contemplations end up coinciding with Satan’s when you both catch each other in the act of making chamomile tea. You wonder what would have happened if you had never gone to the kitchen that night, never knowing of the identical internal strife Satan would be having.

He told you that after the incident, thoughts of Lilith have also begun to plague him. You take in the defeat in his tone and launch into rambles of your own because if Satan is beginning to peek over the emotional wall he has made, you will have to break it down on your own. You tell him she doesn’t threaten you, a ghost who hadn’t existed to you before this week. You know you are still you, you are just afraid of that day you will no longer be considered that by his brothers.

He listened to you quietly, sipping on his tea, and once you were done you finally took a long look at him. Satan is a gorgeous demon, beauty touched by something beyond your understanding. No human man can compare to him because humans are decorated by flaws, scars and history. Demons are above earthly qualities like that. Yet, when you take in the dimness of Satan’s emerald eyes and how he tilts his head back to rest it against the headboard you begin to see it. The weight that strains his shoulders, and the mask he meticulously puts on. You are reminded that even he can share the burden of overthinking and late-night worries with you.

He tells you of his childhood (“If I can even call it that,” He scoffs). His birth marked the end of Lilith, and when he was first brought home in Lucifer’s bleeding arms, there was no denying the role he had already been dressed into. It was a sick joke, he thinks, to have been born so similar to Lilith with golden hair and eyes the colour of dew-covered grass. He recalls to you how Beelzbebub and Belphegor could barely look him in the eyes, how Asmodeus attempted to falsely dote on him because he never really saw him but his baby sister, of how Lucifer would meet his gaze as if he’s seen a ghost.

“But I was not her. I never could be,” He tells you firmly, eyes steely as if wanting to make this fact clear to you as well. He didn’t need to. You know very well he’s Satan, a tired Satan who's sitting on your bed with you and nursing his tea like a lifeline. He is intelligent, cunning, multitalented, someone who has trouble wearing his heart on his sleeve but the diehard romantic in him wishes he could. Lilith was bluntly honest, unconditionally kind, brimmed with curiosity and tended to make herself seen wherever she went. You don’t need to list these differences for Satan to know he couldn’t be her replacement, and she could never replace the role he’s built in this house either. As if reading your mind, the blonde smiles wryly.

“I know what I am,” and as if to say “You know what you are too”, Satan taps his fingers three times on the exposed skin of your arm. His eyes are rounded in affection, and you can’t bite back your sheepish smile either.

Things will be okay.

[unpretty]

MINDER SERVICE TOP MINDER SERVICE TOP MINDER SERVICE TOP

Last Sons of Krypton is like a puzzle you have to solve to unlock the most off-the-wall lore implications and some of the most batshit potential toxic ships you could possibly imagine

[four-pointed-leaf]

love ur human loop, most normal and deranged guy ever, other people drawing human loop in elaborate outfits, meanwhile loop in a big t- shirt and boxers (not to say im not a fan of elaborate outfits on them but like The Contrast (tm))

no literally like dgmw i love loop in Outfits and will probably draw that at some point soon but like. to me post-canon loop is like. a guy who is convinced they are living in the epilogue of their successful clone’s life. Eventually they will slay but it’s gonna take like three years of therapy and probably a considerable amount of lexapro. for now it’s depression fit

[t1oui]

i don't think the hp next gen fandom talks enough about how percy's kids would be treated differently just because they're his.

like, the kids don't know why. neither do their cousins. they're just used to weird looks from their aunt and uncles and grandparents. they're used to fewer photos of their father and more jokes thrown in his direction. they're used to traits they share with percy being seen as a negative.

and maybe it's subtle. maybe their presents at christmas and birthdays aren't as personalized as the presents their cousins get, and maybe they don't notice at first because their parents always try to give them presents they'll definitely love. maybe at family get-togethers, every cousin has one of their favorite sweets made but percy's kids were never asked. but they don't notice this, either, because percy makes a big deal of them baking their favorites together when they get home.

no matter the way you look at it, with percy and audrey or percy and oliver, with percy in gryffindor or slytherin, his kids would've been treated differently by their family.

[leafatlaw]

ken adian

Design notes: silly cat so ears+tail+claws, fingerless gloves cause they’re cool, a bit of grey hair from where the hopper hit their head in Lore. I also changed up the design on their sweatshirt cause I have no clue what’s it’s supposed to be.

[seleneprince]

Unpopular opinion:

Remus Lupin was as capable of cruelty and arrogance as the rest of the Marauders. There are plenty of hints of this in canon. The only reason we don't see this side of him as often is because of his heavy reluctante to be considered a "bad guy".

And he low-key enjoyed going against Snape just as much, he just had some conscience aftewards.

[spectreofgreengables]

My First Actual Post And of Course It's Stolitz Fanfic

Anyway here's the beginning of the Stolitz fic that came to me in a dream :)

Synopsis:

17-year-old Blitz is one of the top circus performers in Hell, and that should come as no surprise, since he’s spent his entire life performing with his father’s circus. Behind the facade of dazzling glitter and daring feats of strength, however, the circus was no place for a young imp dealing with deteriorating mental health after the loss of his mother. Blitz’ father is determined to hide his son’s worsening mental health and confines Blitz to solitude when his panic attacks manifest. 

Meanwhile, as Stolas approaches the date of his preordained marriage, he begins sneaking into the circus to spend his last moments of freedom watching his one and only friend shine on stage. One night, he notices that one performer fails to make it on stage during the second act, and decides to find out what has happened to his childhood friend. On discovering Cash's cruelty to his friend, he helps Blitz escape his dangerous home life.

...

Fifty feet in the air, suspended by nothing but a hoop on a wire and his own strength, Blitz was in his element. His entire life had been spent swinging from ropes, scaling daunting poles, and diving into open air to the uproarious cheers of the circus audience. He’d been able to suspend his own body weight from his arms before he’d learned to walk, and for the past decade he’d been drawing crowds every night to witness the Amazing Blitzo fly through blazing lights illuminating the vast drapery of his father’s big top.

Why then, was he now filled with dread as he prepared to execute an acrobatic routine that he could have performed in his sleep? Blitz took a shaky breath and offered a coy smirk to the crowd below, though from this height he could only see vague circles indicating the hundreds of heads gazing up at him, rapt by the bold imp’s performance. 

“Two minutes and thirteen seconds of music,” the boy reminded himself, “and it’s not like you’ve ever missed the hoop,” he added, muttering under his breath. 

Blitz wiped his sweaty hands on his jumpsuit, covering his anxious habit with a flourish of his arms, and swung himself under and around the hoop, preparing to execute a complicated maneuver that required splitting his legs and letting go of the hoop, using his momentum to fling his body around before catching himself back on the cold metal ring. He exhaled as he released the hoop, timing his momentum with his breath, but as he reached to take hold of the metal once more, his breath caught in his throat. His vision danced. The sounds around him faded as though he had been submerged in deep water. Suddenly he couldn’t focus on the hoop. His music was gone. A flare of panic seared through his body, all at once hot and red and undefinable. 

Then it was over. 

His hands reached to grab the hoop, just as they had done hundreds of times before, but never before had he been so shaky, palms coated in a sheen of sweat. He grasped for the ring, but his left hand slipped, unable to find purchase on the unforgiving metal, and he was left suspended, dangling from one arm high in the air for all to see. 

“Dammit, Blitzo,” he chided himself, the gravity of his predicament setting in. His body swung wildly until he was able to reach the hoop with his tail and swing himself back into the relative safety of the ring. From there, he just had to finish the routine. Once he was back on the floor, he could worry about his father’s outrage. 

 He spun himself, twisted, swung, and dove to catch onto his partner’s arms before swinging safely back to his platform at the top of the tent. From there, it was time for the girls below, dancing on horses in sequined leotards, to draw the audience’s attention back to the floor and away from Blitz, who now sat, chest heaving, against the pole at the top of the tent. 

