I was dreaming, something important, something dark. No, not dreaming, remembering. What was is? I was just thinking about it...the harder I try to grip the memory the more diaphanous it becomes.
'Diaphanous'. What a lovely word. Why don't people use it more often?
My mind, through a long line of juxtapositions, slips into something rather similar to 'Les Miserables'. Except instead of France, it's Russia, and instead of 'Do You Hear the People Sing?' the mob and I are singing, 'The Farmer and the Cowman' from 'Oklahoma!'.
I know it's a dream, but it's too fabulous to question. I'm not about to ruin it with logic.
As we reach the chorus of "Territory folks should stick together. Territory folks should all be pals," a flash of action on a side street catches my eye. It was very fast, but I'm almost positive it was Natasha punching somebody in the face.
"What's she doing here?" I wonder aloud.
"Isn't she Russian?"
I turn to see Clint standing beside me in his combat gear. "Shouldn't you know?"
"I do, but I'm not me. I'm your projection of me," he explains with a smug smile.
"Right. Talking to myself, as per the norm."
"I don't exactly appreciate this though." He holds up what should be his bow but is instead a large slingshot.
"Well how else could you fire water balloons at a high velocity?" I ask, gesturing to the satchel he's wearing that's filled with them.
His hand flies behind his head, finding nothing. "What'd you do to my arrows?" he questions irritably.
"They're dangerous." I sniff.
"We're marching with a mob," he says flatly.
"Yeah, but it's the flash kindâ you know, singing and dancing ânot the pitchforks and torches kind. No one's going to get h-hurt." I stumble over my words as I feel warmth pooling across my thigh. Looking down, I see a bright stain of blood. "How'd that get there?" I mutter softly.
"Why?" Clint's repulsed tone catches my attention. I turn to follow his gaze. "Why would you put Tony and Bruce in tights?"
My eyes land on them and I sputter. Both shirtless, Tony is holding a flashlight in each hand and wearing a pair of red men's tightsâ ballet style âand Bruce is wearing the same only in black. Oh, and he's painted green.
"Clearly, it's so they can dance?" I answer lamely. Vague music filters through and I catch snippets of lyrics like "science bros" and "makin' stuff up and figuring things out."
Subconsciously, I'm obviously a lyrical genius.
"Is 'the other guy' really that vibrant a shade of green? It's almost familiar..." I glance down to see that my other, nonstained pant leg has been eaten away â almost like it was burned, and I can't seem to see the skin beneath. It's just fuzzy and out of focus. I'm getting a headache trying to make sense of it, so I look back up and grimace as Tony and Bruce continue to prance about â pirouetting and spinning.
"I'm so glad I never remember my dreams. This is something I'd pay to forget," I mutter as Tony leaps into the air to be caught by Bruce.
I turn back to Clint to see that we're now sitting in some sort of theater and they're on the stage. He's in the row behind me, so I have to twist quite far to talk to him. "Can we get out of here? I'm really not into watching middle-aged men plié."
"But the movie's just starting," he whines.
I face forward to see some black and white film being projected onto the screen that had appeared while my back was turned. Footage of soldiers storming the beaches of Normandy.
"I don't want to watch a war movie," I groan to myself. They're always so depressing.
"You'll like this one," Clint promises, leaning near my ear like a creeper.
The scene shift to a nondescript camp and my attention is drawn to two soldiers in particular. They seem so familiar, but the picture quality is too grainy for me to make out their faces properly.
"Ah," Clint sighs with light mocking. "The G.I. Bros."
The film snaps into sharp focus and I realize that it's Steve and James. Suddenly interested, I lean forward to watch more closely. There's no sound, but I can see that they're laughing and talking happily with each other and whoever passes by. Even in a warzone, their ease and familiarity with one another is plain.
"This is such a load of hogwash," I hear from my left.
"Completely. Do you honestly think the war was this much fun?" A scoffing voice questions from my right.
"I don't like watching sad movies," I answer, looking to James and Steve who are sitting on either side of me. They're in their dress greens, passing a tub of popcorn across me.
