So it goes with saying that only things I own with any connection to MARVEL I bought on Ebay or Etsy. MARVEL COMICS & MARVEL CINEMATIC UNIVERSE are their own creatures and I have nothing to do with either of them aside from the fact I enjoy reading or watching them, and am grateful for the ability to play in their world. I claim nothing, and I receive nothing for this, expect the pleasure of putting something out into the world.

You can also find this story on ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN under the same title and pen name along with a place to post suggestions.

Don't forget to check out the Photobucket album listed on my profile page too.

DAY TWO

CHAPTER EIGHT

WEDNESDAY, MAY 2ND 2012

0742 HOURS

SUBTERRANEAN BUNKER

LOCATION UNKNOWN

NORA

I cried, the door had barely closed and I already started crying. I didn't care, why should I care. This whole situation is so wrong, what would be the point of pretending I had some sort of pride or strength to hang on to?

It's not like there's anything left. I tell myself not to think that, but it's still just as true.

My home's gone. It was really gone the second I saw Clint in the living room, I just didn't realize it right away. The house was compromised, it wasn't safe anymore. I couldn't go back now, people would ask questions, my cover would be blown. He knows where it is.

Oh god... that thought brings another wave of sobs rising out of my chest, and I try to rock them away. ...how did this happen?! What's even going on?!

Clint was supposed to be the guy who protected me, he was the guy who protected me! He was always there to make me feel safe and secure, right from the first day I met him in that hospital room. He always went out of his way for me, and if the situation ever needed a punch thrown, he was the first to do it, but FOR me, not AT me.

That wasn't Clint, that couldn't have been Clint, Clint wouldn't hurt me. I keep telling myself that lie. That I was wrong, that I made a mistake and it was someone else. But I don't believe it. I know Clint. I know the strength of his arms, and the weight of his hands. I know how he moves, I know how he speaks, and how he smells. I know Clint. I know Clint. I know him.

The man I trusted with my life, just tried to take it from me! 'He' tried to take more than that! I can still feel the scrape of 'his' teeth on my skin as 'he'... I don't even want to finish that thought. No, no, no, no, no, no... But the thing about thoughts is it's not like speaking, you can't cut them off mid-way.

'He' tried to rape me. My 'brother' wanted to rape me! I can tell myself that 'he' wasn't himself, that whatever the glow in his eyes it was made him act that way. But that excuse only goes so far. I felt 'his' hands tearing at my clothes!

Oh god, I don't even know if 'he' did! I can't remember, I just... I was on the ground, and I couldn't move and... 'His' knife was still in me! 'He' stabbed me! 'He' really stabbed me!

And then 'his' lips were at my throat. 'He' was licking the blood off my skin, and I could feel 'him' grinning... My ability to form thoughts fades as the hysterical sobs manage to become internalized for a minute because I just don't know what happened after that! I can't remember anything else! I was screaming and crying on the inside, and then there was nothing else, but I was still there, lying under 'Clint', and I CAN'T REMEMBER!

I don't care if it hurts my muscles, it doesn't stop me from frantically pressing my unburnt hand into my abdomen. starting at my stomach and trailing my heel down, it's almost like I'm trying to push this possible offense out of me, even as I'm trying to tell whether the pain is internal or not.

And now I'm here. In a room I've never been in, wearing clothes that aren't mine, with armed soldiers outside, where someone treated my wounds, and a man I don't know brought in a box that has my kitten in it and put a blanket around me.

I can feel them now. Beyond the pain but beneath the material of this almost fairytale like dress I can feel them, cotton bandages and ointments over the worst of my wounds. And as distressing as the idea that someone had to have touched me while I was unconscious to do that, they did it to help me. I was hurt, and they fixed me.

That isn't something 'not Clint' would do, normal Clint probably, but not this new 'Clint'.

Then there's my kitten too. I thought he was dead, I was so sure of it.

I was trying to dig him out from under a whole bookshelf worth of spilled books. It had to at least have been fifty pounds of heavy rectangular hard covers that landed on top of his little body, all because my little warrior was brave and foolish enough to try and protect me. I didn't even get a chance to uncover him before 'Clint' attacked me again.

