- PART FOUR -
- POOR WAYFARING STRANGER -
Chapter Thirty-Five
✭
"Sorry, Mia," Steve said, shaking his head. "We scrubbed all security footage in the area, but we couldn't find any evidence of someone entering or leaving the cemetery at the time you were there."
"You got nothing?" My jaw dropped. When Steve shook his head again, my shoulders sagged, hands dragging down my face. "But I know I saw someone there. Someone had to leave those flowers…"
He sat at the kitchen booth in Aunt May's apartment, his laptop facing me. Its screen was divided into quadrants, showing grainy footage of the cemetery's four exit points of the past day. I was able to review images of myself and Peter running into and out of the cemetery - but no one else. Since I'd seen that strange figure at my mother's grave the other day — after finding the flowers and the bullet casing — I had called Steve almost immediately.
His response time was impressive, and heartening. I was glad he took it seriously, and was so thorough. I'd been on edge until now, reviewing this footage. Sleep had been difficult last night, and no amount of hugging little blue aliens or watching bee hives could help.
A part of me had hoped I was overreacting, but now I was disappointed that turned out to be true. In the end, I didn't want to be wrong. I didn't know why.
This news coincided with Sunday family dinner — now with guests. Sam Wilson was a surprise visit — apparently he and Steve were traveling together, although neither had said why yet. Still, he and Aunt May seemed to be getting along swimmingly; Sam returned the favor of getting a place at the table, sharing his grandmother's patented gumbo recipe, and helping her with the cooking.
(And possibly flirting, if Aunt May's giggles were anything to go by).
"I know. We checked the days before, too, just to cover our bases. But no man with those flowers you described. You sure it was male?"
"Positive," I said, although now I was doubting what I saw at all. A tall male, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark coat and a baseball hat. But it'd been so far away, I could've easily mistaken some statuary or shadow for a human silhouette. The shape hadn't moved, either, not in the few seconds I'd been staring at it. Just there, then gone when I got close.
Not exactly an inspiring testimony.
God. Was I just seeing things now? Hallucinating threats — people — that weren't there?
Guess the consternation on my face must've been obvious. Steve's hand rested over mine, warm, squeezing softly. "It's okay, Mia. It's probably nothing. Maybe one of your mother's old friends left that behind for her."
"And the casing?"
"We checked for prints. Didn't find any. It's probably just someone's pocket litter they left behind when passing the grave."
"What kind of person keeps empty bullet casings in their pocket?" I asked skeptically.
Steve didn't have an answer for that right away. He grimaced slightly. "...People who want to protect the environment?"
I had a different idea; someone who doesn't want to leave evidence behind. But then why leave it at a grave-site? Was it supposed to represent a past event? I may have had a few fake deaths, but none of them were by bullet. Unless you were counting Sokovia…
"And you haven't noticed anything else strange?" Steve asked, tilting his head in concern. I just shook my head no; I'd been on constant alert for the past two days, but admittedly had seen nothing else before or after. He just sighed, and gave me a sort of half-smile. "Well, that's good. And you've been doing okay, besides all this?"
"Yeah," I mumbled, frowning at the security footage. I felt embarrassed now; Steve had gone through all this effort, went through resources that definitely wasn't SHIELD anymore to get me this, and it was all for nothing. A false alarm. "School's been fine. Caught up with all my homework. I think I've been impressed into a club by MJ…"
"How medieval," Steve smirked, but it faded a little. He lowered his tone, as if to speak privately while Aunt May cooked (and was most certainly eavesdropping) at the stove fifteen feet away. "You know, it's normal to have reactions like this after something… after what you'd been through. It's happened to me, too. After a bad battle in the war, I used to see things in the trees. Soldiers, enemies. The men were always a little jumpy, ready to shoot even when they're behind the lines. Hypervigilant, ready for the next fight."
I frowned at him. "So what do you do, then? How do you make it go away?"
Steve just shrugged. "Aside from waiting it out? Nothing much. It's not something you can just turn off. Not in my experience, at least."