Steve slurps his soda. "It's okay to feel sad, you know. You can't always be happy. Besides, bad things happen. Life isn't all sunshine."
"You should know that, Anne." James stuffs some over-buttered popcorn in his mouth. "Both your parents are dead â kind of your fault; your best friend/crush has fallen for the girl next door â who isn't you; your attempt at making a new friend ended with you being tortured and almost killed â great show of discernment there."
"Tortured...?" I trail off, looking down. A knife has appeared in the midst of the bloodstain on my pants. My blurry leg has focused into a horrific mangle of gooey flesh. My left arm and hand are bent at nauseating angles. It becomes impossible to breathe deeply and I'm left with shallow gasps.
I feel my heart flutter and my stomach fall as I start to remember.
"There's more though, isn't there, Anne?" James pushes with a dark smirk I've never seen him wear before.
Steve picks up where James stopped. "You watched a man die from the knife you put in him. You killed someone, Anne. But the worst part," he lets loose a grim laugh before leaning in and whispering in my ear, "The worst part is that you don't even feel guilty about it. Bucky thinks he's a monster and he's eaten alive by the guilt he feels every day for killing people he can't even remember. But you, taking a man's life without even a lick of remorse â what do you think that makes you, Anne?"
âoâ
The smell of french fries wakes me.
I shift in a bed, wondering where I am. I can't quite open my eyes yet, but I know I'm not home. The smell is too chemically clean, the sheets too stiff, and the air too open and cold. I try to move my right hand to rub my face, but something stops it, weighing it down.
"Careful there, tiger. Those are all that stand between you and a world of hurt; you wouldn't want to pull them out," a voice advises from beside my bed.
I slide my eyes open â noticing the swelling has completely gone down on my right eye â before groaning and closing them again. Everything is heavy and aching terribly and my head feels...silly.
"What? Need another hit? Your morphine dose is already pretty high." Tony is quiet again, probably to eat another fry.
"No," I slur. "I can't feel my face."
"Then what's with 'The Walking Dead' impression?"
I peer at him again. "I see four of you â I'm clearly having a nightmare."
He snorts. "Sounds like a swinging time to me."
"Please. You'd find it interesting for about three seconds before you'd miss having the spotlight directed at your solo performance." I smirk a little (and repress a gag) as a flash of my dream floats to my mind.
Tony smiles gently back, seemingly unoffended. "We thought we might've lost you for a minute there, kid. Good job not dying."
My smile falls as I remember the end of my dream. "Yeah, good for me," I offer lamely. I drop eye contact under the pretense of taking in the room.
It looks like a hospital room but, well, 'fancy'. Everything is streamline and surprisingly high tech. There are no windows, just concrete walls again, it feels a bit too familiar actually. I feel my heartrate pick up speed before I realize it's beeping out my feelings on a monitor.
Tony glances at the readings. "You doing okay?"
I force a smile and nod. "Just, disoriented."
"Waking up to see this face can do that do you," he smirks, trying to put me at ease.
Playing along, I roll my eyes. "I thought that was the explanation for the nausea."
"Ah, butterflies," he corrects. "I'm flattered. You're a bit young for me though." He looks down to the plate of fries he's holding. A look of distaste paints his face. But he munches on another one.
Aside from Tony and me, the room is quite empty.
"Are the others okay?" I ask quietly. Tony has a cut on his eyebrow and a bruised cheek, but seems fine other than that.
"Bruce and Blondie were untouched. The Newbie only suffered some tech damage â I fixed it up no problem. The Grumpy Old Men had, between them, a black eye and a split lip for about half an hour before their enhanced healing took care of it. Cupid had a minor graze from a bullet, not even limping. Red got twelve stitches in her arm but you can't tell by the way she moves. And yours truly got busted up a bit, but I think it just adds to the 'devilishly charming rogue' factor." He grins devilishly, proving his point.
I relax knowing they're mostly okay. "Where, um..." I trail off, not sure how to ask without being annoying.
But he seems content to continue answering my questions. "Nat and Clint are trying to get in touch with some contacts about finding where Bill Fuller is hiding-" he pauses when he sees my expression. "Bill is who uh, sent the video."