“You absolute idiot,” he thought to himself, “If Papa saw that, you'll have to find a new costume to wear to cover the lashes on your back.” His stomach dropped, dread coiling its frozen tendrils through his skin. It had been months since he’d messed up badly enough for his father to take off the belt, but Blitz knew from experience that messing up during a performance could mean sleeping on his stomach for a week. 

Since his mother had died, the beatings had become more frequent, and Blitz had less and less control over the manifestations of his own anxiety. It was easy enough to keep himself out of his father’s scornful eye during the day, but mid-performance, with all eyes on him, Blitz couldn't hide the fact that his panic attacks were becoming frighteningly consistent. The last time he’d broken down in public, his father hadn’t let him back on stage for a week, until he’d sworn he could stop “freaking out,” and Blitz fully intended to keep his promise. Embarrassing his father was the last thing he wanted to do, if not out of hope for gaining his father’s approval, at least because his mother would want him to be strong. 

This time, however, his freak out hadn’t just impacted his performance; it had nearly led to a fatal accident in the middle of a show. 

The cold, hard reality of the very tangible fear of his father dissolved the remaining effects of the panic attack and Blitz scurried down to the circus floor and readjusted his costume, ready to make his final bow at the end of the show with the rest of the performers.

 Safely back on the ground, he dazzled the crowd with a roguish grin and flick of his tail, making young imps blush at his posturing. Blitz’s mind wasn’t in it at all, though. The panic from the trapeze had wiped his energy, and he felt as though he was floating behind his own body, watching the world go on around him, watching his own body perform without him. As he followed his showmates backstage, he dug his fingernails into his palms so hard he felt blood begin to prickle from his skin. Good. It was much better to be firmly grounded in this reality than floating along in a haze of some unspoken worry. 

“Boy!” The summons came from the corner; gruff, unwavering, and sent a pang of dread through Blitz’s exhausted body. 

“Here. Now.” 

Blitz obliged, rubbing his hands together to disguise the gore that he’d sliced into his own hands as he made his way over to his father. 

“The fuck was that, huh?” Cash Buckzo growled under his breath. Blitz flared his nostrils, but fought to keep his nose from scrunching. The words were unmistakably laced with the reek of booze. 

“According to the posters, we call it a circus,” he retorted, not sure exactly how much of his blunder had been seen by his father, not wanting to admit aloud how perilous his situation had been. 

“Think you’re being clever, huh?” Cash growled under his breath, and Blitz tensed. “You certainly didn’t look so clever when you fucked up that aerial act tonight. Nearly dropped to the floor, you did. And with a fuckin sold out audience, too” 

“I didn't -” Blitz began, but his father held up a fist. Blitz immediately quieted. 

“I don’t know what kind of shit you’ve got goin’ on in that idiotic head of yours, but I swear to Lucifer if you don’t straighten up and get over your pathetic ass, Fizarolli is in for a hell of a raise.” 

“I -” but the words were gone from his throat, gone with the breath and and the world around him again. 

No no no. Not now. Blitz fought to keep his composure, but his father’s face was swimming through an inky whirlpool. His hearing was pulsing from distant and heavy to loud and sharp and biting. Somehow the stitching on his costume was digging into his skin and simultaneously pushing him out of his own head all at once. 

“No boy of mine is going to embarrass me like that in front of my live audience.” A hand grabbed his forearm and suddenly he was pitched headlong into an empty stable. Had they been walking outside all this time? 

He was falling, and just had time to fling out his arms before he collapsed into the rough concrete, skinning his knees and palms. 

“What do you want from me?” He screamed, voice pitching in his throat as the coldness, hardness, and sharpness of the world refocused in his mind all at once. 

“You’re embarrassing me.” His father replied, shortly. “If you’re going to act like a fucking addict to your own selfish woes, then you’ll sit in here alone until you can behave.” 

Blitz registered the irony of the accusation, but the words stung nonetheless. His father was cruel, yes, but had always taken out his anger with a bout of violence. A few lashes, a blow to the leg, a smack on the cheek if he was really drunk. But then it was over. 

Not this time. 

“Something is up with you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. I let the fits slide when your mother first passed, but it’s been months. This is ridiculous. If you’re going to keep having these… episodes,” he spat the word out like a wad of stale gum “then you’ll have to sit here and work out how to stop them. Man up, or get out.” 

Blitz looked into his father’s face, searching the cold eyes for so much as a hint of empathy, compassion, parental worry, anything. Instead, he was met with a face of stony sobriety that would haunt his mind until the day he died. 

“You’ll get over this bullshit, or you’ll go to the streets. Either way, I’m done looking after your pathetic ass. My employee you may be, but you certainly aren’t worth calling my son.”

The wooden door of the stable slammed into place, iron bars rattling in place, a mocking grin against the lamplight from the street outside. Blitz sat on the ground, unmoving, until the light flickered out and his legs had gone numb from the unforgiving concrete beneath him. Then he backed himself into the corner of the stall and held his breath, feeling silent sobs wrack his insides while hot tears slid down his face. 

“I will do better.” he whispered to no one when the crying finally relented. Then he faded into a fitful sleep. 

… 

“Three months left,” Stolas whispered to himself as he crossed out another day on the calendar pinned to his wall. He wondered vaguely if any other boy had ever dreaded his 18th birthday with as much apprehension as himself. As he sat on the side of his bed, staring drearily at the makeshift countdown he’d created to his own wedding, Stolas felt his eyes begin to sting. He didn’t want to be a prince. He didn’t care about performing some kind of grotesque masquerade of royalty for the other Goetia. He wanted to read; to learn about the world around him. To experience life without the shroud of upholding some ephemeral ideal of wealth or class or prestige. He wanted to feel alive again like he hadn’t felt since the day he’d learned of his betrothal to some frightful,  indistinct princess. 

He wanted to feel alive like the circus imps. 

Stolas still remembered his first visit to the circus, all those years ago. The way he had felt watching the actors dance, flip, twist, and contort like nothing he’d ever seen before. The raw energy of pure excitement had been intoxicating to the young prince, and he’d spent most of his teen years searching for something that could replicate the feeling of elation he’d felt with the swell of the music, the dazzle of the costumes, and the aura of the performers all those years ago.

He’d tried running away, but he was never quite able to feel confident on his own outside of the safety of the palace walls. 

He’d tried to make friends, but nobody was interested in listening to him prattle on about his lessons, and he could never quite bring himself to care about anything the other kids around him were interested in. He wasn’t excited about girls, or planning camping trips, or bragging about how much he could knick from convenience store shelves. 

Sighing, Stolas slid from the edge of his bed to the floor, crashing rather more abruptly to the ground than he had intended. 

Somewhere on the other side of his bed, he heard a thump and the tinkle of breaking glass. Stolas stood to find whatever he had broken in his moment of melodrama. He stepped around the corner of the bed to find that a small crystal pendant had fallen to the floor from where it had been suspended on the wall. He bent down to pick it up, and realized with a pang of nostalgia that it was one of the decorations he’d gathered from around the castle on the day he’d spent playing pirate games with the imp boy from the circus. 

“Blitzo,” he whispered, the name equally as foreign to his lips as it was familiar to his heart. 

Stolas straightened up with a start. Blitzo had been his friend for an entire day, and he hadn’t been boring at all. The imp from the circus had been crude, to be sure, but they’d had fun together — a real, silly, honest, and authentic kind of fun that he hadn’t experienced since. 

When his father discovered that Blitzo had convinced Stolas to help him steal from the castle, he’d had the imp thrown out and grounded Stolas for a month, but Stolas hadn’t minded. He already spent his days locked in the library whether he was allowed out of the castle or not. It was the fact that, for the first time in his life, he’d actually had fun with another kid that had been the most exciting part of his birthday. For a while, calling Blitzo his friend had been enough to keep him going, hoping that one day he’d be able to reunite with his childhood friend. 