Well, that was depressing. My shoulders sagged further, and I slumped forward, leaning against the table. Steve's totally rational explanations for these things were both infuriating and humbling. To have my experience disproven, but also to have a different point of view I hadn't considered. I knew, deep down, that I was probably overreacting. That maybe I wanted it to be more interesting, more special than it really was. To make my reaction seem valid and completely reasonable once put into context.
But maybe it wasn't.
I shook my head to clear my thoughts, then closed the laptop and pushed it back towards Steve. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to waste your time over nothing."
"Hey, it's alright, I was glad to help," Steve replied, completely at ease. He offered me a smile. "It helped take it off your mind, didn't it? That's good for something."
I nodded once, trying to smile back, but it was only half-hearted. I still felt stupid for how this turned out.
"You guys' still talking about the mystery man at the cemetery?" Sam flopped into the bench next to Steve, bumping into him with enough force to make Steve shift over and give him more room. Sam, seemingly oblivious, lounged back as casual as could be. For someone who I hadn't seen since before the event, and had several violent encounters during said event, he was entirely at ease around me. "I think it was Colonel Mustard with the candlestick."
"Your jokes get worse every day." Steve said.
"Says the man who doesn't know what Clue is."
"I know what Clue is." Steve scoffed, folding his arms. He paused, then glanced at me. "It's that — that cartoon with the detective kids and the talking dog, right?"
My only response was to grimace and shake my head, while Sam made a buzzer noise. He patted Steve on the shoulder, as if consoling a loser. "Close, but no cigar! We'll brush up on your board games later."
The expression on Steve's face said he wasn't looking forward to it.
"Well, on another note, thank you for welcoming me here at Chez Parker," Sam continued without missing a beat, gesturing from himself to me. "You're looking a lot better than when I last saw you, Mia. How're things?"
Sam conveniently left out the detail of that last time we met being me throwing him across a freeway — or maybe falling out of the sky. Still, he said it in such a jovial manner that made me think he had no hard feelings about it. I certainly never had the chance to explain to him what had happened to me or why I did those things. Either Sam was incredibly open-minded and forgiving, or maybe Steve gave him the lowdown on my situation. I was betting on the latter.
"It's been alright," I said in a bit of a mumble. It was my standard answer to that question, which I've been getting a lot (and was getting tired of). It was sort of the truth, in the way that I was physically alright and not feeling like death. Trying to be a bit more upbeat, I said, "The hearing in my ear came back, so that's nice."
"Alright!" as I'd hoped, Sam responded positively to that, throwing out his arms. "Damn, I wish I had some of that super soldier regeneration. My shoulder is still killing me after all that, you know? That's the last time I catch you out of the sky after a big breakfast," he added, nudging Steve in the side.
"What can I say?" Steve just raised his eyebrows, feigning innocence. "You make great pancakes."
"You bet I do," Sam grinned, preening at the compliment. He turned to me and said, "So, Mia, your aunt — who is lovely, by the way — told me you're seeing a counselor, right? And I just wanted to say kudos, not a lot of people can take that step. I hope it works out well for you."
"Oh," I said, flushing a little, wondering how much Aunt May might've said. The turn in the conversation certainly caught me by surprise; only Sam could pull off such an easy segue. At the very least, I didn't expect to be congratulated on it. I just hunched up my shoulders and averted my gaze. "It's… it's no big deal."
"It is a big deal!" Sam replied, smacking the tabletop lightly. Not in a disagreeable way. Encouraging, really, with his bright smile. "It's hard to talk about these things, and I've worked with a lot of people, a lot older and more experienced than you, who refuse to go there. It takes strength. Don't forget that."
That thought seemed silly to me. I'd only been to two sessions so far, and no real progress had been made. Just drove to a building and sat in someone's office. I didn't see it as brave. In fact, I was dreading the next session — they were scheduled every Tuesday after school, which officially made Tuesday the worst day of the week for me.
"He's right, you know," Steve added, bobbing his head towards Sam and giving me a smile.
"Oh, I bet that hurt to say," Sam said, more in jest than an actual taunt. He beamed at Steve, adding, "And you've got us idiots around, too," Sam clapped a hand on Steve's shoulder (earning a side-eye), "You know, if you ever want to bounce a thought around. Steve even gave you a special ringtone on his phone, after I showed him how, of course —"
Steve made a noise of complaint. "Hey, I figured that out on my own —"
" — You wanna know what song he chose for you?" Sam grinned mischievously, ignoring Steve even as the other man tried to shrug his hand off. Sam just wrapped his arm around Steve's neck and leaned in, clearly enjoying this too much. "Go ahead, call him!"
