They've been gone for four days. Three days of keeping myself as busy as I can and then twenty-four hours of complete radio silence that causes agony in every part of me.
"They'll be fine," Elsa tells me, this is what they do, what they're good at, but I can't help but think that the worst has happened. But my brain can't decide what the worst thing is: a scenario where they've all been killed, or one where James comes back to me a thousand steps back from the progress that we've made. The more I allow myself to ponder these two options the more certain I become about which option I am more afraid of.
I stick close to Elsa, more out of the need to stay near someone so that I have a direction to channel my nervous energy and keep my head from spinning too far out of control. . We catch up on busy work of cleaning, paperwork, and filing old test results. She gave me the results of my blood work two days ago, a single-page printout that I keep folded up in my pocket. I looked at it when she gave it to me, folded it, and put it immediately into my pocket. I keep it close like a tiny lifeline of hope.
Bless her heart, Elsa didn't ask me what I was going to do, because the moment I read that paper my heart had dipped and swelled at once, terror and excitement gripping me in a single emotion I'd never felt before in my entire life. I don't know what I'm going to do. I'm not surprised by this new turn in my life, I know how this works and why it's happened, but it still catches me off guard.
As the fourth day winds down and the night creeps in, Elsa stays on with me in the med wing and we watch a movie while I nibble saltines and run my fingers over my middle, trying to feel something of the newness that it contains. The last time I note before I fall asleep is 12:13 am, the numbers glowing faintly on the digital clock on the wall. I'm curled up on one of the hospital beds and Elsa dozes in an adjacent one, relaxed in the quiet of our work space. My mind drifts to new dreams, of three figures twisting and dancing in the swirl of a hopeful feeling.
We're awoken by noises in the hallway, shouts echoing off the walls, the sounds of chaos coming through the cracks under the doors. Elsa's mouth sets in a hard line and she leaps off her bed, grabbing my hand in a smooth motion and pulling me towards her lab area, a small alcove glassed off from the rest of the wing where she can work in relative isolation if need be. She pushes me through the door and moves in behind me. Before she can close the door, the sound of gunfire comes through, sending a chill through me.
"Stay calm," Elsa says, holding me in front of her by my elbows. Her eyes are calm, her voice steady, and all I can do is nod dumbly at her. She releases me and walks over to a lab bench, opens the bottom drawer and removes a false bottom from it, revealing two guns that she puts on the bench. I don't know what to make of it, this sudden change in the person I thought I knew, while she loads a prepped magazine into each weapon before chambering a round into the one she slips into the waistband of her pants and extending the grip of the other to me.
"You've been trained, yes?" she says, pushing the gun at me. I nod again. "Good. Hide first, shoot only if you have to."
She hesitates for a second, then puts her arms around me and squeezes me in an embrace. I am trying my best to catch up to her but before I can hug her back she's released me and is heading out again. "Hide," she says over her shoulder and once out of the little lab she breaks out in a run towards the door. She's gone before I can tell her goodbye.
Inside the glass box I start to hyperventilate. Her last order to hide myself rings in my ears and I look around desperately for a place to conceal myself. I have more than my own safety to consider at the moment and I move behind another bench and decide on a cupboard space that I fold myself into just as the muffled sound of people breaking into the med wing reverberates around the lab.
In complete darkness I clasp my hands over my mouth to keep myself from crying, no from screaming, and struggle to control my breathing. My eyes are wide open but no light comes to me in the impenetrable darkness. The only sense that is engaged are my ears and I can hear the gunfire, the wrecking, and my whole body starts to shake.
There are footsteps in the lab, voices closer now, moving through the space and I realize I haven't loaded a round into the chamber. It's too late, the noise will attract them and I am essentially an unarmed, sitting duck. My only hope is that I am not found. I try to slow my breathing, focus on being calm, and press a hand against my stomach to calm the churn there.
