SHADOW


CHAPTER 7


Please. Oh God, please help me.

We're going to be okay.

I'm going to die.

You're not going to die, I promise. Just hold on a little longer.

Sun glare blinds me the moment I open my eyes and I shield my face with my hand groggily.

"Mom?" I ask – because I went to bed at two in the afternoon and the bright light of a new day confuses me. She appears in the doorway, and – seeing I'm awake – strides across the room, pulling the cord on the Venetian blind to let more sunlight in.

"It's nine o clock in the morning. You slept nineteen hours straight."

I try to role onto my back but the blankets are knotted round me. I grunt, struggling to disengage myself. I finally manage to kick the bedding onto the floor.

"How did you sleep?"

"Okay."

I sit on the side of the bed. Despite my Mom's assertion that I've slept almost an entire twenty-four hours I still feel awful. I run my hands through my hair and meet her gaze. By the look on her face she knows I'm not exactly feeling well-rested.

There's nothing either of us can do about that.

"Come on," my Mom says, "I'll make you breakfast."


In the bathroom after my shower I stare at myself in the slightly steamed mirror as I towel dry my hair. The right side of my face is discoloured from eye-socket to jaw. Moving my torso causes pain to lance through my ribs. Still, I've had worse.

I twist round and glance over my shoulder at the scars that catalogue my body. To date, I have been on a total of eighty-four missions. That's a lot for an operative my age. In the six years I worked for S.H.I.E.L.D I never once took a holiday or requested down-time. I just kept on working, relishing in every new mission. Every challenge felt like a fresh opportunity. It was only towards the end that I stopped enjoying the work.

I dress quickly in the spare clothes I keep at Mom's and walk carefully down the narrow staircase to the kitchen. I trail my hand over the glass faces of the picture frames that line the staircase wall. A mixture of black-and-white and modern, coloured photos chronicling the members of my mother's side of the family from my great grandparents standing outside their bread shop in a Bulgarian village to a picture of me on my first day of school.

In the kitchen my mother is already dressed for work down at the local Italian restaurant. Her grandparents brought her over to America when she was sixteen and she's worked to support herself from the moment she arrived. She never completed full-time education. I guess meeting my Dad had sort of been like a fairy-tale at the time.

There's the sound of the news going in the background, mixed in with the noise of Mom clattering around with a frying pan and the wind chime in the open window. My attention is grabbed by the highlights of the hearing of Agent Natasha Romanoff and I pick up the TV remote from the kitchen table and jack up the volume.

"To the White House's allegations that Miss Romanoff should be put in jail for the crimes she has committed –" says the news anchor, "- Natasha Romanoff (more widely known by her alias 'The Black Widow') had this to say:"

"You won't throw me in jail…" the edited footage displays Natasha saying in court, coolly, "…because you're going to need me."

Her words reminds me of her warning that HYDRA might still be out there, and my face tightens. I have to remind myself that HYDRA isn't my problem.

"Could that be you?" my mother asks, transferring some eggs from the frying pan onto a plate.

"What do you mean?"

"Should I be worried that the next hearing they show on TV about ex-S.H.I.E.L.D operatives is going to be one concerning my daughter?"

I'm slightly offended. "Mom, I haven't done anything half as sketchy as some of the stuff she's done. She worked as an assassin for the KGB before she defected here. I worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. There's a difference." I hope.

"Honey, it wouldn't matter if the worst thing you've done was file paperwork at that organisation. You're a Congressmen's daughter. That's big news."

"All the more reason to keep me out of the media – you know how Dad felt about me working for S.H.I.E.L.D."

She only sniffs; her way of conceding I have a point. "Are you going to cover up that black eye with some makeup before you head out to your meeting?"

I wave my sunglasses in front of her face before I move to kiss her on the cheek goodbye. "I've got these. I'll see you tomorrow."

"But – your breakfast –!" she protests. But I'm already out in the hallway.

"I'll be fine!" I call back, stepping out the door and slamming it shut behind me.

The weekly sessions for army veterans are held in the town hall down by the riverside. It's a nice day – sunny – which at least gives me pretext for the sunglasses. I'm directed by a smiling receptionist to the end of the hall to the big, open room on the left. I am one of the last people to arrive – almost every chair is full, but I have no inclination to sit, anyway. Once I've signed the register I move to stand in the corner of the room with my arms folded. It's clear that the other's think I'm a prize bitch because that's what everyone assumes when you're too cool to take your sunglasses off indoors. I ignore their stares.

Soldiers are different to spies. By job definition, they have an inability to make decisions that is not authorized by a higher-up. Special agents work in isolation from command for months at a time – it takes nerve; independence. My PTSD is not the same as theirs. They have the ability to blame it on extraneous circumstances. The ability to say – God forbid – 'I was just following orders'. But with independence comes responsibility. I was responsible for every single one of my actions in Bulgaria. This session will not help me. Or, at least, this is what I tell myself as our speaker comes and stands behind the podium at the front of the room.

I look at the man running the session as he talks. His name is Samuel Wilson. He asks everyone to call him Sam. He is dressed casually, and has the obvious look of ex-army. I feel like I know him from somewhere, but can't place his face. The talk lasts about half an hour, with the remaining half of the session allocated from group discussion.

When everyone has said their goodbyes and left, Sam Wilson busies himself with shuffling some papers on podium. I am still here. I feel like I need to get something out of coming here, but I can't figure out what.

You know," Sam says, not looking at me. "Don't you think it's a little bit dark to be wearing shades indoors?" I step out of the shadows into the center of the room and pull my sunglasses off, raising my eyebrows as I do so. He glances up at me and lets out a low whistle. "That is…one hell of a black eye. Where'd you get it?"

I shrug. "It doesn't hurt."

He laughs and shakes his head, stepping round the podium and walking towards me. "Nu-uh," he says. "You don't get to walk in here, all mysteriously, with your mysterious black leather jacket and sunglasses and just stand in the corner of the room through my session…mysteriously….and then give evasive-ass answers, Agent. What are you really doing here?"

I blink. "What makes you think I'm a special agent?"

"When S.H.I.E.L.D operatives stop dressing in all black the rest of us'll believe you guy when you say you're actually trying to blend in."

"Well," I say, bluntly, "it's ex-S.H.I.E.L.D agent now. So you're only half right."

His gaze softens. He realises I am here for the exact same reason everyone else was. "You know you'd benefit a lot more from these meetings if you actually joined in?"

"That would be sharing classified information." My mouth twists into a sarcastic smile. "Which I am not allowed to do. I normally don't mind breaking the rules, but that one I don't mind keeping."

"So why are you here?"

I shrug – then realise where I've seen him before. "You're the Falcon, aren't you?"

"That what now?"

"The Falcon," I repeat, dryly. "It's what the media are calling you. You know…'cause of the wings."

"The Falcon," he says, slowly, testing it. He grins. "Shit, I actually like that. Sounds god damn majestic – don't it, Cap?"

I turn, surprised, to see Captain American standing in the doorway.


A/N Edited 4/5/2018

I'm so glad you guys liked Alex's mum. As you can see, she plays a big role in Alex' life. Next chapter will have the all-important Steve interaction and we'll get more Bucky soon too, I promise!

Thanks for your lovely reviews thus far!

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