To be out of the facility for the first time in months – to feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, the strain of the sunlight stinging my eyes, the freezing snow crunching between my feet and taste the fresh air on my tongue – feels too surreal for me. No longer do I find myself surrounded by dull, grey walls that reek of blood, teas and pain, or enemies that wish to inflict pain on me in the worst ways possible. The freedom that I have been denied since I was first taken by this mysterious group is finally within my reach, yet my brain can't seem to fully comprehend this.
I'm free. I'm free.
I can finally go home.
Violent coughs rack my body as the air surrounding Clint and I fills with the smoke left from the explosion. They're violent enough to cause my body to jerk against the ground, which is painful enough as it is. The experiments that I have been forced to endure daily in the facility have left lingering, aching effects on my body, and I can't help but think that they will remain long after I return home.
With the pain comes exhaustion, the adrenaline that had vigorously pumped through my veins during our escape dispersing into nothingness now that there were no signs of imminent danger. I take my time to draw in long breaths once my coughing has died down and try to relax for the first time in months, but it appears that Clint has other ideas.
"C'mon," he coughs, before slowly pulling himself up from the ground. The back of his uniform is white with snow, and his face is flushed from the sudden chill in the air, but he looks more determined than he ever has before.
"There's a chopper waiting for us about five miles out from here. We gotta go."
I don't immediately jump at his words, choosing to close my crystal blue orbs and pretend that he hadn't said anything. Surely we can spare just a few more moments. Just a few…
The snow and dirt beneath his feet crunch as Clint moves to stand beside me, and his towering presence causes a shadow to cast over my closed lids. Letting out a barely audible sigh, I blink my eyes open once more to meet his firm yet understanding gaze as he stares down at me. While I would like a few moments to catch my breath, it seems that my uncle has other ideas.
"I know you're tired, Lyd, but you have to get up and keep going for just a little longer, OK? We don't want to be here if someone comes back to check the wreckage."
And just like that, fear grips me in a tight vice once more. The last thing that I want is to be found and dragged to some new facility or shot dead where I lay when I was so close to going home with Clint, so I pull myself up to my feet, flinging out a hand as to steady myself and keep me from tumbling over and onto the ground once more. Clint offers a helpful hand, but I only wave it away, determined to stand on my own.
He shoots me an encouraging smile once I give a small nod of my head. "Alright. Let's go."
Despite our eagerness to get as far away from the remains of the building as possible, Clint doesn't push me to go at a pace that is uncomfortable. I still slip and curse more times than I can count and the exhaustion continues to weigh me down, but welcoming promises and whispers of encouragement from Clint who never strays from beside me is enough to keep me going. He always grabs me before I can trip and land on my face, and I thank him each time he does it. For several minutes we move along, though once the remains of the facility are long behind us, I feel the need to remark, "This doesn't look like Greece."
Clint snorts. "We're just outside of Annecy, France. We, uh, we didn't think to look here. But whoever these guys are, they got a bit sloppy with covering their tracks. We found a trail that led us right to you."
"Just in time. Whoever these people are… they knew you were on their tail. That's why they moved everyone and everything to a new facility."
"Except you."
"Let's just say I wasn't the most cooperative," I reveal, a bitter yet pleased smirk growing on my face as recall all the hell that I put my captors through. They may have made the past few months torturous, but I hadn't gone down without a fight. "I guess they just couldn't handle my charming personality for much longer."
A knowing smile threatens to split his face in too, but it disperses before it ever has the chance to properly form. Instead, a tinge of sadness clouds his features, and he turns to look at me with his blue orbs, which are a few shades darker than my own before he comes to a sudden stop. He looks at me as if he is taking in every detail, and I almost want to shrink back under his piercing gaze. It's no secret that I have drastically changed since the last time that we saw one another. My hair is duller and a lot longer than I like with dead ends that are in desperate need of a cut. The muscle and lean build that I had worked so hard to maintain during my time as an agent is long gone after having not eaten properly since I was first brought to the facility, and I know that I look – and am – underweight. I could feel it whenever my hands brushed over my torso and feel my ribs sticking out, or whenever I looked in a mirror and saw how gaunt my face appeared.
