AN: Happy Valentine's Day, my wonderful readers
Florence woke, bleary-eyed on the pavement of a suburb.
The grass was manicured, the trees were trimmed, and the McMansions that lined either side of the street had that ranchero look about them that sent age-old memories sparking through her head.
The perfect neighborhood for the perfect family. But as soon as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she immediately recognized the house in front of her.
Number 4586 River Drive. Words fluttered through her brain that could describe how she felt, just out of reach. Flo settled for calm. Calm was not something one should feel when one is standing in front of the house they murdered their own parents in.
Perhaps it was not quite calm exactly, though.
Removed. That was it.
She was a stranger, apathetically watching a movie starring 19 year old her. The girl in the film shuffled forward, towards the house. She opened the gate, and saw everything, exactly the way it had been three years ago.
Her mother's body, the glass, the blood. The other her threw up on the lawn, her clothes drenched in her family's scarlet arterial blood.
The other her looked up to see a man, about five feet away, still and unbreathing.
He almost looked like he belonged here in the perfect neighborhood, but not totally. His clothes were pressed, his hair was neatly coiffed. And he had her father's face.
Not quite the mouth though, and something was off about his eyes, too. The color was wrong. Her brows furrowed as she took in this strange new detail. The actor must have been wearing bad contacts, because they made his eyes look yellow.
This all seemed normal to her, like her father had always had peculiar yellow irises. But as soon as he opened his mouth, it stopped being a film, and Florence stopped being a spectator.
All of the terror, the panic, the chaos that she should have felt from the beginning hit her at once, almost blinding her with its intensity. Her world turned and twisted in colors, sounds, emotions, clarity that had been missing since she first woke up on River Drive.
She realized what was wrong with his mouth. It was sewn shut, closed by twisted, matted, rotting string that should have sealed away any foul thing he could have spewed at her. And he was slowly opening it as the thread tore his lips.
Anything the man that used to be her father would pry open the ghastly stitches to say could not be good. She tried magic, lashing out what powers she had, attempting to propel the figure away from her. She tried to run, her mind screaming at her muscles to move. But she was rooted to the spot, unable to escape his gaze and unable to look away from the slowly widening mouth that would swallow her whole. Air began to move in her throat, building up in her vocal cords until a scream threw itself from her mouth, renting open a gash in the fabric of the night sky over River Drive.
She woke up, still screaming. In her apartment, under the Triskelion. Locked up and safe. Where she should be.
But something wasn't right. She could feel it, crawling under her skin, freezing the breath in her lungs. The sheer terror of her dream didn't dissipate as the paranoia began to set in. Florence could still feel the gaze of the yellow-eyed man, wearing the mask of her father.
Top secret, underground living quarters do not have windows. They are small, compact, boxing their inhabitants in. Only one way in and out. The exit involves a single long stretch of narrow hallway, dimly lit by impassive, unblinking fluorescent lights. They did nothing to ease Florence's growing sense of choking claustrophobia.
She began to tear through her apartment, but nothing was misplaced. None of the protections she had meticulously prepared showed any signs of disorder. But the choking blend of paranoia and claustrophobia remained.
She had to get out. She had to get away from this place.
She sprinted to the door, unlocked each of the ten deadbolts, and entered the hallway, carefully avoiding the salt line and the runes, things that should've protected her from any supernatural intruder. She dashed towards the elevator, bony hands slamming the buttons that would take her as fast as possible to Director Coulson's office.
It was a long, slow ride up, and no one would be there this early in the morning. Flo allowed herself a moment to breath.
She collapsed in the corner of the tiny upward moving box. She tried to avoid thinking of how smaller this elevator was compared to her bedroom, how easy it would be to die screaming against the dull metal walls as something forced the life from her lungs...
No. She shook herself away from the dream, and focused on analyzing what caused it. Most people would say PTSD from that night had caused the series of recurring dreams. But Florence knew better. None other than a demon or a dark spirit-god could have forced their way into her mind like that.
And that was not something Florence was well-equipped to handle at the moment.
Or ever, really. She had to take a mission, be allowed outside, be near other people, anything. It was the only solution to keep her sane.
Something complex, that would take up all of her waking hours, along with her sleeping ones. Keeping her from the man with the yellow eyes.
"Ding"
The elevator was nowhere near the surface, much less the floor she was headed to. Nobody else that Florence knew of would have access to this lift, and no one would be going to work at 3:00 in the morning. Before the doors could slide open, she straightened up from her position on the floor, aligning herself smoothly with the wall. She held herself straight, with her head held high and her face clear of any sign of her breakdown seconds earlier.
A figure stepped into view. The first thing she saw was the elevator lights glancing off what looked to be a metal prosthetic arm that bore a blood red star on his upper arm. Had she met him under very different circumstances, she might have even called him handsome. Florence stuck with striking. He had the kind of face you remembered, the kind that one doubted had ever told the truth, that inspired terror in the hearts of those who were unlucky enough to encounter him.
Of course, anyone who knew his reputation feared him.
And everyone with her level of clearance knew his reputation.
The Winter Soldier.
As he stepped into the elevator, silently taking a spot on the wall next to hers, they both calculated exactly how they could gain enough of an advantage to take the other out if necessary. They communicated this intent with a mutual glare. She may not have been as famous as him, but given the situation, Florence warranted a threat. Despite being somewhat shorter than Barnes, she had gone through the rigourous, SHIELD-standard training that left her with a lithe, muscle bound form. Coupled with the fact that she had to be highly qualified to be in that elevator in the first place, he should be able to deduce that she was not someone to be trifled with. If he knew about the telekinesis and the fully loaded Glock strapped to her thigh, he probably never would have gotten in the elevator to being with.
The rest of the ride up was silent. After all, one doesn't simply just start a conversation with the most elusive and deadly assassin of the past few decades. Florence settled for meeting his gaze with equal intent, challenging him, daring him to blink first. The small metal room filled with a tension you could cut with a knife.
Whatever his physical ability, Barnes was an idiot for letting their first competition be on a mental front. Florence won easily, and gave a little smirk as he shifted his gaze to the wall in front of him. Only a little telepathy involved.
They stepped into Director Coulson's office simultaneously, overtly competing to see who could reach the door faster.
"Agent Axwell, Agent Barnes" Director Coulson, oblivious to the silent war in front of him, stood up from his chair and smiled welcomingly at Florence.
She noted his careful avoidance of Agent Barnes' gaze.
"Reporting for duty, sir" She saluted, but made sure to keep track of the room's dynamic. Barnes was stiff; he didn't move, speak, or otherwise react to stimuli. Coulson ignored this with commendable finesse.
"Well, you don't have a mission planned, given your speed and success last week. You're off until Tuesday, Axwell. Barnes, thanks for getting here promptly. I have an assassination for you. It's high profile, could get messy." Coulson slid a manila folder across the table. "Axwell- he's your mission if you want one. Watch his back, and don't let any legal issues crop up. Just a standard op."
Standard. I can do standard. With the most dangerous person I've ever met. Who I'm getting along just great with so far. Flo thought, nodding her head sharply.
"I'll take it, sir." Not that I had much choice in the matter
AN: I uploaded this then realixed all the formatting just disappeared so I apologize. Both for that and for the incredibly long wait it took for me to write this. This particular chapter went through 5 different incarnations, and I had to wield the services of my awesomely magnificent beta reader/writer M to get this to where it is now.
Please, read and review! I appreciate and take into account all feedback, and reviews make me work harder, I swear.
Thank you :)
- She Who Walks In Starlight