Explosions. The swarms of aliens. Countless of broken and bloody bodies littering the streets, lifeless. Wails of horror. Buildings toppled, debris falling to the streets below. Police sirens in the distance. Gunshots. Smoke burning my lungs. I fight my way through the numerous images that flash through my mind, desperate for an escape but to no avail. My mind refuses to be brought back to reality, leaving me trapped and terrified inside my mind.
Which is why I am so grateful for the small thud echoing throughout the apartment; it wakes me up in a heartbeat.
My breathing is ragged, and the bedsheets are a tangled mess, sticking to the sweat coating my skin. My hands ache, and with a start, I realise that I have been gripping the bedsheets tightly during my tossing and turning. My knuckles appear white against the taut skin over them. Staring down at them, I blink dumbly, not fully awake. The remnants of the dream are slowly retreating to the furthest corners of my mind, but they leave imprints. Trembling, I release the hold on the sheets and reach up to grasp my throbbing skull.
Inhale through the nose. Hold. One. Two. Three. Exhale through pursed lips. Slow. Breathe. Repeat.
I lose track of how many times I repeat this sequence, but I know that I continue to do it until I feel like my breathing is under control. Only then do I stop, but I don't remove my hands from my face. They still shake, and I thread them through my blonde strands to cease their shaking.
The nightmare has been the same for the past several days. The memories of the Battle of New York manifest into monstrous dreams that I won't escape from until my screams wake me up. The process I have just used to calm myself down follows, but my throat is always too hoarse from all the yelling for me to cry. I shed no tears at what I had seen and endured. All I could do is try to repress the memories as much as my mind will let me.
But something about tonight is different- I can recognise this through my current brain fog. Frowning, I reach down with one hand to gently prod at my throat. It feels fine, as it usually does. It doesn't feel as raw as sandpaper, nor do I find myself desperately wishing for a drink. If I screamed, it hadn't been for that long. Or that loud, for that matter. What- what is it that had woken me up again?
The second thud answers my question. And my brain fog disperses in an instant.
Danger.
My heart once again races inside my chest- did it ever stop? - and my blood rushes in my ears. Feeling more awake than I had just seconds ago, I throw the drenched covers off me. The night air hits my legs with a sharp coolness, and I hiss quietly at the sensation. Fighting the urge to duck back into the bed, I keep my eyes trained on the door. Slowly, I reach into the gap between the bed frame and the mattress, and instantly curl my hands over the handle of the throwing knife.
As silent as a cat, I pull myself my feet and stalk forward, feeling thankful that I hadn't closed my bedroom door that night. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but by the time I reach the end of the empty hallway, I can make out enough. I can practically feel adrenaline spreading throughout my blood, my body preparing myself for either a fight or flight response. I try to keep my quickened breathing as quiet as possible, not wanting to alert the intruder of where I am hiding. As subtly as I can, I tilt my head around the corner of the wall separating the hallway from the living room and kitchen. I only move my head forward far enough so that I can get a glance.
The sight of a tall, broad-shouldered figure creeping from my open window causes me to duck back in an instant.
Shit.
Male. Larger than me. Wearing a backpack. I clutch the knife even tighter, formulating a plan in my mind, I have the upper hand in this situation. Whoever this person is, they haven't seen me yet. They may have a weapon, but if I can surprise them, then they may not have enough time to reach for it. If they're wounded, they may be too distracted by the pain to retaliate.
I can hear their footsteps almost silently moving forward, and with a final breath, I once again turn my head around the corner. The intruder is inching towards the living room, his steps slow and cautious. He makes the mistake of pausing to glance over the side of the couch, looking for something. Whatever it is, I don't give him the chance to find it. With my heart thudding against my chest, my fingers twitch over the hilt of the knife as I step forward. The intruder's head snaps to me in an instant, but I fling the knife towards him before he has time to react.