But as the lonely weeks turned into months and then years and his funny, brazen friend never returned for more mischief, Stolas resigned himself to the fact that he was never going to see the imp again. 

Now he sat alone on the floor of his room, counting down the last days of freedom before his wedding to Princess Stella, grasping for memories with any trace of genuine joy or connection he could hold onto in the days to come. He allowed himself a moment to imagine his once-friend performing outrageously daring tricks in his father’s circus as crowds watched in awe, dazzled by the imp’s talent. He knew Blitzo would have grown up by then, just as he had, but could only picture him as the young boy he had been as they raced, giggling through the palace on that one lovely afternoon. 

“Stolas!” came the shout of the butler from the hall, breaking him from his reverie. “Your father is waiting for you in the sitting room, and I believe you’d find it prudent to not keep him waiting.” Stolas listened for a brief moment more, waiting for the sound of footsteps to recede down the passage, away from his room, but he could only hear the thumping of his own heart inside his chest. He groaned, not caring to stifle the sounds of his annoyance. Then he pulled on a shirt, heading into the hallway to face whatever incessant, performative task his father had for him today. 

When Stolas entered the sitting room, he found no one. He glanced over his shoulder at the butler, who just nodded and indicated that he should take a seat on the sofa facing a rather large mirror on the opposite wall. As he did so, the mirror shimmered and his father’s face appeared, wearing an expression that could only be described as utter apathy. 

“Oh good,” came the voice from the mirror, all at once booming and eerily flat. “Glad you could make it, ah, son.” 

“Stolas, Dad,” came the muttered correction from the sofa. Stolas did not meet his fathers gaze. 

“Right, right. Stelis, of course.” The king glanced down at something not shown on the mirror’s surface. Notecards, maybe. 

“Well, as you know, your engagement period is soon ending, and it’s my job to make sure that you are well prepared for your new responsibilities.” 

Stolas continued to look down at his lap, determined not to make eye contact. 

“ I just wanted to make sure you’d finished reading that book we gave you, and a reminder that you are obligated to produce at least one heir in this marriage. Stella assures us that she is excited as ever for your union.”

Stolas huffed, letting out a puff of air from his beak so strong that it ruffled the feathers on his leg. 

“Hm. right. Well, I believe that is all I’m legally obligated to say. I will be in attendance at the wedding next week and —”

“Next week?” Stolas nearly choked out his surprise. “No, Dad. I don't turn eighteen for another three months.” 

“Right, right, and we know that. But Stella is eighteen next week, and it’s really only the bride’s age that matters in things like this, so I  will in fact see you at the wedding next week.” 

There was a distinct Shhhtikk as the king tapped his notecards on the desk in front of him, and the mirror went blank once more. Stolas was left staring into his own reflection, realizing with a start that the face in the mirror looked far too young to be getting married. The round face before him belonged to a scared little boy. Stolas shook his head, ruffling the feathers around his face as he did so, which only accentuated his juvenile appearance. 

He stood abruptly and ran from the mirror, racing through the entryway, past the courtyard, and through the gate at the end of the driveway. 

Stolas ran down the street, ignoring the ache in his side until his legs were jello. He stumbled into the first business he found with an open door.

 It was still early in the morning, but the cafe smelled like warm cinnamon toast and roasted espresso. Stolas drifted up to the counter, ignoring the stares from the cafe patrons around him. 

“Good morning!” came the cheery albeit well-rehearsed greeting from the barista. “What can I get started for you?”

“I..I don’t like coffee.” Stolas admitted quietly. The girl behind the counter looked him up and down. 

“No worries! I have just the thing.” She smiled. She turned away from him and started pouring, steaming, and mixing away behind the bar. Stolas just stared blankly out of the windows, looking through posters from local businesses taped to the windows to the street beyond. 

“Here ya go!” The bright voice brought the prince back to the present. 

“No coffee. I promise.” she pushed a cup into his hands and turned to help the next customer. 

Stolas found a seat in a corner of the shop near the bathrooms and collapsed into the booth. One week. Why hadn’t anyone told him? Nobody had said anything to him about his marriage since the first time his father had brought it up on his tenth birthday all those years ago, and now, they had decided to change the entire timeline of his youth without so much as pretending to consider his feelings.

Not that anyone ever gave him a choice. His entire life had been prescribed for him, and he was just expected to go along with it. Constantly. Not to mention the fact that his own father couldn't even do him the decency of remembering his name. 

Well, if he was going to be married in the next week, then the next six days were going to have to be entirely his own. Stolas took a tentative sip of the drink in his hands, and instantly felt warmth seep through his body, reinvigorating him. 

“Hot chocolate!” He tittered to himself, and looked up to give the barista a grateful smile. As he finished sipping his drink, Stolas found himself absentmindedly looking over the posters taped to the window in front of him. One in particular stood out to him amongst the clutter. A poster with alternating red and grey stripes arranged at an angle, fanning out from the center of the ad like a sunburst. “The Greatest Circus in all of Hell!” the text proclaimed, displaying a location and series of showtimes in smaller text near the bottom of the ad. Stolas smiled and pulled down the poster, pocketing it before anyone noticed it was gone. One of the times was listed for that very evening. 

[notsocooljess]

Muscle Memory

Rating: T

Words: 4.3k

Summary:

After the war, Peeta uses his muscle memory to help him come back to the person he used to be. Finding himself means finding her along the way.

Read it here :)

[hannahhook7744]

My Wife Is Dead (And So Is A Part of Me);

Summary: We see a glimpse of Prince Christopher Charming’s reaction to his wife's death. But we don't see what he's thinking.

Trigger Warnings: Grief, denial, spousal/parent deaf, mention of ill children, etc.

------------------------------------------------------------

There were many moments that Prince Christopher Rupert Windermere Vladimir Carl Alexander François Reginald Lancelot Herman Gregory James Charming (or Kit, as he much preferred these days) could pinpoint as the worst moment of his life. 

The day his son came home flinching at even the mere mention of his ex-girlfriend after the Queen of Mean incident.

The day he found out what kind of things his son got up to in highschool.

The day his mother died. 

The day his father died. 

The day he and Ella found out they both had fertility issues. 

The day they found out their little miracle, Chloe, had a heart condition.

But none of them were compared to what the royal was currently feeling as he stared at his wife’s shattered heels. 

The very heels that had led him to her. 

The heels that his Ella never let out of her sight—which could only mean one thing. One very horrible thing. 

He couldn't hold back the…fear? Anger? Horror? Grief? Repulsion? “What have you done?” 

Bridget—no, not Bridget. 

(This vile woman wasn't sweet, fun loving Bridget who wouldn't hurt a fly. This woman was a monster and an imposter in her skin, wearing her face and claiming her name. 

A name she didn't deserve.

Bridget was dead and Uliana's crew had killed her. Creating a monster out of the soulless husk that remained—creating The Queen of Hearts). 

The Queen of Hearts just smiled smugly down at him. Completely unrecognizable to anyone who had previously known her. “Not so funny now, am I?”

Charming swallowed, refusing to take his eyes off of the shattered shoes that his wife had loved so much. Knowing already what had happened to Ella but not wanting to believe it. 

Not wanting to believe that his wife's former best friend had actually killed her over a stupid, awful prank that had happened years ago that neither he or she had any involvement in. 

“No. What… no…”

Ella couldn't be dead. 

Not by Bridg—the Queen of Hearts’ hand.  

Not so soon. 

Not when he still needed her. 

Not when Chloe and Chad were still so young and still needed her. 

The Queen just cackled at him. As if she had told the funniest joke in the world. As if she hadn't just murdered one of only people who'd stood by her in highschool when she'd had no friends and didn't get along with her family.

“No! No!”

Chloe's heart wouldn't be able to take this.

Chad wouldn't be able to take this in general. 

Ella couldn't be gone. 

She couldn't.

She was too young to be gone already. She hasn't done all of the things she had wanted to do to change the world for the better. 

