It's as if I'm not completely in control when I slam my hands on the table, sending papers floating to the ground, making a mess.
More of a mess than there already was, at least. That's what this is-- a mess. Everything's so messy all the fucking time. My head, my job, my assignments.
The assignment. My task. I can't stop thinking about it. It occupies my conscious mind and my subconscious, my waking thoughts and midnight dreams, my hopes and worries. I sift through the pile and retrieve it from the bottom, sitting back in my seat in the SHIELD conference room, high above New York. The cover page is minimalist, with my own name labeled as "Chief Execution Officer," underneath the title "OPERATION 345900-- MISSING PERSONS CASE WITH DIVINE SUSPECT/CONFLICT." At the bottom, a small warning about the dangers of SHIELD intervention on cases that include otherworldly beings.
On the next page, a preface and table of contents with the layout of classified case information. It's pretty standard-- involved persons biographies, photographs of suspects, evidence, etc. The last page includes a short write-up on the conclusion of the case and how it was dealt with. And the last sentence reads: "At the time of document completion, no suspect was taken into custody or brought before SHIELD judgement."
That's the part that kills me, that keeps me awake. I flip back over to the involved persons section, staring at the photos of Allissa, her ex, a couple random suspects, officers, SHIELD agents, and lastly, a photo of Loki. Taken from a security camera at a restaurant from a couple months ago.
This fucking bastard took her, abused her, and is running free. And even worse, he tricked her into making her thinking he's one of the good guys. He messed with her. And she's thinking about him instead of me. It's ridiculous! Why the hell is SHIELD so afraid of this low-level god? He's dangerous, sure, but justice must be served. I rush to my feet and throw the packet across the room, and it hits the wall and falls to the ground. I breathe heavily, feel my face growing hot and red. Someone has to do something about this.
And just then, Allissa walks in. "Steve?"
-
I grip the door handle a little tighter upon entering the conference room, and stop in my tracks when I notice the state of it. Desk chairs sit askew from the long table, one lays defeated on its side. Classified documents, meant to be tucked away neatly in locked files, cover the table and are strewn around the ground. A particularly heavy, thickly-stapled, packet sits at the front of the room just by my feet. I reach to the ground and grab it. "Sorry to . . . interrupt. What's all this?"
Steve, dressed surprisingly casual in cargo pants and a black shirt, but accented with a gun and holster, snaps to attention. "Allissa, hey. How was lunch?" He crosses his arms and his brows furrow slightly.
What is he doing in here, with all this shit? "It was good." The air is awkward and stiff, and I can't bring myself to respond any more detailed than that. I can't shake this newfound paranoia that decided to accompany me after learning more about Steve today.
I take another step in, aware of his eyes on me, and flip absentmindedly through the packet in my hand. It's an official case document-- for my case. Goosebumps creep onto my skin as I make eye contact with myself. Or, an official photo of me, taken when I first arrived at SHIELD for questioning after getting out of the hospital. It's disturbing. I hadn't realized I looked so sickly. Hollow eyes and thin skin clutching to bone stare back at me. Anyone who'd seen me like this would've assumed they knew my situation. It wasn't that simple. Suddenly I feel nauseous.
I toss the packet onto the table, feeling disgusted and somewhat vulnerable. And incredibly itchy. "Can I help you with any of this?" I gesture towards whatever it is I interrupted.
"Yeah, actually. You can start by cleaning this up while I lay down the situation." He sits down.
"I hadn't realized there was a situation." Now I'm on my knees, pulling the paper into a pile and aligning the staples. It feels condescending, but I bite my tongue. "If this is about my case, I thought it was concluded."
"It is, and it was, but I'm not done with it."
The stack in my hand grows thicker with various classified documents that I try not to read. Maybe out of fear, maybe out of denial. "Not done with it?" I stand up, leaving the rest of the papers behind. "Isn't that out of your jurisdiction?"
Steve, who had been staring at the wall across from him, resting his head on intertwined hands, shifts his gaze towards me. "Nothing is out of my jurisdiction."