" — Alright, that's enough —" Steve said, then raised his hand when he saw me pulling out my phone. "Hey, Mia, wait —"
Sam whistled at the sight of it. "Damn, I haven't seen one of those bricks since 2005."
My new phone (my old one somewhere in the wreckage of the Triskelion) was a classic Nokia brick cell — all red plastic shell with a number pad. It was a little fancier than the models of yore, now with a touchscreen and a camera — but decidedly lower tech than the standard iPhone or Samsung. It didn't hold many apps, no social media or bluetooth, music that had to be added from a computer, and just basic texting and phone calls. I'd cut myself off from pretty much every social media site I'd been using before, so it was no real loss.
I'd specifically asked Aunt May for one like this, after deciding that a regular smartphone was too easy to be traced. And considering how damn expensive they were, better to get something under a hundred dollars in case I ended up throwing this one away, too, in the event of an emergency.
It also had great battery life.
And, as it turned out, Steve's ringtone for me was Frank Sinatra — I recognized the tune to New York, New York almost instantly.
"Hey, look, a smile!" Sam said — I'd been so surprised that I'd started to laugh despite myself. "See, I told you she'd love it."
"Ha-ha," Steve said, with a good-natured roll of his eyes. "That's the last time I ever ask you for help with anything…"
Aunt May called for my help in the kitchen, so that was my cue to leave. The seats of the booth were made of a shiny, old upholstery, worn smooth with age — perfect for sliding in and out fast. As kids, Peter and I used to throw ourselves across them as fast as we could. Which is exactly what I did now, suddenly possessed by a rascally spirit, throwing my tush across the seat, hitting the floor with both feet and shooting to stand.
Out of the corner of my eye, Sam flinched.
It was small, subtle. He didn't even move, more just a flicker in his expression. I might not have even noticed it on another day. But I did.
And it stuck there, in the back of my mind, as I went to help Aunt May set up the dining table.
Trying not to act too weird, I watched Sam as everyone came together. The way he stayed on the other side of the counter when I handed him the casserole dish. Letting me pass first before following — keeping me in his line of sight, never quite turning his back to me. Peter, who up to this point had been doing homework in his bedroom, was the first to sit down. I tried not to think too hard about it when Sam chose the seat furthest from me — he'd been the last to sit down, and the only other seat was right next to mine. He'd been completely gracious through it all, not a single gesture or comment that could even be considered rude or suspicious.
But it still felt different.
Did Sam not trust me? Not that I wouldn't blame him if he did; I was acting exactly like that, right now, just not with anyone in particular. Aside from those little details, Sam had all the demeanor of a man at ease. Was it just an act?
It's nothing, I told myself. I was just overthinking again. Seeing things that weren't there.
All throughout dinner, my mind ran in circles. First on Sam, then back onto the man in the cemetery. Like a dog with a bone, I couldn't let go of the thought that it was all what Steve had called it — hypervigilance. I didn't really taste the food as I ate it, just chewed thoughtfully as the gears in my head spun round and round. Was this becoming a problem? What else was I seeing that wasn't really there? A round of laughter jolted me out of my thoughts. Sam had said something funny but I'd missed it.
I couldn't find the will to participate in the conversation at the table. Thankfully, Sam seemed very capable at holding everyone's attention. Easily the life of the party, he kept everyone at the table talking, well after all our plates were empty. Although I wasn't paying attention, every time I zoned back in, the conversation had changed to a different topic. First work, then where he was from, then music and travel, then something about a movie both he and Peter had seen...
Too restless to just sit and listen, stewing in my own thoughts, I excused myself early. After being cooped up for two days, lost in a state of paranoia, I had to get some fresh air. Hounded by the thought that maybe Sam wasn't as comfortable around me as I initially thought, I figured maybe leaving the room would make the both of us feel better. I definitely didn't want to make a point of it out loud.
