Eveing everyone. Christmas is just a few days away and things are hectic. In order to keep my nephews from ripping into their presents I've actually had to lock everything up and carry the key around with me. But they're determined little critters and have attempted to pick, pry, or just destroy the door. If I had a camcorder I'd probably have enough footage to send into those funniest video shows and win a few prizes. Ah well, I should have expected this, they're family.
I offer up heartfelt prayers that everyone has a safe and happy Christmas surrounded by those that matter most in our lives; our dearest friends and beloved family. Merry Christmas!
Part 2
Unknown Location: Night of Kelly's Death…
Below a rare storm was raging across the bleak desert. Billowing angry clouds rolled overhead illuminated by jagged lances of brilliant purple lightening. Hurricane force winds whipped the sands into a frenzy; building dunes hundreds of miles high only to tear them apart moments later. But within the protective barriers all was quiet and still.
Only vaguely aware of the magnificent display of meteorological violence the central core's long occupant focused her attention on the contents of her hand.
(The human soul is such a contradiction; so fragile yet so incredibly strong.) Between her forefinger and thumb the delicate light emitted by the small orb she held barely seemed noticeable. But she could clearly feel its energy; feel the ensnared soul beating with intangible limbs in this seemingly fragile prison frantically striving to escape. It was rather like holding onto a frightened hummingbird.
Intent upon studying her latest catch she barely registered the door's activation or the approaching footsteps.
"You actually frightened me out there earlier," Bernard groused as he flopped down in the seat across from her. "What the hell was that all about?"
Pulling her gaze away from the orb she studied her much, much, much younger mate. Yes, there were signs; the slight pallor to the skin about his eyes, the tiniest tremble in those long talented fingers. Even his scent carried the faint, barely noticeable, taint of hunger that would only grow if not tended to.
"Explanations will be forthcoming Bernard, but there is a more urgent matter that you specifically must attend to." She retrieved a capped test tube from the table by her elbow and held it out to her suddenly reluctant and nervous partner.
"Must I?" He looked faintly nauseated at the sight of the thick dark red liquid contained in the glass.
Her voice and arm were firm, piercing blue gaze held his own. "You are far too new to your immortality to stretch your feedings out as I do."
"But the blood…" He reluctantly took the test tube.
"Is necessary."
Uncapping the tube Bernard made a disgusted face before downing the blood in a quick gulp that wasn't quite quick enough. As the metallic taste filled his mouth he coughed and sputtered before gladly accepting the offered glass of aged brandy.
"I know this is difficult for you Bernard, but in time you will not only become accustomed to the taste you will begin to crave it."
"H-how," he coughed and took another swallow of the fiery liquid. "I can't see that happening…blood as food?"
She graced her mate with a gentle smile. "Oh Bernard, we really must broaden your culinary horizons. There are numerous cultures across the globe that consider blood not only an acceptable food source but a highly desired delicacy."
"But not human blood correct?"
"One or two," she sighed. "If there was another way I would offer it. But without her blood acting as an anchor you would not have time to properly digest her energies." She patted his knee before handing over the orb. "Didn't your mother ever tell you that bolting your food would cause a tummy ache?"
"Perhaps I wouldn't find it so hard to accept if we didn't have to kill so violently." Bernard said before bringing the orb to his lips and sucking the soul out.
"Unfortunately it must be so. Sudden, painfully violent death ensures severance of the soul's connection to the body: every scrap of energy is fully released." She watched Bernard relax as the life-sustaining energy flowed though his body. "Over the ages I have experimented in other, more passive, means of feeding-with almost disastrous results. The souls fought savagely to remain in their mortal bodies or move on and the battle to extract them drained more energy from me than was gained by feeding. I came perilously close to starving before returning to the original method."
"We can starve to death?" He asked in a satiated voice.
"To death? No, not in the truest sense of the term. When we pass the threshold into starvation our bodies shut down and go into a state of suspended animation until such time as food is provided by another." Her eyes grew haunted. "It is a living death Bernard, you are aware of every moment, aware of the ravenous hunger constantly tearing at your insides, of the bone-gnawing pain that never relents, made all the worse because you must depend on another to provide you with the only means to alleviate it. Some have gone mad beneath the weight of prolonged starvation."