A grunt of pain emits from the intruder's mouth as the knife buries into his right arm. They move as it to pull it out, but he never gets the chance. I raise my hands and snap my palms forward, catching him in a powerful gust of wind. With a cry, I throw my hands to the side and watch as the intruder subsequently flies through the air. He crashes into my kitchen set, sending the table and chairs spiralling through the kitchen with a bang. The commotion is loud enough to wake my neighbours. But I don't care at this point. I only rush forward until I reach the intruder. They are struggling to pull themself upright, and don't see me coming until it's too late. Lifting my foot, I kick them until they roll onto their back, and I keep my foot pressed against their chest. With a click of my fingers, a bright fire begins to shine in between my hands. It is both a warning and an opportunity for me to get a look at the intruder's face.
Never in a million years did I expect to see James' ocean blue eyes staring back at me.
The fire sputters between my fingers before extinguishing altogether. My concentration disappears completely, and surprise quickly takes its place. It consumes me, and I can't help but stumble back and away from a struggling James. It has been eight months since I last saw him, before he had taken off in the middle of the night. I never expected to see him again.
Yet here he is.
I watch almost dumbly as he manages to pull his body towards the kitchen island, propping his body against it. His eyes drop from mine to the knife still embedded in his skin. With a grunt of annoyance, he reaches for it with his other hand, the metal flashing in the minimum light streaming through my window.
My eyes follow after his hand, and I realise what it is that he's about to do a second too late. "Don't-"
Blood pools from the wound as he pulls the knife from it. I watch as it begins to spread across the sleeve of his arm, blossoming like a flower in spring. The sight of the red liquid soaking his skin snaps me out of my daze. Dropping to the ground beside him, I immediately press my hands against the gaping wound. "You shouldn't have pulled it out," I scold, watching as his blood begins to run over the tips of my fingers. Soon it will coat my hands.
He recoils, but I can't tell if it is from my touch or the amount of pressure that I am applying to the cut. "I'll live," he grits out, his metal hand moving as if to cover my own. He drops it to his lap before he makes contact, however.
Shaking my head, I mutter, "I don't know how deep the wound is. I need you to keep pressure on it so that I can go and get the first aid kit."
"Where is it?"
"The bathroom. I'll be just a moment."
He nods his head in understanding, his dark strands brushing against his cheeks with the movement. I don't dare draw my hand away until his metal one hovers over my own. Swiftly, I pull my hand away and watch as he replaces it as quickly as a snake striking. Only once I'm sure that he's applying enough pressure to at least slow the bleeding do I stand up. Turning around, I begin to quickly make my way back towards the hall leading towards the bathroom. On my way, I switch the lights on, making sure that I only get blood on the switch, rather than the wall.
It doesn't take me long to find the first aid kit underneath my bathroom sink. But as I begin to check and see if I have the right medical supplies, a thousand different thoughts race inside my mind. And every single one of them revolves around the man currently bleeding out in my living room.
What the hell is he doing here? Why has he come back after all this time, and where has he been since I last saw him? Is he in the city for an assignment? Did he need my help for something, or is this more of a social call? Is he here because he has some news regarding the visions that we had shared? Why did he take off so suddenly the last time that he was here? Why hadn't he felt the need to tell me that he was going in the first place?
A dull ache seeps along the front of my skull the longer that I think about it. Gingerly, I reach up to rub at it, completely forgetting that my hands are still slick with blood. Cursing, I feebly try to wipe the wet substance away with the back of my arm, but I know that I have only managed to smudge it. Shaking my head to get rid of these distracting and unresolved thoughts, I grip the kit between my hands and pull myself to my feet. The longer I sit here, the more blood that James loses.
Get it together, Lydia.