It wasn't fair. 

Ella didn't deserve to go out like this. 

The dark haired man didn't even try to bite back his tears as he tried to collect the broken pieces of the love of his life’s shoes—the shoes his daughter and son had loved to hear stories about. The shoes she wore almost daily. The shoes she'd been wearing when they'd met Chad before he'd become their son. 

All while the wicked Queen of Hearts continued to cackle. Uncaring that she had shattered his heart along with Ella—her best friend–’s shoes. 

Uncaring that she'd made him feel more helpless than he'd ever felt in his whole life.

She truly wasn't Bridget anymore.

------------------------------------------------------------

As the Queen's guards dragged him away to be with the rest of the hostages, Christopher could only hope that the Queen of Hearts would be stopped before either of his children could befall the same fate as their mother.

(The same fate he and everyone else in school would likely face). 

[sunflawyer]

lately ive been spending some time writing sunflawyer fics ... its mostly about how they met and some cute domestic fluff on the sides... (⁠人⁠*⁠´⁠∀⁠｀⁠)⁠｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+

i was wondering to share some here.. ☀️☀️

here's some. cute one! (⁠✿⁠^⁠‿⁠^⁠)!

[penvisions]

return the favor {chapter 20}

Pairing: Post-Outbreak! Joel Miller x Smuggler! Reader

Summary: The arrival in the haven of Jackson brings certain things to a head, you find solace in a few people of the settlement after being alone with your thoughts for months.

Word Count: 8.2k

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, canon typical angst, like MAJOR ANGST, feelings of inadequacy, ptsd, trauma, brief discussion of child loss, grief, argumentative language, yelling, shouting, joel being an ass, reader being an ass, angry emotions, brief suicidal ideation, reference to past self-harm injury, ellie being a little shit, maria's hyper awareness, reference to sexual content

A/N: this came to me very quickly, having had the ending scene written from the get go and the rest of the story was a way to make it make sense. hope this doesn't hurt anyone too bad! please come complain to me (nicely) if you feel the need

ao3 link || series masterlist || main masterlist || ko-fi

The horses were fast, impossibly so after being only on foot for so long. You kept a tight hold on Ellie in front of you, arms around her and holding the reigns of the horse you had been offered. She’d never been on one before but he helped her up all the same, and then you behind her. You knew he was worried about your arm, irritating it with the effort to pull yourself up on your own.

Joel was on his own, right behind the woman who introduced herself as Maria, one of the declared leaders of the council to whatever haven they were now taking you to. She had been curt with her words, saying that Joel’s brother was with them. There had been argument or discussion, Joel asking to see him, be taken to him such weak tone you knew was born of hope and desperation at this point.

A formidable structure was cresting over a hill, giant logs forming a wall with an entrance that you could barely make out adorned with people on watch. Your heart had yet to calm down since the first whiny of a horse, thudding heavily in your chest and almost mirrored in your temple as a headache formed at this drastic chain of events.

It almost seemed too good to be true, like a lifeline that was a trick should you reach out and grab it. But Joel had, he had reached out his aching hands and gripped it tight, refusing to let it go.

As the gates opened you could feel your breath leave you in a puff of steam. It…it was a whole town, revealed behind the gates. A traditional main street lined with maintained buildings, people bustling about and doing so much that it was all so dizzying. You turned to look at Joel, having been corralled in the middle of the group for entrance into their settlement. He could only share your look of disbelief, nodding at you to turn back around and take it all in.

There were elderly people, there were children, there was laughter, there was excitement.

There was life.

Your observations were cut short when Joel’s voice boomed behind you.

“Tommy!”

You turned to look at him, Ellie mirroring you and you followed his gaze toward a man clad in denim who was atop some scaffolding and working with another figure to haul up pillars of wood. Building, they were actively building. Creating something, making something more for this already amazingly impressive place. The man looked up, his focus shattered at a vaguely familiar voice. Dark hair longer and curling at the ends, thick mustache that rivaled Joel’s atop his upper lip. The same kind eyes and similar features telling you that it was indeed his kin if he hadn’t just shouted it for all to hear. Both men rushed toward each other, Joel dismounting his horse and the man stomping down the scaffolding.

They embraced in the middle of the street, boots nearly sliding out from underneath each of them at the collision, Joel’s disbelieving chuckle coloring the air and softening your heart.

Ellie reached for your hand still holding the reigns. So small in your own as you shifted the reigns to one and held her with the other. Her eyes were cast down, watching the scene through her lashes.

“What the fuck ya doing here?”

“I came here to save you.”

They both laughed, embracing again and nearly swaying on the spot. Ellie turned away from the reunion, knowing that her thoughts were much like your own.

Alone.

You were both alone. No family of your own left. You shifted forward and pressed your front to her back and leaned over her a little. Whispering into her ear that she had you, that she wasn’t alone. That you wouldn’t leave her for anything. That she had you.

She didn’t respond, face barely composed as the horses began to move once again. Joel and his brother walking beside them.

Her words of asking you to stay with her echoed in your head.

It felt like a dream, entering the stables and securing the horses. Following behind the small group of Maria, Tommy, Joel, and Ellie through the town. Walking through doors into a large space that was set up like a mess hall.

The plate in your hand heavy as it was handed over to you, filled with steaming food that you couldn’t smell. A cup of coffee and a glass of water are brought to the table once seated. You, Joel, and Ellie on one side while Maria cornered her chair from the head closer to Tommy on the other. Joel and Ellie wasted no time digging in, barely taking a breath as they inhaled their food.

But you were too overwhelmed, too wary. You had come across a place similar to this once, not nearly as large. Only a small collection of houses at the end of a cul-de-sac. But the food had been a ploy to get your guard down. It had been tainted, the drugs making you dizzy enough to become pliant when taken back to a room full of women shackled to the walls.

The fork in your hand felt fake, too light and unlike a weapon that had been become a part of you.

“There’s more if you need it.” Maria’s voice was even, and your eyes shifted to her, she was already watching you. Her eyes moving between your trio in even sweeps, trying to read whatever you were unconsciously telling her. Trying to discern the dynamic and the reason for you sticking together. Worry underlying her gaze as you noticed her leg move to touch against Tommy’s under the tabletop.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Joel took a moment to catch his breath, fork still loaded and hunched over his plate slightly. “Been a while since we’ve had a proper meal.”

“Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever had a proper meal.” Ellie quickly tore down his simple statement.

“Now that’s a lie, Bean’s made us plenty of meals with what she could.” He fired back, no real heat behind his words. He looked over to you, but he paused when he realized you had yet to touch your food. The fork in your grip just hovering over the tablecloth laid out beneath it. The steam rising from the mix of different things on the plate not enticing you enough to indulge. You wouldn’t meet his eyes, too busy trained on Maria and having a silent conversation with the woman across from you.

“Okay, maybe one or two. But this is fuckin’ amazing.

Joel’s head whipped back to the teenager whose focus was solely on the food she was hunched over, her arms creating a barrier from the rest of the table.

“Sorry.” He aimed at his brother and the woman beside him, almost sheepish. It was a surprise to both of them that you didn’t admonish her like you had back at the cabin, when she cursed at the elderly couple. You weren’t completely present and it was setting them both on edge a little. You hadn’t been so out of it since the fever that tried to take over you after Salt Lake City. But even then, your eyes were clouded over, instincts taking hold and guiding you. Survival being the only goal right now, despite being in an entirely different climate and environment. “Ellie, let’s mind our manners.”

Tommy’s smile was beautiful, though there was pain behind it. Joel’s too as you realized they were sharing hesitant one. You and Maria shared another look of your own before she reached a hand out for you.

You flinched, the fork clattering to the table as you pulled your hand back. Joel stiffened beside you, his knee pressing to yours underneath the table in a small comfort. But it was fruitless, you were too worked up, too overwhelmed. Too hopeless to salvage or take anything with the man in light of changing circumstances.  