Bernard shuddered at the gruesome images her words generated.
"This is a brutal measure for our survival Bernard, but no more violent really than the slaughter of cattle, sheep, or pigs. I often wonder if humans truly witnessed how those steaks, ribs, and roasts reached their tables if they would stop eating them."
"Well, now that I've eaten can you explain what went on this afternoon?" Bernard propped his feet up and looked at her expectantly.
"I hope you will forgive me for the theatrics my dear Bernard. I was—what is the saying? Ah yes, I was laying it on thick for my captive audience."
"A performance for Captain America? Why would you-," he broke off as he reasoned out her motive. "You want him to…believe Sutherly's psychotic."
"Before that moment he harbored a certain level of anger, perhaps even a touch of hatred, towards Dr. Sutherly but that was as far as his emotions went. Now he believes her to be dangerously unstable, totally unpredictable, and fully capable of murdering in cold blood and taking great pleasure from such actions. A few more such demonstrations of her erratic nature and I guarantee that, given the proper incentive, I can goad Captain Rogers, or failing that one of his companions whom he has informed about Sutherly, into reacting with lethal force."
"You want to kill Dr. Sutherly? But she's served you so well!"
"Sutherly is but one mask among countless thousands I have employed over the long ages. Like many of those others before her she is close to outliving her usefulness. But before I discard her she will serve one last purpose." Effortlessly rising to her feet in is a swirl of blue fabric she crossed the platform to retrieve a folder and handed it to her companion.
Bernard accepted the papers and quickly scanned their contents. "So Intel has intercepted Kelly's information packet."
"Which presents us Bernard with a golden opportunity to kill a multitude of birds with one well-aimed stone. Given Kelly's corruption and betrayal it's obvious that we can no longer rely on our backers among the government and private sectors. They are becoming more of a hindrance than a help at this point in the game. Once Stark is in our possession I estimate we will have at least three days before someone among that group contacts us and demands he is turned over. They have long wanted Stark within their power, both for his wealth and for his technological talents."
"So how do we turn this to our advantage?" Bernard tapped the folder on his knee.
"Our dear little snitch, who sadly possessed more greed than common sense, is going to have a posthumous change of heart. After a bit of editing we reroute the packet to someone who will use the information contained to our best advantage."
"And who would that be?"
"Colonel Nicholas Fury."
Bernard spit out the sip of brandy he'd just taken. "Fury? But he's the last person I'd expect for us to contact."
"True, he is an enemy; perhaps the most dangerous one of the lot. The man has the devil's own luck and more lives than a thousand cats. I actually encountered him once while gathering information on Hydra. Such a merry little chase we had through some of Singapore's more uncivilized alleys before he cornered me. After a brief scuffle I ended up skewering him to a shack with one of my favorite dirks; pity to loose such an excellently crafted weapon. I believed the man was dead…until I spotted him three weeks later in Japan."
A flick of the wrist summoned up one of the currently active chessboards. Within her hand materialized a green piece in the image of the individual they were discussing. Twirling it between two fingers dark eyes studied the man's chiseled features; he really was quite handsome in his own rugged fashion. "Of the innumerable pieces I have moved across the game boards Fury has come closest to discovering my games. It is precisely for that reason that I rarely include him, he is almost impossible to control." She set the piece on an unoccupied square.
"Then why use him now?"
"In this instance he's precisely the game piece we need. Like Sutherly, I never intended for this facility to be a permanent piece in the game. Once he knows the location and who we are housing here Fury will scramble to gather what forces he can to mount a rescue mission." She ran a finger over the geographic map mounted on a free standing wall. "I suspect Dugan will supply him with SHIELD transportation and men despite Hill's attempts to prevent it. He will also, no doubt, bring several of Captain Roger's superhero friends along as heavy artillery."
Bernard was catching on to what she was planning. "Perhaps we should clear out the facility of all vital personnel, data, and prisoners now. Leave only a skeleton crew for appearances."