But here he is, with a bright pink cast on his leg and around his shoulder, still sleeping off the drugs they must have given him for the surgery that cast implies he went through. If I couldn't feel his warm little body breathing in my arms I wouldn't believe he was alive and with me again.

Bringing me here and fixing me up is one thing, but to go through the trouble of finding my kitten in that chaos and doing the same for him is something else entirely. I don't know who these people are, but that has to count for something because that's not a gesture of an enemy. At least I really hope that's the case.

I mean, the man in charge, whoever he is, I didn't really look at him yet, he doesn't seem like an enemy. He even offered me an apology for my suffering before he left to let me get myself together. That's a very considerate thing for a person to do, and it doesn't seem like a reason not to trust him. But I trusted Clint, and look what that got me.

No, no, I... I can't think like that. That man and these people, whoever they are and however I got here, they are probably the ones responsible for saving my life. I should thank them for that, even if I turn out to be wrong, because as much as I want to just sit here and disappear I need to know what's going on. I can't do that if I just hide in here and cry.

I'm better than that. I'm not great, I'm not Natasha, but I should be better than this. I am better than this. Level one or not, I am an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D, I've been trained and taught how to keep my head in bad situations, confusing situations. Situations just like this. It doesn't get anymore confusing or bad then this.

You can do this Nora, you're one of the strongest people I know. That thought helps, because it's not thought in my voice, it's thought in Steve's, and I can practically see his broad gentle smile. I may have lost one pillar of strength but I still have others.

WEDNESDAY, MAY 2ND 2012

0813 HOURS

SUBTERRANEAN BUNKER

LOCATION UNKNOWN

LOKI

It did not take long, as I imagined it would not, but it actually took less time than I thought. Little more than a half hour passed before I sensed her presence move to the other side of the door, and heard her soft voice pass through it.

That too, now that it is in my ears, I find I have missed terribly as well. It is not truly how I wish to hear it however. It sounds small and timid, and full of uncertainty as it lacks a name to call out for. Still it is her voice, and a voice I have not heard in centuries.

It is a strange but welcome occurrence that out of everything this tiny piece of her has not changed. A precious and beautiful one too, enough that I let my eyes close and a small smile spread is I just listen to the notes of it for a few seconds, but only a few. I do not want to keep her waiting too long.

I do not want to keep her waiting too long? Hm... Even in my head that thought sounds so very unlike me. It has been so long since I even bothered to put on a convincing show of concern outside of my...family. I simply stopped caring to do so, and by the Norns, it is such a twist that habit returns for a woman like her.

"I am here my lady." But oh,... I am a Prince, and a conqueror, yet I find it worth this display of courtesy. I ask her, seeking out her permission to enter, however indirectly. "Is there something you need?" ...it will yield me such reward.

WEDNESDAY, MAY 2ND 2012

0814 HOURS

SUBTERRANEAN BUNKER

LOCATION UNKNOWN

NORA

SURVIVOR OF AN ASSAULT

"Is there something you need?" It's such a simple question, there's nothing dramatic about it. Except the reaction it made me have. Oh, there's so much I need, so much. Answers, any, all of them, just one. Half of one even. That's what I need.

I thought I was done crying, I thought I moved past that and reached some sort of emotional plateau I could stay level at. Stupid me, I forgot that I'm a 'feather pillow'. Oh, that thought was the wrong one to have.

Now I'm thinking of Clint again. Clint gave me that nickname after he saw how worried I was over him the first time I saw him spar with someone. 'Clint' who had his hands all over me, 'Clint' who had his... "Please, please, tell me what's going on, just..."

"My lady, you are crying." He didn't really need to say that, I knew, it was my eyes the damn tears were leaking from after all. "I said I would not enter but on your permission, but I ask you for it now. Please move away from the door so I can come in."

I nod, then have the embarrassing realization that he can't see that because he isn't in here with me yet. "O-Okay. Y-Yes, of course..." I follow that command even as I ramble, and do my best to ignore the painful jolt that my thigh muscle spasm with each step backwards.