Everything feels tight, this room, these shoes, my throat. The hand I hold papers in clenches and I can feel the once-crisp documents crinkle. "What- what are you going to do?"
Evidently pleased with my reaction, he smiles and stands up, slowly walking towards me.
"Steve, what the hell are you going to do?"
He slides a hand around my waist, pulling me close to him, and brushes some hair out of my face. "I'm afraid that's above your pay-grade, missy." His eyes flash wild with intensity, piercing into my own. This is dangerous. Steve is dangerous.
"But don't worry," he coos. "I'll take care of it."
-
ooo shit. thoughts on steve's situation so far?
thank you all so much for 2k votes! it's been a long time in the making but i'm grateful it's finally been achieved. i've been receiving such good feedback on the last chapter and the whole rest of this story and I just wanted to thank you all again for sticking around and taking the time to comment, vote, and read.
I mentioned in my last chapter my idea to create a tumblr to continue my writing on as I've grown out of this format. So I made one: @ solivagantreverie ! if you enjoy my writing here, i'd love for you all to join me on another platform where I can explore more characters, stories, styles of writing, etc. im looking into taking requests or ideas for characters to write for, including loki and some marvel characters i'd previously not written for, and other movies/tv shows.
as a treat, and because this chapter is a little shorter, under this author's note i've provided a teaser for something i'll most likely be publishing on tumblr in the coming weeks-- self insert x quentin beck/mysterio! I had so much fun writing this, and if you like it just as much as I do, let me know, and follow me on tumblr!
thanks for reading!
-
You look up again from running your finger along the rim of your flute of twinkling champagne to see.... Well, nothing. And that's exactly the problem. Just a moment ago you'd been making lighthearted cocktail conversation with the smooth, charmingly wicked Quentin Beck, laughing quietly about nothing at all. But now he's gone.
"Have we met before?" His smile, appearing quite like a playful snarl, twists into cloudy familiarity, eyes squinting slightly. Then he shakes his head, laughing a little. "No, I would've remembered a beauty such as yourself."
You return his quaint handshake, curiosity piqued, just dipping your hand into his. "Quite the gentleman, are you?" The night had been sour up until this moment, leaving a poor taste in your mouth not even alcohol could burn away. You hadn't been all that expectant of company, but now that the opportunity has presented itself, you don't mind playing into it.
"When I want to be." The man, dressed in an all black suit and dripping in a gallery of rings, shifts into a tall seat at the bar next to you, casually surveying behind the counter with a raise of an eyebrow. He lifts a couple fingers at the bartender, signaling for a drink. You can't help but note his interesting response.
"The usual, Signore Beck?"
He nods and the young local whisks himself away to his craft. Hardly a minute later, a small glass is returned, filled with liquid amber, and he mutters his thanks. The man— Beck— turns back towards you, not trying all that hard to keep a silly grin off his face. He's clearly striving to impress you.
"You have a usual. You must be well known around here," You notice coolly, breezing into mischievous badinage. "Beck?" You test, name tasting as sharp as the champagne. "I like it."
"Ah," A moment of deceiving modesty graces his expression as he looks away, grimacing mirthfully at his apparent discontent for his pedestaled image. Clearly, however, he doesn't mind being admired, or even teased for it. You take a second to observe him a little more in depth. Querying eyes, grin sitting restlessly crooked, a mop of dark hair resisting arrest to styling. "Call me Quentin, please."
Oh, Quentin Beck. What are you hiding?
"What can I call you?" His face is hopeful, gaze flitting to take in your features, memorizing them.
"So eager." You pause thoughtfully. "I'm not anyone you need to know."
Quentin sets his jaw at your response in quiet reverence, mystified. He sips his drink, not taking his eyes off you. But you pay no mind, glancing around the warm yet dimly lit room, both hands still tinkering with your champagne flute, pining for snippets of others' conversations. Something about somewhere, something about someone.
The tension was heavy, and the sounds of chatter melted into a swooning atmosphere of distorted party rhythm. You'd turned back towards your company, gave him a look, and downed the last of the bubbles. And now he's gone-- slipped right out of your grasp. Our illusions speak for us far too often. What had you said without saying anything?
<3