Chapter Twenty-Two
Alice floated back to consciousness to the broken sound of quiet voices.
...news is loving you guys...
Stark Relief...?
...on the scene.
...took a hit...shake it off.
...stay in stealth mode...away from here...
"So, run and hide?"
That was definitely Tony's voice, frustrated, angry, helpless. Alice furrowed her brow and tried to pull herself further out of the dark.
"Until we can find Ultron-" That was Maria, stalwart, resigned. "-I don't have a lot else to offer."
"Yeah," Tony sighed, "Neither do we."
There was the sound of a comm being cut off and some murmuring that Alice couldn't quite make out. She was nearly there...
She broke the surface with a gasp, like a diver desperate for air. The pain was everywhere like she had been shoved into a fifty-gallon drum and rolled down a hill. She clenched her eyes shut and gritted her teeth to keep from crying out. God, it freaking hurt.
"Hey, hey, easy there, breathe for me, Alice, come on-"
Tony's voice was right beside her, and he sounded so desperate and scared that Alice sucked in a breath just for that. Anything that would make Tony that scared was enough to scare the crap out of her.
"That's it, one more, come on Baby Bird, one more for me."
She took another breath and let it out in a slow hiss. The pain did feel like it was dulling a little. She wasn't sure if that was her body going into shock, or if it wasn't really as bad as it had felt at first.
"Still...not...my code name," she managed to get out through gritted teeth.
Tony chuckled, and Alice finally felt like she could open her eyes. She blinked for a second, letting herself adjust and assess. She was on her back, obviously, looking at the roof of the quinjet. There wasn't much else to see, so she slowly and carefully turned her head to the side. The pain was a sharp shock, but it dissipated when she let her cheek rest on the stretcher. Tony was examining a bag of fluid hung beside her and tapping at something on a computer readout. The screen showed a steady heartbeat, oxygen levels, blood pressure. It took several seconds for Alice to realize the stats were hers.
Tony turned and caught her eye.
"Don't worry," he chirped, though the cheerfulness seemed forced, "Nothing broken, just a hell of a lot of bruising. You're gonna need painkillers for a day or two, but you'll pull through."
It was only then that Alice remembered why she was here. She saw her blood pressure spike on the monitor and her heartbeat start to stutter as panic took over.
"Bruce," she gasped, trying to sit up despite the excruciating pain every movement caused her, "Tony where's-?"
"Hey, no," Tony insisted, forcing her back down onto the stretcher, "No, nope, none of that, no moving yet, you're just gonna hurt yourself-"
"Where's Bruce?" Alice repeated, trying unsuccessfully to fight against Tony's hands, "Where is he? I wanna see him. I wanna see Bruce."
She could feel her words slurring, and she realized a second too late why her pain had been getting dull. Morphine. Tony had dosed her IV. Tony's face hovered over her, concern, worry, sympathy swimming over his features. He reached out and smoothed back her hair.
"It's alright, Baby Bird," he murmured, his words starting to sound like they were coming down to her from a long tunnel, "It's gonna be alright..."
Alice struggled to keep her eyes open, tried to turn her head again, but it was too heavy now. She tried to find her words, to make Tony understand.
"Bruce...please...Bruce..."
But Tony had slipped out of her grasp, and her words were drowned in soft velvet dark.
"Bruce...please...Bruce..."
Tony held Alice's hand as she went under again, her eyes drifting closed, but her face never fell into complete relaxation. A furrow remained in her brow and she continued to murmur under her breath. He looked up. Bruce sat on the floor, pressed into a far corner and wrapped in an oversized shirt, his dark eyes fixed on Alice with painful intensity. As if he felt Tony's gaze on him, he flicked his eyes up and then away, settling deeper into himself with a frown.
Alice wouldn't blame him. Not for a second. But Tony knew better than anyone that wasn't what mattered. Bruce would blame himself. He would carry that guilt for the rest of his life. Tony squeezed the girl's tiny hand and hoped that somehow she could find a way to help him.
Klara woke from a restless doze to see the sun rising over the tree-lined horizon through the quinjet's front window. She was curled on the floor beside the pilot's chair, her head pillowed on the armrest, but Clint Barton did not seem to object to her presence. She had not yet worked up the courage to face the others. She had regained consciousness well after it was far too late for her to be of any use, and the sight of Alice Ripley's bruised and beaten body, of Dr. Banner's glazed and haunted eyes, had sent her scurrying forward, to the relative safety of the cockpit. If she had only stayed behind, as she had done before, perhaps... Perhaps...
Clint Barton flipped a switch and put his hands on the controls.
