SHADOW

A/N A few quick important things about this story. It takes place after the events of Captain America: The Winter Soldier with a few distinctions: S.H.I.E.L.D was not dissolved and Nick Fury commissioned the Winter Soldier to be taken in on a rehabilitation project.

Story Rated M for sexual situations, death and language.

I have another bad, restless night so my workout starts early again, just as dawn breaks.

There's a fine vapour of morning mist in the air that turns my face dewy and sticks my fringe to my forehead; the sunrise is diluted into a haze in front of me through low cloud. The only sound is the regular in and out pant of my breath and my sneakers crunching against gravel as I run.

It's nice. The rest of Washington D.C. is still sleeping. There's the occasional blare of a car horn from the depths of the city as delivery vans start their rounds, but here, by the river, even the birds are quiet.

I reach the boat house and do some stretches on the river bank. I try to focus on really feeling the sensation of my muscles relaxing like my therapist told me to, so I can practice replicating it in situations I find stressful. The old me would have scoffed, but I've tried everything and so far and nothing has worked, so what the heck. Exercise as a prescribed medication is better than being on actual meds, which made me feel weird and spacey. I'd rather feel like the world was falling apart than walk round like a zombie and not be aware that there's a world outside of my own head at all.

After the third cycle of stretches I feel the near-constant knot of tenseness in the back of my neck finally start to unravel and fish the keys to the boat shed out of my rucksack along with my headphones and iPod. This is a cheat; all the music I listen to is supposed to be soothing and calming. Whale noises and ocean sounds that make me feel like I need to pee. But I'm competitive by nature and that kind of stuff doesn't carry me through a workout. As I kick off the dock in my little one-man rowing boat I stuff the headphones into my ears, letting a familiar crashing rhythm wash over me. Led Zeplin. An old boyfriend had got me into old 80s rock music and the obsession hadn't faded after our break-up.

The world successfully blocked out I dip my oars in the water and pull, each stroke becoming more powerful than the last as I fall into a familiar rhythm. Over the loud music I can barely hear the splash of water.

By the time I've reached my half-way point – the bridge which arches over the widest point of the river to transport traffic into the city – the sun is almost fully up and there are other joggers running along the adjacent paths. I turn round and head back for the boat house; so focused on my rowing that I never notice the figure on the bridge, coat flapping ominously round their knees.

It's past 8 AM by the time I heave my boat back onto its rack amongst all the other boats and lock up. The music's still going, my body pulsing with the relentless crashing beat as I bend over to ease a stitch in my side.

I sense his presence before he makes himself known and straighten, wrenching the headphones out of my ears in irritation and stuffing them into my rucksack on the ground before straightening and slinging the bag over my shoulder.

"Do you know what forced retirement means," I snap, stalking down the path towards home without checking to see if they are following. "It means we have a mutual agreement never to see each other again."

"Your retirement was conditional."

"On."

"You're mental health. It was stipulated in the paperwork –"

I whirl round, wrenching the hood of my jumper down, my hair practically bristling with anger. "You dropped me for PTSD you cold. Heartless. Bastard."

"You're redundancy package was quite substantial if I recall correctly," replies Nick Fury, rolling his eyes. Or eye. I confess I am surprise to see him patch-free, his right eye staring unseeingly at me – the kind of milky opaque colour that makes kids scared.

"I know you think you're good at it, but you suck at talking people into things, Nick. You know that, right?"

"You don't know what it is I'm trying to talk you into yet."

"Well whatever it is: no," I return, tapping my foot on the ground testily. I'm on edge. He's taken me by surprise. I never thought I'd see Nick Fury in person again and I'm not prepared to encounter him like this, as if he has appeared out of thin air.

Fury turns his head covertly as he waits for a cyclist to pass us by. "It wasn't a decision I took lightly to drop you, Alex. You were one of our best agents."

"Give me a break. I was a tool to you, like everyone else in that place…and when I broke, you threw me in the trash. Do you have any idea how it felt to lose my job? That was my life."

"Good. Then you should be jumping at the chance to have it back, then."

I don't think about any civilians that might be watching. I punch the director in the face. Hard.

"Don't you dare try to contact me again. Don't even think about coming near me," I spit, my hand throbbing. "We are done, Nick. You made that quite clear a year ago. My time at S.H.I.E.L.D is through."

He doesn't say anything as I hike my bag strap further over my shoulder and storm away. When I check to see if he's following me, I get a vicious kind of satisfaction that he is only watching me go – a hand to the side of his face, working his jaw silently.

God, I wish I'd done that a year ago.

Dr Angelina Quick has probably dealt with hundreds of ex-S.H.I.E.L.D agents like me over the years. You can tell because she thinks she has a way of dealing with us down to a fucking science and nothing ever seems to phase her. She's always unflappably patient and calm – and believe me, over our sessions, I've done a lot to try to break that cool exterior.