“I promise you the food is safe.” Her eyes softened as she realized what you must’ve been thinking, seeing you too clearly for comfort.

Ellie’s demanding ‘what’ broke the connection, drawing attention to a young girl that scurried away from where she had been observing the table.

“What’s wrong with you?” Joel’s voice was incredulous, unable to process the front she was putting on much like she had done at the older couples’ cabin. He glanced over at you, but you were focused on the food in front of you, not really present. Unable to help him try to get Ellie to behave herself. He huffed, worried for you and exasperated with the teenager, feeling the strain of having to watch over you both even now.

“What about her manners?” Ellie spit back, voice lethal as she tried to defend herself. Too familiar with watching, prying eyes. Scanning her for weakness and then using it against her. This wasn’t the FEDRA school building, this wasn’t a controlled environment like that. This was different, she was different. She wouldn’t let someone get the chance to bully or beat her up just because she was new or different this time around.

“She was just curious.” Maria spoke softly, trying to maintain a calm head in the face of Ellie’s defensive front and your nearly shut down one. “Kids around here don’t usually look or talk like you.”

“Right…well, maybe I’ll teach them.” She held the woman’s gaze, setting your nerves alight, worried she would get herself into a situation she couldn’t get out of, a situation you or even Joel couldn’t help to get her out of. You were paying attention, but everything seemed to be happening behind a thick panel of glass. Like you were there but not, removed and watching as if in another headspace you couldn’t shake off. “And I want my gun back.”

“They also aren’t armed.” Maria’s tone hardened, her frustration showing slightly but trying to keep up appearances, keep her calm in the wake of seeing how your trio was failing to integrate even this early on after being brought in. You were sure if there was no connection to the man beside her, you would’ve been turned away.

“You know what? Uh- I think y’all maybe got off on the wrong foot.”

“She was gonna have her guys kill us.” The silverware in her grip thudded onto the table as she leaned forward, no longer willing to play nice.

“We gotta be real careful about who we let in this place.” Tommy tried to explain, calmly taking over the conversation. He and Joel seemed the most calm, it was you, Maria, and Ellie who were having trouble acting like this wasn’t one of the weirdest fucking interactions of your lives. “But it’s all bark. We’re just tryna scare off those who might wanna try us is all.”

“Well, you got a couple of ninety year olds shitting themselves out there.”

“Ellie.” Joel’s head swiveled heavily as he pinned her with a sharp look for her foul language.

“They say that you leave dead bodies around?” Ellie focused back on Maria, wanting to hear the answer the woman came up with.

“Those are the people who tried us.”

“A bad reputation doesn’t mean you’re bad. Not always, at least.” Maria’s eyes locked on Joel, his chewing stopping as he realized what she was insinuating despite having just met him.

“Ma’am, we’re grateful for your hospitality and all.” He locked eyes with his brother, who suddenly seemed uncomfortable, worried about what was about to be said. “But it’d be nice to have a moment here, maybe just for family.”

“Well, um…” Tommy scrambled for words. But you didn’t hesitate.

Taking that as your queue to leave, you began to move.

"You're okay, darlin’." Joel had turned to face you; you were on his right side out of habit. He was looking down at you, the few inches of space making you dizzy as his eyes were on you. You shook your head slightly, disagreeing quietly to save face, mentally preparing yourself for the rift that was bound to open between you now that he was back with his actual flesh and blood. You had never seen such unadulterated joy on his face as you had seen today, though Ellie would be the first to argue that he looks at you in much the same way.

As if sensing the shift in you, Joel turned his head just enough to keep you in his periphery. Body still taught and on alert despite being behind the walls and in the company of his finally found brother. The room was large, too many people milling about, seated at their own tables. The hum of chatter almost suffocating as it was so different a background noise from the howling of the wind and the rustling of trees that kept you company for months now. The hush of moving fabric a threat more than a comfort, the shadows of people moving about and minding their own business something that set you on edge instead of placated you. But you knew it had to be a good thing, this settlement.

Joel whispered your name, reaching out a hand to grip yours where it was on the table, having put the utensil down at his words and gone to push yourself up from your chair. Ellie watched with caution as he did so, knowing that you were full of emotions she couldn't read, she was feeling some kind of way herself ever since the brothers had hugged so unabashedly in the street. You yanked your hand from him in a moment of self-anger and pity, upset that you had begun to think things were mending between you. But he kept his hold, your clasped hands hanging between where he was still seated and where you stood beside him, chair kicked back a few inches at the motion.

But the truth was that in the light of civilization, in the chance at human connection, you didn't stand a chance. The strain that had been slowly developing between you both would shatter into nothing in the light of finding this haven in the middle of nowhere.

He would find some semblance of his old life here with his brother. You were just someone who he traveled with, shared favors when things got overwhelming and human urges were too strong to quell. You weren’t anything to him, not really, and even if you were naïve enough to think so, it wasn’t real. Whatever you two had wasn’t real, it was a faux creation of comfortability built in the confines of forced close quarters. 

"Let go of me." He pulled his hand back as if burned, he didn't dare step over set boundaries when it came to touch. Your voice had been quiet, just enough to be heard. You nodded at Tommy, at Maria in silent thanks for the untouched meal and then walked away from the table. The door didn’t even get to close behind you completely before Joel was excusing himself and following you.

“Please, just, I can’t pretend like this isn’t all so overwhelming.” You didn’t turn around to look at him but could feel how close he was behind you as you descended the steps leading to the entrance of the building. Snow and rock salt crunched underneath your worn boots and you wanted to continue to hear that sound until you were far away from this place, from this supposed refuge. People were dangerous, perspective having been solidified by nearly every encounter from the last fifteen years accumulating and not changing in the slightest.

“Family includes you.”

“You trekked across the country for him, Joel. Go be with your brother. I’ll give you space or whatever you need, but please don’t make me feel like I’m something I’m not.”

“You are, you are…important.”

“Not now! Not…not since I’ve been so in my head that I can’t distinguish the present from the warped reality in my head. I know it and you know it.”

“Darlin’, c’mon, at least get a warm meal in ya before we do this.” Your features morphed into a deceptive calm. Even he was admitting that this was about to all fall apart, the thin string of connection between your little trio, between you both.  

“Joel-“

“Enough!” His frustrated shout caught the attention of more than a few passerby, craning their necks toward the argument. No longer given the element of privacy behind the walls and in the center of town. “Let’s just go back in there and hear them out, you owe me that much.”

“No!” You shouted back, not caring how it echoed or the people watching on with wide eyes. Not caring how it may look to these people who knew nothing about you or even seemed to be welcoming. Prying eyes be damned, you would not let Joel steam roll you.

“You’re treating me like shit, Joel. And I’m over it. Pinging back and forth so quick I can’t keep up. I don’t care if you don’t want anything from me, but you have to show me some respect. Don’t go acting like this one meal with your real family is going to change anything. You’re going to drop me, and I’d rather know now.”

“I am trying to keep you alive. Yours and Ellie’s lives are in my hands and I am trying my damned best to keep them safe. Between her constant questions and your hovering, it’s nearly impossible to keep a quiet trek. Even now, behind these walls. You’re acting like I’ve betrayed you in some way and throwing up your walls without hearing anything out.”

The irony of his words must’ve sunk in because he stepped back with a deep inhale, his expression steeling as if freezing over in the cold air.

“No one said it was just your responsibility. I’m here too, Joel, you have to let me carry some of the weight. I’m here, I’ve done nothing but follow your lead and I am glad to, but you have to respect me. Do not treat me like a burden because I’m not one. Don’t pretend like you’re not about to cut your losses and move on.”

The words seemed to ignite him further, no longer willing to hold back all of the emotions he had been feeling and still felt despite the temporary reprieve. A glint shone in his eyes as he stepped toward you, his height allowing him the display of power as he glared down at you. You tried not to let the flash of fear show, but you know it passed over your face as he got closer. He had paused for the fraction of a second, seeing it and hating that it had happened but sticking to his guns all the same. Despite the knowledge that he wouldn’t hurt you, the thought was so palpable as he loomed over you. Your hands twitched but there were no weapons to reach for, having been taken at the gate upon entrance.

