The poison leaves bit by bit, not all at once. Be patient. You are healing.

— Yasmin Mogahed

Three days after my sutures came out, Agent Blake offered me a transfer to an administrative position at the Cupboard. Even though it was the last thing Melinda May would do, I accepted, because despite the years I'd spent in Operations, the countless missions I'd been on, I knew that this time, I couldn't go back out there. Everyone was shocked; how could the Cavalry leave the field for a desk job?

They didn't understand. None of them. Not even Phil. And how could they? They were whole; I was shattered.

The transition was surprisingly easy. I have an apartment in the city, where I eat, sleep, and store my belongings. It's bare of decoration or personal touches; half my things are still in cardboard boxes, sitting quietly in the corner. Realizing I could barely take care of myself, much less a cat, I left Parachute in the capable hands of my former neighbor's daughter. Though I do miss her company, she's much happier with a perky, 12-year-old owner who isn't either absent or depressed all the time. And I don't think she'd get along with the bright blue fish Phil gave me as a going-away present. I'm having a hard enough time not killing it as is.

I work in an air-conditioned office that smells like floor wax and cheap polyester. I've abandoned my tactical suits for slacks and a blouse, and sit at a desk every day stamping paperwork and entering data into spreadsheets. I like it. It's meditative. I work nine to five, and the risk of getting shot is minimal. I set up my cubicle exactly the way I like it, dividers nice and high, furniture and boxes of files neatly arranged to make a wall between me and the rest of the world. Here, no one knows me as the Cavalry. I'm just another office drone. Some days, as I'm washing my hands in the dingy old bathroom sink, I catch sight of a strange woman in the mirror. She doesn't look like the Cavalry. She doesn't even look like Agent May. She looks like a ghost in a charcoal-grey jacket.

The hardest thing Maria Hill ever did was eat a bowl of soup, and the hardest thing I've ever done is call the phone number she gave me and set up an appointment. The counselor assured me that nothing would go in my record, and that anything I said to her was strictly confidential. It was scary at first, telling a complete stranger what had happened to me, but to my surprise, I felt a lot better after getting it all off my chest.

In fact, I feel better all the time. Slowly, gradually, I'm regaining control, putting myself together piece by piece. The ghost in the mirror becomes more solid every day. I haven't cut since that day in the Hub. Maria was right; it doesn't solve anything. I keep my emotions firmly in check. If something doesn't serve me, I put it away in a little box until it does. There are small victories, like sleeping through the night, or going out someplace crowded. I don't smile when they happen, but maybe someday I will.

I find a source of solace in an unexpected place, the flight simulators. I've been a certified pilot for a number of years, but I'd never been terribly interested in it. Now, I find myself developing quite a taste for aviation. The concentration it requires drives away all the chaos and memories that plague my mind, and the smooth, solid rhythm of flying keeps me grounded. But most of all, I enjoy the solitude, being away from the small-minded idiots I work with, the crowded city streets, the din of a thousand voices shouting in the cafeteria. I'm becoming quite good, too. More often than not, my name dominates the high score board. I don't care. It's not about the glory, and besides, they're only simulators. I'm not actually flying anything.

It's a nice life, if a rather static one. Especially considering what I left behind. I left behind gunshot wounds and long stakeouts, hard choices and the nightmares that follow. When I wake up at night, heart pounding and skin slick with cold sweat, I remind myself I'm safe, and for the first time in years it's the truth. The scars are fading, scars from Congo and Bahrain, Zurich and Sarajevo, every mission-gone-wrong I've ever been on. Soon there will be nothing left to remind me of those awful, awful days.

So when Phil Coulson came by my cubicle and told me I was going back in the field, we both pretended my voice didn't crack.

Author's Notes

1. Ichi, ni, san, shi, and go are numbers one through five in Japanese.

2. Wahed, ethnayn, thalaatha, arba'ah, and khamsah are numbers one through five in Arabic.

3. Moose Tracks ice cream does in fact exist. I highly recommend it.

4. Chen 4 step is a basic tai chi form which, as the name implies, has only four steps.

5. SERE stands for survival, evasion, resistance, and escape, and is training given to members of the US military. It teaches them what to do if they find themselves captured or in enemy territory.

6. Most of Melinda's fighting techniques are accurate, especially the "snake" grab release she uses on the guard in chapter six. They are not, however, a substitute for taking a self-defense class from a qualified professional, something I strongly urge everyone to do, especially women and teenagers.

7. French is the main language spoken in the Congo, along with several indigenous dialects.

8. The chicken crossed the playground to get to the other slide.

9. The zygomatic arch is another name for the cheekbone. Melinda's was most likely fractured when Bodho punched her in chapter six. The orbit is another name for the eye socket. The rotator cuff, sometimes incorrectly called the rotary cuff, rotator cup, or rotary cup, is a set of muscles and tendons that stabilizes the shoulder joint.

10. Thank you for reading, and reviewing if you reviewed. It's been a pleasure writing for you guys. This is my first serial on , and I've really enjoyed the experience.

11. Please leave one last review, telling me what you thought of the entire piece. Tell me what you liked and why, but also tell me how I can improve. (Please don't just leave a one-liner that says you liked the story; those aren't helpful). Don't be afraid; writers thrive on constructive criticism. I want my next piece to be even better, and you can all help me. Additionally, let me know if you think this piece should be rated M. Update: I know it's been a while since this was published, but I can see from my stats that people still read it. Having read it all the way through, what are your impressions? Anything I did well? Anything I could've done better?

12. Keep an eye on my profile. I might write some more serials sometime. Next fanfic serial is probably either going to be for Stargate: Atlantis or Supernatural, or possibly The Hunger Games, if any of those is your cup of tea. It might be a while, since I don't start posting until the whole thing's written, and I like to take the time to do it right. I'm also on FictionPress under the same username, and that profile's full of goodies for all to enjoy. There are some serials in the works there as well.

13. Once again, thank you to everyone. Big hugs all around.