So last night I finished up chapter 32...I think we'll hit 34 total. It's a weird number. Eh. I'm hoping to finish up the writing before camp (14th-26th, but I should be able to make it to the labs to update at least every-so-often).
Quick thanks to all of my reviewers and readers - you guys are awesomesauce. Which is like apple sauce, only about twenty times better. Y'all are so nice to support me and this and...I don't even know what to say. But thanks. Thanks a lot.
-XXX-
I've always liked the beach. When I was a kid we went all the time. My little brother often enjoyed the surf, but always whined terribly over the sand once we had left. Mom and Dad didn't seem to like it as much as we did - Mom usually lounged on her towel with our father beside her, both drenched in sunscreen, reading or sleeping. They would always attempt to coat us is SPF 15. I hated the vial-smelling stuff with a passion. Nothing brought me more pride than a well-earned summer tan and spray of brown freckles.
When I wake up to see seaside running alongside the horizon, I am alert. It's been years since I've seen ocean. My nose hits the glass as I lean forward, absorbing all that I see. I can practically smell the surf. Beside me, Barton chuckles. I turn to him, feeling something like a shred of joy for the first time all day. He passes me a Styrofoam cup. I sip, tasting lukewarm gas station Colombian brew. Not bad, but bitter. A thank-you slips out before I take another drink.
"We're almost there," Hawkeye informs me, his eyes on the road, ever-watchful. "Have yourself a nice nap?"
It occurs to me for the first time that Barton might not be such a bad guy. "Yeah, thanks. How long did I sleep?"
"About thirteen hours."
Long drive, then. Very long drive. I woke about two hours after we had left the city behind us, while Ryle was getting gas. Hawkeye escorted me into the station, stood outside the bathroom, then followed me up and down the aisles as I selected a coffee, a muffin and a fruit salad for myself. Back in the car, I questioned our mode of transportation.
"As a big government agency, doesn't SHIELD have, like, a ton of helicopters, or maybe a few jets? Why are we driving?"
Barton shrugged. "It's unexpected. And it gives us options. Easier to hide in the ground than the sky."
Ryle nodded in confirmation, the ever-silent component to the SHIELD philosophy.
From that point I was awake for another three hours, watching the nightscape pass by out window, before sinking again into sleep.
I'm stunned by my own ability to maintain a state of sleep for so long. Barton and Ryles must have worked very hard to keep me from waking.
"Where are we?" I yawn into my arm, settling against the car's seat once again. If anything could be said of SHIELD-issued cars they are very comfortable.
Barton doesn't answer, instead pulling out his phone to check the time, a text, or employ some other distraction. I roll my eyes, huffing and looking back out the window. Typical. Ryle glances in the rearview mirror, slightly grinning.
We pass a welcome sign. Welcome Sebastian, Home of Pelican Island. Friendly People and Six Old Grouches. I sigh. "Florida?" Not my favourite state, by any the very least, it'll be warm. The October air of New York is chilling quickly with the approach of November. For several minutes we drive. I glance at the dash clock. The green digital numbers read 12:23.
We eventually pull into a bungalow-styled two-level, painted in an eye-popping salmon and coral, right on the beach. There is a palm or two in the backyard, and just beyond the fence I can see the sparkle of ocean waters. Excitement, then guilt, rises in my throat. Of all the places to be a prisoner, these are pretty sweet digs. Barton lifts a hand to Ryle as we park. Both look to the lime-coloured door.
Seconds later the door opens to reveal a tanned Bruce Banner. He steps onto the pristine white porch, waving. He's wearing tan cargo shorts, a faded blue t-shirt, and sandals. I gape. Barton grins.
Banner comes up to the SUV, opening my passenger door and offering a hand to help me out. I'm still staring when my feet hit the pavement of the drive.
"You're the babysitter?"
He visibly winces. "I prefer the term 'guardian.'"
"He's monitoring you," Barton says firmly. Ryle steps up with my borrowed duffle in hand. I accept it. "You've got her from here?"
"Yeah, of course." Banner stuffs his hands into his pockets, nodding. "You catching a flight out?"
"Orlando," Ryle says in his baritone, slipping his sunglasses on after a quick shirt-polish. "Three o'clock."
"Good luck to you guys."
The men depart. I round on the doctor.
"How did you get stuck in this gig?" I demand.
Bruce shrugs. "I've been lacking work since I returned from India. And my SHIELD lab was feeling…stuffy."
"So, you take a pet-sitting job by the sea?" I raise a brow. "Sounds rather like a vacation to me."
He laughs, lifting his hands up, palms exposed. "You caught me."
He bends to pick up my bag, then ushers me inside. I am privy to a tour. The house is furnished in teak and steel, with bamboo-weave carpets, and glass everywhere. The coffee table in the center of the living room is basically a steel-and-glass fish tank, with smooth sea glass at the bottom. In the kitchen, the counters are all granite. The island is solid driftwood. The view from the shuttered window is to die from. It's all very lush, expensive. I raise my brows.
"Surely SHIELD didn't purchase this?" The utilitarian government style isn't reflected in this dwelling.
"No, that would be Tony. This is his…safehouse."
"Wow."