“Oh yeah? Is that why every god damn set back, every break we’ve had to take was because of you? If you’re so capable then why are you constantly injured, huh? First the broken arm, then the fever, then the god damn bear, and the lake. Hell, the first day we came across you and cleared the city limits, you fell, knocked your head and twisted your god damn ankle. What do all of those have in common? You. It’s because you’re weak, darlin’.”

“Fuck you.” You spat, taken aback by the way he was speaking to you. The way he was deciding to do this. Putting the blame for his inability to face reality on you, with you.

“My arm got broken because I was protecting Ellie on the ground while you were up in that house! The fever was because of my broken arm. The bear? The goddamn bear, Joel? You mean the one you couldn’t hear coming up from behind? And the lake? You were the one taken hostage, not me. I was the one that got you untied, I was the one that’s been getting the shit end of the stick this whole journey, but guess what, I’ve also been the one healing everyone! Been cooking whatever we hunt and forage, been the one to help bridge the gap between you and teenage girl you’re afraid of!”

“I am not afraid of that little girl.” He hissed, teeth clenched tight as he bared them at you.

“You are. And you’re afraid of me. Because it’s more than making sure we stay alive. It’s because you care.”

“I don’t care. Only doing this to get-“

“Oh shut the fuck up, you repressed asshole.”

You stalked away from him, done with the conversation before it blew up even more. But not before he saw the tears overflow and begin to race down your cheeks. Shoving through the people that had loosely gathered around you both, pretending not to listen in but failing at being discreet. Perfect, the first impression you were both making was terrible. A heated, boisterous argument right in the middle of the densest part of the whole town.

Joel called your name, but you ignored it. Done with the conversation, done with him. Your ears were ringing, your body was tingling as if numb, that staticky feeling when a limb fell asleep and blood flow was blocked. Your throat was tight, face hot with emotions. Family. The word echoed in your head over and over again, too much, too defining. Too much of a lie. Reality be damned, you’d rather be alone than force a connection with someone who deemed you a proverbial punching bag because they couldn’t handle their emotions. The street blurred by as you stalked off, pace fast.

You physically reeled when a hand closed around your upper arm. You startled so badly at the touch that you tripped, body falling with the sudden loss of balance and stability.

“Don’t touch me!” You shrieked, not willing to play nice any longer. You swung a clenched fist around too quick for the person to dodge and a woman fell to the ground with a shout just as you landed on your own ass. Both arms going out to try and catch yourself, but when the contact of your left arm was made you shouted out. Tingles sprouted up and down the entire length and all you could do was grip it right with your right and look up through your tears. The woman who had approached you was cradling her face, a pink blossom sprouting from where you had landed the punch. But you didn’t move even as you distantly heard the click of a gun’s safety.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you, I’m a nurse! I just wanted to help, you’re obviously distressed.”

Ellie sat there and stabbed at her food, taking too big a mouthful to cover her discomfort at being left at the table with these strangers alone.

“They do that a lot?” Maria asked, trying to comb over the obvious awkward tension in the air as the girl was left beside two people she didn’t know anything about. It didn’t seem to matter that it was a safe environment, Ellie was on edge and it was obvious.

“What, act like dumbasses who don’t know the other likes them?” Ellie swallowed her food, stabbing another large bite. Trying to act like she wasn’t brimming with anxiety while you and Joel were separated from each other. Maria and Tommy shared a look, not sure what to do other than wait for one or both of you to return to the table. “All the time, it’s exhausting.”

Joel ambled back in and Ellie perked up slightly until she realized you weren’t behind him. He just shook his head slightly at her, letting her know that you had walked off to cool down or gather yourself or whatever. But he was sure the sharp cuts of words you both shouted at each other had been audible from outside.

“Maria is family.” Tommy declared, shaking their held hands atop the table.

“Oh shit,” Ellie shifted from their linked hands to each of their faces. “Congrats.”

“Joel, say congrats.” The teenager calmly prompted, taking enjoyment out of the turn of roles to mind manners. Shifting in the seat he had taken back him, he locked eyes with his brother and congratulated them in a flat tone. The hits of the day continued to land as he realized his place in this world.

As the group stepped out from the mess hall, a woman came up to Maria and whispered something to her. With a nod she sent her off and turned to Joel.

“Your girl is at the infirmary, the nurse we have is tending to her arm. It was broken recently?”

“Three months ago, broke clean through the skin. She tended to it herself as best she could.” He was sure you wouldn’t mind the information being shared, most likely the exact thing you were telling the people at the infirmary to get a better understanding of how your attempts had done and able to determine how well it had healed.  

“Bean can take care of herself, she went to school for, what was it Joel?” Ellie turned to him, not wanting to say the wrong thing. But wanting the woman to know who she was messing with, know who she almost killed. Spiteful tendencies not falling off in the face of authority.

“EMT, medical anthropology. She’s got degrees under her belt and certifications.” Joel felt pride flare up in his chest as he spoke, wanting Tommy and Maria to know that you were capable, just as he was. That you had been holding your own out there in the wilderness, that it hadn’t been easy but you managed between here and Boston just fine.

“A smart woman, we need someone with that kind of knowledge. Our last doctor that taken out by a nasty strain of the flu last season.” Tommy tried to bridge the gap of conversation. Trying to understand exactly what happened to his brother from the moment he left Boston with the Fireflies to now, without being too direct. Knowing focused questions would warrant Joel to close oof or fabricated lies that were only hints of what actually happened. The girl and you being the biggest questions he has by far. But he let it rest for now, hoping they could have a moment alone soon enough. Hoping that by some miracle his brother would plan on staying here, safe. With him.

Joel listened as Maria began her informative tour, explaining the basics of things here in Jackson for him and Ellie to learn. To get familiar with. But he wasn’t sure what to do now, what the right choice to make was.

Remain here and integrate. Make some semblance of like all together. Or simply use it as a place to recharge and then get back on the road, use it as a place to gather information and supplies before picking up where they left off. The Fireflies, Ellie being immune, you needing rest, Joel needing rest…all of it factors in a decision he needed to talk over with you. After he apologized for the way he spoke to you earlier, for the things he blamed on you that he was at war within himself over. He was bonded to you all and that was the problem, he had gotten too close in the months of travel. Come to instinctually seek you both out as soon as his eyes opened after sleep, needing to protect you both at any cost.

Something Maria said brought him out of his spiraling thoughts, and he turned his attention to her with a furrowed brow. None of this made any sense, too many generators that would fail out in cycles between fixes and scavenging for parts or batteries. A light pole stood proud in the center of the street, thick cables running off of it an toward the tops of the surrounding buildings.

“You draw power from the dam.”

“Got that working a few years ago.” She agreed, slight confusion coloring her features as he pointed it out. She hadn’t said so, but she continues talking, finding it a good thing that he was asking questions and engaging rather than shutting down and running off like you had been. Though she wished you were within her sights, just to make sure you were okay.

“Bean was right.” Ellie pinned Joel with a mild glare. Aware of the growing tension between the two of you as the days bled together.

The stables were loud, now in the later hour.  The bustle of horses being lead around large pens, sheep being herded from one to another, people tending to the animals keeping his thoughts at bay. He felt a glimmer of something as he watched the sheep move about with trotting steps and comforting noises, the conversation from the night before sprouting to the front of his mind.  

“Hey Joel, check it.” Ellie smiled, imitating them as she looked over her shoulder at the man. Tommy looked between them, brows raised in a silent question that Joel waved off with a slight nod of his head.

“Soooo are you like, in charge?” Ellie askes, hands weakly clapping together from where she had them buried deep in her jacket pockets. Nervous energy filling her up the longer she was away from you, but hoping you would join back up with them soon.

