Whumptober, days 26-31
Oct. 31st, 2019 12:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
osprey_archerThe final batch of Whumptober ficlets!
26. Abandoned. STRIKE team
One of my friends over on Tumblr asked for a ficlet about her STRIKE team OC, and so here we are.
***
Murphy doesn’t cry till the STRIKE team gets back from the steakhouse.
It’s not that he minds that they left him behind. The steakhouse is their after-mission tradition: he doesn’t expect them to switch it up just because he’s a vegetarian. And he couldn’t have gone anywhere tonight, even if they decided to try that nice Indian place he saw when they were driving into town (he mentioned it a few times to Rumlow, but probably the middle of a firefight wasn’t the best time). His feet hurt too much from the burns.
Not that they’re bad burns, all things considered. Second-degree, tops. Not bad at all when you consider that he and Rumlow had to run across a floor that was literally disintegrating into lava.
They’re not dangerous wounds, not really. He’s not going to die. There’s not even much chance of infection: Velasquez patched him up really well.
They hurt like hell, though. And it would’ve been nice if someone stayed with him, the way Rumlow stayed with Rollins that time that Rollins got shot. But Rumlow and Rollins are best friends, and Murphy knows that none of the STRIKE members are that close to him yet. It was a tough mission. They deserve their celebration.
He’s hoping someone will bring him something from the restaurant, though. A plain baked potato would be fine. (He’d like it better with sour cream, but there’s no way to know if the restaurant has ethically sourced dairy.) It’s not that he’s hungry - his feet hurt too much - it would just be nice to know they were thinking of him.
But then the STRIKE team gets back. He hears the door open, the sounds of boots clattering in the entryway, his teammates laughing and joking. The front hall is far enough away that he can’t make out most of the words (there’s a collective groan and a shout of “Gross, Velasquez!”), but he understands the tone. Happy, excited. They’ve had a nice time.
He waits. He’s not supposed to put any weight on his feet, anyway.
A light flips on: he can see the thin line beneath his door. More doors are opening: the refrigerator, the bedrooms, the bathroom. The shower turns on. “Don’t hog all the hot water!” The sound of a pillow fight, a pillow skirmish really, thumps and laughter.
Toilets flush. A friendly squabble over who gets the shower next. The only full bath in the house is directly across from Murphy’s room. Someone will remember him. The door’s right there. Someone will knock and ask, “Murph, you okay?”
And Murphy will say, “Fine,” of course. They don’t like a whiner.
The shower turns off for the final time. Doors close. The light turns off. There’s a little talking, muffled laughter; then Rumlow shouts, “Good night!”
And everything’s quiet.
And everyone’s forgotten him.
It isn’t until Murphy tastes the salt on his lips that he realizes that he’s crying.
Alternate Prompt 1. "Wake up!" Miraculous Ladybug; Marinette.
“Wake up!” Ladybug told Chat Noir, even though she already knew it was useless. Frere Jacques’ victims would not wake until Ladybug had defeated him.
Unfortunately, her plan to defeat Frere Jacques had relied on Chat Noir’s Cataclysm.
“Wake up!” she said again, shaking Chat Noir by the shoulder. A wisp of his blond hair fell across his forehead, and he mumbled something unintelligible and settled into a more comfortable position.
The distant ring of Frere Jacques’ bell-shaped head grew louder: ding ding dong. Ding ding dong. He was coming back.
Ladybug grabbed Chat Noir under the armpits and dragged him behind a dumpster. At least that would make it harder for Frere Jacques to find him and take his Miraculous.
At that very moment, Ladybug’s own Miraculous beeped, and behind the dumpster she transformed back into Marinette, still in her pajamas. She had been asleep when Frere Jacques began his rampage.
Who was he? A teenager who just wanted to sleep a little longer?
She could hear Frere Jacques’ voice now, as he grew closer. “Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?” he bellowed.
“Tikki! I’ve got to transform back!” Marinette said. Her hand dived for her purse, where she kept Tikki’s emergency macaron - but she found only air.
“You left so quickly this morning that you didn’t grab your bag!” Tikki said.
“We’ll have to go back to the bakery,” Marinette replied.
But just then, Frere Jacques appeared at the end of the alleyway: an enormous human body with a bell swinging in place of his head. He was looking in the other direction, which gave Marinette time to leap behind the dumpster. She fell on top of Chat Noir. “Wake up!” she whispered desperately.
But Chat Noir only gave a little snore.