And of course, there were the scars left behind from the brutal soldiers and the experiments. More bruises of all shapes and purple hues than I can count. Small scars, slashed in my skin – a few on my face, several across my limbs and far too many on my back – from sharp weapons or wounds that never properly healed, bumps and cuts that I had only recently accrued for lashing out against my captors in the past few days.
But the worst? Burn scars. Back when my body hadn't been immune to the fire that was forced against my skin during the experiments, it had been pure and utter agony, screaming as I was forced to watch my skin slowly burn to a crisp from the heat of the flames. The remnants of this remain in the form of raised and rough skin with a shiny yet smooth texture, a few shades darker than my usually pale complexion. Both of my entire hands are covered in them.
It's all that Clint can stare at now. His mouth presses into a thin lime the more that he looks, and he starts to visibly shake with what I assume is anger. With his features harder than ever, he finally draws his gaze from my body to lock with mine once more, a dark glint of fury detectable in every corner of his face.
"What the hell did they do to you?"
I flinch at the anger lacing his tone, but I relax as I remember that it isn't me that he's angry with. Suddenly feeling more dejected than relieved, I sombrely reveal, "They experimented on me."
The truth spills from my lips at a hasty speed over the next few minutes as I relay the events of the past twelve months to my uncle without going into too much detail. Simply thinking about the experiments is enough to make me feel sick to my stomach, and judging from how quickly the colour drains from Clint's face as I explain everything, it seems that they have the same effect on him. He's as white as paper by the time I am finished, his eyes glistening with unshed tears as his hands clench into tight fists by his side.
Upon revealing what it was that these people were trying to get me to achieve, he draws in a sharp breath. "Did – did they work?"
Without breaking eye contact, I raise my hand at the question and give a small and simple click of my fingers. Within seconds, my hands are engulfed in bright, orange flames.
Gobsmacked, Clint's jaw drops.
I allow the flames to dance and tangle around my fingers for a moment longer so that he has enough time to process the sight – judging from the look on his face, there must have been a part of him that had doubted that I was able to pull off such a feat – before I let the fire die and lower my hand back to my side. "It took them a while. But yeah. They worked."
Several different expressions flicker across Clint's face like a sideshow, and his eyes never wander from my hand as they do. His reaction is just how I suspected it would be; I had a similar one myself when I first discovered the things that I can do today. This kind of stuff doesn't happen in real life. It comes from the stories and legends stretching back so far that there is no real truth to be found in them or something that you would in a television show or some action-packed movie. A man in a flying suit of armour is the craziest thing that this world has seen – until now, that is.
Fury's going to have an absolute field day with this.
A small noise emits from the back of Clint's throat, but it's too quick for me to decipher whether it's a dry cough, a whimper or a wince. Judging from the sorrowful look that he is currently sending my way, however, I quickly deduce that it must be one of the latter options.
"Clint - "
"You're just a kid," he half-whispers, almost breaking my heart in two right then and there. "You're twenty years old. Twenty. And they did all that crap to you."
Whatever words of reassurance had been hovering on the tip of my tongue fizzled out of existence as the reality of his words settled in. He's right; no twenty-year-old should ever have to go through everything that I have been put through in the past year. All the torment and pain – it's enough to kill somebody, both literally and symbolically. It's a miracle that I made it out alive in the end, but the sad truth is that not so many other captives had been as lucky as I am today. And a whole lot of them had been younger than I am as well.
"I should have found you s-sooner," Clint continues, voice cracking as he tries to hold everything together. "I should have looked harder. I should have - "
I cut him off by reaching out with the same hand I had used to demonstrate my power and gently grasp his shoulder. He immediately reaches up to cover it with his own, squeezing it so tightly that his knuckles appear taut white against his ski, but remains quiet and listens to what I have to say.
"It's not your fault, Clint. These people – as much as I hate to give them any sort of credit, they were good at covering up their tracks. It's been over a year, and you never gave up on me, OK? You're here now, and that's all that really matters. You're here now."
He slowly nods his head, but I can tell from the way that he stubbornly presses his lips together that my words don't sink in the slightest. I know my uncle, the man who has raised me since I was a child – no matter what I say, he will continue to feel guilty for not finding me sooner for a very long time. It's not his burden to bear but unfortunately, he'll continue to carry that weight on his shoulders long after we return to our peaceful little farmhouse in the country; it's frustrating, but he has always had the tendency to let things weigh heavily on his shoulders when he really shouldn't, especially when it comes to the people that he cares about. It's just the type of person that he is.
