"A terrifying attack downtown has left a popular nightclub in ruins with thirteen confirmed deaths at this time."
Miranda paused, her hand on the door knob, and took a breath, steadying herself. She was the last to join the briefing, and when she pushed open the door, all eyes were on her.
"Unfortunately," the news reporter continued, glancing down at her notes. "At this time, we have very little information to share as SHIELD has swooped in and taken the scene from local authorities. We were, however, lucky enough to speak with a survivor of the attack."
Miranda slid down into a chair at the back of the room, away from the others.
"Our witness wished to remain anonymous, but claimed it was like a real life horror movie. 'We heard screaming and then the lights started going on and off. Every time they went out you could hear something in the dark. Something unnatural.'"
The reporter paused for effect. "It does make this reporter wonder, what is SHIELD hiding from us now?"
Mac switched off the TV, cutting off the insufferable musical outro. "So I now have nearly every government protective agency trying to knock down my door and demand answers. It is only a matter of time before I have to tell them that we have been withholding information about a satanic serial killer. And I don't think they are going to be particularly unhappy when I tell them we have no solid leads."
"Well, as much as I enjoy feeling like I am back in elementary school," Bucky made an open handed gesture. "We do know now what they have been trying to summon with those pentagrams."
Miranda's eyes shifted to the super soldier. He had changed since she last saw him, and he looked far more comfortable in his skin.
"Really?" Mac asked. "Please, do share with the class."
Bucky smiled wryly down at his hands before looking back at Miranda. A brow quirked upwards when he found her looking back. "Yes. Demons."
"Demons?" Mac asked with a laugh. "Like God's fallen angels?"
Miranda stared down at the tangle of fingers in her lap, trying to hide the humorless smile that lifted the corners of her mouth. It was an incredulity that she had experienced an innumerable amount of times before.
"Yes. Karryer demons." He said the word slowly, as though to ensure that he was saying it properly. "Miranda has experienced them before."
She looked up slowly. All focus had settled on her. "I don't know much about them. They killed my college boyfriend."
Daisy's expression softened. Sorrow? Or was it pity? For a man who had never even existed.
"Were you...playing around with…" Mac asked slowly, clearly unsure what exactly he should be asking, though knowing he should be asking something.
"With pentagrams? Black magic? God, no." Miranda sat back. "More a tragic matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Is there anything you can share with us?" Mac asked. "Anything at all would be helpful?"
Miranda could feel Bucky's eyes on her, willing her to speak. "Not really. It was a long time ago."
"I thought you told me you became obsessed?"
Miranda's gaze shifted to him, flat and irritated. "And I told you, I came up with nothing but dead ends. I had to give it up. It had negative effects on my mental health."
Bucky continued to stare at her long after the attention had shifted back to the director.
"Regardless," Mac said. "That gives us something. One more needle to add to this God damn haystack."
Miranda slowly closed the door to her room, shutting herself into the darkness there. She rested her forehead against the cool wood.
"I'm not sure what it is about me that makes people think they should be able to take me by surprise." She flicked on the light, revealing the sorcerer.
Dr. Strange was seated on the bench of the large bay window on the opposite side of the room. "I have a theory."
"Ya know...I've had a day from hell, and I would really, really appreciate it if you would kindly get the fuck out of my room."
"Ah, yes. But I think you'd like to hear this theory."
"If one more magical being on this damned planet tells me what I am destined to be, I will show you exactly where your destiny ends."
He turned something over in his hand. Miranda's focus shifted, watching it turn over and over in his hands. A book. Small. Blood red. The edges of its pages smudged black.
"The ironic thing is that I had not really meant to grab this book that day. But it was between two volumes that I did want and it just ended up coming along for the ride." He stood, cradling the book in his scarred fingers, leafing through the pages. "Because this book doesn't talk about demons, or portals, or pentagrams. It's not even written in a language I can read. Someone just happened to scribble some footnotes. And even those are written in a dead language. I had no need for it. But then, you took it. Then I became very interested. Did you think I would not notice?"
She held his gaze, her expression drawn. The weariness of the past twenty-four hours wearing on her.
"I did some research." He said, "There are many cultures that view death as a woman."
Miranda crossed her arms, leaning back against the wall. "So what? You think I'm the grim reaper? Do you hear yourself? How ridiculous that sounds?"
"Is it?" He asked, drifting towards her. "Death has a connection to you like nothing I have ever seen."
"Did you ever think that maybe my life has just been absolute shit?"
"It's more than that. I know it."