"Get ready," he said, "We're here."
They set down in a small grove of trees, and as the ramp lowered, Klara could hear birds twittering in the early morning light.
"Tony, I'm fine," Alice grumbled but was unable to fight off Tony Stark's help as he slipped an arm around her and slid her off the medical cot, supporting her on unsteady feet. She seemed to be in one piece, if a bit groggy from the medication being used to combat her pain. Klara had been told that nothing was broken, that all-in-all she was well. But it still pained her to see the girl stumble, to see her look around blearily, searching for the one man who would no longer meet her eyes.
Dr. Banner kept to the back of the group as Clint Barton led the way forward, hunched in his oversized clothes, and Klara found herself matching his slow, steady pace, pulling back from the others.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, before she lost her nerve, "I should have been there. For both of you."
Dr. Banner tugged at the worn sleeve of his sweater, his eyes fixed on the path at their feet.
"I'm glad that you weren't," he said, "You would have only gotten hurt."
Klara wanted to reply, but his distant, mournful expression stopped the words in her throat.
They left the trees behind and crossed an open field of golden grasses, rippling in a gentle breeze. At the top of a small rise stood a house, large and white, worn but clearly well cared for. Clint Barton approached this house with no sign of fear or suspicion. In fact, as Klara watched, any tension that might have been in his shoulders bled away as he supported Miss Romanov up the steps of the large wooden terrace that led to the front entrance.
"What is this place?" Lord Thor asked.
"Safe house?" Mr. Stark answered though he sounded uncertain.
"Let's hope," Clint Barton said, but he was smiling as he stepped through the door, "Honey, I'm home!"
The group followed him through the entryway and into a sunlit front room, where they were greeted by a woman who was clearly expecting a child...Clint Barton's child, if the smile and kiss she gave him were any indication.
Oh. Oh no.
Klara began to edge back toward the door, a cold feeling of unease spreading through her middle and sending chilling tendrils into her limbs. Clint Barton's house. Clint Barton's wife. Clint Barton's children. If there were any place where she would be unwelcome, it would be here, the place where Clint Barton felt most safe. And she, the lover of his greatest enemy...
Once she gained the shadows of the front entrance, she turned and fled, out the door, off the covered terrace, pausing only at the bottom of the stairs to breathe and collect her thoughts. The breeze was cool and sweet on her face and she wrapped her arms around herself to suppress a shiver. The quinjet...yes, that would do. There was no need to impose on his family, on kindness that was not meant for her. She would not speak to his children, she would not make a fuss. She would go quietly, now, while there was no one to see. She had straightened her spine and taken two steps when Lord Thor swept past her in a swirl of red cape.
"My lord?"
He jerked to a halt as if he had not expected to find her here. His face filled with regret as he put a hand on her shoulder.
"I am sorry, Klara," he said, "But I saw something...in my dream. I need answers, and I won't find them here."
"Thor-" Captain Rogers had come out as well, but Lord Thor stepped back from her and, in a rush of wind, he was gone.
Gone. The word left a hollow place in Klara's chest. She had not been without Lord Thor since she had arrived in Midgard. He was her only remaining link to the world she had left behind. Without him, she was truly stranded. Stranded in the home of a man who had shown her nothing but hostility, among friends that she had not been able to protect.
There was a touch on her elbow and she blinked. Captain Rogers' expression was troubled, but he still managed a small smile, an attempt at reassurance.
"Come back inside, Klara."
She shied away from him, dropping her eyes and edging back from the house, toward the field that lay beyond.
"I...don't think...considering my history, the quinjet might be-"
"What are you guys still doing out here?"
Clint Barton's good-humored voice made Klara jump. He was leaning in the doorframe, giving them both a smirk that Klara had never before seen on his face. At least, not directed toward her.
"Staring into the wide, blue sky ain't bringing him back," he said, glancing up as if he might catch one final glimpse, "In the meantime, we've got a little bit of space to breathe. Not much, but some. Klara, you and Nat are bunking in Lila's room. Laura says she might have some old clothes to fit you if you wanna wash your stuff."
He held her gaze for several long, meaningful moments before he disappeared back into the house. Klara stared after him until she heard Captain Rogers huff a laugh. When she looked at him, bewildered, he only shook his head, a smug smile twisting his lips as he headed back toward the house.
"I told you, Klara," he said, glancing back at her with bright, sparkling eyes, "You're home."
The water felt amazing on Alice's bruised, stiff muscles, and she spent more time in the shower than she probably should have. Especially when she finally got out and saw Bruce sitting on the edge of the bed holding a folded towel and a pile of clothes.