Knowing that standing here and arguing with him on the matter until we're both blue in the face is pointless, I tell him that we can talk more about all this once we're safely in the helicopter, thousands of miles away from here. It's enough to snap Clint out of his depressive and guilt-ridden state, and we continue our journey forward once more.
Fifteen minutes later, we finally reach a clearing the size of a football field in the middle of the white woods. My legs have begun to feel as heavy as lead and my breathing is more ragged than I would like it to be, but the sight of a large helicopter sitting in the middle of the field – looking almost out of place with its gleaming dark metal contrasting starkly against the colourless snow – is enough to keep my spirits high. Finding a new surge of energy, I will my legs to carry me forward faster, the promise of freedom within my reach closer than it has been in a year.
It seems that Clint also shares my enthusiasm, as a relieved sigh falls from his lips, and he reaches to wrap an arm around my shoulder and pull me tight to his side. "You did it, Lyd," he assures me, an almost proud-like lilt to his tone. Pressing a chaste kiss to the side of my head, he adds, "You made it. You're going home."
Home. I get to go home.
The door to the chopper suddenly opens, and almost half a dozen SHIELD agents pour out and approach us in a rush. Dressed in dark, combat gear similar to Clint's, each of them carried guns in their hands as they moved swiftly through the snow, eyes peeled for any danger that could have potentially followed Clint and I to this small clearing. I shrink back as they finally reach us and waste no time invading our personal space, a few of them asking Clint questions while others check over me, their voices booming in the winter air. One of them even tries to pry me from Clint's side, claiming that he wanted to do a medical check, but my iron-like grip on Clint is unrelenting, and I refuse to go anywhere without him.
Clint notices, and is quick to move so that his body is angled in front of me. "Give her some space," he says, something in his tone suggesting to our fellow agents that what he's saying isn't up for discussion. "Let me get her on board first."
They hesitate, but eventually give in to his wishes and nod their heads, stepping aside to allow us access to the chopper. With shaky legs, I let Clint half carry me forward and help me climb up into the aircraft where I am quickly led to one of the free seats. The moment my back presses against the back of the seat, I sag with relief and close my eyes to try and drown out the sound of the buzzing agents and calm down, allowing myself to relax for what seems like the first time in forever.
My moment of brief peace is interrupted, however, a pressure in the form of a firm hand suddenly landing on my shoulder that Clint isn't leaning against causes me to jolt upright with surprise.
Enemy.
A warning snarl with a hint of fear tears from my mouth, and my fist swings up and slams into my attacker's face faster than blinking.
The chopper erupts into chaos as cries of pain and confusion echo throughout the small space as the sickening sound of a nose breaking fills the air, and the man who had touched me reels backwards. A strong pair of arms grab me in a tight hold before I can even think of lowering my hand, and a worried voice in my ear orders me to stand down. I don't fight, however, too horrified at the sight of the man whom I have punched wearing a now bloody SHIELD shirt as other agents crowd around him, trying to assess the damage.
A SHIELD agent. A friendly.
Not my enemy.
Blood rushes so loudly in my ears that I can barely hear what the voice – who I now recognise as Clint's – hurriedly mutters in my ear. He tries to drag me back away from the agents, but I fight him and suddenly try to move forward, wanting to see just how bad the damage is myself.
I have just harmed one of my fellow SHIELD agents. Someone who has done nothing to hurt me, but has suffered for simply trying to help me instead.
"I didn't – I didn't mean - " I start to say, choking on the words as the man's tears start to mix with the blood gushing from his nose. "I didn't know – I'm sorry - "
Before I can utter a string of apologies that have already started to form on the tip of my tongue, something sharp unexpectedly pricks my neck, and I lose all control of my legs instantaneously. Falling back into Clint who still holds me, my heavy lids give in to the black dots that begin to cloud my vision, and the world slips away entirely soon after.
After spending countless of hours subdued and exhausted in the uncomfortable beds in the infirmary back in the facility each night after my experiments, it's safe to say that I officially hate hospitals.