I'll protect you, I say to myself, even though I don't know how. Over and over I repeat it in my head as the footsteps come closer, are on my side of the lab bench and move closer and closer, walking slowly. And then I hear it, finally reaching me over the pounding blood in my ears, a small noise of hinge resistance as each door is opened and closed again. My fear compounds and a combination sob and near vomit push against my hands and tears sting my eyes.
The sound stops just outside my cabinet door, and I brace myself as the door is whisked open. I push back against the cabinet, trying to crawl away, but a giant hand closes around my ankle and yanks me out, letting me sprawl on the floor. I cover my face with my arms and try to curl myself into a ball but there's a sharp kick to my middle and I scream and try push myself across the floor. Anything to get away. My head is spinning and I'm gasping for air and crying all at once and it's real panic that sends me fleeing.
There are hands on my legs again, pulling me towards two great, black figures, guns trained on me, and they pull me up to pin me against the counter. I can't focus, my eyes dart everywhere until settling on the barrel of the gun that is pointed right at me. Shouts in my ear, demands and questions and all I can do is see that hot barrel and the bullet waiting to lodge itself in my brain and end it all.
They shake me and then throw me down the lab bench and I skid across the floor into the wall. My whole body cries out and I curl into myself to protect against the boots that are coming my way. I close my eyes and prepare for the onslaught, whispering a small prayer and apology to the baby inside me that I failed to protect, because we are going to die tonight and it never even had a chance.
"Move!" the voice behind the boots shouts and I know it's speaking to me. It reaches through my panic and my eyes snap open to see my attackers turning to face the new presence and I crawl along the glass wall and back behind the lab bench. I have to press my palms over my ears at the hail of gunfire and the shattering glass but the noise hits me inside my head and I scream again in response. When it stops, just as suddenly as it began, I can't stop the trembling and the small cries that escape me.
Then it's gentle hands on mine, warm metal and flesh covering my fingers and whispering my name. James' blue eyes catch mine and his lips find the space between my eyes, then kisses the tip of my nose and pulling me against his firm body that I wrap my arms around and cling to like it can take away what just happened. The tears won't stop, and when he lifts me in his arms, my head settles against his neck and if I didn't know any better I would be liable to think there were tears falling from him to me.
"Don't look," he says as he carries me through the med wing, trying to turn my head away before I catch a glimpse of the woman on the floor, sprawled on the bright red blood and staring blankly at the ceiling. Dear Elsa, pushing me away, must have tried to keep them away from us before they mowed her down. A crack splits in my chest and a sharp ache drives itself into the space and threatens to split me in two. I finally turn away and bury myself in James' comfort.
"Alina," James' voice comes to me in the haze of sedatives that I've been under and I turn my eyes up to him. He brushes some strands of hair away from my face and puts a hand underneath me, helping me to sit up at his insistence. I lean against the headboard and see Steve across the room, sitting on the window seat and watching James try to bring me into their conversation. I've been listening to the low hum of their hushed voices for a while, but haven't made any motion that I've actually been tracking what they were saying.
From my bed I've watched two days begin and have drifted in and out of consciousness trying to escape the world but the night of gunfire follows me no matter where I go. I accepted the drugs at first, but am starting to take half the dosage, snapping the pills with my teeth and hiding them under the mattress. I'm still wearing the same clothes, the only thing missing are my shoes that James took off and set next to the bed, I can even feel the folded paper in my pocket when I lay on my side. My stomach aches, and I'm afraid to move lest any more disturbance harms my baby. My baby.
"It was a setup," Steve says to me and my gaze falls on him. His posture and demeanor bear none of the man I had come to know, instead he looks like he's is bending under the weight of guilt. His eyes are heavy and his mouth is slack.
"We met up with our contact to brief," Steve continues. "and when we got inside the base was abandoned just like they thought. We sifted through what had been left behind, pulling some files and other documents that would be useful in tracking down other pieces, but most of the important stuff had been destroyed. We were preparing to leave when they swarmed. When they saw Stark it was like the confirmation they needed to come here. To draw us back into another nest. They just wanted to wipe us out."