"Excellent idea-but we will leave Captain Rogers and Stark here."
"Aren't you planning to kill them? Leaving both alive would certainly be dangerous for us."
"Tell me Bernard would you seize a pair of scissors and turn the Mona Lisa into confetti? Take a sledgehammer to the statue of David? Burn an original play written in Shakespeare's own hand? Throw paint thinner on a Van Gogh or a Rembrandt?"
"No! I would never even think of destroying such masterpieces." He shook his head vehemently.
"Nor would I, which is precisely the reason I will not kill Captain America."
"But you have the Super Soldier Serum. You can make a hundred…a thousand super soldiers."
Pouring a glass of brandy she took a sip and savored the rich aged flavor before answering. "And when the time is right I shall create such an army. But while they will each be Super Soldiers none will be Captain America. He is a true masterpiece. It is not the serum which makes him so but his great heart and noble soul. Physical perfection combined with those elements has created a biological masterpiece to rival any of Leonardo's work. I could no more destroy him than I could a Gogan or Monet."
"You took a great risk allowing Red Skull's shooter to fire that first shot then. He could've just have easily blown the man's head off." Bernard pointed out.
A smirk graced her exquisite features. "That would've rendered the body useless and even if they intended otherwise the Skull would want his old enemy to suffer, a head shot would've been far too quick and painless a death. I took a carefully calculated risk and it paid off."
Bernard nodded in acceptance of her logic. It never ceased to amaze him how easily she read people and used that knowledge to her advantage. "So Fury rides to the rescue; what then?"
"Fury and his team will break in and retrieve Rogers and Stark. We shall leave enough security forces to make the venture difficult enough so as not to arouse suspicion. I think that I shall also send out a few of my beauties just to enhance the appearance of danger."
Bernard shuddered. "Must you? Those creatures of yours aren't very inclined to take orders, not to mention their fondness for human flesh. They might not stop at attack and injure."
"Did I say that I would order them to only injure? No, I shall put no form of restraint upon their actions. The savagery of their attack will only serve to add credence to our ruse," she flicked a stray bit of lint from her gown. "And if they succeed in permanently crippling, or even killing, one or two of the superheroes all the better."
The younger immortal again saw her logic but still…he'd seen the way those monstrosities ate. Whenever possible they liked their meals alive and able to fight back. They seemed to take intense delight in keeping their prey alive as long as possible while tearing them apart. It was neither a quick or painless way to die.
"I have no doubt that once Fury has the two men safely in his keeping he will order this facility thoroughly searched and all the computers checked. I shall leave enough evidence behind, coupled with Kelly's packet, to lead Fury to our backers."
Bernard chuckled wickedly. "And Fury will take care of them for us."
"He will be so busy cleaning up the corruption in his own government, retaking SHIELD, and discovering our carefully laid out background for registration and the following civil war that we shall be free to move about unencumbered." She raised her glass. "A toast to the gung-ho, to Fury and his dedication, to the bonds of friendship and brotherhood which can be so easily twisted to our benefit."
"Indeed." Glasses clinked and together they downed the last of their drinks.
Setting the carved crystal aside she picked up a data pad. "All personnel, data, and subjects from sections 3, 4, 8, 11, 15, 16, and 24 are to be moved immediately. I refuse to risk those projects. Sections 5, 7, 10, 19, 20, and 22 we shall transfer after Stark's arrival. All remaining sections are of no risk if they fall into enemy hands and thus can remain."
"I would," Bernard set his glass down. "Ask for one exception to those orders."
"And what would that be Bernard?"
"Leave subject 4-22L here. Move the furball up to one of the unoccupied cells by Captain Rogers so she'll be rescued with them."
She graced her younger mate with a teasing smile. "You've grown rather fond of that little stray kitten haven't you?"
"I know you want to study her more…but…," an appealing blush spread across his cheeks. "Well, she's…she's just so sweet…cute and…fluffy…so…"
Rich laughter filled the air. "You and your love for anything feline. Very well, I will authorize her transfer. She was not all that interesting a subject anyway, little more than a passing fancy to fill the time, and I do have all the data and samples I require."