Two days have passed since I was first brought to the secure SHIELD hospital back in the States, and it's safe to say that I have become stir-crazy. With an IV stuck in my arm providing me with all the nutrients that I have desperately needed this past year, the doctors have placed me on a strict, bed rest order until further notice. Every attempt that I have made so far to try and escape my little hospital room has been shut down by the friendly yet unyielding staff here at the hospital, who quickly usher me back to my bed, ignoring my desperate pleas or insistence that I am fine.
They don't get it. After being trapped for as long as I have, I want out.
My itch to leave my hospital room isn't just fuelled by my desire to wander as freely as I like. A huge part of me wants nothing more than to leave and try to find the SHIELD agent that I had attacked back on the chopper before the tranquiliser dart had rendered me unconscious and apologise profusely to him. It hadn't been Clint's call, but rather one of the other agents who was Clint's second during this mission. He had insisted that it was the best move to make, as there was no telling what I would do or who I would possibly attack in the state that I was in. Either way, I don't blame him. If I had been in his shoes, then I would have probably made the same call to ensure that no other noses were broken.
According to Clint, the agent who had been on the receiving end of my punch holds nothing against me for my actions, claiming that he had been in the wrong for grabbing me in such a manner after everything that I had been through. My uncle's words offer me no reassurance, however, as nothing but guilt has churned uncomfortably in my chest whenever my mind jumped to the incident. All the man wanted to do was check me over and make sure that I hadn't obtained any serious injuries that needed immediate treatment during our escape from the facility. Instead, he got a broken jaw.
I sigh and throw my head back on the soft pillow behind me, my eyes casting to the blank television screen above my head. I can faintly make out my reflection on the screen, which isn't something that I have seen since arriving at the facility. The place had no mirrors – at least, not in the areas that I had been in – to prevent me and my fellow captives from using the glass as weapons to hurt either ourselves or our captors. It's why when I had first seen my reflection after a long, hot shower here in the hospital I barely recognised myself staring back at me in the mirror.
My face, which had once been full and soft, with ivory skin clear of any markings, was covered with several new scars. Some were from slashes from weapons – a cut across my brow, a slice on the underside of my jaw and a faint line near my hairline – while others were from blows that I received from the guards whenever I had 'stepped out of line'. Because apparently protecting yourself and choosing to fight back from your oppressors is such a crime these days.
The burn scars I had already expected, although it doesn't make it any easier to look at them. Like my face, my torso and limbs were also covered in a jigsaw of scars, each reminding me what it is that I had been put through; forever ingrained in my memory, I could remember what each one was caused by.
Except for the mystery bullet scar on the back of my shoulder and the several raised slashes on my back. Now those had been a real head-scratcher when the doctors here had first pointed them out to me, because try as I might, I could not remember or offer an explanation as to how they got there. Whenever I thought that I got close to the memory, it would slip out of my grasp; like trying to catch smoke with my hands. While I am incredibly frustrated at my lack of memory, my doctors told me not to stress too much. They had gently informed me that after everything that I had been through, my mind may have blocked out some far too painful memories that might eventually return with time.
Other than the scars, I had been told that there didn't appear to be anything else physically wrong with me. Emotionally and psychologically, however… well. That was something else entirely different.
I had been given the spiel of how difficult the following few months would be more than difficult as I tried to assimilate back into what my life had been before my capture. I had been warned that I may experience symptoms of PTSD such as flashbacks, agitation, nightmares and even emotional detachment. As a result, my sleeping could become unbalanced and I may wish to isolate myself from everyone that I love.
My face had paled with every symptom listed and I felt like bursting into tears, but Clint's hand wrapped around my own and offering comforting squeezes where needed prevented this from happening.
"You're going to see a therapist," he had quietly whispered to me. Too thrown at the news, I hadn't objected.
A gentle knock suddenly sounds from the door, and I turn my gaze from the television towards the sound instead. With the door already open, I am instantly met with the surprising sight of Nick Fury, Director of SHIELD, and Phil Coulson, SHIELD's most legendary and loyal agent, standing in the doorway.
I instinctively sit up straighter, "It's good to see you, Boss," I direct to Fury, before giving sending a small nod Coulson's way. "You too, Coulson."