The rooftop was blessedly quiet. I sat on that same ten gallon bucket, lifting my chin to greet the cool breeze that swept my hair back. With spring now in full swing, the sun set later, and there were still a few bees out and about in the last minutes of daylight. From where I sat, I could almost see the cemetery from here — out to the east, hidden behind a rise of apartment complexes. Everything was cast in long, deep shadows, red and golden light sweeping across the sides of buildings and houses.
"I thought I'd find you up here." A voice said — I looked around, startled. Steve, by the rooftop door, giving me a smile. I relaxed at the sight of him, waving a little. "Mind if I join you?"
I nodded once, reaching for a nearby bucket and flipping it over; offering him an improvised seat. Steve sauntered over and sat down, and looked at me. I was looking at my hands. Steve began slowly, "You know you can talk to me, right? You can tell me anything, whatever's on your mind. And I won't tell your aunt, if you don't want me to."
That earned him a side glance, and Steve capitulated with a wincing shrug. It had gone unsaid the matter of him and Aunt May's private talks — of which I did not know existed until recently, and now knew that if I told one something, the other was likely to hear about it, too. In the back of my mind, I wondered if that's what it was like, having multiple parents. Nothing was a secret unless you ask first.
"I'm fine," was all I said, deciding not to begrudge him about it. Was I a little angry? Yeah, sure. But mostly at myself, for not expecting what was really just natural, normal communication between two adults.
"Are you sure?"
My brow twitched a little, vaguely annoyed. "Yeah. You've already asked me this."
"I know, I'm —" Steve seemed a little flustered for a moment, frowning as he struggled to find the right words. "I just want to make sure, because — well, I've been assigned a new mission —"
"By who?" I straightened slightly, blinking at him in surprise. A new mission? Already?
"By… myself. The Avengers, if you want." Steve waved his hand in a wishy-washy gesture. "But really it's just me and Sam. We've got a lead on some former HYDRA agents who might have escaped the fall. It'll take us out of the country, and for security reasons you won't be able to contact me." Steve grimaced, scratching his jaw. "It's deep cover. We need to keep low profiles, and it's going to be harder and take longer in the current climate. To be honest, I'd have to leave at some point. Get off the radar, let things cool down, come back and rebuild with a new system. So I might not see you again for a while."
I was silent for a moment, taking all this in. Steve was leaving. Chasing the remnants of HYDRA. Making sure none of them got away. That idea left me both vindicated, but also in dread. "For how long, though?"
"A few weeks, at best. But I'm guessing a month, or more, is more realistic." Steve didn't look happy by this estimation. "Just depends on how quickly we find and capture these guys."
I tilted my head and nodded. "Will it be dangerous?"
He shrugged. "No more dangerous than anything else. I'm telling you this because it doesn't have to happen, if you don't want me to go. If you want me to stay here, I will."
A pang in my chest. I wasn't expecting Steve to say that. He was willing to give up a serious mission, if I asked? I didn't know what to do with that kind of information. "But then those HYDRA guys will get away."
"If it's not me, it'll be someone else," Steve just shrugged, his hands clasping together, resting his elbows on his knees. "I don't have to go, not if you need me here, Mia. I don't want what happened at the museum to happen again."
His hand came to rest on my shoulder, his expression serious. Oh. The memory hit me like a gut punch. The panic attack after seeing the Winter Soldier's face; Steve getting a mission call immediately after. The hollowness in my chest at having to be alone, and the fear that followed. The entire thing had been nothing short of a small catastrophe.
Now I understood why Steve was saying this. Embarrassed, and maybe more heartwarmed than I wanted to admit, I looked down at my hands again, biting my lip.
"I think I'll be okay this time," I said at last, my voice hoarse with an emotion I couldn't describe. I did want Steve to stay. But did I need him to? Despite it all, I felt selfish for asking. "I won't be alone. You should go."
"Alright," Steve gave a single nod of acceptance, and his hand dropped away after a light squeeze. "In that case, since we might not see each other for a while, I have something for you."
He pulled something from his pocket. Held out his fist towards me, and dropped something into my hand. A long metal chain dropped out, followed by two thin plates.
Dogtags.
