Blood Loss

She silenced her own scream, swallowing the sound back down. Help wouldn't come, couldn't come, so why waste her breath? She couldn't peel herself away from the wall, pushing back against it in a desperate attempt to be swallowed by it, molecule by molecule, and be away from here.

"Your assistance has been of great value," the merciless man said, addressing Coulson. There was no sarcasm to his voice, or even much politeness, but there was a finality Asta didn't like. She knew what was about to happen before he even moved, and that had her shoving away from the wall, instinct putting herself between Coulson and the staff. Its sharp edge scythed through her arm as they landed on the floor, but the burn of pain was worth it—it'd been aimed for Coulson's belly.

"What have you done?" the man asked. She ignored him, focusing on the flow of hot blood spilling out over the white floor. More than she'd expected. Coulson was staring at the wound with open horror, but she dared not look. Gore always made her queasy. Coulson pushed her up, already removing his jacket to stem the flow.

Instead, he was tossed aside, and she was spun onto her back. He crouched above her, the staff still in hand, its bloodied tip resting on the floor next to her face. Strangely, some of the raw evil had leached from his face, and Asta would've sworn concern tugged at his mask. Blood loss could do strange things to perception.

"Silly girl," he admonished, but his anger didn't seem real. One hand wrapped around her wound, his skin a sweet chill against her own, and then she was consumed by whatever the hell was creeping through her flesh. Magic, her mind insisted, but that couldn't be true. She hung onto that fact of reality even as she turned her eyes to the wound and watched the ragged edges of her skin knit themselves back together.

She stared up at him as some of the whiteness faded from the edges of her vision, and he stared back, his fingers tightening on her arm. His eyes didn't seem so cruel this close. How could eyes with such a soft colour—the blue-green of the calmest lake—ever be anything but beautiful? His face lost its hard edge, his mouth softening from its harsh scowl, and she thought tenderness settled behind his stare, knocking the breath out of her with just how good he looked without the anger. Her fear dissolved, though her heart continued to pound, and she wondered just what her relationship with this man really was. The way her body recognised him, so differently to the way her mind did, set everything she could remember from the nightmares on its head.

It only lasted a moment, and Coulson broke the spell. He staggered up in her peripheral vision, and the man hauled Asta to her feet. She saw his arm twitch in preparation for another strike with the staff, and this time she caught it, twisting around so once again she was between them.

"Out of my way," the merciless man snarled, his hand on her arm again, and this time she felt all the power coiled in there. He could throw her across the room with the flick of a wrist—yet he didn't.

He did try to shake her off, but she refused to be moved.

"Asta…" Coulson said, "don't get yourself hurt for me."

The man snarled, and Asta resorted to begging. "Please, please, leave him alone!"

"Very well." He caught her by the wrist, dragging her backwards, though the staff remained extended in Coulson's direction. "Don't try to follow us," he instructed, and slammed the door shut. Coulson yelled from behind the door, but a blast of blue light from the staff buckled the metal shut, keeping him trapped.

She struggled to keep up with the man's strides down the corridor, and he obviously had no intention of slowing for her. He didn't even glance back at her. Twice a black-clad agent popped out of some hidey-hole and he blasted them with the staff, a jet of cyan blue sending them spinning away. She cried out and he didn't flinch; all she could do was pray they were merely stunned.

When they took the last corner she thought they'd turn and head back down another corridor, because this couldn't be where they were meant to be going. Up ahead, a gaping hole appeared in the exterior of the ship, the edges of the metal carcass fractured and torn. Beyond that, the sky.

Only he didn't turn around, didn't even slow, just kept pulling her towards that portal to nothingness, and even digging her heels into the floor made no difference to his pace. He carried her along like she were no more than a piece of ribbon tied around his arm, floating along behind him.

At the edge of the hole, a jet waited, the back doors propped open, but all she could focus on were the thousands of feet of air between her and the ground. Digging her heels in wasn't an option anymore since her knees, and the rest of her legs, had apparently been relieved of their bones. She grasped a random fragment of the ship's frame to steady herself, but her captor had no interest in her fear.

"Jump," he commanded.

"I can't," she tried to say, the words stolen away by terror. Add this to the things she knew about herself: she did not like heights.

His nostrils flared, eyes narrowing, the pitiless expression from her dreams returning. She expected the command to come again, or for him to peel her fingers away from the ship and push. Instead, he stepped behind her, his frame dwarfing hers, and wrapped an arm around her waist, trapping her against him. Then he jumped, taking her with him.