The two men move further into the room, Fury's dark trench coat flowing out behind him as he moves to stand at the end of my bed, Coulson flanking him. "It's good to have you back, Lydia," Coulson greets, his tone as genuine as the bright smile on his face.
Never one for small talk, Fury decides to skip straight to the point. "We understand that you're exhausted and most likely have no desire to rehash the past year, but you know protocol better than anyone, Hathaway. We need you to tell us everything about what happened to you during your time in captivity."
"I thought Clint already told you the basics."
"You and I both know that it's not the same thing."
My fingers idly pick at the white sheets, suddenly feeling more nervous than I had been seconds ago. "Where's Clint? Shouldn't we wait until he gets back?"
"He left to pick up Laura and the children from the airport," Coulson replies. "He won't be back for another hour, at least."
"And unfortunately, we do have other places where we need to be," Fury says, "We need to get this done as soon as possible. I can always speak to Barton about his part later."
I tug hard on my bottom lip with my teeth, not liking this at all. If Clint had already told Fury everything that I had told him, then they must know about the experiments. Of course, Fury would want all the juicy details on that part of my disappearance; he could never resist the urge to involve himself in the business of people with certain abilities. Tony Stark was a prime example of this if the rumours of him floating around SHIELD before I had been taken were true. But I'm not a girl in a flying suit of armour. The power isn't from the suit; it's within me. I am the power, and I truly don't know how Fury will take it.
Clearly sensing my hesitance, Coulson raises his hands up as if he is surrendering to something. "We're just here to talk. I promise."
My eyes flicker over his face, searching for any signs that would indicate that he's lying. When I find none, I reluctantly allow myself to relax and give a small nod of my head, and for the next half an hour, I explain what was done to me and answer any of their questions as best as I can.
No, I don't know why they chose me.
No, I don't know who these people are.
No, I didn't hear any names of people who interrogated or tortured me.
Yes, I wasn't the only captive in the facility; there were dozens more.
No, I don't know where their new facility is.
Yes, the experiments that they did on me worked.
The lack of surprise on their faces at this last answer tells me that they already knew it. It probably would have been one of the first things that Clint told them, but still, they decide to play dumb for whatever reason; likely to see whether or not it was true for themselves.
"And what exactly did these experiments make you able to do?" Fury asks an almost eager glint in his eye.
Huffing and without breaking eye contact, I raise my hands and click my fingers, watching as step back in surprise as orange flames ignite out of nowhere.
Wide-eyed, Coulson leans forward, the glow of the flames casting an orange shine over his pale skin. "You can control fire?"
"Not just fire; the elements," I correct. "The core four – earth, air, fire and water, as well as some subcomponents. Ice. Wind, a little electricity and plants. I can control some aspects of weather and temperature as well, but I haven't figured out all of them properly yet."
"So you can't properly control them."
My heart immediately sinks at Fury's blunt statement and cast my eyes down to my hands, allowing the fire to die out. This. This is exactly why I hadn't wanted to explain anything to Fury. I knew perfectly well that when I first woke up and spoke to him he would immediately become suspicious of both me and my abilities. He has always had a knack for monitoring gifted and powerful people such as Stark to ensure that they don't become threats to SHIELD and the public in general. My ability to manipulate the elements now makes me part of this group, even though Fury has known me since I was a child and knows that I would never intentionally do something to hurt someone.
I had known this was coming. But nothing, nothing could have prepared me for the look of mistrust and caution on Fury's face as he looks at me now. As if I was some sort of monster.
Swallowing the lump that has formed in the back of my throat at his question, I tightly correct him, "You mean am I a threat."
"You and I both know what I mean. But that doesn't change my question."
"I've been able to maintain some control over the past few months, and I haven't hurt anybody with them. I wouldn't use them for anything bad either – I joined SHIELD because I want to help protect people, not hurt them."
Coming to my aid, Coulson interjects, "If I may, Director, You and I both know that Lydia – Agent Hathaway, is a dedicated SHIELD agent and has been since she first joined our program at the Academy. I don't see these abilities as a threat; I see them as a potential for nothing but good things in her hands, sir. They would certainly help with her fieldwork when – or if, I should say, – she would like to continue working at SHIELD."
"Which I do," I quickly add. "You know, once I'm better and everything."