Now that their path was laid and the gnawing hunger abated he was feeling a different type of hunger welling up inside him, a hunger that was answered in those magnificent blue eyes.
Unknown Location: Next Morning…
Moving about in the transport crate's narrow confines was next to impossible unless one possessed an amazingly flexible body; twisting and turning she peered out one of the tiny air vents. Luminous emerald eyes narrowed in concentration, large ears swiveling back and forth searching for the slightest sound. Pushing her nose against the slits she delicately sniffed the air.
Different guards, their scents unknown to her. A glint off metal, they were carrying guns, nasty guns that stung or fired darts that made her so woozy and clumsy.
This wasn't the usual route to the labs or the exercise room; they were below her cell and she was certain that the elevator traveled up not down.
Another scent, both familiar and comforting, wafted in. She liked Mr. Bernard, he was nice. He played with her, read to her, and brought her special treats. But the lady doctor—she was scary. Her smile and sweet words weren't right. She lied. Bad people lied.
She shifted until she was again facing the crate's door. Claws tapped the metal collar around her neck. If only that nasty thing was off she could make a brake for it. The thought of freedom was very powerful…but where would she go? Momma and Uncle Cyrus were gone to heaven and Aunt Patrica hated her. How do you go home when there's no home to go to?
"Here were go, you're new home little one." Bernard said as the grav platform came to a halt.
She could hear the control panel's keys being typed and quickly committed the numbers to memory. The low level hum of the force field died away and once again she was moving.
S&T
Steve watched as Sutherly's assistant directed the guards to remove the crate, snapping sharply at one man when his grip slipped and the container hit the floor rather hard. Glaring at the man as he scurried out the cell Bernard sat a weathered backpack down before stepping back into the hall and restoring the force field. Using one of those hand controls Steve so desperately wanted to lay his hands on Bernard triggered the crate's door mechanism.
"A bit more room for you little one, should be more comfortable." He pocketed the device.
Oh, if only Steve could get ahold of that controller…
After Bernard and the guards departed Steve rose from his chair and crossed his cell.
Who, or what, would emerge from the transport crate?
The wait wasn't a long one.
A pink, twitching nose emerged from the darkened interior framed by long glistening whiskers. Slowly, cautiously, the head came into view. Definite feline features; large rotating ears, short muzzle, and a pair of large brilliant emerald eyes with slit irises. The fluffy mane and most of the facial fur was white with a patch of rust colored fur covering one eye and black the other.
As more of the body appeared Steve noted the tattered Winnie the Pooh t-shirt and shorts which only partially obscured the rust and black fur pattern along the back and hips. He couldn't believe the length of the amazingly fluffy tail which seemed to have a life of its own. Small body. Steve wasn't sure if this individual was very young or full grown. He couldn't tell whether it was male or female yet.
Introduced to a new environment the feline began meticulously examining every inch of the cell. Smelling any crack or indentation, testing with fingers tipped with delicate looking claws. Particular attention was paid to the ventilation ducts and bathroom facilities. Steve thought the inspection was over when the last wall panel was sniffed but he was wrong. Without any outward sign of effort the feline walked up the wall and onto the ceiling, clinging upside down to the slippery surface. Steve couldn't help but chuckle as he remembered Peter frequently doing much the same thing.
Stiffening the feline head swiveled in his direction.
Steve gasped as the small form dropped. But he needn't have been concerned as the body twisted in midair; bringing hands and cat-like hind legs and paws to meet the floor. Remaining on all fours his fellow prisoner approached the force field before standing up on those more animalistic legs.
"Hi mister, who are you?" Piped the feline in a surprisingly young and female voice.
"Steve, Steve Rogers." He replied.
"Steve…that's a nice name," she smiled, displaying gleaming white teeth, double canines long and razor sharp. "My name's Persia. Momma named me that 'cause I'm pretty like one."
"Yes, you are very pretty Persia," Steve smiled then his expression turned somber. "Where is your mother Persia? Is she here somewhere?"