Marinette had to get back to the bakery to get food for Tikki so she could transform again. And she had to lead Frere Jacques away from Chat Noir, although she had none of her Ladybug powers to help her.
Marinette swallowed. Then she clenched her fists and lifted her chin.
She would face Frere Jacques without Chat Noir - without Ladybug. There was no other choice.
28. Beaten. Steve Rogers is having trouble adjusting to the 21st century.
Steve spits a gob of blood onto the pavement. The gritty tarmac has scraped the skin off his arm, and it screams as he levers himself back to his feet. He can feel the hot blood on his upper lip, the heat in his cheek that says he’s going he’s going to have a bruise tomorrow.
Or he would have, before the serum. Now he’ll be lucky if it lasts an hour.
“You okay, Cap?” Rumlow asks. He’s got a smear of blood on his cheek.
“Yeah, fine.” One of Steve’s teeth is loose. Steve prods it gently with his tongue, like a lover.
He hasn’t had one of his teeth knocked loose in a fight since… God. Since Brooklyn, probably.
Regular humans can’t beat him up anymore. This time, it took an Abominable Snowman that somehow got loose in downtown DC.
Christ, he’s missed this.
“Need a ride to the hospital?” Rumlow asks.
“No,” Steve says, almost too fast. At the hospital they’ll give him painkillers, and he wants this pain to last. At least long enough for him to walk home with it. Ribs aching, face on fire. Just like old times.
Sometimes I think you like getting punched.
Steve had always scoffed when Bucky said it; had always denied it. Maybe it hadn’t been true, at the time.
But now, limping back home on an aching ankle, Steve feels a nostalgia rush so intense it almost makes him cry. This is the first time he’s really felt at home in the twenty-first century. Fighting in alleyways, just like old times.
Except in the old days it would’ve killed him if an Abominable Snowman tossed him twenty feet in the air.
When he gets home, he doesn’t turn his lights on. He stands in the semi-darkness and takes off his shirt, looking down at the purple bruises on his ribs, the rough raw flesh on his scraped arm. He gets a bottle of iodine from his medicine cabinet, and the scent stings his nose and his eyes when he opens it. He blinks away tears.
He remembers Mrs. Barnes dabbing iodine on a scrape on his cheek, Bucky scoffing in the background. Who’d you pick a fight with this time, Steve? The Jolly Green Giant? Mrs. Barnes’ hands gentle as she worked, the sting of the iodine so painful he could feel it in the back of his teeth.
When Steve wakes up the next morning, all the bruises are gone. Even his ribs are only a little sore. The early morning light gleams on his unblemished skin.
He closes his eyes, and sighs, and puts his shirt on to hide the lack of evidence. He wants his bruises back.
Alternative prompt 9. Hiding. American Girl: Samantha. Nellie & her sisters in Samantha's attic.
“Is there anything to eat, Nellie?”
“Not so loud, Bridget,” Nellie whispered, although in fact Bridget’s voice had been so soft that it probably wouldn’t have woken Nellie if she hadn’t been lying awake. “We can’t wake Samantha’s housekeeper, remember?”
Bridget nodded, her eyes big and serious in the moonlight. She pressed a finger over her lips.
Nellie sat up and moved very quietly to the food basket. She and Bridget looked inside, carefully inspecting all the corners, although they could see at a glance it was empty.
Bridget’s chin trembled very slightly. “Couldn’t we ask Samantha to bring us more food?”
“No,” Nellie said firmly, and then covered her own mouth, because she had forgotten to keep quiet. They both sat in silence, listening, just in case Gertrude the housekeeper had heard.
But there was no sound but the soft comforting scrabble of mice in the walls. Both girls relaxed. Nellie put an arm around Bridget’s shoulder and hugged her.
“We mustn’t ask Samantha to bring more food,” Nellie explained softly. “The more food that she brings, the more danger there is that someone will notice it missing, and find us.”
Bridget nodded solemnly. “And turn us out into the street.”
Nellie tightened her arm around Bridget’s shoulder. “I’ll find a job soon,” she assured her little sister. “Then everything will be all right. You’ll see.”
But in her heart, she wasn’t sure. That’s why she had been lying awake. No one wanted to hire a skinny little orphan girl as a maid. And even if someone did hire her, Nellie could never make enough money to support two little sisters.
Nellie had nearly despaired as she lay alone in the darkness. But now, with her arm tight around her sister’s shoulders, she felt a new surge of determination. She would find a way to take care of Bridget and Jenny. They were all the family she had left.