Silence follows our pleas as Fury's dark eye flickers back and forth between Coulson and I, slowly letting our words sink in. I find myself holding my breath in anticipation and my heart begins to race inside my chest in an almost painful manner as we await Fury's final say on the matter. I earnestly stare at the man who has the power to make my life a living hell if he wants, trying to properly convey to him that I meant what I said with every fibre of my being; I truly have no desire to inflict harm on anyone, and I never will. Surely Fury knows this. Surely.
After what seems like an eternity, Fury lets out a long, worn sigh, and crosses his arms over his chest. "As long as you can maintain control of them, then I don't see why things can't be the same as they were before, Hathaway. I'm putting my faith in you here."
I let out my breath in a sigh of relief, but on the inside, the fluttering nerves still remain as the hidden meaning behind Fury's words don't go unnoticed. He may say that he trusts me, but there will still always be a seed of doubt planted firmly in the back of his mind about this new version of me. Never one for trusting people, he will likely be forever cautious with me now. As someone who has known the man all my life and proved in more than one way that I am nothing but dedicated to both SHIELD and its cause, that hurts. It cuts deeply, and it saddens me to think that he believes I am capable of turning on everything that I stand for.
Yet, I'm not entirely surprised that this was the outcome. Back in the facility when I used to dream of returning home, every little scenario in my head always involved how those closest to me would react to my new abilities. None of them had been great, and Fury's reaction to them now has brought my imagination to life, and the back of my eyes sting as a realisation hits me hard like a slap in the face;
Nothing would ever be the same again
ONE YEAR LATER
Dirt and loose pebbles fly out from the back of my car as I trail down the gravel road at a pace that wouldn't have Clint scolding me for, the sky hues of warm yellows and blood oranges as the sun sets over the fields in the distance. With the window down, a cool breeze filters through the vehicle and blows wisps of my blonde hair in my face, though I eagerly push them away so that I have a free sight of the farmhouse that I have called home for the past several years. A warmth blossoms in my chest at seeing the chipped, white paint and Laura's flower pots on the windowsills and all the other familiar sights after having been gone for three months; I haven't realised just how much I have missed it until now.
I guide the car to a gentle stop on the front lawn, not surprised to find that Clint and Laura's cars are nowhere to be found. It's late afternoon on a Tuesday; Laura would just be finishing up work, and Clint would be with the kids at Cooper's baseball match, which should also just be wrapping up. Though disappointed that I will have to wait a little longer to see them after all this time, I know that they won't be too far behind me.
Turning off the engine and pulling at the handbrake, I grab my filled-to-the-brim duffel bag from the seat beside me and awkwardly sling it over my shoulder. Grunting as I struggle with the weight of it, I push the car door open and kick it shut behind me once I'm out, before trudging up towards the porch steps.
As expected, the house is deathly quiet aside from the sound of the clock ticking on the wall in the front entrance of the house. Everything is exactly how I remembered it, although a large pile of Lego sits on the floor at the bottom of the stairs; Cooper must have been playing with it this morning before going to school. Careful not to tread on it, I simply nudge it to the side with the toe of my boot before ascending the stairs two at a time, heading towards my bedroom.
My bedroom hasn't changed much in all the years that I've lived here. The pale blue walls are still the same ones that I painted myself when I first moved here, and my double bed that creaks whenever you so much as twitch on it is still pressed up against the back wall, the huge window above it overlooking the front yard. Books that I have collected and poured over through the years still spill and overflow from the bookshelf that Clint had made for me when I was a child, and my six-string leans against it, waiting for the day that I would pick it up and play again. Photos of my friends and I adorn the walls and the edge of the vanity mirror in the corner, and with them are photos I've taken with the few family members that I have left after all this time.
A small sigh slips past my lips. It's good to be home.
Kicking off my shoes, I surge forward and heave the bag on the end of my bed, my shoulder screaming with relief once it's free once more. I waste no time rummaging through all the clothes, weapons and toiletries until I find my folder of freshly written notes on my findings these past few months.
After I had taken some time to recover after Clint first found me in France, I had immediately dedicated every waking moment to try and track down the secret organisation that had caused all this mess in the first place. SHIELD had initially helped with my global search, but whoever these people are, they are good at hiding themselves from the rest of the world. Leads and tips lead to nothing but dead ends, and every trail we followed always went cold. It had only taken Fury four months to officially call off the search, but I was – and still am, determined to get the answers I have so desperately wanted these past two years. About the people, the other captives, the experiments – me. So, I've never stopped looking, and always take notes whenever I can; even when each and every search has so far only led me to disappointment.