Persia's ears drooped. "Momma's gone to heaven, Uncle Cyrus too," she whispered hoarsely. "Lots of masked men came in the middle of the night with guns. Uncle Cyrus tried to stop them but they shot him and Momma. Then they brought me here. Did the bad doctor lady have you brought here too?" Dragging the backpack over with her tail she unzipped the largest pouch to retrieve a much battered but obviously beloved teddy bear which she cuddled to her chest.
Steve swallowed before nodding. "Yes she did."
A deep whine rumbled up in her throat and that fantastic tail slapped the floor. "Did she kill you're family too?"
Thoughts of Tony and the hell his "death" had put the man though. Of all the physical and emotional trauma that continued to tear his lover apart. All his friends, the people he'd come to consider his family, mourning his loss. "No, she hasn't killed them but she's hurt them all very, very badly."
She snapped her teeth with a resounding click. "She's a bad lady. I wish I could bop her one, or maybe bite her."
"No, you don't," Steve sat down on the floor. "You'd probably get sick."
Persia chuffed before curling up in a furry mound; tail wrapped several times around her body, leaving only her pretty face exposed. "Probably right; she's rotten. When fruit goes bad it gets all nasty and rotten. She's bad so she's gotta be rotten."
S&T
Very quickly Steve became immensely fond of the kitten-child. She was just such an adorable furry bundle of innocence and enthusiasm even after spending long months here with these wicked people. He enjoyed talking to her, listening to her stories about her time with her family and adventures in the woods around her home. In return Steve told her of his own life, Of his time before he was given the Super Soldier Serum, fighting against the tyranny of the Nazis, and his awakening into a new world made all the more disconcerting by the lingering remnants of the one he'd known before his plunge into the frigid depths.
As wonderful as Persia's company was her presence only added to Steve's worries. Even if an avenue of escape presented itself Steve wouldn't attempt anything unless Persia went as well. From his observations and snippets gleamed from the staff the only thing keeping Persia from the dissection table was Bernard's obvious fondness for the feline child. Steve truly feared that at any moment Sutherly might decide her research was more important than her lover's feelings. There was no way he would leave this child in the hands of that madwoman.
S&T
SHIELD Helicarrier, Fourteen days after discovery…
Dugan's patience was worn paper thin.
Stark was definitely sick. The man practically lived off coffee, treated the dark brew as if it occupied half the major food group list. If there was a way to hook up an intravenous feed of the stuff Stark would've invented it. Might've done that already; nobody knew exactly all the gadgets he had built into his various armors.
Now he wouldn't touch the stuff, even acted like the very smell of a fresh pot made him sick.
Hell, he was sick whether coffee was involved or not. Dugan could personally attest to witnessing three such instances where Stark had caught a stray aroma, turned some interesting shades of green, and bolted for the nearest available receptacle.
A few agents thought he was back on the bottle.
Dugan didn't think that was so.
Jan had become an almost permanent fixture, hanging around Stark, coaxing or even browbeating the man to eat or rest-as much good as that did. With as much as Tony Stark had on the stack of plates he was precariously balancing he couldn't afford the luxury of resting even if it was badly needed.
What irked Dugan most was that the man was avoiding him, wouldn't even answer his calls and e-mails. When Stark wasn't hiding in his quarters like some wounded animal curled up in its den licking its injuries he was at the Baxter building. Whatever Reed found out must've been bad, real bad. Richard himself refused to disclose anything, calmly stating that it was Tony's decision who had the right to know about his condition.
His condition. Damn, it never sounded good when scientists or doctors talked like that.
Time for a little private investigation.
Once again he had cause to silently thank Nick for passing along those special override codes, his own personal skeleton keys he called them. They were the only way he could gain access to Stark's private quarters and office aboard the Helicarrier without setting off every alarm on the crate. Thank God Nick only trusted him with the codes; Dugan shuddered to think what Hill would use them for.