James has propped up two of the chairs that he had knocked over by the time I return to the kitchen. He is sitting in one, still applying pressure to the wound. I can see him better thanks to the light flooding from the bulbs above; he hasn't changed. His dark strands still come down to brush against the side of his face, no doubt tickling the dark stubble on his jaw. His build is still solid, but he isn't wearing the same gear that he had been wearing the night that we met. Dark pants and a grey shirt hug his figure, and the dark jacket that he had been wearing lays discarded on the island. The star painted on the shoulder of his metal arm is still as bright as I remember, it's meaning or hidden symbolism remaining a mystery to me. Blood slips down the length of his other arm, leaving red trails on his skin.
He looks up as I approach him, and I wave the kit in the air to show him that I had found it. Wordlessly, I pull up the other chair beside him, and sink into it. It isn't until I begin to sort through the kit's contents that I speak, a sudden thought occurring to me, "You know, this right here has too much of a sense of Déjà vu for my liking."
I glance up at him through my eyelashes to see his reaction to this. Upon seeing the frown on his face, I elaborate, "This is almost exactly how the two of us met months ago, with me patching you up. Although, I wasn't the reason that you needed patching up last time. I found you, rather than attacking and tossing you halfway across the room. I'm sorry about that. If I had known it was you, I wouldn't have done it."
"My fault," he replies, his voice strained with pain. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
"Yeah, well, with everything that has occurred in the past few days, it's hard not to be on edge." Grabbing a cloth from the kit, I lean forward and gently pry his hand away from the wound. To my relief, blood isn't gushing from his injury. It looks worse than it is due to our hands smudging blood around the area. And upon closer inspection, I discover that it isn't that deep either. "It's not too bad," I inform him, before promptly covering the cut with the cloth. I need to slow the bleeding before I can do anything else. "It'll need a few stitches, but it'll heal. As you said before; you'll live."
James only nods his head in understanding, his gaze dropping down to my hand on his arm. For a moment, we say nothing, and focus only on his injury. But when it becomes abundantly clear that he isn't going to be the one to break the silence, I decide to bear the responsibility of doing so myself. "To tell you the truth, you were the last person that I expected to see tonight. I didn't think that I would ever see you again after you took off all those months ago."
"I had an assignment to complete not far from here."
"So, what? You just thought you'd drop in to say hi?" I ask, not unkindly. When he doesn't reply, a sigh slips past my lips before I can stop it. "Why are you here, James? Why come back now?"
His blue eyes find mine in an instant, something unreadable lacing their deep pools. He swallows thickly, his adams apple bobbing with the movement. "I heard what happened," he admits, and I don't need him to elaborate on this. I know perfectly well what it is that he is referring to. "I- I just wanted to check in on you."
My lips part at his admission, having not expected this in the slightest. We have helped one another and, in a sense, saved each other's lives. But he had remained distant with me, even after everything that we had endured. He is not one to share his true feelings or reveal his inner thoughts. And this stems from the fact that he does not trust me.
Swallowing the bitterness, I shift my gaze to the cloth in between my fingers. "I take it that you saw the news. Or at least read about everything that has happened." I catch him slowly nodding his head out of the corner of my eyes. An action that he repeats when I add, "Then I guess you know just how involved in everything that I was."
"I do."
"Then you must realise that I lied to you about my job, right?" When he remains silent, I peek up at him through my lashes, trying to discern the emotions on his face. But to my surprise, anger is nowhere to be found. His face is void of any emotion for that matter. The sight causes a frown to tug at the corners of my lips. "You don't care."
"Should I?"
"I don't know. If someone lied to me, I would be pretty angry."
A harshness underlies each of my words, as they remind me of the events of the past week. James flinches, and I automatically assume that it is because of the sharpness of my tone. "Sorry. I'm not angry with you. It's just been a long week."
"I can tell," he says, and I look up just in time to see his eyes scanning over my face. Bruises and abrasions still decorate my pale skin, the purple shades mixing with the shadows under my eyes. I watch as his eyes then trail to my shoulder, where the edge of the bandage covering my knife wound sticks out from underneath my top. It's been almost a week since the fight, but my body is still paying for the brutality. But I look a hell of a lot better than I had days ago. The smaller bruises have already started to fade, and my body aches less and less with each day that passes. I don't flinch every time I see myself in the reflection of the mirror, or windows. At least, not because of the way I look.