Wow is right. Every room it seems has some sort of quirky feature-like a fountain in the bathroom. Flat screen TVs everywhere. There is an in-house intercom system. A hot tube on the back patio. Mosaic tiles on the backsplash of the kitchen hand-set by the look of them, imported from Spain (working at a gallery gives me an eye for such things). The property butts the beach. I can run for maybe thirty seconds and hit water. My room features its own private balcony. I'm stunned by the luxury. Suddenly, it seems like a life of imprisonment won't be so bad for a least a little while.
Banner is polite. I find that I like him even more. After our tour, he suggests a swim before dinner.
"Suits are in the wardrobe," he adds before leaving my temporary bedroom. And he is right. At least a dozen, all my size, all with tags still on them, await me. I select a safe one-piece black halter, a white sarong, and pair of leather thongs before joining him on the surf. Banner relaxes easily around me, smiling over his Ray-Bans and leaning back to enjoy the afternoon sun.
It amazes me such a mild-mannered fellow could ever be the big, green fighting machine the media outlets portray the Hulk to be. Then again, that may very well be why his alter-ego is so savage.
"Tony Stark is a crazy man for not living here," I murmur, sinking onto the sand next to Banner.
"He's a busy man," the doctor explains. "Gotta let someone else appreciate the splendor. Some was going to send you to one of the Colorado cabins, but he stepped in and offered up his place. Nice of him." Bruce grins. "For both of us."
At dinner, we chat about all sorts of things. Mostly, Bruce's work as a scientist interests me, so we discuss gamma rays, and the like. I'm guessing he hasn't had anyone take a real interest in his work in a long time. The excitement in his eyes is infectious.
-XXX-
For almost a week, we develop a routine of waking late, eating brunch, bumming around the beach, eating a late lunch on the patio, spending yet more time on the beach, then settling in for a movie with dinner. It's a very casual thing - sometimes I forget I'm even being babysat. Bruce - as he instructed me on the first night to call him - is very easy to get along with. We're both nerds in our own right, so we rub along fine.
Then, the Saturday following my arrival, Steve Rogers appears to briefly replace Banner.
"Why," I ask loudly from the top of the stairs. "Do I need superheroes to babysit me? Is there some sort of universal rule saying all damsels in distress require a guy in tights to watch them whilst their god-roommates seek to hunt them down?"
"I'm not a superhero, ma'am," Steve says seriously. "And I've never worn tights a day in my life."
I scowl and march up the steps. Below, Steve casts a worried glance toward his roommate, who shrugs.
"She's frustrated," I hear Bruce say. "Now, what was this about the tesseract?"
Steve is just as interesting as Bruce, though reluctant to talk. He doesn't like the beach as much, and feels self-conscious in swim trunks. To my secret dismay, Captain America isn't keen on walking around shirtless (Not that Bruce was either, but then again, he wasn't nearly as cut). The two days we spend together are awkward at best, and while I come to like and respect this down-to-earth soldier, I am not surprised when a new guest arrives to take double-duty with him. The Black Widow, or Natasha, as Steve calls her.
Steve, on the other hands, calls me "Miss Deror." It's horrifying.
Natasha gives me a good scanning over once she enters the house. She's out of the skin-tight jump suit for once, but the skinny jeans and silk tank don't make me feel any less secure. Not that there is anyone here I wish to impress.
Four days pass with the two of them as my guardians. From what I can discern, the tesseract (whatever the hell that is, sounds like some kind of winged dinosaur) is acting up, and Bruce is one of the only people in the world who can even remotely handle it. Which is a pity. My new guardians are reluctant to even let me out of the house, and neither of them are big conversationalists. They hardly talk to one another, let alone me.
I don't know how Natasha spends the rest of her days, but a great deal of the average twelve hours are spent watching me eerily. The red-head is good at what she does. Steve, I fear, was scared off by my outburst at his arrival-he wants little to do with me, else I think he would be someone to talk with. But that isn't happening anytime soon.
In these days, I begin to miss my cat and my roommate (as there is no other title for him) terribly. I haven't seen Loki in almost two weeks. From the strained expressions on Steve and Natasha's faces when I occasionally think to eavesdrop (my sole source of entertainment out here), things aren't going well for SHIELD. And, as I'm still out here, I assume he has yet to agree to any truce.
The night Bruce returns, I do a full round of praise the Lord. Natasha leaves us that very night, but it seems Steve is here to stay. With Bruce around he is a little more agreeable. At least he likes Bruce.
"Why two all of the sudden?"
The doctor's mouth is a hard line. "SHIELD is experiencing difficulties with your boyfriend. He is in a relentless pursuit for you according to one of our junior directors…nearly crashed HQ earlier in the week. That's why you've got us as babysitters in the first place - any other agents would be ill-equipped to fend him off."
I decide not to ask how headquarters might be "crashed." That would just lead to more questions, I'm sure. "And SHIELD wants to keep its bargaining chip. Of course."
Across the room, Steve shakes his head. "It's not that simple."
I twist my ring. The gem twinkles, reassuring. "It never is."
-XXX-
Sebastian Florida is a real place. I've never been there (I don't think, though I've spent several hours on that particular piece of coast), but I did research it. 19 hours and 4 minutes from NYC, according to Google Maps.
Next chapter features a very, very pissed-off Asgardian. Like, wrecking-SHIELD-HQ pissed.
Reviews would be lovely...please?