Bridget was beginning to shiver from the chill of the unheated room. Nellie pulled her little sister onto her lap, the way Nellie’s mother used to hold her, although Bridget was almost as big as Nellie and it hurt to hold her. “Perhaps we’ll all work in the thread factory,” Nellie said, trying to sound cheerful. “Where I used to work, don’t you remember?”
“You cried at night ‘cause your feet hurt,” Bridget mumbled into her shoulder.
Nellie’s feeling of determination dissolved. What did determination matter, in the face of the bleak facts of factory work? “Well, it would keep us together, at least,” Nellie said. She nudged Bridget off her lap. “Go back to bed. Jenny’s getting cold without you. If you go to sleep, it will be morning soon, and Samantha will be bringing us something to eat.”
“More cookies?”
“Whatever she can get her hands on,” Nellie assured her. “Samantha will take care of us as long as she can.”
30. Recovery. Natasha with SHIELD
SHIELD has given Natasha a therapist. To help her recover, they say, from Red Room indoctrination, although what they really mean is that they want to get her up to speed on the orthodox SHIELD line.
It’s less efficient than the Red Room system: they had the girls chant their catchphrases before class every morning. (“Always ready!” remained a favorite even after the Soviet Union had fallen). It annoys Natasha that Rick won’t just tell her what she’s supposed to say. He always wants her to come up with the words herself.
Today, Rick’s wide American smile drops away after they’ve exchanged pleasantries. He leans forward and looks serious. Natasha mirrors his posture and expression.
“How did your second mission go?” Rick asks.
“Didn’t they tell you?” Natasha asks.
“I’m part of your support team, Natasha. That means that I’m here to hear your point of view and help you process your feelings,” Rick explains.
Someday, once Natasha has established herself at SHIELD - once she’s got a good piece of blackmail on Nick Fury, say - she will tell him honestly how this mission made her feel. But that day has not yet come, so she summons a brave, sad smile and she says, “There was a mix-up. We ended up running into one of my former… colleagues.”
“And how did you feel about that?” Rick asks.
Natasha hesitates. This is only her second mission, and she’s still calibrating how she’s supposed to feel. Last time she said she had fun (they blew up a submarine! How was she supposed to know that wasn’t supposed to be fun?) and Rick took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, and Natasha had to hastily deflate herself and say meekly, “That’s what they liked to hear in the Red Room.”
That, she has discovered, is generally a good response when Rick takes off his glasses. It makes him feel that he is deprogramming her.
This time, however, she did not have fun.
“I did what I had to do,” says Natasha. That’s a catchphrase she’s picked up from Phil Coulson.
“I’m sure you did,” Rick says, with his own Brave Little Toaster smile. “But how did you feel about it?”
I felt like shooting Phil Coulson in the head. That is what she will say to him, someday, when her position is secure.
For now, she stares at him like she doesn’t understand the question. “I did what I had to do,” she repeats, and adds, “We’re the good guys.”
“Do you really believe that,” Rick asks, “or are you just parroting Coulson?”
Fuck. “Of course I believe it,” Natasha says indignantly.
The problem is that she can’t practice her sincere voice in her apartment. It wouldn’t sound good if they heard her trying out ten different intonations of “We’re the good guys” in the bathroom mirror.
“SHIELD protects people,” Natasha tells him. “We’re fighting for truth and justice. We’re fighting,” she says, and she lets her guard slip just a bit, and gives him just a little bit of truth, “for a world where there are no child soldiers. The Red Room will continue training children until we stop it, and many of its operatives are so deeply indoctrinated that only a bullet will stop them.”
That’s how it was with Yelizaveta that day. Come with me, Natasha said, and then Yelizaveta had her thighs around Natasha’s throat, and Natasha would have been dead if she hadn’t shot her.
Yelizaveta still managed to get the last word, though, just like she always did. Traitor, she said, with blood on her lips, and she died.
Natasha has never killed one of her sisters before.
“But how did you feel about killing Yelizaveta Markova?” Rick presses.
They briefed him after all, it seems. He is looking at her, intent: he won’t be put off. He wants a show of feeling. It’s not enough that she killed Yelizaveta Markova for them. They wouldn’t feel right about it if she didn’t mind. They want to know that she still feels pain.