It hurts more than my trip to the door did, probably because this one wasn't as rushed. "...c-co-come o-on in." and it wasn't accompanied by so much nervousness.

He has shown himself to be a friendly person so far, but he is still a stranger and I am inviting him into a room I'm in, all alone.

He's taller than me, I can tell that already even though he is just standing in the doorway. It's not really much an observation though when you consider that I'm only five foot three.

It's just he's got about a foot on me, and while normally I'm used to being one of the smaller people in the room, it makes me very nervous now. Not just because he's tall, but because he's a tall man.

But I take some comfort in the fact that he doesn't look very big in terms of muscle mass. Not to say he is small, but of all the men I've spent time around, one of the main ones was Captain America, and that has altered my opinions on things like that a little. This man doesn't seem frail or fragile though, I've learned to identify the difference between a person who is out of shape and skinny, and a person who is strong but lean. That's what he seems to be, it's how he carries himself.

Important too, he carries himself with an air of that is well, he hasn't made a move or said a word yet to me, but his posture is almost regal, there's no slack or slouch even though all he is doing is closing a door.

That regal air is in his clothes too. They're strange, almost costume-esque to my mind, but they're well made. Exceptionally so in fact. I wouldn't be surprised if they were tailor made just for him. I'd be more surprised if they weren't.

He is dressed in leathers and metal, with such a level of detail to them I'd even say the details have details and not feel silly at all about that observation.

He is wearing a long leather vest, which if it wasn't for its lack of sleeves it might count as a jacket since it nearly brushes the floor, falling even with his ankles. Its pressed leather too, the shoulders are strong enough to hold their form, well the lapels folded in place and designed not to move. The edges and seams of it are also trimmed with what actually seem to be tiny square studs of tarnished gold or light bronze.

Over his right shoulder is a piece of armor that fits the description of a medieval pauldron more than anything else. It's held in place by a strap of leather that crosses over his chest to slip into his leather shirt. Which it too is made of the same kind of metal is the studs, but has a very ornate motif pounded into it, one that I would have to study in closer detail to know what it is supposed to be.

The shirt in question actually seems to be some kind of armor, given what looks to be a chest plate with a golden inset that seems to mimic the shape of a collarbone placed in it. It's fixed right into the crisscrossing strips of black leather and green cloth that are a part of the article, as well as what looks like checkerboard pieces of that metal again in one section.

The same pattern seems to extend to the sleeves of it as well, green cloth and black leather with the metal like trim and a pair of decorated golden vambraces sitting on top.

My observation of him stops there and refuses to go any lower, because this is a man, and I still don't know what the situation I've found myself in is. Instead I force my eyes to change their course and look up.

His face! When my eyes settle on his I find myself taking in a sharp breath, but I have no idea why. I've never seen it before. I don't know what that reaction was, it's like I was expecting something but there's nothing to expect and it's making my head hurt again a little.

If I thought his posture was regal, it's somewhat justified by the features of his face. It's silly to say because I don't really believe in it, but he looks to come from a family of fine breeding.

His face is thinner, in keeping with the rest of him, but it's not gaunt. The nose is thin and centered nicely, lacking any prominent bumps or ridges to its slope. As for his mouth, the lips are a little thinner than most, but it's balanced by the fact they are wider, and seem to give him the illusion of a small smile even when they aren't wearing one.

He's healthy whoever he is, albeit he looks a little tired, with those rings lingering around his aqua green eyes. Green? Why does that seem so...?

The observation I might made is cut off by a sharp twinge right behind my eyes. No, not now, not now! Not now, please not now! This isn't just a headache, I know it isn't. I've had enough those lately to know the difference. It's an episode.

They're like oil. If there's a crack, and there usually is somewhere, it will find it and push. And push and push until it forces its way through to the surface, and it hurts. I never knew how much it could hurt to fight them, because before this I never did, I'd welcome them.

I was always happy when they came before, it was like receiving a present, and I always looked forward to that. I never knew what they would be, but I was never disappointed by or afraid of what they brought me. Not like I am now. Golden, everything is golden, the walls, the roof, the floor of this round room...