“No one person’s in charge.” “I’m on the council. Democratically elected, serving three hundred people, including children. Everyone pitches in. We rotate patrols, food prep, repairs, hunting, harvesting.

“Everything you see in our town: greenhouses, livestock, all shared. Collective ownership.

“So, un, communism.” Joel spoke up, taking it all in. Thoughts racing as he wondered if you were getting the same information at the infirmary.

“Nah.” Tommy scoffed, not agreeing with the rather simple way that Joel summarized everything. “Nah, it ain’t like that.”

“It is that. Literally.” Maria burst her husband’s naïve bubble, though there was no heat behind her words as she glanced back at him. It simply was the most accurate way to describe what they had established here in Jackson. “This is a commune. We’re communists.”

Joel tossed Tommy a smug look over his shoulder as he rubbed his aching hands together and followed after the girls. Tommy hung back for a moment, soaking in the realization.

“No way!” Excitement colored Ellie’s tone when she spotted the mare and her foal peeking out from within a stable close by.

“That’s our newest one. Couple months old, wanna pet her?” The offer was genuine as the group approached the opening and Ellie reached out to baby talk and caress the foal’s fur.

“Yeah, what’s her name?” Joel ambled close to her, sticking by her side even with the relative safety of the place, not taking any chances with the bustle of people everywhere. She was distracted, the sights and phenomena garnering her attention. She wasn’t on alert, but he remained so for her sake. For his.

“Shimmer.”

“Well, I’m sure they’d like a shower. Some new clothes. We can put them in the empty house across the street from us.”

“Yeah,” Tommy looked to his brother, hoping they weren’t overstepping anything by offering without all three of your trio present. “Decent place, pretty much untouched since ’03, but it’s got the heat goin’ in it. Could do worse.”

“Oh, trust me, we have been.”

“We’ve been doin’ fine. Don’t disrespect Bean like that.” Joel defended, not wanting them to know just how bad it had been getting before they found you. Feeling self-righteous in the face of finding out his brother had been experiencing old world comforts while he slept on the frozen ground and ate whatever could be scrounged up day after day. That he had barely been able to provide for you and Ellie despite his efforts.

“Oh, like you did, yelling at her in the middle of the street and running her off?” The teenager fired back, not taking Joel’s attempt at corralling her in that instance.

“Ellie-“ Joel hung his head, shoulders inching up as he realized this was only the first of many comments the teenager was going to make.

“Well, I’ll take Ellie over there. Track down…Bean was it you’re calling her? Let you two catch up.”

Joel gave them your real name them, not sure if you’d want strangers you didn’t know calling you by the fond nickname Ellie had graced you with before him and his brother broke off to have a moment alone.

It was night when you returned to the center of town, the main street lit up with fairy lights and burn barrels. It was pretty, you had to admit as you walked around looking for the movie gathering that Maria had marked on a note for you back at the house assigned to you for the night. It had been empty when you arrived. Lights and heat on for when one or all three of you retired for the night.

“Maria, can I…have a word with you?”

“Of course,” The woman lead you out of the crowded room and onto the street. She opened the door to a front further down the street. You settled up on a stool at the bar while she rounded the long counter and poured you a drink. Eyes trained on the bottle she replaced back on the shelve, not pouring one of her own.

You gripped the lowball glass in steady hands.

“I know you what you must think of me…of Joel. But we did right by that little girl and we’ve been doing our best to keep her alive. But…it’s not been easy, I won’t lie to you.”

“That argument was pretty heated, seems like things haven’t been easy in the slightest.”

“It’s…unforgiving out there. Thought I had enough trouble traveling alone, but with people you feel responsible for, that look to you for guidance, it’s far worse.”

“She’s not yours.” Maria realized, putting the words to fruition, seeing you and making it known. She could recognize it in you, just like you could in her. Mirrors of each other, though one had safety and community while one did not. Mothers who have lost, women who have survived. You met her eyes and showed even more of yourself to her, feeling like she was trustworthy to know. To be privy to what drove you and made you who you were. That you were willing to be a part of this should they allow you to stay, with or without Joel.

“No, mine was lost before the pregnancy could come to term. Ambushed. Lost my husband and my home, nearly lost myself too.” Honesty seemed to be the best course of action, the right thing to do in face of all this woman had offered you so far. Despite the way in which the initial greeting had played out. You understood the need to protect, the need to threaten. You’ve had to do it before and you would do it again in a heartbeat.

“I’ve lost a child too. It’s not something you can come back from without weight.”

“No, it’s not. Even after fifteen years. Twenty years.”

“But Joel-“

“He’s a good man, but I know he’s done some things. Things that weren’t necessary but were easier for him to do in his own grief. I think he’s carried it heavier than all of us combined. But please, don’t mistake me, I am not making excuses for the man, hell, we ain’t even friends. Not really. Just happened across each other and stuck together, for Ellie.”

“But you love him. I can see it. Despite everything.”

“It’s those damn Miller genes, gotta hand it to them.” Your lips pulled up at one corner before you sobered, mood not picking up completely in wake of the day. “He doesn’t return those feelings, or he does and can’t stomach the thought, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve been a fool to think that this journey changed him in that regard.”

“But the journey isn’t over.” She was smart, reading you like you were one and the same. You wondered if for all your combined hardness, if preserving softness was how you truly survived. Her with helping to keep this commune running, you with protecting a little girl with everything you had. Both the same, both trying to heal with world in what little ways you could with dual swords gripped tight in each hand.

“All I ask for is supplies and a horse, I’ll take Ellie on from here. But please, give him the same curtesy if he decided to stay or not or y’all vote against him stayin’. Please.” You gazed out at the smoke wafting from one of the burn barrels, hoping to be emersed in a hot shower after being out in the cold so long. You hadn’t sat still for more than a moment since entering the town, doing rounds and talking with the nurse who had been kind enough to help you despite blindly attacking her.

She was nice, if a little misguided. Working off of notations and medical books that wouldn’t help her to truly understand the gravity of certain injuries unless she had dealt with them before. You left your own journal for her, some of the books you had kept with you. You hadn’t asked for anything in return but she made you a plate of food in her home, her wife kind enough clean your coat while you all talked.

“She’s all I got now, and she needs me. We can finish our travels from here on out alone, and don’t want to be a burden to someone who is still dealing with their own internal demons. But he’s right, I am weak. Been injured more than whole the past three months, but if it means I could get her to where she needs to be, then I’ll risk my death.”

“I’ll get you what you need but…know there’s a place here for you both- all if you…don’t find what you’re looking for.”

“You’re just saying that because I’m medically trained.”

“I mean it, you deserve a chance too, even if you’ve already given up.”

She reached out to take your hand and this time you didn’t flinch.

You didn’t greet Joel as he entered the home, the shine of tears long past still evident on his face in other ways. His shoulders were slumped, exhaustion plain in his every movement. He walks past you and toward the staircase, his path toward Ellie up in one of the rooms.

“Don’t,” You stepped away from the bottom of the stairs the second he appeared at the top of them. The soft light of the lamps lit up around the living room bathing you in half shadows. But they didn’t hide the hard focus of your features. You heard everything that reverberated down the stairs. He had broken Ellie’s trust in him, her faith in him, just like he was about to do with you.

Tension was a thick wight over the room, your body tense and Joel’s shoulders slumped as he leaned his knees against the side of the couch. The argument from earlier floating between you both as you were standing by an armchair across the room.

“We…we can still get her there.”

“We’re both too weak.”

“Not-not if we rest for a few days, get some decent meals in us. Water that we aren’t rationing to only what we can carry.”

“No, not even then. I’m too old, too worn down. You’re too injured, prone to get more so. We aren’t strong enough.”

“Joel-“ You pinched the bridge of your nose, head throbbing with the cold still waning from your trek to find Maria.