I frowned, bringing them close to my face so I could read them. They were old, the metal dark and scratched with age, but the wording was still legible. I had just parsed through the name stamped on the tags when Steve said, "I found these a little while ago while digging through some evidence files. For some reason, HYDRA kept them after all these years."
James Buchanan Barnes.
My eyes flew up to Steve's face; the fragility in my gaze was reflected in his own. He gave me a weak smile, almost a smirk, and said quietly, "I think he'd want you to have them."
I didn't know what to say. I tried, but could only swallow uselessly at the lump that had suddenly formed in my throat. I really didn't want to start crying again; it didn't take much these days, but at least this time it might be the good kind of cry. At last, I managed to choke out, "You're still looking for him?"
I meant to say 'thank you' but, well, that didn't happen.
"Yes," Steve said, bowing his head slightly. "Still haven't found anything to go one. Just more of his past, nothing on where he might be now. I'm starting to think he might've left the country — part of the reason why I'm hoping this mission will help. Maybe we can pick up the trail somewhere else."
Although the words were optimistic, Steve's tone wasn't. His gaze was set somewhere in the middle-distance, not really focused on anything. It must've been discouraging, going on a manhunt for three weeks, fresh off a disaster, motivated by seventy years of absence, only to come up with nothing but ancient history.
"What will you do, if you do find him?"
"I'm not sure yet," Steve admitted with a sigh, shaking his head. "I guess it depends on… on who he is. What he can remember. If he remembers. What I do know is I want to help him, any way I can."
When I didn't respond, Steve glanced at me. "What do you think I should do?"
Great question. I could only shrug. I myself wasn't entirely sure how I felt about it. To be honest, I was perfectly fine with never seeing the Winter Soldier — Bucky Barnes — ever again. It would solve a lot of problems before they could ever start, and I just wouldn't have to deal with either possibility: him still being the Winter Soldier, or him being my father.
But that was my own selfish, knee-jerk reaction. "I don't know. I don't know what the right thing would be."
"Neither do I," Steve said, which garnered a look of surprise from me. He seemed amused by this, chuckling, "What? I don't always have the answers to everything. This whole thing is complicated, and we both know I'm not an unbiased party in all of it. I can't say I know what I'm going to do if — when he shows up again."
"No," I agreed, twisting up one side of my mouth. It was hard to imagine any sort of best-case-scenario for this. Everything I could think of just had a bad ending to it. There would be so many consequences if and when Bucky was found. So much to answer for.
Finally, I said, "But if someone does find him, I hope it's you."
Steve lifted his head, eyes widening for a moment. This seemed to have an effect on him, but I couldn't read his expression beyond a mild sense of shock. Something flickered in his eyes. Then he gave me a tiny smile. "Yeah. I hope so, too."
Just then, his phone beeped. Steve blinked in surprise, as if shaken out of a reverie, pulled out his phone. Something flashed across the screen, but I couldn't read it from this angle. Whatever it was put a grin on his face, and Steve laughed, "Looks like Peter's giving Sam some hell. I better go down and save him. You want to come back down?"
"Maybe in a little bit," I said, more than a little pleased that at least Peter could stand toe to toe with Sam, but not ready to experience it in person. The dinner had given me a faint headache.
As Steve got up, however, something overcame me. Glancing from the dogtags, then up, watching him walk back towards the door, I was overwhelmed with a sudden sense of regret, an impending doom if I didn't say something right now. Completely irrational, sure, but nevertheless it hooked me. Steve was already turning the knob. As soon as he was out of sight, I'd miss my chance.
Without a second thought, I jumped up and said, "Steve, wait!"
"What's the matt— oof!" Steve turned just in time to receive my hug — more of a tackle, really. I'd underestimated my own strength (and desperation) and actually managed to knock Steve unbalanced a little. Not an easy feat. Steve fell back on one foot, his arms came around to catch me.
Wrapping my arms around Steve's neck, I buried my face into his shoulder and tried not to think too much about everything that had happened, everything that he'd done for me and how much it meant. How he was leaving again, and even though I said it was okay, it really wasn't. But he had work to do, and I didn't want to get in the way of that.
"Thank you," I whispered, unable to speak any louder or else something in my heart might give.