As I sit, wound up like a ticking time bomb across from her, she voices the question that I've been asking myself every time I come to one of these sessions.

"Why do you still come to these meetings, Miss Tsvetkov?" she asks, leaning back in her chair and steepling her fingers on top of my file. So far it is as thick as a phonebook. "I've had many patients of your sort over the years who just…disappear. Use their acquired skills to hide somewhere even S.H.I.E.L.D can't find them. Live out the rest of their lives under a new alias. Quieter lives. Better lives, maybe."

"Believe me, I've been tempted," I snap, snidely.

Dr Quick leans forwards over her desk, the S.H.I.E.L.D pin on the front of her white coat briefly catching the bright overhead lighting. "And yet, here you are," she says, opening her hands slightly. "Still here. Even after all this time."

I feel my hands ball into fists. Still here. Like a good doggy. Like the Shadow they called me. Now my codename is a more apt description than anyone could have imagined; this anger only hides a hollow shell of the person I once was. The thought triggers my hands to curl up a little tighter, my nails biting into my skin. "Yeah. After all this time. You know why? Because I'm still having panic attacks. Because I still can't sleep at night. Because whenever I think about Bulgaria I get this feeling in my head like it's going to god damn explode." I suddenly can't see, like there's this kind of red mist over my eyes. My emotions run away from me yet again. "One year! You were supposed to make it stop! That was the deal! That's what you promised me!"

"Is that true?" she asks – so calm I want to throttle her. Her voice is so steady I could throw something. When was the last time I exhibited Dr Quick's calm self-control?

"Is what true?" I snarl. I can honestly barely remember what I've just said. Incoherent yelling is something I find myself doing a lot.

"You've been having panic attacks?"

"Cut the bullshit. I know you guys are all in this together."

"Me and who, Alex?"

"You and S.H.I.E.L.D. I know you've all been watching me. I know my apartment's bugged. I see your guys tailing me in their little black SUV's 'incognito'."

Quick tilts her head. "Why didn't you take up Fury's offer to take you back?"

I laugh in her face. "I thought therapists were supposed to have the patient's best interests at heart? Not their bosses."

"I was merely asking how the situation made you feel. Why didn't you accept his job offer? Do you know why he wants you back?"

"Well I didn't wait round for a job description if that's what you mean. And whilst you're feeding all this back to Fury after our little 'therapy session' you can tell him there is no way I'm going back out onto the field. Ever."

"So it's a question of trust," Quick surmises.

I roll my eyes. "Amongst many, many other things."

She looks at me closely for several seconds, her brow furrowed. "Alex, what if I told you – truthfully – that Fury has no intention of re-hiring you as a spy."

"I'd say I don't trust you either."

Something in her eyes flickers and I'm perversely glad that my stubbornness is finally starting to irritate her. It's the same kind of satisfaction I got when I punched Nick. Maybe I just want people to realise that I'm hurting, instead of ignoring me or trying to fix me. Quick reaches for my folder and slips out a chunky file, pushing it across the table towards me. "This is an official S.H.I.E.L.D file I've been authorized to give you," she says. "You'll be aware of recent events. HYDRA's infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D – it was all over the news a few days ago and I'd be surprised if you –"

"I kept my own tabs on S.H.I.E.L.D. I don't need to rely on the TV," I reply – albeit absentmindedly. I am already reaching for the folder and rifling through it.

"- well, Fury wanted to sign you to a rehabilitation project. The Winter Soldier – or, rather, James Buchanan Barnes."

I pause and look at a tortured image of a man lying in a hospital bed – a ton of wires and electrodes taped to his head. The date under the image tells me the picture was only taken yesterday.

"What…what are they doing to him?"

"Roughly the same thing you are going through. Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. Combat Stress Support. Psych eval. The only difference is the ECT."

"ECT?"

"Electroconvulsive therapy. He lost his memories. We think this might help."

An unpleasant shudder creeps up the back of my neck and I shut the file, unable to look at it any longer. "Why me?"

"Take the file home for the night. Read it. Sleep on the idea," says Quick, suddenly busying herself with tidying her desk. "If you decide yes…well, you know where to find us."

I narrow my eyes. Of course they weren't going to tell me their true motives yet.

Still, I can't bring myself to leave the folder – much as my brain is nagging at me to. Some impulse makes me pick it up, slide it carefully into my rucksack.

When the door shuts behind me, I imagine Dr Quick immediately picking up the phone and telling Fury the good news: I'm caught in their web again.

A/N Edited 30/4/2018.

So there's the first chapter. Please review with any thoughts. What did you like? What did you not? Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Last Of The Lilac Wine