“You deserve better, dammit! Not some old fuck who can’t handle anything anymore!” His voice was loud, booming around the dusty living room and you jumped, not expecting it. You were sure Ellie could hear the hollering just as you had heard her a few moments before. Your hands were fisted at your sides, nails digging into the skin of your palms at the action. “You’re so insistent on keeping on with me when there’s no fucking reason! Like a damn thorn in my side, no matter how hard I dig I can’t get you out!”

“It’s not about what I deserve, you fucking idiot! It’s about what I want. And you’re it, Joel Miller.”

“Well, sometimes we don’t get what we want. I’m not your shot at a second chance to start a family. I’m too damn old for this shit. Playing pretend and ignoring the reality of the situation. We shouldn’t have started what we did, it just made things complicated. We were both weak, to give into that. Too stupid to see that it wasn’t moments of peace, it was damnation.”

“I don’t regret being that way with you.”

“Well I do. It wasn’t right, we were fools to think there weren’t strings attached to it. You have enough trauma with that kind of stuff for there not to be. With how you came onto me, propositioned me, I shoulda known you would get attached.” The words tumbled out of his mouth without a thought. The heat of the moment and the emotions swirling in him too much for common sense and decency to play a part.

All of the emotions of seeing his brother after so long, having been living in a safe and protected place while he had suddenly come into the care of someone he hadn’t had room in his stone cold heart to deal with. Losing the one person he had come to trust in his life, suddenly shackled with another woman who reminded him of her so much. Suddenly a father again and faced with a familiar silhouette that sparked too many hurtful memories.

“Oh.” Your face fell, no longer firm with determination as you fired shouts at him as fast as he had been doing to you. A heaviness settled in your chest as you schooled your expression into a blank one. You didn’t want Joel to see you cry, even as you felt the tears begin to well up, your face heated up as they did so. Your hands were still at your sides, when not two seconds ago your fists were clenched as you pleaded with the man to understand. But it was too late, he set fire to the bridge you two had cautiously and carefully built over the last four months with one breath.

“Shit, that-“

“No, no. I get it, I’m damaged goods. Too impure for you in your fuckin’ set southern ways. I guess we don’t owe each other anymore favors. I felt safe with you, I let my guard down with you, but I’m seeing it for what it was now. I was nothing more than an easy fuck to you. That’s all I’ve ever been to people in this damn forsaken world. God forbid I think I’m anything of substance, of anything more than that. I haven’t felt wanted since before my husband got slaughtered.”

You didn’t care how hoarse your voice was, the volume diminished now that your heart felt like it had been stabbed, wounded beyond repair.

The scar on your left arm was throbbing. The sensation to tear the skin open fleeting in your mind just as was the bloodied body of a past lover, of the men you had taken out after finding them retreating in deep snow, of your legs scratched and bruised from fighting one of them off to no avail. You opted to reach for your pack where you had set it beside an armchair. Joel was silent as he watched you try to pick it up, his fingers curling into his palm over and over again in that obvious nervous twitch of his. But you were too overcome with the situation to lift it, the weight of it too much for you. You crumbled to the ground, knees digging into the hardwood of the floor, your hands gripped tight on the fabric of the pack, knuckles white with the pressure. Tears rolled down your face, heavy and hot as your chest ached.

“At least everyone else had the decency to demand what they wanted from me, not play tricks in order to get it. I was honest with you, I meant what I said. But, maybe I should’ve been honest when it developed past that and that’s on me. Played me like a damn fool.” Your words wavered as they fell from your lips, no more fight to your voice. He had broken you, like he did everything he ever touched. “Savior complex rewarded by helping out someone in their time of need and then getting the reward. Should’ve seen it for what it was this whole time.”

No words came from him, no defense against himself, no admonishments for you and what you were thinking. All of the embraces, all of the reaching hands, all of the shared looks, tainted now. And there was no going back. He just watched the way you clung to your pack, crumbled down on the ground.

You didn’t say anything, head bowed over your hands still tangled in the handle of your pack. The tears were rolling down your cheeks, hiccups lofting into the air on every other intake of shuddering breath. You tried to tamp it down, not wanting the man to see you break down and continue to see you as weak, but being too overcome to realize it would make a lasting impression on him for the days to come either way.

“Tommy is going to take my post, he’ll help get you both to where you need to be. Dawn, it’s his call.”

His steps were heavy as he thudded past you, crossing the room. His coat being tugged on over his taut shoulders, entire body tense as he worried you would suddenly find a second wind. But you didn’t and he made it to the door. The sound of it closing behind him, the click of the handle sounding with a note of finality. Joel rubbed hard at his face, hand smearing the tears that had fallen from his own eyes over his heated skin. He looked up to see Tommy standing on the steps to the porch, frozen mid-step between two of them, gloved hand on the railing.

“Don’t.”

“Joel…”

“I said don’t, Tommy.” He clenched his eyes shut as the muffled sound of your cries sounded through the door. He didn’t think his heart could ever feel so heavy again, but he was proven wrong as he walked away from the house that was supposed to be some sort of future for all three of you. He was a damn fool too.

It could’ve been minutes; it could’ve been hours; you weren’t sure how much time had passed but eventually you made it upstairs and in a bedroom. You felt numb, body on autopilot as you undressed and regarded yourself in the vanity mirror. Steam filled the bathroom, swirling around you as you took in the state you had been left in, gutted.

The hits he had thrown at you weren’t physical, but you could feel them coloring your skin, tightening it around your ribcage, your knuckles, your temples. Weakening you beyond anything someone else could manage to do. Your eyes stung, dried out from the tears before you managed to detangle yourself from the pack and get up off the heap you had made on the ground down in the living room.

Hot water cascaded down your body, hurting when it made contact with the back of your neck, burning your skin pink. You choked on a sudden sob, bursting from your chest as you had the fleeting, naïve thought of sharing a shower with the man who had made it his mission to tear you apart.

Instead of sharing in your body in this way, he had taken chunks of it for himself with his teeth. Carrying you around with him as the blood stained around his biting mouth and underneath his clawing nails. Not in the way you had wanted, not in the way of a bruise sucked into his neck or scratches down his back, the phantom feeling of you wrapped around him or phantom whines in his ear. But this far more sinister way, where you got nothing in return.

The bed was a freezing contrast when you collapsed into it, though sleep didn’t come.

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dividers by the lovely @saradika-graphics

taglist: (trying to link everyone who's asked) @sawymredfox @narcissa-anastasia @ayamenimthiriel @rosaaeles @littlemisspascal @oscarissac2099

[procutemeister]

i could offer you a blacklit paradise (Malthus/Hilda)

3.1k | M | Complete

Inspired by the book, set during episodes 16-17. Sometimes, a Saint can celebrate Carnaval.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/52765969

[tim-drake-scholar]

Just in case you didn’t know I wrote a timbern fic 👉👈 it takes place after the events of TD:R and it’s quite domestic and angsty… but lots of fluff. It’s about Tim trying to find his place in Gotham as a young adult and trying to redefine his position in the batfamily, while also trying to introduce Bernard to his family and his ✨lifestyle✨ I would love it if people could check it out and give me feed back

[sergeantgoggles]

Should I work on my first cloneshipping long-term project or open up heart and color prompts for 24 hours and fill them?

[spankysparkles]

The Prophecy- FIC 24 IN RECTON SOLANGELO- OUT NOW! Description:

Rachel comes to the Hades Cabin at Camp Half-Blood and issues a prophecy to Nico. Due to the content of this prophecy, Nico desperately tries to act like it is somehow wrong or that he can change it in some way.

“Dark pits of the underworld call, A child of shadows must fall. Find the one who calls out your name, Who suffers and despairs for refusing to remain. Daughter of sleep must defend, Something of equal value will meet its end. Bringer of light will join its course, Lend a hand, and share your life force.” Read it from me on Wattpad here: https://www.wattpad.com/1498538131-the-prophecy-a-solangelo-story-chapter-1-nico%27s-p

Read it from my co-author and love of my life emonemo here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60849232