"So," Miranda tapped her fingers in a staccato beat on her forearms. "If I am what you say I am, what stops me from killing you right now?" Her fingers itched for it, to reach out and end this all.
"I'm not sure." He leaned in, scrutinizing her.
"And what exactly has led you to this hypothesis?" Miranda asked, moving out from between the wall and the magician. "I stole a book? People steal shit all the time. That doesn't make them death personified."
"Aren't you tired?" He asked, his body rotating to face her. "Of the lies? The deception?"
"You assume that I have been lying." Miranda threw herself backwards onto her bed, arms outspread.
"I think," Dr. Strange came to stand over her. "That there is a lot more to you than meets the eye. And I intend to find out exactly what that might be."
When she sat up, he was gone.
She took in a few ragged breaths. Everything was going to hell in a handbasket. How had this happened? How had she lost her grip? Years of preparation and planning, and now this. She looked over at the bedside clock. 8:21am.
"I need a drink..."
The compound was quiet as she slipped from her room and down the hall towards the kitchen. She had no doubt that her companions were asleep. Miranda herself was running on empty after spending more than the last twenty-four hours awake. But her nerves were entirely shot. Even if she tried, she would never sleep now. Her hands shook as she took a heavy crystal decanter from the cabinet and poured a tall glass.
"Are we not going to talk about what happened?"
Miranda set both hands on the counter, leaning over it, head lowered. Stress beat a harsh drum against the interior of her skull. She could not catch a break today. Bucky did not specify exactly which event he referenced. And despite all of the insanity that had consumed their lives in the past few weeks, she knew exactly which he spoke of.
"Honestly, I was determined to pretend it never happened." She tipped up the glass and swallowed a mouthful of the alcohol, snarling as it burned a path down her throat.
"Why? Are you...ashamed?"
She looked at him then. Bone deep tiredness blurred the edges of her vision. Despite how hard he fought to bury it, she could see the traces of hurt on his face. It moved over him like a wave, turning to embarrassment then self loathing. And she hated herself for it.
"Yes."
Bucky drew in a sharp breath, turning his face away from her. The action physically hurt her, striking a pang deep in her chest. She downed what remained in her glass and filled it again, wishing the burn of the alcohol would consume her and reduce her body to ash. "Of myself. You should not be wasting your time on me."
"I think that's for me to decide." Anger laced his words.
She laughed. A sorrowful sound. "If someone told you the plane was going to go down, would you still board it?"
"What are you saying?" He asked, stepping closer to her.
She knew she should move away, but she could not bring herself to do it. Every fiber of her being rebelled against the thought.
"Nothing good comes from attaching yourself to me. And I could not bare it-" She took in a shaky breath, gathering herself. She was stronger than this. She could control these feelings, bury them deep. But she was so tired… He moved closer still and she put up her hands, trying to keep him at arm's length. "I could not bare it if I was the reason something terrible happened to you."
"I can take care of myself. I'm a survivor. It's what I've always been..." he said, brushing a dark curl from her face.
"You have no idea what you are up against."
"Then tell me."
She looked up at him, knowing how vulnerable she must look but too exhausted to care. "You wouldn't believe me if i tried."
They were so close now that her curls touched his forehead. She looked down at her hands on the broad expanse of his chest. Ever so slowly, his touch light and gentle, he lifted his hand to cup her cheek. She closed her eyes, leaning into the touch. Oh how desperately she wished to share this burden with someone else. Her fingers curled in, taking the front of his shirt with them. His heart thumped so fiercely she could feel it against her knuckles. Strong. Steady. Real.
The touch of his lips to hers was feather light. He did not press in, did not demand or inquire. He simply existed. There. Against her. She pulled back ever so slightly.
"Try me." He whispered against her mouth.
She gasped a half a breath then rose up to meet him. Her fingers released his shirt and slid upward, her arms encircling his neck. His hands settled at the small of her back as if they had spent a lifetime there.
Kissing him was like oxygen after an eternity of deprivation. It was the cold feel of rain on a summer day. The long drag of a cigarette after years of abstaining. No amount of time in his arms would ever be enough to satisfy her, and that need for him, for someone else, terrified her.
She pushed him away so forcefully that she collided with the counter behind her. The bottle of liquor shook and the alcohol in her long forgotten glass sloshed over the rim. She gripped the edge of the counter, unsure if it was more to keep herself upright or to keep her fingers from finding his skin again, burying themselves in his hair.
"I will tell you once, and I will tell you again." Her voice was barely a whisper. "I am nothing more than a bad omen."
And then she rushed from the room, knowing another second in his presence would be the death to any thread of self control she had left.