Not That Lucky

#09: Oh, I Can So Just Sit Here and Cry

"Little sisters can be a pain, but the big sister heroine worship can't be beat." –Allison M. Lee

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As it turns out, what I apparently needed all these years was just a good therapist. Who would've guessed? I mean, I probably should've been able to considering I had the mental and emotional stability of a half-eaten bagel. Then again though, admitting I needed a therapist was step one of a recovery plan that I had no plans to enact until I met the Avengers.

The rest of the weekend had gone shockingly fantastic. Sam was a lot of fun to talk to even when he wasn't giving me sage wisdom about my shit poor coping skills. I had dinner with him and Steve on Saturday night, even the others had eventually joined us, and when Bruce finally showed up I got to be the one to tell him I spent my morning in mini jail. He took the news like a champ, zero fazing whatsoever, but he was the most patient one out of this crew and dealing with the nonsense he did I bet my nonsense was low on the list. I'd work on that. At the end of the night though, Sam pulled me into a hug, that I only stiffened at for a few seconds mind you, and then offered me one more piece of advice.

'Reach out to them and let them reach out to you. It'll help.'

It sounded a bit like fortune cookie advice, but I was in no place to be doubting his therapy tactics. So, I did. That very night when we got back to the Tower and Clint asked if I wanted to watch a movie I tested the fortune cookie mumbo jumbo. Clint had put on some trash 'B-list' movie and when I came back from getting popcorn I forced myself to sit right next to him. Clint didn't even bat an eye or comment on it. He just grabbed some popcorn. Then halfway through the movie when I stiffly let my head rest on his shoulder all he did was wrap his around my own shoulders and laugh at the shitty acting on the screen. It had felt weird, wrong almost, but after a minute that faded, and it just felt nice.

It felt so nice that I nearly wanted to cry.

All of Sunday, I did the same thing. I tested the waters. I'd touch Tony's back when I went to bring him coffee, stretched my legs across Steve's lap when we watched our show, let Natasha play with my hair after she showed me the boots and clothes she bought me, and stood elbow to elbow with Bruce while we went over his lecture schedule for the week. I figured it would take a while, maybe months before the shock of it wore off, but by 2 PM of that day they were reaching back out to me and I liked it. My body didn't just not flinch, it craved attention. It was as if my body suddenly realized we were drowning and began to cling to any shred of rope to save us.

The last time I had been touched and loved it was... well, technically it was Bucky. Holding his hand felt right. If he hadn't let go of me himself I don't think I ever would've pulled my hand away. Before that though, the last time I didn't hate the hands that touched me was back when I was in high school. Nearly a decade of not having someone to comfort me through touch had left me hollow, but all it took was a single day of the Avengers friendly touches and warm smiles and jokes to begin filling that void in my chest.

Boss' acidic voice would leech into my brain and whisper how pathetic I was. That I was weak for leaning on these people who I had only known for a month. A pitiful, sad whore who sought after comfort like a child reaching out to its family. The voice would call me sick and worthless and a burden, but then Tony would squeeze my shoulder or Clint would wrap his arm around me or Bruce would touch my arm and the voice would disappear.

I stared into the mirror at myself wondering what was different. It was Monday morning and I was getting ready for work and something about me felt off. Not in a bad way though. My cheeks were fuller and had color, but I guessed that was from a consistent food source and heating that actually worked. My hair looked healthy and soft, but again that was only because I was taking showers everyday now. I lifted my fingers to touch the scar on my cheek under my eye. The souvenir Helga had left me. Truly, I thought I'd hate it every time I looked in the mirror, but I actually didn't mind it. The scar had been the price to my new life. I couldn't bring myself to hate that.