"Oh. Sorry," she said, running a towel through her hair to avoid his gaze, "I think I used up all the hot water."
When she looked up again, he was smiling, but it was his sad smile, the one that apologized without words.
"I can wait."
Alice sighed and sank down onto the bed next to him, not quite touching. There was a moment of heavy silence between them.
"I've been thinking," she said finally, "About what you said earlier."
He looked up from the study of his hands, watching her face with care as she forged ahead.
"You're right." He raised an eyebrow. It made her feel better, that he could still do that at least. "About the waiting and this...this life. I guess I just assumed this was what you wanted, so it became what I wanted too. But if this isn't what you want... Bruce, we don't have to stay, we don't have to be...these people, the heroes."
She reached out and took his hand, squeezed it in hers.
"All I want is you," she said, "It's always been you. That's why I'm here. And if this isn't where you want to be, then let's go somewhere else, anywhere else. Let's run with it, and...see what happens."
She gave him a tentative smile, but all he did was stare at her for several long moments. Finally, he reached out and cradled her face in his hands, pressing his forehead to hers and breathing in deep.
"Oh Alice," he whispered, "I was so wrong."
Alice blinked and sat back.
"What?"
He smirked, but there wasn't any humor in it.
"We're not normal," he said, "And if we run, what good will it do? Where could we possibly go where I'm not a threat?"
"You're not a threat," Alice insisted.
Bruce's expression hardened and with deliberate care, he slid his hand down to her shoulder and squeezed. Alice winced as the shock of a bruise bolted through her.
"Stop it!" she snapped, shrugging off his hand, "Bruce, you didn't hurt me."
He dropped his hand and got up to pace, running frustrated hands through his hair. Alice got up to follow him.
"The Other Guy didn't hurt me either," she said, "You know who hurt me? That Maximoff bitch. She used the Hulk the way other people use a baseball bat or a grenade. You swing it around or throw it in the general direction of the thing you want to hit, and if other people get caught in between, well that just sucks for them."
"Yes, and that person was you!" Bruce shouted, whirling on her, then taking a step back again, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration, "God, Alice, you just— Even if I hadn't just leveled an entire city, there's no future with me! I can't ever..." He waved a hand around the room. "I can't have this, kids, or... Do the math, I physically can't."
"Who said anything about kids?" Alice asked, taking a step closer, pulling both his hands in toward her, forcing him to be still, "Who said anything about this life? Our lives can be whatever we want them to be."
He gave her a skeptical look. She stepped in again and pressed her ear to his chest, listening to his heart hammering behind his ribs. She shut her eyes and let that sound rush through her. After a moment, he sighed and slid his arms around her, resting his cheek on top of her head. Almost immediately all the tension that had been in Alice's shoulders, in her chest, in her whole body relaxed. She wrapped her arms around his waist and burrowed closer.
"This," she whispered, "This is the life I want. Whatever it takes for us to keep this, Bruce, I'll do it."
He let out a long, slow breath, and pressed his lips to her damp hair.
"I know."
Once Klara finally accepted that she was truly meant to stay in the house, making herself useful became the only way she could think to justify her presence. While she was no use with the laundry machines, she could sweep floors, tidy tables, and dust shelves as well as anyone. And it was strangely soothing, to fall back into the routines of the Queen's household, following procedures laid down by Elli seemingly from time immemorial. This was what Klara had trained for: to be the unseen servant, her presence manifesting only in the satisfactory results of her labor. The familiarity of it, the anonymity, was its own sort of armor, a comfort that she wrapped around herself in much the same way as she had wrapped her hands before facing the punching bag.
It wasn't until she had climbed onto one of the dining room chairs to dust the chandelier that Laura Barton intervened.
"You're going to make me look bad."
Klara was so startled she nearly fell off the chair. The pregnant woman stood in the kitchen doorway with a smirk on her lips, a basket of laundry balanced on one hip. Quick as a blink, Klara hopped to the floor and stood with her hands clasped, back straight, and eyes trained on the customary place just beyond the right shoulder.
"I assure you, Lady Barton, that was not my intention."
The other woman's eyebrow rose.
"Lady Barton, huh? I could get used to that, I think. Which means you better just stick to calling me Laura. Klara, right?"
She shifted on her feet, adjusting her grip on the basket of laundry, and Klara stepped forward.
"May I?"
Without waiting for an answer, Klara slipped her hands around the basket and transferred it smoothly to her own hip. Lady Bar... Laura allowed it, shifting on her feet again and brushing a lock of dark hair back from her tanned face.