Natasha is quivering with rage. She looks down, and works her mouth, and scrunches her eyes shut, and when she thinks she has fought long enough to make him think his victory hard won, she lets the tears fall. “It hurts,” she weeps. “I’ve known her since we were children. She’s the one who introduced us to pogs…”
“Pogs?” Rick sounds startled.
Pogs do not fit the Red Room mystique. Natasha cannot think how to recover from that one, and so she lets more tears fall. That’s generally a good distraction.
“It’s okay to cry in here,” Rick tells her. “This is a safe place. You can let your feelings out.”
She lets out a few more sobs, then reins herself in. They’ve had their tears. Give them much more and they’ll think she’s out of control, dangerous, no longer an asset - and then she’d be sunk.
So she goes quiet, and wipes her eyes, and looks down at the carpet. Sad. Contrite. Submissive. A good little soldier who will do what they tell her even if it breaks her inside.
“I’m so grateful to be here,” Natasha says, and lays it on thick with a whopping lie. “In the Red Room, they never let us cry.”
31. Embrace. Anne of Green Gables; Katherine’s unrequited love for Anne.
Katherine tried to keep her expectations in check. She knew, of course, that Anne would never come to care for her half as much as she cares for Gilbert: he’s the man she’s going to marry, going to live with all the rest of her days, the two of them sitting by the fireside in cozy matched chairs, Anne’s animated face lit golden by the light of the flames, with red glints like sparks in her hair…
Oh, perhaps Katherine imagined herself sitting in that other chair, but only in her weakest moments. Anne would never throw Gilbert over, certainly not for a girl - and certainly not a girl liked Katherine, plain and cross-grained, when Anne liked them pretty and sweet. Just look at that Diana: boring as a stick in the mud, but handsome.
Oh, but that was jealousy talking. Ever since Anne won her heart, Katherine had tried so hard to fight back her old jealous tendencies: to be worthy of Anne by being happy when other people had good things, rather than eating her heart out wondering why everyone had all the things she wanted so much, and lacked. Good looks, good spirits, good friends.
But what was the point in being worthy of Anne anymore, now that Anne had gone away to marry Gilbert, and they would never see each other again?
Their final meeting rose up in Katherine’s mind like bile in her throat. Anne had been polite of course - no, more than polite; truly a little sorry to be leaving behind her pal Katherine. She might even miss Katherine, once in a while, for the first month or two. Then Anne would forget her.
Oh, Katherine hadn’t cried in front of Anne, at least. She hadn’t managed to say any of the things that she wanted to say: “I never had a friend before you, and I don’t see how I can have another friend after,” or even “You’ll let me come visit, won’t you?” Oh, Katherine would have sat at Anne’s feet by the fireside like those china dogs Anne was so proud of.
No: all Katherine managed to say was, “We’ll write, I suppose,” her voice almost as stiff as it had been when she first met Anne, the beautiful new lady-principal with an engagement ring on her finger, and hated Anne in her heart for having everything she couldn’t have.
“Of course we’ll write,” said Anne. Her eyes shone like stars in her face, but not at the prospect of letters. No. She was looking forward to seeing her Gilbert again.
And then she embraced Katherine: oh, the briefest embrace. Katherine could have clung to her, could have buried her face in Anne’s hair and breathed in the scent of her, trying to store up enough of it to last for her whole life.
But instead that hug lasted bare seconds. She felt Anne’s arms around her, and Anne’s cheek as soft as a lily petal against her own; and then Anne let go, before Katherine had even put her arms around her. It still surprised her so much to be hugged that she had to remind herself to hug back.
“Your letters will be a thousand times more interesting than mine,” said Anne, laughing. “You’ll be going all around the globe, and I won’t even be leaving PEI.”
As if Anne didn’t write so well that magazines took her stories; as if Katherine wouldn’t have lifted Anne’s letters to her lips and kissed them a hundred times even if Anne wrote her a mere postcard, with no message other than “Wish you were here.”
Oh, if Anne ever wrote Katherine such a message - if she really meant it, rather than simply writing it as an appropriate postcard sentiment -
Katherine flung herself on her bed. She wished she could abandon herself to a storm of weeping, but her eyes remained as hot and dry as a desert.
If she and Anne kept up a correspondence, each letter, each note, even if it came down to nothing but a yearly Christmas card, that would be sunshine and water enough to keep this love alive. It would dig its roots into Katherine’s heart, and rip her to pieces as tree roots rip concrete.