A burning sensation pricks at the back of my eyes, and I have to tilt my head back down to avoid his gaze. Any second longer looking at him, and the dam that is holding back the river of emotions swirling inside of me would break. Pulling the cloth back, I put all my attention into focusing on his injury in front of me. Peeling the cloth away, I peer down at the wound. The bleeding has slowed significantly, leading me to believe that I can start stitching it up soon. Continuing to apply pressure with one hand, I reach towards the open kit beside me with the other. Grabbing the materials, I place them on my lap, still refusing to look back up at him. But my hand pause in their ministrations as he says in a voice barely above a whisper, "You can talk to me about it. If you want."
Over the past few days, my friends have provided me with countless opportunities for me to express my frustrations and talk about everything that we have been through. And each time, I have refused them. It's not that I don't want to talk about the Battle of New York, or the secrets revealed on the hellicarrier. I know the dangers of keeping emotions bottled in for so long; I've witnessed it firsthand. But I can't bring myself to unload my issues onto them when I know that they are all experiencing the same turmoil of emotions as I am.
But James- James hadn't been there. And he has offered for me to let everything out to him; he's willing to listen. And I won't feel guilty if I unleash all of my frustration onto him.
"It's a long story," I finally reply, providing him with a last opportunity to escape.
I look back up to see that he is still staring at me. "I've got some time."
"It's not all that pretty either."
Not an ounce of hesitation is to be found on his face, or in his eyes. "I can handle it."
***
I only reach the halfway point of my tale by the time that I have finished patching James up. I had packed up the case and left it on the table, before moving deeper into the kitchen to make us hot chocolates. He only follows me, leaning against the counters and listening attentively to each of my words. I have given him ample opportunities to ask any questions that he might have. But he only remains silent, allowing me to tell him everything that I want to say.
And I tell him everything. There is barely a detail that I forget to mention, the words flowing past my mouth as easy as breathing.
I tell him about my involvement with SHIELD. My past with the teammates, and Fury. How Clint had been taken by Loki, while I had been called in to deal with his captor. Fury's lies and deceptions, leading to the revelation of who my father is. I watch James closely at the last admission. He knows about the Hoult Massacres from his last visit, so he knows who Richard Hoult is. I tell James about his true identity, Anthony Masters. And the surprise on his face when I tell him that I am Masters' daughter is almost comical. His mouth opens and closes repetitively much in the same manner as a goldfish, yet he remains silent.
We move to the living room and settle on the couch as I tell him about the Battle of New York. I inform him of my willingness to sacrifice myself to save both Tony and the city, only to be foiled by the billionaire himself. I feebly explain to him the horror that had consumed me at the sight of my best friend lying in the street on the brink of death. I tell James about my decision to quit SHIELD, not having it within me to forgive Fury. Only when we have half finished our drinks does my story come to an end. Clasping my hand around the sides of the mug, I welcome the warmth that doing so brings me as I wait for him to say something.
For the longest of times he says nothing. He keeps his gaze on the chocolate drink between his hands, his brows creasing in a troubling manner. I don't try and coax a response out of him straight away; I know that it is a lot for someone to take in. Nor do I look him in the eye. Like James, I focus on the drink in front of me. It's a hell of a lot easier for me to keep my emotions in check when I don't have to look at the person that I am pouring them out to. Though it feels good to talk about this, the last thing that I want to do is cry in front of him. I hate crying in front of people at the best of times.
James sighs. "That's... that's a lot."
"I told you it wasn't pretty."
"I know, but..." he trails off with a shake of his head. "I- I didn't think that there would be so much happening besides-"
"Besides the fighting," I finish for him. When he nods his head, a humourless laugh seeps past my lips before I can stop it. "Yeah. The middle of an alien invasion was the last place that I figured I would be when I discovered that I am the daughter of a deranged killer. That's just the icing on top of the cake."