But I can't lose myself to one right now. I can't let my mind drift away on a stream of visions and sounds while it leaves my body alone and helpless with a stranger.

The waves are angry, I can hear them outside this structure, breaking themselves against the rocks. I am angry... They carry emotions with them too sometimes, ones powerful enough to change my own to match them. They carry them now. I can't, no, I can't, I can't get angry, don't get angry.

Even the calm eyes that look at me are golden, just like armor, and the sword in their owner's brown hands... there's no face I can see in these flashes to tell me who I'm looking at.

There is no face to any of them. There is the man in gold on one side, but on the other there is a group that I can't see anything in but can still identify is a group, and I hate them, I hate them all so much.

There is one voice though, but it doesn't help me either, because it's mine! "...I will not relent. I will never relent!..." it just keeps saying it over and over.

But blessedly, it says it a little quieter each time. The episode is finally fading away, but it's left me with a feeling like my head is going trying split in two or cave in on itself and it doesn't really care which happens first. That too is fading away though, and as it does I feel my self awareness come back in its wake.

It always happens like that, I end up trapped by what's happening in my own head, all my senses directed to there until I'm either snapped out of it or it fades away on its own accord. Now though, I can feel my body again. I have skin, and tissue, bones and blood. I have hands again, and with that comes a very frightening revelation. I don't have three hands!

I missed it at first just because the touch was cooler and firmer than I expected it to be, but is more of my awareness returned I realized what was wrapped gently over my sleeve wasn't a single solid object, but had spacing in between the farthest parts of it, making it one object that half way through divide itself into five. It was a palm and it's fingers. I was... I am being touched!

"No! No!..." The panic takes hold quickly, too quickly for me to make the distinction that normally a touch doesn't necessarily mean an attack. It keeps me from noticing a few other things right way too like how prior to the episode I had been cradling my cat protectively in my arm, the arm that is now frantically pushing my burnt hand despite the pain against the armor of his chest piece. Or how the view of the room has changed, seemingly much taller than before because I am set lower than before, no longer standing, but being guided into a seated position gently in what feels like a chair.

"Shh..." He does his best to make the tone of his voice soft and soothing as he urges me down the last inch or so to completely rest my weight against the padded surface. "...I am not going to hurt you little one."

The hand I've been struggling against finally lets go of me, those cool fingers uncurling from their position on my upper arm before both pull back, along with the rest of him is he retreats a few feet for my comfort, and raises his hands in a surrendering gesture.

He's wearing gloves. That knowledge brings me such a wave of relief it's almost a physical sensation. "You looked about to fall, forgive me if I frightened you. I did not mean to upset you but I had little choice."

"I...I-I..." I have a whole sentence in my head, and in there it's perfectly steady and understandable, it's just when I try to articulate I can't get past the first syllable! I'm shaking, everything is shaking, from the hands I clutch protectively against my chest, to the very breath leaving it. I know what this is too, but I haven't had one of these in over a year.

My eyes shoot up to meet him, and well it's more of shock that this is to me happening again, he must see the expression is one of fear, given his concerned yet reassuring response. "It is alright, you are having an anxiety attack, just focus on your breathing, and it will pass." He even looks a bit repentant like he knows why. But how would he know?

I can't think of anything else to do though right now except nod softly and follow that very sound advice, but even while following his instructions I'm still fixated on how he knows, or if he really doesn't know and I'm just imagining it.

"Can I trust you to stay sitting please?" He is still in front of me, resting on his heels in a sort of half crouch is he looks at me intently. "Neither of you are in much condition to be on your feet for long yet, and you far less with that..." I don't need him to elaborate what he means by 'that' " ...injury, But something to drink will do you good."

The distrust I should feel about his offer to give me something to drink is buried quickly under the reminder of my kitten. I remember that I was cradling him to my chest before the episode started, and then I realized I was not holding him anymore, but I don't remember anything in between to tell me how that change happened.

My fears that I dropped him and hurt him even more evaporates when in my frantic search for the sight of him, my eyes find him sleeping peacefully on the chair next to me, still under the effects of the sedatives, but purring quietly. "He is fine my lady."