She would never write to Anne. She would lock Anne away in her heart, and throw away the key, and eventually for lack of oxygen this bitter love would die.
26. Abandoned. STRIKE team
One of my friends over on Tumblr asked for a ficlet about her STRIKE team OC, and so here we are.
***
Murphy doesn’t cry till the STRIKE team gets back from the steakhouse.
It’s not that he minds that they left him behind. The steakhouse is their after-mission tradition: he doesn’t expect them to switch it up just because he’s a vegetarian. And he couldn’t have gone anywhere tonight, even if they decided to try that nice Indian place he saw when they were driving into town (he mentioned it a few times to Rumlow, but probably the middle of a firefight wasn’t the best time). His feet hurt too much from the burns.
Not that they’re bad burns, all things considered. Second-degree, tops. Not bad at all when you consider that he and Rumlow had to run across a floor that was literally disintegrating into lava.
They’re not dangerous wounds, not really. He’s not going to die. There’s not even much chance of infection: Velasquez patched him up really well.
They hurt like hell, though. And it would’ve been nice if someone stayed with him, the way Rumlow stayed with Rollins that time that Rollins got shot. But Rumlow and Rollins are best friends, and Murphy knows that none of the STRIKE members are that close to him yet. It was a tough mission. They deserve their celebration.
He’s hoping someone will bring him something from the restaurant, though. A plain baked potato would be fine. (He’d like it better with sour cream, but there’s no way to know if the restaurant has ethically sourced dairy.) It’s not that he’s hungry - his feet hurt too much - it would just be nice to know they were thinking of him.
But then the STRIKE team gets back. He hears the door open, the sounds of boots clattering in the entryway, his teammates laughing and joking. The front hall is far enough away that he can’t make out most of the words (there’s a collective groan and a shout of “Gross, Velasquez!”), but he understands the tone. Happy, excited. They’ve had a nice time.
He waits. He’s not supposed to put any weight on his feet, anyway.
A light flips on: he can see the thin line beneath his door. More doors are opening: the refrigerator, the bedrooms, the bathroom. The shower turns on. “Don’t hog all the hot water!” The sound of a pillow fight, a pillow skirmish really, thumps and laughter.
Toilets flush. A friendly squabble over who gets the shower next. The only full bath in the house is directly across from Murphy’s room. Someone will remember him. The door’s right there. Someone will knock and ask, “Murph, you okay?”
And Murphy will say, “Fine,” of course. They don’t like a whiner.
The shower turns off for the final time. Doors close. The light turns off. There’s a little talking, muffled laughter; then Rumlow shouts, “Good night!”
And everything’s quiet.
And everyone’s forgotten him.
It isn’t until Murphy tastes the salt on his lips that he realizes that he’s crying.
Alternate Prompt 1. "Wake up!" Miraculous Ladybug; Marinette.
“Wake up!” Ladybug told Chat Noir, even though she already knew it was useless. Frere Jacques’ victims would not wake until Ladybug had defeated him.
Unfortunately, her plan to defeat Frere Jacques had relied on Chat Noir’s Cataclysm.
“Wake up!” she said again, shaking Chat Noir by the shoulder. A wisp of his blond hair fell across his forehead, and he mumbled something unintelligible and settled into a more comfortable position.
The distant ring of Frere Jacques’ bell-shaped head grew louder: ding ding dong. Ding ding dong. He was coming back.
Ladybug grabbed Chat Noir under the armpits and dragged him behind a dumpster. At least that would make it harder for Frere Jacques to find him and take his Miraculous.
At that very moment, Ladybug’s own Miraculous beeped, and behind the dumpster she transformed back into Marinette, still in her pajamas. She had been asleep when Frere Jacques began his rampage.
Who was he? A teenager who just wanted to sleep a little longer?
She could hear Frere Jacques’ voice now, as he grew closer. “Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?” he bellowed.
“Tikki! I’ve got to transform back!” Marinette said. Her hand dived for her purse, where she kept Tikki’s emergency macaron - but she found only air.
“You left so quickly this morning that you didn’t grab your bag!” Tikki said.
“We’ll have to go back to the bakery,” Marinette replied.
But just then, Frere Jacques appeared at the end of the alleyway: an enormous human body with a bell swinging in place of his head. He was looking in the other direction, which gave Marinette time to leap behind the dumpster. She fell on top of Chat Noir. “Wake up!” she whispered desperately.
But Chat Noir only gave a little snore.