Dugan only noted in passing the more modern furnishings, his attention was drawn to the desk. With quick efficiency he checked every folder and letter but found only documents dealing with his company or SHIELD. He flipped through the appointment book. Nothing but scribbles, doodles of geometric shapes, and long strings of numbers and letters which might have been computer codes. He bypassed the computer; no way would Nick's skeleton keys work against Stark's programming.
(Strike one on the desk.) Dugan turned towards the door to Stark's bedroom.
The bed was neatly made, almost as if no one had slept in it for some time-which might have been true when Dugan saw the state of the couch; rumpled pillows and a blanket. On the coffee table—jackpot!
Pages of test results with notes written in Reed's distinctive handwriting, printed files from various internet sites, and at least a dozen different books whose pages were littered with post-it notes as bookmarks.
All dealing with one specific ailment.
Pregnancy.
Why would Stark be researching…suddenly all the pieces clicked into place.
The timing…the symptoms…Reed and Jan's concern…all the effort Stark was obviously throwing into his research…
Dear God the man was pregnant, pregnant with Captain America's baby. It couldn't be anyone else's.
(Okay, this is bad!) Dugan fretted silently, shock warring with surprise. After so many years working alongside superheroes he'd come to expect the bizarre and unusual to occur with regular frequency. Alien invasions, time travel, alternate dimensions, and megalomaniacs were becoming routine, almost boring at times. The situation wouldn't be so upsetting if this had happened to one of the other superheroes. Someone who'd gained their powers through some weird energy or chemical might've developed the ability to get knocked up as a side effect. A mutant would've been even less upsetting.
A man like Stark, born completely human and without the x-gene, suddenly turning up pregnant complicated the hell out of things.
What the hell could've caused this? Alien intervention…supernatural spell…the old mad scientist playing God….
Dugan dropped onto the couch and picked up one of the test papers, trying to make out Reed's distinctive handwriting. He couldn't decipher much of the technical and medical stuff but he did understand enough to know that the Extremis was at the root of all this. The man slammed down the papers and swore under his breath. Dugan had read the initial reports on Stark's gaining Extremis; either use the experimental program and hope for the best or die from extensive internal injuries. Yeah, it worked. Stark was alive and now really was a part of his suit. But it looks like that decision was coming back to bite him in the ass big time.
This changed everything.
Stark was now more vulnerable than almost any time in his life. He shouldn't be fighting, suit or no suit. Hell, he probably shouldn't be anywhere near anything remotely to do with capes. Even the Helicarrier was dangerous. What would Hill do if she found out this little tidbit?
He needed more information before making plans. Plans on how to protect man and child from any super villain out to take advantage of this sudden vulnerability, the government morons, members of the super hero community who might take offence to him bearing Steve's kid, and probably the most dangerous threat of all—Stark himself.
Carrying a baby wasn't any pony ride in the park, more like a roller coaster ride at Coney Island. Dugan should-
BEEP…BEEP… BEEP…
Dugan clicked off the alarm on his watch. The security cameras monitoring the outer hall would be returning to their normal scan pattern in five minutes. Carefully Dugan placed everything back the way he found it on the coffee table. Retracing his steps he checked to make sure no trace of his visit remained to alert Stark to his breeching of the man's private quarters. Once the door slid closed behind him Dugan headed for the lifts.
S&T
Undisclosed Location…
Long days of waiting, long days of watching.
Long days of building nerves and growing nightmares.
Every member of the capture team knew the longer they took in completing their mission, the greater the risk of punishment hovered over their heads. None feared this more than the unit commander.
Dr. Sutherly's orders were quite simple and crystal clear; capture Tony Stark alive and unharmed then deliver him back the facility.
He was given the means to accomplish this task: the gas, serum, collar, and the all the necessary men and equipment. All that was still required was the right time and place to strike.
And time and place that had currently failed to materialize.
With each tick of the clock time was running out.
A faint tremor shook his hand as the commander picked up the Styrofoam cup one soldier just placed before him, nearly spilling the hot coffee into his lap. While the other team members only had a vague inkling of what manner of punishment Dr. Sutherly could mete out for failure he knew with horrifying clarity. His predecessor's fate haunted his dreams and preyed constantly on his waking thoughts.
He could easily suffer the same fate.