The sound of the front door suddenly barging open on the floor below drags me out of my troubled thoughts, and I turn towards the sound with a tilted head. Judging from the sound of heavy boots against the polished floors and excited laughter too high pitched to belong to an adult, it appears to be Clint and the children. Excitement suddenly grips me tightly, and I toss the already-forgotten notes onto my bed to surge forward and out of the room.
They don't hear me as I clamber down the stairs, and they also don't see me when I pause in the doorway of the kitchen. Lila and Coper Barton sit at the kitchen table happily babbling to one another as Clint rummages in the fridge, no doubt looking for an afternoon snack for the both of them.
I can't help but smile fondly at them all, my heart swelling as I look at my little family. When I first moved in after my mother's death, I was neither happy nor comfortable. I had been worried that I wouldn't fit in due to Clint and Laura already having Cooper and another baby on the way, and a small, little scared voice had whispered in the back of my mind that Clint would do exactly as my mother had over the past few years and neglect me. Twelve-year-old me had no idea what to expect, but after the bleak family she had before joining the Barton clan, she couldn't help but dread what lay ahead of her.
But twelve-year-old me had been completely and utterly wrong. The kids had allowed me into their family as easy as breathing, and Laura has been nothing but loving and welcoming, assuring me over the years that she wouldn't have had it any other way. She had been a gentle and caring mother figure that I had severely lacked for the first half of my life, and I am forever grateful for both that and her.
And as for Clint? He had been the same loving, dorky and caring uncle that he had been since day one. In losing my mother I found myself a family, viewing Clint and Laura more as parental figures than my own mother.
Lila happens to glance away from her older brother and towards the doorway where I still stand as if somehow sensing my presence. The moment that her dark, round eyes land on me. A small gasp passes her lips and her whole face lights up with excitement.
"Lyddy!" She squeals, the noise causing Clint, Cooper and myself to each jump with surprise. She pays the first two no attention, however, as she jumps off the chair and launches herself towards me, prompting me to drop down into a crouch and stretch my arms out wide.
"Hello, Cheeky," I happily greet as she practically barrels into me, almost sending the two of us toppling over. I throw an arm out to grasp at the doorway and return her eager embrace with the other, looking over her shoulder and immediately making eye contact with a very surprised Clint. I hadn't told him that I was coming home today and had suspected that he wouldn't appreciate me showing up out of the blue, but the way that a grin spreads from ear to ear on his face informs me that he is more than happy to see me standing before him after all this time.
Briefly returning the grin, I pull back from my little cousin to properly look at her. "How have you been, hm? I reckon that you've gotten taller."
"I've grown! This much!" She declares before she flings her arms above her head as high as she possibly can reach.
Chuckling, I stand up and gently ruffle the top of her head. "Yeah, but I'm still taller."
"That's cause you're older, silly!"
"Lydia, guess what!" Cooper interjects, rushing forward. "Our team made it into the semi-finals! Do you want to come and watch us play soon!"
"That's awesome, Coops! Of course I will – are you still enjoying baseball?"
Clint snorts, nudging the fridge door shut with two juice boxes in his hands. "Like it? He loves it. He practices pretty much every day, don't you, Coops?"
Cooper nods his head, a toothy smile plastered to his face as he gingerly reaches up to take one of the juice boxes from Clint's hand, who offers the other to Lila.
"Anything?" he asks quietly so that his kids can't hear us over the sound of them attempting to rip the plastic from around the straws.
The smile on my face slips ever so slightly as I understand the hidden meaning behind his words, and I give a subtle shake of my head as his words remind me once more of yet another failure. I watch as disappointment flashes across his face before he turns to Lila and Cooper, who are happily sipping away at their apple juice.
"Coops, Lila, why don't you go and finish those outside, yeah? Maybe have a bit of a play on the swings as well for a bit."