My stomach churns, for real this time.
'Having his actual name put to his face is unsettling. Makes it feel more real, somehow. And "Bill Fuller"? Aren't villains supposed to have blatantly evil names like "Damian Blood"? What an innocuous name for someone so...so...unspeakable.'
Tony clears his throat and hurries along with his rundown. "Bruce is in the lab checking out your scans and blood samples. We just want to make sure those drugs they gave you won't have any lasting effects. Viking Barbie had to go back to Asgard, said they're worried about fairies or something. You'll meet Birdbrain later, and Barnes and Steve are in Interrogation." He puts a hard emphasis on Steve's name and gives me a knowing smile.
Never a good thing when coming from Tony.
But something else he said catches my attention. "Drugs? H-How did you know...?"
"The initial blood panel showed abnormal results. We drew more blood for another round of more detailed tests," he explains easily.
I relax a little. "So Bill didn't send you any other, um, footage...?"
Tony shakes his head. "No, but I dumped all their files while I was in their control room. SHIELD has the hard copy."
I feel sick. "Y-You kept a copy?"
He nods, like it was obvious. "Of course. They're heavily encrypted â like that'll stop me. It might take a day or so, but someone's gotta keep our nosey government agency pals on the up-and-up."
"Tony, please...don't watch the security camera recordings. Please don't let any of the others see it..." I plead but I have little confidence he'll listen.
A look of confusion slinks across his eyes but it's gone when the door to my room swings open.
"Anne." Steve practically sighs my name in relief as he crosses to stand by Tony on my right side.
"Geez, how'd you get here so fast? Start running from Interrogation as soon as JARVIS told you she woke up?" Tony asks with a grin.
Steve shifts as he answers, "I was already on my way here."
"You left the bionic assassin alone with the prisoner? Why Cap, is that ethical?" he asks, feigning horror.
He gives Tony a flat look. "Nat called Bucky up for help on something a while ago. He'll probably be along shortly," he adds for my benefit.
"And here I thought we'd made some real progress on murkying your ethicality." Tony rolls his eyes. "Sitting so close to all this moral fiber is going to send me straight to the bathroom. I'll see where the doctor is who's being paid an exorbitant amount to play hooky." He stands and smiles insinuatingly at me. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
Since I don't plan on antagonizing Steve, I don't make any promises.
The smug look that Tony gives us from the doorway, like he's doing us a favor, makes my heart drop. He probably saw the security tape from when James and I were in the training room... If he says anything, I'll smack him. Can I smack Iron Man? Would I get arrested for superhero assault? Is that more or less serious than regular assault? Doesn't matter, I don't want to risk breaking my hand on his ego.
As soon as the door closes behind him, Steve relaxes and sits down. "You're looking well," he smiles gently and holds my right hand.
I stifle a giggle â 'side note: a giggle? I don't do giggles. Morphine is no good for avoiding mortification. Nothing good will come of this.' â"and you're a terrible liar. I can't see my face, but if it looks like the rest of me, it can't be pretty."
"It's a little rough," he concedes with a kind grin. "But you are looking better, your shiner is completely gone."
"How long was I nappin'? 'Cause I'm seriously identifying with Smaug here."
He gives me a curious look.
"You know, Smaug, the dr-"
"Dragon from 'The Hobbit', dispossessed the dwarves of Erebor, destroyed Dale, voiced by that Sherlock guy â Benjamin Columbo, or something, in the new movies. I know who Smaug is, I don't see the connection."
I snort at his easy revelation of his geeky side. "It's Benedict Cumberbatch, you delightful nerd. You should remember that for future reference. You might think Hyrdra fighters are tough, but fangirls can be ruthless."
Steve shakes his head, smiling. "Anyway, you're Smaug because?"
"Right." I clear my throat and lower my voice as deeply as I can, "My breath â death." I cough a little at how scratchy that was and continue in my regular voice. "Any chance I can brush my teeth or rinse my mouth out with some holy water or something?"