Marinette had to get back to the bakery to get food for Tikki so she could transform again. And she had to lead Frere Jacques away from Chat Noir, although she had none of her Ladybug powers to help her.
Marinette swallowed. Then she clenched her fists and lifted her chin.
She would face Frere Jacques without Chat Noir - without Ladybug. There was no other choice.
28. Beaten. Steve Rogers is having trouble adjusting to the 21st century.
Steve spits a gob of blood onto the pavement. The gritty tarmac has scraped the skin off his arm, and it screams as he levers himself back to his feet. He can feel the hot blood on his upper lip, the heat in his cheek that says he’s going he’s going to have a bruise tomorrow.
Or he would have, before the serum. Now he’ll be lucky if it lasts an hour.
“You okay, Cap?” Rumlow asks. He’s got a smear of blood on his cheek.
“Yeah, fine.” One of Steve’s teeth is loose. Steve prods it gently with his tongue, like a lover.
He hasn’t had one of his teeth knocked loose in a fight since… God. Since Brooklyn, probably.
Regular humans can’t beat him up anymore. This time, it took an Abominable Snowman that somehow got loose in downtown DC.
Christ, he’s missed this.
“Need a ride to the hospital?” Rumlow asks.
“No,” Steve says, almost too fast. At the hospital they’ll give him painkillers, and he wants this pain to last. At least long enough for him to walk home with it. Ribs aching, face on fire. Just like old times.
Sometimes I think you like getting punched.
Steve had always scoffed when Bucky said it; had always denied it. Maybe it hadn’t been true, at the time.
But now, limping back home on an aching ankle, Steve feels a nostalgia rush so intense it almost makes him cry. This is the first time he’s really felt at home in the twenty-first century. Fighting in alleyways, just like old times.
Except in the old days it would’ve killed him if an Abominable Snowman tossed him twenty feet in the air.
When he gets home, he doesn’t turn his lights on. He stands in the semi-darkness and takes off his shirt, looking down at the purple bruises on his ribs, the rough raw flesh on his scraped arm. He gets a bottle of iodine from his medicine cabinet, and the scent stings his nose and his eyes when he opens it. He blinks away tears.
He remembers Mrs. Barnes dabbing iodine on a scrape on his cheek, Bucky scoffing in the background. Who’d you pick a fight with this time, Steve? The Jolly Green Giant? Mrs. Barnes’ hands gentle as she worked, the sting of the iodine so painful he could feel it in the back of his teeth.
When Steve wakes up the next morning, all the bruises are gone. Even his ribs are only a little sore. The early morning light gleams on his unblemished skin.
He closes his eyes, and sighs, and puts his shirt on to hide the lack of evidence. He wants his bruises back.
Alternative prompt 9. Hiding. American Girl: Samantha. Nellie & her sisters in Samantha's attic.
“Is there anything to eat, Nellie?”
“Not so loud, Bridget,” Nellie whispered, although in fact Bridget’s voice had been so soft that it probably wouldn’t have woken Nellie if she hadn’t been lying awake. “We can’t wake Samantha’s housekeeper, remember?”
Bridget nodded, her eyes big and serious in the moonlight. She pressed a finger over her lips.
Nellie sat up and moved very quietly to the food basket. She and Bridget looked inside, carefully inspecting all the corners, although they could see at a glance it was empty.
Bridget’s chin trembled very slightly. “Couldn’t we ask Samantha to bring us more food?”
“No,” Nellie said firmly, and then covered her own mouth, because she had forgotten to keep quiet. They both sat in silence, listening, just in case Gertrude the housekeeper had heard.
But there was no sound but the soft comforting scrabble of mice in the walls. Both girls relaxed. Nellie put an arm around Bridget’s shoulder and hugged her.
“We mustn’t ask Samantha to bring more food,” Nellie explained softly. “The more food that she brings, the more danger there is that someone will notice it missing, and find us.”
Bridget nodded solemnly. “And turn us out into the street.”
Nellie tightened her arm around Bridget’s shoulder. “I’ll find a job soon,” she assured her little sister. “Then everything will be all right. You’ll see.”
But in her heart, she wasn’t sure. That’s why she had been lying awake. No one wanted to hire a skinny little orphan girl as a maid. And even if someone did hire her, Nellie could never make enough money to support two little sisters.
Nellie had nearly despaired as she lay alone in the darkness. But now, with her arm tight around her sister’s shoulders, she felt a new surge of determination. She would find a way to take care of Bridget and Jenny. They were all the family she had left.