With everything that we had to endure as spies, Clint and I have always tried our very best to keep Lila and Cooper out of the loop as much as possible. They are far too young to know and realise what exactly our job entitles; not to mention that it's not exactly the type of job that you should be discussing with children anyway. They were kept so in the dark, in fact, that they didn't even know that their mother had also worked for the same people that Clint and I do. They were curious about what we do, of course, but so far we have managed to avoid going into heavy detail about SHIELD. However long this lasts though – before our simple answers weren't enough to satisfy their curiosity as they got older – remains to be seen.
But it seems that we don't have to worry about it today, as the mention of the swings has both children nodding their heads. With a final wave, Cooper is quick to rush to the back door with Lila hot on his heels, though she pauses briefly and turns back to look at me, her brown doe eyes wide with hope. "Will you come out and play too, Lyddy?"
"Of course. I'll be out in a couple of minutes, OK?"
Satisfied, she brightly smiles before rushing after Cooper, the back door swinging shut with a gentle thud.
The minute that the two of us are alone in the kitchen, a troubled frown seeps onto Clint's face. "What went wrong?"
"Another dead end. By the time I arrived at the warehouse, there was nothing there for me to find. Either it's been empty for a long time or my source wasn't reliable."
"Where was it again?"
"Belgium," I explain, moving to take a seat at the table, with Clint moving to join me. "I was so sure that this could be it. With how quickly they had to evacuate that day, I thought that they would need somewhere close by to gather up everything before moving on again. But it's just another damn dead end."
Clint easily picks up on the defeat in my tone and is quick to respond with a small but optimistic smile. "At least it's another lead that you can cross off your list though. Who was your source anyway?"
"Guy called David Lieberman, or Micro as some people know him. He's a national security agency analyst. I don't know him personally, but I pulled some strings with SHIELD and got him to see if he could find something useful. Evidently, this proved not to be true," I grumble, tapping my fingers on the table in irritation. "Now I'm back to square one."
"Just because there was nothing there doesn't mean that they weren't there at some stage. Maybe you should get this guy to check again?"
"Before I took off, Micro told me that this was it. This was all that he could find and all he would find. He has a family to take care of: he's worried that if he keeps on snooping, then these guys may target him next."
Not that I could blame him though. When we had last spoken over the phone, Micro had sounded rather guilty about refusing to search for any more leads, but he had been firm in his decision. He has a wife and two kids – the last thing that he wants is to put them in harm's way. After seeing what these people were capable of for almost a year, I respected his decision and thanked him for agreeing to help in the first place, trying my best to keep the disappointment from my tone as I had.
"There wasn't anything for me to gather Intel on anyway," I continue quietly. "They've disappeared off the grid once again."
"We'll get them eventually Lyd," Clint affirms, an ounce of anger in his voice as he speaks. He is just as frustrated as I am that the people who have hurt me are still out there somewhere, doing the exact same torturous and inhumane things to them that had been done to me. It's enough to make me feel sick to my stomach just thinking about it. "We just have to keep trying."
A non-committal hum slips past my lips. I know that he is trying to cheer me up, but there's a huge part of me that doesn't believe in what it is that he's promising. I can't help but think that if we were going to find these people, then we would have done so sooner. We have been searching for a year now, and there's been nothing. No news, no sightings, no concrete leads – nothing. These people were too smart to leave breadcrumbs for us to follow and the more time that passes, the more and more that I think we'll never find them. It's just a tiring and endless cycle of hard work met with disappointment, and I honestly don't know how much more I can take. A perfectionist at heart, there's only so much failure that I can handle.
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the front door opening, and seconds later, the sound of footsteps heading our way bouncing off the farmhouse walls. My brows furrow at the noise, noting that they seem too heavy and slow to belong to Laura, but Clint remains oblivious. A loving smile splits his lips – as it always does whenever he's in Laura's presence – and he slowly begins to pull himself to his feet to greet her.
"Hey, Honey. You'll never guess who showed up tod-"
He abruptly cuts himself short when the person whom the footsteps belong to stops at the kitchen entrance, and when he sees that it's not his wife, his mouth parts and a red tinge of embarrassment spreads across his cheeks.
I immediately bolt to my feet, surprise clouding every single one of my features. "What are you doing here?"
Before me, none other than Nick Fury smiles tightly at the more than blunt question. "Long time no see, Hathaway," he greets, his one good eyes fixed solely on me. "We need to talk."