Hearing his voice I let my eyes turn to the dark haired man in the room with me, and I find him smiling reassuringly at me as he pauses in the middle of lifting what looks like a thermal carafe to tell me that good news. "When you became faint, once I steadied your fall I took him and set him out of harm's way. He never even stirred through it all."

There's really not a lot to say to that, and nothing I can think of that's more appropriate than what I do say. "T-Than-ank you. T-Thank you s-so much."

I'm even impressed with myself how much steadier my voice is already. So is he if I had to guess by the way his eyes widen a little and the small tug of a smile on his lips. "Of course. Here now, drink this."

That last word is in reference to the object he is holding in his hand. It's a glass, or more accurately a canning jar containing some kind of hot amber colored beverage, the temperature apparent given the steam rising from it and the condensation forming on outside of the glass.

It actually looks and smells very delicious right now if I'm honest with myself. I don't know how long I've been here, but I was hungry even before the attack... Don't think about it, don't think about it.

Think about... the goosebumps you have instead. Its true, wherever this place is it's a bit chilly, enough so that I can feel them all over my skin.

Its a great reason for me to take it, but I still hesitate to, for quite a few other reasons. One of which he seems to pick up on and address. I don't know what it is. "It is a kind of cider, I believe they said it was called Wassail." and one I don't even really care about. "I do apologize for the poor presentation, but this facility lacks much in the way of dinnerware I am afraid."

"Oh, n-no it's fine." I say it with a bit of a faltering smile, worried my hesitation might have offended him somehow, and to reassure him I don't mind the idea of drinking out of a jar, I even have, or had, a few of those jars myself and saw no problem using them is glasses. Not that I plan to take so much is a sip unless he does first. He's been very polite so far, but I still don't know him. For all I know it could be laced with something.

"It's just..." The weak smile I tried to offer fades away as I chew a bit on my inner lip in a sense of shame I really have no reason at all to feel. Lifting up my hand I show him proof to go with my words. "...I b-burn-ed my h-hand."

I can see him realize his mistake as his eyes widen before drifting closed and his mouth pulls into a bit of a stiff grin. "Yes, of course. You are right. I forgot about that injury..." It's a jar, not a mug, it doesn't have a handle for me to hold it with. "...My apologies."

"N-No y-y-you do-don'..." My words won't come out again! I've been trying really hard this whole time to not think about it, but for some reason, lifting my hand up to show him and seeing the edge of pink scorched skin meet my unburned skin just makes it all slam back to the forefront of my mind, and I can't stop it this time.

Shh..." I didn't see him set down the drink, but he must have because now he is back to kneeling in front of me again and it's not in either of his hands. The sudden movement and proximity makes me jerk back a little, but he takes no visible offense, unless you count his frowning a little more at the wince of pain the movement gives me. Then he goes right back to trying to reassure me. "You are alright, you are safe now my dear."

I hear those words, and really I understand them, but it doesn't stop me from rambling on hysterically. "N-N-No y-y-you do-don-n't un-n-der-s-s-stan-nd, i-if h-he, I-I w-w-was, a-and th-then h-he, an-and, and he w-w-was, and I-I, I, I co-could-d feel hi-i-i-m, and ple-lease, I -I just, I can-an't, I ne-eed t-to, please, please, please, please..."

I can't, I can't, I can't... I can feel 'Clint' on top of me. He feels so heavy, much heavier than I do. Which is strange because my muscles feel like they're made out of cement, and far too heavy for me to move. Yet at the same time they make me feel so light, like I might just float away if it wasn't for the solidness of his weight settled over my waist.

Then there's this strange cold numbing sensation spreading from my left thigh that somehow very distantly feels a little like pain if it can find its way past the cold.

But 'his' hands aren't cold. Their hot and a bit sweaty and rough, both his skin and his grip. I can feel the backs of his knuckles strike and scrape over my skin is he fights frustrated with the strength of my shirts collars.

I can feel his breath, and his teeth, and the trace of his tongue. I can feel the sound leave his chest is it's weighing me down. I can feel his other hand, its fingers on my thigh, slipping away from the object radiating that cold pain, to settle on my slick skin.

...I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't, I just can't...