~o~
I watched as the red hand made its steady journey around in a circle, passing its darker, fatter siblings along the way. It made thirty-seven rotations so far. Only another twenty-three to go.
"Watching the clock won't make it go any faster."
I blinked, glanced at the man sitting opposite me, a bit to the right. About forty-years-old, he seemed oddly youthful, with sharp dark eyes, a trimmed beard, and a near array of dreadlocks pulled back; he wore a navy suit, the fabric shiny and rich; it took on an added luster next to his warm, dark skin. He was missing the ring finger on his left hand.
He'd taken off his jacket, perhaps to lend himself to a casual air, but it didn't work for me. Still, his smile seemed genuine, if a little wry. "It may go faster with a little conversation."
Dr. Izar Siwa. Former SHIELD psych analyst and counselor — the kind that vetted agents for field work — now downgraded to private specialist.
And reliably not HYDRA.
It was Steve's idea to use such a guy, since a regular counselor probably didn't have the expertise or level of security clearance to hear the kinds of things I'd seen and been through. But it was May's idea I was even here at all, and while I appreciated the gesture, it didn't mean I had to enjoy it.
Dr. Siwa's office, located conveniently in downtown Manhattan, was as neat and meticulously arranged as the man before me. The furniture was of dark wood, the couch I sat on a black, creaky leather; Walls painted a dim blue, there wasn't much decoration, aside from bookshelves and what appeared to be Egyptian artifacts — a khopesh, a scarab amulet, a small stone slab covered in hieroglyphs — that gave it just the right amount of eclecticism. Points of interest to focus on. Before me, on the coffee table, was a glass of water and a bonsai tree. Aside from the clock, the only other noise in the room came from the sound of traffic, distant and echoing up from the open window behind me. Dr. Siwa's desk was almost bare aside from a closed laptop, a journal, and a paper tray.
There was no messiness or clutter to distract. I struggled with my antsiness nonetheless; my hands twisting and wringing together, the chain of Bucky's dog tags wrapped too tight around my knuckles. I didn't have anything else to keep my hands busy.
Dr. Siwa waited for me to respond, and when I didn't, he sighed a little and leaned back into his chair. He didn't have a notepad or a pen in his hand; so far, he had not written anything down while I was present. "This is our third meeting so far, Mia, and you haven't said a single word during any of them. Is this something you intend to keep up indefinitely?"
I honored that question with half a shrug.
"Hm," Dr. Siwa said; he had an accent, although I couldn't place it. His voice was deep, but soft, and his tone only lightly prodding. "So you come here with the intention to remain completely silent. You don't find this a waste of your time?"
Of course I did. It was part of the reason I wasn't talking. That had to be obvious to a shrink. Despite myself, I snorted, "You don't think it's a waste of yours?"
My voice was scratchy, which lent itself to my sarcastic tone.
"No," Dr. Siwa said, and there was a brief twinkle in his eyes. A tiny quirk of his lips. I knew well enough what it was: satisfaction. He finally got a verbal response out of me. "No patient is a waste of my time. I'm here for you, Mia, in whatever capacity you need. This same hour every week belongs to you."
"...Oh," I said, ducking my head in embarrassment. His answer surprised me, and now I felt like an idiot, breaking my silence for a silly retort.
"If you think this is a waste of your time," Dr. Siwa continued, "Why do you still come here? It's not mandated. And don't tell me its because your aunt drives you here — you and I both know there's still plenty of time and space to run between the sidewalk and the twenty-third floor."
Got me there. I'd be lying if I said I never considered it. The first time I came here, I'd only briefly considered escape, but hadn't really felt like running until after Dr. Siwa had introduced himself to me, and then reported that my entry test results showed I had scored high on symptoms of trauma and depression. That's when I really wanted to run.
It was the first time anyone had ever said that to me. You're depressed. You've been traumatized.
It scared me, because I knew it was true. I'd known — maybe not explicitly — but I'd known for some time. It sounded right, and not in a good way.
The second meeting, last week, I had an idea formed in my head, and used my entry and exit as a way to scope the place out. This building had light security, only a basic amount of security cameras, several easy blind spots, and no real security team aside from the guard patrolling the bottom floor.