Bridget was beginning to shiver from the chill of the unheated room. Nellie pulled her little sister onto her lap, the way Nellie’s mother used to hold her, although Bridget was almost as big as Nellie and it hurt to hold her. “Perhaps we’ll all work in the thread factory,” Nellie said, trying to sound cheerful. “Where I used to work, don’t you remember?”
“You cried at night ‘cause your feet hurt,” Bridget mumbled into her shoulder.
Nellie’s feeling of determination dissolved. What did determination matter, in the face of the bleak facts of factory work? “Well, it would keep us together, at least,” Nellie said. She nudged Bridget off her lap. “Go back to bed. Jenny’s getting cold without you. If you go to sleep, it will be morning soon, and Samantha will be bringing us something to eat.”
“More cookies?”
“Whatever she can get her hands on,” Nellie assured her. “Samantha will take care of us as long as she can.”
30. Recovery. Natasha with SHIELD
SHIELD has given Natasha a therapist. To help her recover, they say, from Red Room indoctrination, although what they really mean is that they want to get her up to speed on the orthodox SHIELD line.
It’s less efficient than the Red Room system: they had the girls chant their catchphrases before class every morning. (“Always ready!” remained a favorite even after the Soviet Union had fallen). It annoys Natasha that Rick won’t just tell her what she’s supposed to say. He always wants her to come up with the words herself.
Today, Rick’s wide American smile drops away after they’ve exchanged pleasantries. He leans forward and looks serious. Natasha mirrors his posture and expression.
“How did your second mission go?” Rick asks.
“Didn’t they tell you?” Natasha asks.
“I’m part of your support team, Natasha. That means that I’m here to hear your point of view and help you process your feelings,” Rick explains.
Someday, once Natasha has established herself at SHIELD - once she’s got a good piece of blackmail on Nick Fury, say - she will tell him honestly how this mission made her feel. But that day has not yet come, so she summons a brave, sad smile and she says, “There was a mix-up. We ended up running into one of my former… colleagues.”
“And how did you feel about that?” Rick asks.
Natasha hesitates. This is only her second mission, and she’s still calibrating how she’s supposed to feel. Last time she said she had fun (they blew up a submarine! How was she supposed to know that wasn’t supposed to be fun?) and Rick took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, and Natasha had to hastily deflate herself and say meekly, “That’s what they liked to hear in the Red Room.”
That, she has discovered, is generally a good response when Rick takes off his glasses. It makes him feel that he is deprogramming her.
This time, however, she did not have fun.
“I did what I had to do,” says Natasha. That’s a catchphrase she’s picked up from Phil Coulson.
“I’m sure you did,” Rick says, with his own Brave Little Toaster smile. “But how did you feel about it?”
I felt like shooting Phil Coulson in the head. That is what she will say to him, someday, when her position is secure.
For now, she stares at him like she doesn’t understand the question. “I did what I had to do,” she repeats, and adds, “We’re the good guys.”
“Do you really believe that,” Rick asks, “or are you just parroting Coulson?”
Fuck. “Of course I believe it,” Natasha says indignantly.
The problem is that she can’t practice her sincere voice in her apartment. It wouldn’t sound good if they heard her trying out ten different intonations of “We’re the good guys” in the bathroom mirror.
“SHIELD protects people,” Natasha tells him. “We’re fighting for truth and justice. We’re fighting,” she says, and she lets her guard slip just a bit, and gives him just a little bit of truth, “for a world where there are no child soldiers. The Red Room will continue training children until we stop it, and many of its operatives are so deeply indoctrinated that only a bullet will stop them.”
That’s how it was with Yelizaveta that day. Come with me, Natasha said, and then Yelizaveta had her thighs around Natasha’s throat, and Natasha would have been dead if she hadn’t shot her.
Yelizaveta still managed to get the last word, though, just like she always did. Traitor, she said, with blood on her lips, and she died.
Natasha has never killed one of her sisters before.
“But how did you feel about killing Yelizaveta Markova?” Rick presses.
They briefed him after all, it seems. He is looking at her, intent: he won’t be put off. He wants a show of feeling. It’s not enough that she killed Yelizaveta Markova for them. They wouldn’t feel right about it if she didn’t mind. They want to know that she still feels pain.