"Thanks," she said, "But seriously, you've got to stop cleaning my house, or the standards are going to be set unreasonably high."
"You have a lovely home," Klara managed in response, "I apologize if I have interfered in any way."
"Wow, that's impressive," Laura said, still smiling, but now with a twinkle of curiosity in her eyes, "I mean, Clint warned me you were a tough one to read, but I didn't know you could just 'polite' your way out of everything. That's quite a talent."
Klara ducked her head and averted her eyes. How much had Clint Barton told his wife exactly? Did she know the unfortunate history they shared? Their...mutual acquaintance?
"Let's take that basket into the front room," Laura said, turning to lead the way, "You can help me fold clothes if you're so intent on staying busy. Much more productive than dusting the light fixtures."
Klara followed obediently, and they sat together on the wide, floral sofa. The afternoon sun filtered in through the picture windows, and Klara could not help but think the next thing she would do would be a washing of the glass—
"So, is that what you did for Loki? Dust light fixtures?"
The name dropped into Klara's heart and cracked, like an ice cube in a warm glass of water, the chill dissolving and spreading through her limbs. She dropped the hand towel she had just picked up and it took a moment or two for her fumbling fingers to recover it.
"I...no. No, nothing like that."
Laura Barton was studying her, but her face held no hostility. She neatly and efficiently folded a wash rag and placed it to the side before she tried again.
"So, what did you do? If you don't mind my asking."
Klara managed to get her breath back and folded her towel, placing it to the side and reaching for another.
"Mostly I brought him things," Klara confessed, keeping her eyes fixed on her task, "Books, bedding, paper, his meals for a time..."
The image of him-so frail, so thin, exhausted beyond recognition-flared to life in Klara's mind as if it had been merely a day ago, not months. Lady Frigga's voice floated up from the past, the whisper of a ghost: Talk to him, Klara. Just...talk to him.
"...and we talked," Klara said finally. She saw Laura nod, out of the corner of her eye.
"Ah, there it is," the woman said, folding a shirt and setting it aside, "Words are the most dangerous weapons. What did you talk about?"
This seemingly innocuous question gave Klara pause. She rested the shirt she had been folding in her lap and thought for a moment. What had they talked about? How could this woman, with her beautiful home, her loving children, her noble husband, ever understand...?
"We spoke of the stars," Klara said, her gaze softening as she remembered his fingers dancing on the air, painting the forms of planets in swirls of color, "We spoke of the palace. We spoke of his family, though rarely without a quarrel. He would read from his books sometimes when he thought my reaction might prove amusing."
"'Of shoes and ships and sealing wax,'" Laura recited with a small smile, "What did you really talk about?"
Klara hesitated. She would not like the answer. But Klara gave it anyway.
"He helped me discover who I am...and who I would like to be. He taught me my worth before I ever felt worthy of it."
She felt the weight of the pendant around her neck and touched a finger to the metal.
Your mother pays me.
Not nearly enough.
"In return, I tried to understand him," she said, "I am trying still. And in the end, I fear it was not enough."
She took a shuddering breath and looked up. Laura's smile had blossomed into something lovely and warm, filled with a kindness that Klara did not feel she deserved in the least.
"You're a brave girl," she said, "I told Clint that you were, that there was more to you than he thought. But I don't think he really believed me until now. Whatever happened to you guys out there..." She shook her head. "All I know is, he wouldn't have brought you here if he didn't trust you. He's protective that way."
Klara dipped her head in acknowledgment of this.
"He has much to protect."
As if on cue, one of the children, the boy, rushed into the room and skidded to a halt before them.
"Mom!" he exclaimed, "Dad says he wants Iron Man-"
"Mr. Stark," Laura corrected firmly.
"-Mr. Stark," the boy amended, "to look at the tractor. He says there's something he needs to see in the barn, can we look too?"
"No," Laura insisted, hauling herself to her feet, "If your father wants Tony Stark to look at our tractor, I imagine he probably thinks he's going to...I don't know, give it x-ray vision, or blow it up, or something. If it's going to blow up, you can watch it from the porch."
"Aw, Mom-"
"The porch, Connor," Laura Barton said, as she headed toward the door.
"Yes, ma'am," the boy said dejectedly, following after her.
Laura rolled her eyes back at Klara with a smile.
"I'll be back."
"I'll just finish up here," Klara said picking up another shirt and folding it neatly.
Laura smiled and walked into the entryway, out of sight. Klara picked up another shirt, but instead of folding it her arms contracted almost on instinct, clutching the sweet-smelling fabric to her aching chest. She shut her eyes and took a series of painful breaths, holding back tears of mixed relief and sorrow.