This time, I almost did. But Aunt May had escorted me all the way to Dr. Siwa's door, so I didn't have the opportunity. Maybe she knew what I was planning.
It wasn't that I didn't like Dr. Siwa. He seemed nice enough, and hadn't pushed me much the last two sessions. Just easy, sort of icebreaker questions that I never ended up answering. I just didn't feel comfortable here. Knowing why I was here, what it was meant for, inspired a strange sort of resistance to it all.
I frowned at my hands. Still fiddling with the dogtags, they made a light clinking sound as I rubbed them together. Considered deeply if I wanted to speak again.
"I don't know," I mumbled at length. "Just don't want her to be mad at me, I guess."
"Why would she be mad at you?"
"Because —" I stopped myself, the words vanishing before I could use them. "I don't know. Because after everything… everything that happened, she wants me to have help, she wants me to be okay — but I can't do it. I just… I can't."
For a long moment, Dr. Siwa didn't say anything. I couldn't look at him, but I felt him watching me. "No one expects you to be okay, Mia. And if they do, they've set impossible standards. It's good that you want to make your family happy, and you have their support, but you have to want this, too. Your recovery is for you and you alone."
I blinked once, hard. Swallowing, I wanted to say something, but there was a lump in my throat. So I just nodded, to show I understood.
"Do you want this?" Dr. Siwa asked, his voice measured, each word clearly enunciated. Emphasizing the point. Giving me a choice. "There's no judgement if you don't. It's okay to not be ready. Your trauma is very recent, and you're still processing what has happened. Perhaps your aunt was a little too hasty in her attempt to help you. We can always meet again in a month, six months, a year. Whenever's a good time for you."
I nodded once. My throat felt parched, but I spoke anyway. "Y-yes. I want to get better, I just — it's hard. I just can't… I can't dive into it, you know?" I wasn't sure how to say it. I didn't want to talk about it. But I wasn't against talking, I found. "I just need… time."
"If it's time you need, then that's what I can give you," Dr. Siwa said, and when I looked up, I found him smiling gently at me. He raised both his hands, gesturing to the room at large. "This time is yours, for whatever you need. We don't have to talk about anything you don't want to, it can be about whatever you feel like. Even if it doesn't feel important. It can even be good things, or nothing at all. I'll be here, and I'll listen."
I rolled my bottom lip under my teeth. "I don't know if I can always do that. Sometimes I want to talk but the words just don't come out when I want them to."
As much as I'd like to say my silence was just an act of teenage rebellion, of spite towards someone's attempt to help me, it wasn't. And it wasn't just with Dr. Siwa, either. I didn't really consider myself talkative or outgoing to begin with; my responses on a good day could be monosyllabic. But ever since I came back, the moments where I chose not to speak became more often than the ones when I did. Aunt May or Peter would ask me a question, and if it wasn't a basic yes or no, I'd just shrug my shoulders.
It was just… easier.
"And that's okay, too," Dr. Siwa said without missing a beat. Like it wasn't a problem at all. "Sometimes silence is all you need. There is no wrong answer here, Mia."
I opened my mouth, about to correct him on the misunderstanding of my statement — then decided against it. No wrong answer. "Okay."
"Okay," Dr. Siwa repeated in confirmation, offering me another one of his serene smiles. He glanced at his watch and said, "Well, I say that concludes today's session. Do you think you will return next week? If you feel like you are not ready, then we can postpone it."
I was halfway out of my seat when I paused, thinking about it. Not having to return was a tempting thought. As much assurance as Dr. Siwa had given me, I knew that there was a lot I still wouldn't say yet. Possibly ever. It might be pointless. It might lead to nothing.
And yet, I found myself nodding, pulling down my rolled up sleeves. "Yes, I think so. I-I'll try to talk more next time."
It wasn't exactly a promise. I didn't have that much confidence in myself. I felt a hint of positivity now, but a week was a long time to change that.
But it was better than not trying at all.
To be honest, I probably should have done this a lot sooner. Before March break, before the year started.
This was a long time coming.
A/N: I don't know if Sam was born/grew up in any specific place in the MCU, so I decided to make it New Orleans, Louisiana, after his actor's home state :)
