There are voices. Some familiar, some I don't recognize. The movement and running and shouts are a blur. The world is spinning, and no one seems to notice that I'm here.
Then there's Rumlow's voice. There's his scent, and his grip on me as he helps me to my feet.
"Are you alright? Can you walk?" He looks steadily into my eyes and I can't reply. I try to take a step but my legs are weak. A surge of nausea overtakes me, and I fight the urge to vomit.
"She's having an acute stress reaction, I'm taking her to the infirmary." He calls out to someone, lifting me into his arms without hesitation. The commotion grows distant as we leave the room, replaced by the silence of empty white hallways.
Rumlow passes the examination room and enters the attached infirmary, setting me down on an empty bed. I can't close my eyes. Every time I do, I see Michael. I hear Michael's scream. I begin to cry, and I can't stop myself.
"You're okay, Elise. It's going to be okay." Rumlow rubs my back gently.
I clench the sheets to steady my trembling hands, biting my lip as though it will stop the tears from falling.
"No it's not." I shake my head, "Michael is—Michael is…" I struggle to get the words out between heavy sobs, and he pulls me into his arms, resting my head against his shoulder.
"Cry your heart out. I'm here."
I cry. I cry until I don't think there's a single tear left in me.
I don't understand.
The image of the subject's face haunts me. Was I next?
I was wrong. I was stupid. I should have listened when everyone warned me about him… when he warned me about himself. I'm naïve to the core.
And Michael, I dragged him along in my naivety, made him doubt his anxiety when he was right to be afraid.
He was right, and now he's dead. I promised Dr. Nikolav that I would look after Michael.
And now he's dead.
"Is she alright?" Dr. Jones enters the room.
Rumlow is silent, and I guess that means he expects me to give my own answer. I pull away from him to look at Dr. Jones. Her face is lined with concern, making her look years past her age.
"Oh, dear, look at you." She comes nearer, taking my hands into her own.
I pull one away to wipe my face, and she hands me a box of tissues from the bedside table.
"I'm fine." My voice is shaky.
"Take her home, Brock." Dr. Jones looks at him, her grave frown growing, "I'll have her excused for the week."
"I'll send Dr. Henderson by so you can have a chat about things. He's the best therapist we have at Shield, don't you worry." She turns to me, her expression gentle as she pats my hand.
Why is everyone so calm and collected about what has happened? Why am the only one shaken up by all this? Is it because they didn't know Michael well? Or maybe because they didn't care about him. Maybe this kind of thing happens often. This is Shield, after all.
The last words I said to Michael come back to haunt me on the drive home.
Put it on your resume for when you never leave.
Neither of us could have possibly predicted what would happen less than a minute later.
"You okay?" Rumlow opens my door, handing me the keys to my Yaris. I just nod.
He watches me silently get out of the car and walks me up the porch steps.
I fumble with my keys, and he places a hand over mine, looking into my eyes with some concern. I let out a shaky breath.
"I should have listened, Brock. I should have listened to you… and Michael, and everyone who told me that the subject was dangerous." I whisper, unable to raise my voice for fear of hearing it crack and having the tears roll forth like a tidal wave.
"It wasn't your fault. Things just happen sometimes. He snapped." He shakes his head slowly.
A Shield vehicle pulls up and he glances towards it. I guess that's the car that's supposed to pick him up.
Without thinking, I grip his hand a little tighter.
"You want me to stay?" He looks at me again, his voice so gentle I have to fight to hold the tears back.
I nod.