He WOULD suffer the same fate if he failed.
"Sir! Agent 23 reports the target is mobile."
Coffee splashed over the table as he bolted to his feet. "Manner?"
"Ground transportation Sir."
Excitement sent his heart to hammering. "All nearby agents converge and coordinate! Tail that car! Pack up people! I want us ready to move in for the capture the second the opportunity presents itself!"
S&T
Stamford, fifteen days after discovery…
Memories. The house was full of memories.
Setting aside her peeling knife Miriam closed her eyes and sighed heavily. Damion had so loved to watch her cook.
Like ghosts they haunted Miriam, intangible phantoms she could neither dispel nor relinquish. They filled every nook and cranny, possessed each stick of furniture and object, echoed in even the smallest everyday task.
Buried in the bedroom closet was the dress she wore when Jake took her to that awfully cheesy Italian restaurant with the surprisingly good cuisine and proposed right there in front of all the other diners. Above on the shelf were boxes filled with photos of their wedding, honeymoon, and early years together. Beneath on the closet floor was the wooden chest containing Damion's baby clothes, special mementos, and the pregnancy diary and baby's first year albums she and Jake so joyfully put together.
Jake's old ragged recliner, looking like some reject from the dump heap, which he refused to part with no matter how much she promised to get him a new one sat forlornly in the den. On the bookshelves sat his trophies for the marathons he'd won right beside pictures of her husband and their son on Damion's first visit to the zoo.
Pinned by magnets to the refrigerator were pictures of Damion in the school play, his crayon drawings of their family and the dog he hoped to persuade his mother to buy, and the last report card she and Damion were so proud of.
Down the hall was Damion's room, looking exactly as it had that morning he'd went off to school-and never came back. Miriam found herself often going inside and sitting on the bed, clutching that much battered and beloved teddy bear to her chest as she cried ragged sobs of pain and loss. There amidst the toys and books Damion loved so well she could almost feel her son's presence.
Not even fleeing the house gave her a reprieve; everywhere she went the memories were there waiting for her…
The park where Damion loved to play on the jungle gyms. That wonderful bakery that made the cinnamon bread Jake and Damion would practically inhale whenever she bought it. The pizza pallor where the whole family would go to after a movie. That same Italian restaurant she and Jake would go to every year to celebrate their anniversary.
The gas station where Jake was at the wrong place at the wrong time and paid for it with his life…
The graveyard where her husband and son were buried side by side…
At times she thought they would drive her mad but there were also moments Miriam believed the memories were the only things keeping her sanity intact.
Aunt Clarice badgered her at least once a week to come and live with her but Miriam refused to leave the house she and Jake worked so hard to restore and make into a real home. The dear old lady meant well and Miriam would admit to a few fleeting moments of weakness where she seriously considered her aunt's offer. But Miriam knew that if she fled now she might never have to the courage to come back.
She would live with the ghosts of Jake and Damion. As much pain as they caused her Miriam refused to live without them.
Her mind drifted to another who lived with ghosts; Tony Stark.
Her forehead creased with worry. Miriam hadn't seen or spoken to the man since Captain America's funeral. She nearly choked on her own tears as she watched Mr. Stark's intense emotional pain on that sad, sad day. When the services were finally over Miriam attempted to reach the man, to offer her condolences, but what could she have said? All those platitudes, some heartfelt others only lip service, that friends and family offered her at Jake's funeral seemed so hollow, beating the fact he was gone deeper inch by painful inch into her soul.
Would hers have sounded the same to him?
Through her interaction with the various pro-registration heroes and government officials Miriam had learned there had always been something unique between the two men. Closer than friends, closer than brothers, some even speculated they might've been lovers but no one ever succeeded in discovering if that was true. Together they could achieve the impossible, were willing to go to any lengths to save the other even if it meant sacrificing their own life.
How terrible it must've been to be on opposite sides, to be fighting each other. And then to watch the other killed, gunned down like a rabid dog…
Maybe she should call him…Just call…
The sound of a car pulling into her driveway pulled her out of her current thoughts.
Tbc…