"And your boss knew?"
"For two years. I have no idea how he got his hands on the file in the first place, but a part of me is too angry to care. I'm more concerned that he felt the need to hide it from me, especially when he knew how long I have searched for the truth."
He runs a hand through his thick strands, tugging at the ends of them. "Maybe... maybe not knowing was better," he says.
"Tony said the same thing. And maybe you're both right. Maybe if I hadn't found out, I wouldn't be feeling the way I feel right now. I could have been spared the hurt of feeling as if I have been betrayed. But knowing exactly who he is and what he has done puts a lot of things into perspective."
"Such as?"
My mouth clamps shut in an instant. The last thing that I want is to take this conversation down the road that I have avoided discussing with him in the first place. It is the one thing that I had left out during my recount of the events on the hellicarier; I had opted to skim over the details altogether. I couldn't bring myself to reveal the dark truth that I even kept concealed from the person it affected the most.
James must sense my hesitation, as he places his drink on the coffee table in front of us, before shifting to face me entirely. I finally drag my eyes up to lock with his, and I am surprised to see a gentleness lacing the features of his face. It is a complete turn from the scowl or frown that he usually wears, so I can't help but feel taken aback. Stunned into silence, he uses this as the perfect opportunity to continue, "I told you that I can handle this. But you don't have to tell me if you don't want."
A bark of laughter slips past my lips, but there is no humour behind it. "I mean, why stop now? I've already told you the rest of the story. It seems rather pointless of me to stop, even if this does change your opinion of me."
"What makes you say that?"
The moment that I let go of any control that I had left, I felt the power surge through my veins and spread to every corner of my body faster then I thought possible. It practically buzzed in my fingers as I lift my hand. Slowly reopening my eyes, I extend a hand and point it directly towards Hulk.
Thor frowns as the Hulk begins gasping for air, his hands clawing at his throat desperately. The menacing snarl that seems to be permanently etched to his face slowly fades away, and panic takes its place. He claws helplessly at his neck, desperate for a source of air that I am depriving him off. As the green creature falls to his knees looking paler than paper, Thor whirls around to face me.
"Lydia, you must stop."
I know I should. I know that I had managed to slow the Hulk down long enough for Thor and I to think of another solution to the problem at hand. But I find that I can't lower my arm even if though I wanted to. I was using only a fragment of my potential, yet it still feels too powerful to properly control. It feels too good to properly control.
It's best not to move, subject 2-0-7. It won't do you any good.
Hulk's movements start to slow and his gasps became more frantic-
Aching, throbbing, stinging pain-
"Lydia, you must stop!"
Please stop!
My fingers twist into a claw, contorting and growing closer together as my eyes narrowed to slits-
My name... is Lydia Hathaway.
"Lydia-"
Screams echoing off the dull, grey walls-
Hulk curls in on himself now, his movements almost nonexistent-
Again.
"You are killing him!"
"Because what I'm about to tell you will make you think that I am a terrible person," I say, my voice on the verge of hysteria. James notices the sudden change in an instant, and he opens his mouth to speak. But I quickly cut him to the chase, the words falling from my tongue before I can stop them.
"When I was trying to stop Bruce, I accessed a part of my abilities in a way I never have before. I knew I wasn't strong enough to calm him down. At least, I wasn't allowing myself to be. It was Loki, of all people, that made me realise that I have been holding myself back for the past three years. I thought that if I just let go for one second- if I can just unleash enough to solve the problem at hand- but I didn't realise- I-"
James seems to put the pieces of the puzzle together despite my inability to construct a proper sentence at this point. His mouth parts in what I believe to be shock, and something unreadable clouds his eyes. "You didn't- you didn't kill him, did you?" He asks, watching as I flinch at the question.
Swallowing the lump that has returned to the back of my throat, I slowly shake my head. "No. But I almost did. But that's not even the worst part."
"I don't understand-"
"A part of me didn't want to stop."