Natasha is quivering with rage. She looks down, and works her mouth, and scrunches her eyes shut, and when she thinks she has fought long enough to make him think his victory hard won, she lets the tears fall. “It hurts,” she weeps. “I’ve known her since we were children. She’s the one who introduced us to pogs…”
“Pogs?” Rick sounds startled.
Pogs do not fit the Red Room mystique. Natasha cannot think how to recover from that one, and so she lets more tears fall. That’s generally a good distraction.
“It’s okay to cry in here,” Rick tells her. “This is a safe place. You can let your feelings out.”
She lets out a few more sobs, then reins herself in. They’ve had their tears. Give them much more and they’ll think she’s out of control, dangerous, no longer an asset - and then she’d be sunk.
So she goes quiet, and wipes her eyes, and looks down at the carpet. Sad. Contrite. Submissive. A good little soldier who will do what they tell her even if it breaks her inside.
“I’m so grateful to be here,” Natasha says, and lays it on thick with a whopping lie. “In the Red Room, they never let us cry.”
31. Embrace. Anne of Green Gables; Katherine’s unrequited love for Anne.
Katherine tried to keep her expectations in check. She knew, of course, that Anne would never come to care for her half as much as she cares for Gilbert: he’s the man she’s going to marry, going to live with all the rest of her days, the two of them sitting by the fireside in cozy matched chairs, Anne’s animated face lit golden by the light of the flames, with red glints like sparks in her hair…
Oh, perhaps Katherine imagined herself sitting in that other chair, but only in her weakest moments. Anne would never throw Gilbert over, certainly not for a girl - and certainly not a girl liked Katherine, plain and cross-grained, when Anne liked them pretty and sweet. Just look at that Diana: boring as a stick in the mud, but handsome.
Oh, but that was jealousy talking. Ever since Anne won her heart, Katherine had tried so hard to fight back her old jealous tendencies: to be worthy of Anne by being happy when other people had good things, rather than eating her heart out wondering why everyone had all the things she wanted so much, and lacked. Good looks, good spirits, good friends.
But what was the point in being worthy of Anne anymore, now that Anne had gone away to marry Gilbert, and they would never see each other again?
Their final meeting rose up in Katherine’s mind like bile in her throat. Anne had been polite of course - no, more than polite; truly a little sorry to be leaving behind her pal Katherine. She might even miss Katherine, once in a while, for the first month or two. Then Anne would forget her.
Oh, Katherine hadn’t cried in front of Anne, at least. She hadn’t managed to say any of the things that she wanted to say: “I never had a friend before you, and I don’t see how I can have another friend after,” or even “You’ll let me come visit, won’t you?” Oh, Katherine would have sat at Anne’s feet by the fireside like those china dogs Anne was so proud of.
No: all Katherine managed to say was, “We’ll write, I suppose,” her voice almost as stiff as it had been when she first met Anne, the beautiful new lady-principal with an engagement ring on her finger, and hated Anne in her heart for having everything she couldn’t have.
“Of course we’ll write,” said Anne. Her eyes shone like stars in her face, but not at the prospect of letters. No. She was looking forward to seeing her Gilbert again.
And then she embraced Katherine: oh, the briefest embrace. Katherine could have clung to her, could have buried her face in Anne’s hair and breathed in the scent of her, trying to store up enough of it to last for her whole life.
But instead that hug lasted bare seconds. She felt Anne’s arms around her, and Anne’s cheek as soft as a lily petal against her own; and then Anne let go, before Katherine had even put her arms around her. It still surprised her so much to be hugged that she had to remind herself to hug back.
“Your letters will be a thousand times more interesting than mine,” said Anne, laughing. “You’ll be going all around the globe, and I won’t even be leaving PEI.”
As if Anne didn’t write so well that magazines took her stories; as if Katherine wouldn’t have lifted Anne’s letters to her lips and kissed them a hundred times even if Anne wrote her a mere postcard, with no message other than “Wish you were here.”
Oh, if Anne ever wrote Katherine such a message - if she really meant it, rather than simply writing it as an appropriate postcard sentiment -
Katherine flung herself on her bed. She wished she could abandon herself to a storm of weeping, but her eyes remained as hot and dry as a desert.
If she and Anne kept up a correspondence, each letter, each note, even if it came down to nothing but a yearly Christmas card, that would be sunshine and water enough to keep this love alive. It would dig its roots into Katherine’s heart, and rip her to pieces as tree roots rip concrete.
She would never write to Anne. She would lock Anne away in her heart, and throw away the key, and eventually for lack of oxygen this bitter love would die.