Nicholas Fury was not like any man Klara had ever known. With his brusque manner, no-nonsense assessments, and poignant insights, he had managed to take their broken, directionless group and reform it into a working team again in a matter of hours. One with a plan, no less. It was wonderful to watch, awe-inspiring even.
Once dinner was finished Klara tried to help Laura Barton with the cleaning up, but the other woman fussed her straight out of the kitchen.
"You've done enough, Klara," Laura said, still smiling with kindness Klara wasn't sure she had earned, "You should be resting, not doing housework."
Unwilling to argue with her, Klara had yielded. But rather than seek out her bed, or the company of the others, she slipped out of the house and onto the front terrace. She took a seat on the top step and sighed, leaning against the railing and breathing deeply of the sweet, clean air.
The night was warm but not uncomfortably so, the moon a mere sliver of light on the horizon. And above, the sky was filled to bursting with stars. The sight of them nearly took her breath away. She had not realized how much she had missed them until they were there, staring down at her, reminding her forcefully of Asgard, of the sleeping palace corridors, the lights dimmed and the stars a brilliant swathe of silver dust against the deep blue sky. Asgardians held a respect for the stars that Midgardians simply did not share. Perhaps it was because Asgard had touched the stars, and its people knew what it was to look up and see not just light, but life.
...even now, there are those who remember...reaching out to the stars...finding another hand reaching back...
"He's coming back."
Klara blinked and dropped her hand from the chain around her neck, turning toward the unexpected voice. Captain Rogers was leaning in the doorway, his arms folded, watching her.
"Thor," he clarified, coming forward to sit beside her, his eyes trained skyward, "He's coming back. He wouldn't leave you behind."
"Oh," Klara said, tugging at the hem of her borrowed cotton dress, tracing the tiny purple flowers scrolled along the fabric, "Of course. He would not have gone were it not of the utmost importance. He will return when he has the answers he seeks."
"You should wait for him back at the Tower."
She blinked at him, aghast, but he purposely did not meet her gaze.
"But...the girl... Would it not be best if I accompanied you?"
"Seoul is recon only. We just want to see what Ultron's up to." He glanced over his shoulder, back toward the house. "I'd rather you kept an eye on Banner. He's still pretty shaken up."
Klara understood, of course, but a small part of her still tensed at the thought of Captain Rogers-of anyone-encountering the Maximoff girl without her present. The girl's power was catastrophic, and Klara had the uncomfortable suspicion that she had only brushed the surface of what she was capable of.
"You will be careful won't you, Captain?"
The words left her lips without thought, and Captain Rogers turned his gaze on her, the moon casting him in a light that seemed to turn his hair to shining silver.
The moon knew not what might was his...
"Steven."
She blinked, confused. He smiled, and she felt his gaze, like a tingle on her skin.
"On the boat," he said, "When I was... You called me Steven. Not Captain, not Rogers, not even Steve."
She dropped her eyes to her hands, forcing them to smooth at the bunched fabric of her skirt, letting the curtain of her hair fall between them.
"It is your name," she said, "Such things hold power. I thought..."
She paused and swallowed. No. She wouldn't lie to him. The truth was, she hadn't thought at all. She had seen him lying there, lost to them, and she had been so frightened...the name had come to her without bidding.
The curtain of her hair drew back as his fingers tucked it behind her ear. She looked up. He was still smiling, but there was a question in it, a tentativeness that was so rare in his expression...
"It was nice," he said, "Coming from you."
Klara's chest constricted. Oh. Oh, how had this happened? How could this man-with his blue eyes, his easy smile, the goodness that permeated every fiber of his being-how could he look at her like this? Like she was not everything that he stood against, like she had not failed them, like...like the past had been buried. And the dead were gone. And there was more to life than guilt and grief. Could she...? Was there a life like that for her? Beyond Asgard? Beyond her past? Beyond the secret that she still carried within her, the secret that Elli had buried with her mother?
Beyond Loki?
She searched those beautiful eyes, looking for an answer, but it did not reside there. The answer was only within her, and she had not yet discovered it. But she wanted it. Right now, in this moment, she wanted what his eyes promised her might lay beyond...
"Steven," she said, softly, as if testing the sound on her tongue.
His smile brightened. And Klara's world warmed in its light.
A/N: Welcome to The Farm! Where we believe in angst, on top of angst, sprinkled with angst, and angst icing! We hope you've enjoyed your stay, it only gets worse from here! :'D