James is rendered speechless at my confession. A part of him is most likely surprised at how bluntly I had spoken. But a larger part of him is more shocked at what my words mean.
"A part of me didn't want to stop. I didn't want to stop," I repeat. "The second that I connected to even a small fragment of my power, I couldn't get enough of it. It- it was like nothing that I have ever felt before. Letting go off my control and unleashing a small amount of my potential was almost... it was almost euphoric. Thor was screaming at me to stop, but I couldn't. Not until I realised what it was that I was doing, and by that point, it was almost too late. A few seconds longer, and I would have killed Bruce."
James is rendered speechless at my confession. A part of him is most likely surprised at how bluntly I had spoken. But a larger part of him is more shocked at what my words mean.
"Go ahead; tell me how much of a monster I am," I continue, reaching up to wipe away a stray tear rolling down my cheek. "How I'm a horrible person-"
James looks almost appalled by this. "I don't think that you're a horrible person," he states.
"Did you not hear what I just said? I almost killed my cousin, and a part of me enjoyed it."
"You stopped though," James gently reminds me. It's a gentleness that I sure as hell don't deserve, and a spark of irritation flares within me at the sound of his soft tone. He should be disgusted, or angry even. This isn't the response that I had been expecting. "You didn't kill him."
"But I almost did-"
"You didn't-"
"That doesn't make things better!"
"I don't think you're a bad person," James firmly reiterates. His calmness starkly contrasts my growing agitation. "Because if you were, then you wouldn't have tried to take your friend's place going through that portal. You wouldn't have been willing to sacrifice yourself to save the city, and you wouldn't have taken me in the night we met."
"These things don't erase what I've done though!" I know that this is James' way of trying to both comfort and assure me, but his words only make me more upset. My chest tightens as I reach my hands up, and press my palms against my eyes to prevent any more tears from falling. "And it isn't enough to make up for my actions or change them. I can't take back what I did, James."
With my vision momentarily impaired, I can't see his reaction to my words. But I can detect a sudden softness underlying his tone as he relents, "No. No, you can't. But that doesn't mean that you're anything like your father."
My hands fall slack in my lap at this, my blue eyes blinking in surprise. Tongue-tied, I can only turn my head to the side towards him. I hadn't said a word about my father or expressed how the cause of my distress revolves around him. Despite thinking it, that is. But as if reading my mind, James has put together the pieces of the puzzle, and realised that my outburst of self-hatred runs deeper then what I have presented on the surface.
A frown seeps onto his face upon seeing the surprise on mine. "It clicked when you said about how things had been put into perspective before," he quietly explains. "I think you believe you're a horrible person, because of what your father has done. But you shouldn't. The difference is, he chose to kill all of those people. You didn't- almost did," he concedes, upon noticing the sharp glance I send his way. "But it's not as if you did it on purpose. You didn't choose to lose control."
Silence, once more, is my only response. A part of me can see the logic in what he is saying. But another part of my stubborn self refuses to let go of this belief. It would, unfortunately, take a lot more than words of reassurance to get me to change my mind.
James sighs, sensing that he won't be getting anywhere with me on this. He gently pries at the bandage wrapped around his bicep, his metal fingers skimming over the white cloth. "It doesn't hurt as much," he informs me.
Grateful for the change of subject, I clear my throat and reply, "That's good. Looks like you're not going to have to get another metal arm-"
"I mean, he practically followed after you like a lost puppy. It didn't make him any less scary though. I mean, not with that metal arm."
All thoughts revolving around my father disappear in an instant. For the past few days, I have solely thought about the aftermath of the battle, and my father. So much so, that I have forgotten about my encounter with the strangers in the alleyway.
Quicker than lightning, I bolt to my feet. "James!"
A string of curses falls from Jame's lips as he jumps with fright, and hot chocolate spills over the side of the mug in his hands. He swears once more, as the liquid drips down his arms. Impatiently, I reach down and jerk the mug from his hand and immediately grab his attention. "James! I completely forgot to tell you this because of everything else that has been going on-"
"What-?"