"I doubt Stark has any holy water on hand, but I'll see what I can do about a toothbrush and toothpaste. And four days." He swallows. "You've been out for four days. I um, I was worried about you." Steve drops his eyes to our hands, clearly uncomfortable.
I frown and, before I can stop myself, I reach up and stroke his cheek. Why is he sad? Don't be sad. You're too cute to be sad. When you're sad, puppies cry â that's how sad it is when you're sad. Don't make puppies cry.
He glances up, arresting my movement with his big, blue eyes. We stay that way for a moment before he gives a small smile. "Puppies cry, huh? That's pretty bad."
It feels suddenly quite hot. I drop my hand back to the bed. "I said that out loud. That's totally not a reason for me to be embarrassed. Have I mentioned that I'm on morphine? That's an opiate, isn't it? Mind altering, one could say."
"One could say." Steve's smile has grown. "But I'm pretty sure you've always been like this."
"I always act like I'm strung out?" I ask, more to myself than actually looking for an answer. I crinkle my nose at him. "I do not. You big bully."
"Me?" he scoffs playfully. "I don't know if you know this, but I'm Captain America." He taps his chest for emphasis. "I fight bullies." Steve smiles sweetly and rubs the back of my hand with his thumb. Which is when I realize that he had taken it again, without my noticing, easy as breathing.
'How did I miss that?'
The door swings open again and a doctor breezes in.
"Ah, Anne. You're looking well!"
I share a sidelong glance with Steve and we both grin.
âoâ
Dr. Reilly asks me the basic questions to gage how I'm doing and she informs me that I'm going to be confined to bed rest for a few days and, after that, a wheelchair. I guess the combination of a shot to the torso that resulted in a broken rib and partially punctured lung, a stab wound to a major muscle group in one leg and the consumption via acid of one quarter of the same muscle group in my other leg is not conducive to ambulation.
She didn't address it specifically, but I'm a little concerned about walking again. Does muscle grow back from an acid burn? Or will I turn into a non-brilliant, non-doctor version of House? That would be unfortunate as those are the only two things he really has going for him.
What she did say, however, was that I seem to recovering remarkably well. The various cuts that covered my right arm have almost completely healed and both my legs and gunshot wound are further along than she would've expected.
After Dr. Reilly leaves, I hint to Steve that I'm feeling rundown, which is true. He kindly tells me to get some rest and to have JARVIS let Bucky know when I'm up for a visitor â as Steve is sure Bucky'll want to see me as soon as he can. Once I agree, Steve leaves and I'm alone. My eyes close and my shoulders slacken. Pretending that everything is fine is exhausting. I allow a moment to collect myself before I address the other reason I wanted Steve to leave.
"Excuse me, JARVIS?"
"Yes, Miss?" he responds immediately.
"Would you please tell Dr. Banner that I have some information on the drugs I was given? But please make sure that when you tell him, he's the only one who hears and also that when he comes to talk to me, he comes alone. It's nothing serious," I hastily add, thinking that JARVIS may have programming to make him notify the others if he has reason to suspect that something is wrong. "It's just personal."
"Of course, Miss."
I realize that Tony must've had JARVIS stop calling me Ãowyn once they got me back. Something about that makes me a little sad.
âoâ
It's a while before Bruce comes to see me and I've nearly fallen asleep. When the doors open, I jolt; which pulls on my stitches. I'm certainly wide-awake now.
"Anne," he starts hesitantly. "You're looking-"
"If you say I'm looking well, I'm going to have to hurt you. Just because I'm in a hospital bed doesn't mean that I like polite lies any better than I would normally."
"Fair enough," he smiles, showing that he knows I'm at least partially teasing. "How are you feeling?"
I gesture to my left arm and fingers. "Like Ãowyn Splinthand," I joke, wondering if that's too far removed from 'Edward Scissorhands' to be funny. "But at least I don't feel nearly as drunk as when I first woke up."
This seems to interest him and he glances at the chart at the foot of my bed. He hums. "They haven't decreased your morphine." Glancing up at me, he asks, "Are you in any more pain? We may need to change your medication or adjust the dosage."
I shake my head. "Nope. My body still hurts, but it's manageable. I can just think clearly now.
