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Disclaimer: I don't own Avengers

"I lie to myself all the time, but I never believe me." - S.E. Hinton, The Outsiders

"My imagination will get me a passport to hell one day." - John Steinbeck, East of Eden

The raging hot water was soothing against her feverish skin.

The shower was calming, relaxing even. It allowed her to let go, without fear of what others saw. She could allow her jumble of emotions to leak onto her face, knowing that no one would be able to see her in this place of rare sanctuary. She would melt into the water and her mind would drift, without her having to keep her thoughts in check. The one time she could almost be at peace, or at least the loosest definition of peace.

She tried to turn her thoughts away from the man in the adjoining hotel room; she tried to block out the vision of the rustling dress bag hanging in her closet. She didn't need to think of those things right now. She needed to relax.

And yet, her mind still returned to what was happening outside of her small, dysfunctional haven. She couldn't control it, her mind had to focus on the mission at hand. She had to concentrate on it. It was in her nature to do so.

She stepped gingerly out of the shower and wrapped a soft, luxurious towel securely around her. She could stall no longer. With a pale hand, she wiped the condensation away on the large mirror. Her reflection looked smoky and insubstantial through the smear across the surface. Her hand lingered, brushing the reflection of her colorless cheeks. Her eyes seemed overlarge and misty, her face faded and drawn. Her fingers traveled up the mirror and rested on her wet, defeated hair. She remembered when she had cut it in an awful panic, so many years ago.

Her frantic fingers struggled to adequately grasp the thin, rusty scissors. The blood, the blood was matted into her hair, it was staining her once beautiful tresses, racing up her scalp. It would soon spread through her whole body, like an effective poison. Somehow, she had to stop it. She breathed in ragged pants, her pupils like saucers in the dim light of the room. She was soon hyperventilating as she raised her severely shaking hand before her. The blood, she had to cleanse herself of it, now. The soft red feathers floated down at her feet, and she continued to cut and saw with bright tears glowing in her eyes...

She snatched her hand back as if burned. She took deep breaths and closed her eyes, allowing the hot steam in the bathroom to seep through her every pore. There was a quiet knock at the door, and she could hear his even breaths. She must have made some noise of pain or surprise, perhaps both, or he wouldn't be outside the door.

"I'm fine," she murmured, wondering when she would ever tell anyone the truth. She heard his steps retreat out of the room, and she turned her back to the mirror while steading her breathing.

The dress was a sheer, black creature with a plunging neckline. She caressed it and stroked the fine material. Her deft fingers arranged her hair, and she fastened a small diamond necklace beguilingly around her swan-like neck. After applying simple makeup to her eyes and cheeks, she slipped into the dress. It felt strange and foreign to her, and her body rejected the restraint that the dress gave. But she still hooked her shiny black heels on to her feet, and left her room. She walked to his room, knocking delicately.

To say that she looked stunning would be an understatement, he noted immediately when he opened the door. Her eyes were framed by thick lashes, her cheeks glowing from the pink blush. She looked exquisite in the thin black dress that draped perfectly over her lithe and lean figure.

He would never say anything like that, of course. It made him angry, but he could only nod at her when she walked into his hotel room, looking like a beautiful angel bound to earth. He noticed the precious gem around her throat and could not help but wonder. Where did she get such a treasure as that? Was it, perhaps, an heirloom passed down to her from the relatives she never once mentioned to him or to anyone else? Or was it simply all part of the deception, another prop in her grand performance?

But he would never know, because he would never ask.

So he offered her his arm, and it gave him a forbidden thrill to feel her pressing into him, so close...

The hallway seemed longer with her fixed on his arm. He became aware of his every breath, of every whisper of her steps. He blinked wildly and walked slowly, as if in an impossible dream.

To say that reality is unjust and unforgiving would be a foolish oversight.

It is neither just nor unjust, neither forgiving nor unforgiving. It is simply truthful. And if the truth is brutal and harsh, so be it.

In his vicious imagination, she hung on his arm with all the beauty, grace, and love of the world. In his mind, she was devoted to him, and he to her. In his mind, they were passionately in love, and would be so until the day they died.

But when he opened his eyes wider, he could see that it was not so, and never would be so. She did not love him; rather, she was merely tolerant of him, and that was all that was true of his delusions.

He was startled to feel the phantom pains in his chest as he dreamed. In a sad awe, he realized that the aches were radiating from where his heart should have been.

But his heart had been ripped from him a long time ago, and he was left with the frustrating aches of longing in his empty breast and the delusions of a man choking on childish dreams.