"How," I start to say, my first word in days. Steve seems to understand what I'm hoping for.
"The HYDRA cells are splintered now," he says. "Led by an agent we thought died in DC."
James keeps one of my hands in his, drawing small circles on the back with his thumb while Steve talks. He tracks the movement of his fingers, not wanting to look at me and I'm glad for his avoidance because I think we are both thinking the same thing. This is too much in a world where I have no business being. He must feel guilty about dragging me into it and I have only come to my decision knowing that I must do what is best for two instead of just one.
"James," I whisper and he looks at me. "I have to go."
His face drops and his thumb stops mid-pattern and presses down harder on my hand. He looks confused, hints of a stifled anger work their way into his features and twist the corners of his mouth.
"No," he says.
"I have to," I repeat myself, making my voice as gentle as I can. He stares at my hand still folded in his and I grip it tighter. He starts to shake his head.
"I don't belong here," I say.
"You belong with me," he stammers. "I promised I'd take care of you. That I'd keep you safe."
"And we couldn't do that," I push. "We tried, and we failed." He pulls his hand away and pushes himself off the bed, pacing towards the bathroom door and then spinning around again to face me.
"I have to go," I murmur and II can feel myself starting to melt against the headboard, the sedatives draining what little energy I have. His anger boils just under the surface, causing his fists to clench. He turns away from me and crosses the room, barely able to contain his rage and throws the door open to the hallway with his metal arm, using such force that it swings through the hinges and smashes against the wall, leaving a large hole. I don't make the effort to call after him, I need him to hate me, to feel no desire to follow me when I leave. But it causes that chasm in my chest to break wider and wider, opening a hole so big it will swallow me.
Steve, quiet in his corner but not forgotten in the swirl of emotions that surround us, clears his throat and my eyes turn to him.
"Why," is all he says. My response is to reach into my pocket and pull out the folded paper and hold it out to him. He rises, and comes over to take it gingerly from me, a questioning look on his face. He unfolds it slowly, almost respectfully, and reads the print carefully. His eyebrows rise so far up his forehead that they almost disappear into his hairline. He sits down on the bed, his mouth open to form a question that he doesn't ask, and the paper dangling from his fingers.
"He can't know," I say through breaths that catch in my throat. "You can't tell him. I have to keep us safe, now. It's up to me."
Steve nods, and then I let myself fall into that black hole in my chest and the grief crush me into tiny pieces. I dissolve into the bed, burying myself in the blankets that smell like him, where Steve's heavy hand rests on my back to comfort me, but I am heartbroken for the man I have pushed away to ensure our child will have a chance at a real life.
I understand now why people do things that seem impossible, why they make the decisions that break hearts and ruin happiness. Sometimes they do it to allow for greater good to flourish. Even though it destroys them to do it.
The next morning, Steve takes me down to James' room because there is something I want from there. I've left everything behind in our apartment, save for the family album and my grandfather's notebooks, and they weigh down my bag. When we arrive James isn't there, but there is evidence that he was. The cards that had formed his intricate map of his mind have been ripped off the walls and strewn about the floor, evidence of the distraught man who must have fled to this place.
But there is one small part of the map that is untouched, the two cards at the center, one with his name and one with mine. His picture is still up and this is what I take and tuck into my nearly empty wallet, wanting a way to keep him in my memory. The sight of the torn down map hurts in a way that goes beyond what I feel for him, but it's also a reassurance that my words tore at him in a way that will sever the bond between us.
Still, I think of something else, something that I know I shouldn't do but feel the impulse for none-the-less. We swing back to the apartment and Steve waits for me outside the door at my request. I take the test results and take up a pen, wondering what to say that could encapsulate all that has happened. In the end, I write six, simple words, fold the paper again, head to the bookcase. I choose a random book and slide the paper in the middle. If he ever comes back, if he ever picks up where we had left off in the ruins of the life we had tried to build, if he goes back to reading, to working his way through this collection, he might find it someday. It's the least likely thing I could think would happen.
But even a small hope is better than none.