Bruce's face puckers a little like it does when he's working something out.
"But that might be at least partially explained by what I wanted to talk to you about." I have his attention again. "They drugged me, as you know, and I figure that the more I can tell you about it, the easier your job will be."
He affirms my assumption with a nod of his head. "Shouldn't Dr. Reilly be here?"
"I don't think it's going to negatively effect my health at all. And if it was going to react with the morphine, wouldn't it have done so already? If you disagree by the end of my explanation, I'll tell Dr. Reilly."
Once Bruce agrees, I begin with a question. "What, exactly, do you guys think happened to me?"
"Well, we saw the video, of course. So we know Bill, well, Bill obviously hurt you when you arrived to motivate our cooperation to get you out of there. Once he realized they were infiltrating the base, he shot you to buy himself some time to escape," he lays out carefully.
I nod. That's close enough and I'd rather they not know about the torturing for information on the team (mostly on Steve). "Anyway, there were injections. Pitch- Bill called it an inhibition serum. It was kind of a golden color. I think he said that it would help my neurons make connections so I wouldn't forget anything and it would be a lot harder to try to lie." I look down to my hands. "I got it, maybe four or five times? It was always to the base of my skull. It didn't really hurt, just felt funny. And when it was active, I felt like I had to say whatever was going through my mind, like there was a bypass that cut straight through my better judgment. I did what I could to think about innocuous, unhelpful things."
I look back up at Bruce as I catch my breath from all that talking. He didn't say anything, just listened quietly. It's one of the reasons I decided to tell Bruce and not the others. As scared of him as some people may be, I find his presence to be pretty calming. Even though I'm sure he suspects what I'm hiding, he doesn't interrupt or push it.
"An inhibition serum?" He thinks for half a second. "Well, if it's still partially active, that could explain why you're not as affected by the morphine. It's compensating for the morphine's inebriating effect, leaving you feeling as you normally would."
"That isn't all though. He gave me something else, and I don't know if it's important..." This is the part I feel most uncomfortable sharing. I look back down to my hands. "At one point, um, my heart, stopped. When I woke up again, he had an empty syringe in his hand and said he'd given me 'something similar to epinephrine. Mostly.' It's the 'mostly' that has me concerned."
There's a thick silence as I wait for Dr. Banner to say something. When he does speak, his tone is very slightly strained. "Do you know anything else about this second injection?"
I think for a moment. "Um, I'm pretty sure he gave it to me in one of my kidneys, or right around there. It felt...different, when I woke up."
"He might've injected it straight into one of your adrenal glands â they rest on top of the kidneys." Bruce pauses before he moves a step closer and gently puts a hand on my shoulder. "That was good, Anne. It'll help us figure out what he gave you."
I nod without looking up. "Please don't tell the others the specifics. They don't need to, to know everything..."
A small sigh escapes from his mouth. "All right, but I think you're wrong in this. It'll help to talk through things."
I remain silent.
"If you want to talk again, about anything, I'm glad to listen."
My eyes blur, but I risk a glance up as I nod. Of course he would understand how it feels to want to keep a part of yourself secret to protect the people around you. I'm being such a baby about this. "Thanks, Bruce."
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A/N: That dream sequence was fun to write. I don't do drugs. Promise. The beginning is actually from a dream I had. It was so weird, I had to share it.
I just realized whilst writing this chapter that one of the reasons I like Mark Ruffalo's version of Bruce Banner so much is because he reminds me a lot of Daniel Jackson from SG-1. This realization made me squeal like a little piglet.
*Sigh*
So, confession time. I've written a few more chapters but I've lost all steam for writing anything and I'm having a heck of a time trying to get to the next story beat from where I left off. This means that I might not update quite as frequently as I have been and the updates may be on the shorter side just so I have more time to work out where the story's heading.
I'm sorry about that, but I'm kind of a perfectionist and I want to do what I can to post a good, cohesive story for you guys.
On that note, do any of you have any suggestions for getting creative juices flowing? I've tried just sitting down and making myself write something, but what I've written is...well...just not the right fit and very stilted.