"In the middle of the fighting, I followed three people into an alley. They were about the same age as me, and I thought that they were just strangers, but they weren't."
James stands up, holding his wet arms in front of him. He shoots me a pointed look, and I beckon him to follow after me as I quickly move towards the kitchen. "So, I followed after these people because there was a group of aliens sneaking up behind them. But by the time I reached the alley, they had dealt with them themselves. The man- Adam, he electrocuted some and Riley kicked one straight through a wall-"
"Lydia-"
"-the smaller girl, Faith, she didn't do anything. She was mostly hiding, so I'm not sure if she has abilities either-"
"I thought you said they were strangers," James says, effectively cutting me off as we rinse the sink. He nods in thanks as I turn the tap on, and he stinks his hands underneath the running water to wash the sticky substance off. "If they were strangers, then how do you know their names?"
"That's what I'm trying to tell you! I initially thought they were strangers, but they said some things. They said that they knew me from the facility; that they had been in there with me!"
James' hands pauses in their careful ministrations, as he glances at me from the corner of his eye. But he doesn't get the chance to say anything, as I continue, "I didn't believe it at first, because I could have sworn that I have never seen these people in my life. But they had abilities like me. And they knew stuff that only people that had been in the facility could know about. It doesn't explain why I can't seem to remember them, but that's not important right now. What matters, is that they said something to me about you. About us."
James' entire body stiffens, and his head snaps down to look at me. His hands are still frozen underneath the pouring water, so I reach up and switch the tap off. He doesn't take his eyes off me as I do so, but it isn't until my hand is by my side once more that he thickly questions, "What?"
Knowing that he is most likely feeling confused at this piece of news, I take a deep breath to try and calm myself down, Me talking a thousand miles a minute probably isn't helping matters. "One of them said that they didn't think that some soldier and I made it out alive. At first, I assumed that they meant someone else. But then one of them that this soldier had a metal arm. James, you are the only person I know with a metal arm."
He says nothing at this, and only continues to stare down at me, his expression unreadable. Frowning, I can't help but wonder if his feelings on this matter run deeper than just confusion. Otherwise, he might have said something about this by now. Or maybe it's just that he is just trying to process everything. "I- I mean, is it possible? Could- could it be possible that we were in the facility with one another? I mean, it could explain the visions. They could be memories or something-"
James blinks, the mention of the visions snapping him out of whatever trance he is in. Frowning, he reaches up to rub at the back of his neck with his metal arm, his flesh one still sensitive to any movement. His eyes drop down to the floor below, suddenly finding it more interesting to look at rather than me in front of him. "We haven't had the visions for a while though," he says almost silently.
"Yeah, but that doesn't change their meaning. I mean, is it possible? Were you in the same facility as me? In France? Around the 2007, 2008 mark-?"
"No."
"Well, would you know these people? Um, Riley- she was about my height, with blue eyes and long, blonde hair. And she was strong, and fair skin. Does that ring a bell?"
"It doesn't."
"OK, well what about Adam? He could control electricity and he had brown-"
James lets out a sigh of frustration. "None of these names or descriptions mean anything to me. I don't know who these people are, Lydia."
"But it doesn't make sense!" I exclaim. "How could I not remember them? If we weren't in the facility together, then how do they know both of us? Or how can you not know anything about them-?"
"I don't know what to tell you," James says, sounding surprisingly calm. He finally looks up at me again, but his feelings remain hidden behind his mask. "I don't have the answers you want. I don't know these people, and I don't remember ever being in the facility with you. That's not how we met. The night you found me outside... it wasn't the first time we met either."
I recoil back at this, surprise washing over me like a wave. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Another sigh seeps past his lips as he leans against the sink, his hands bracing his weight. "Two years ago, I was completing an assignment in South America. I was making my way through Brazil, and I stopped in Rochina for a night. I was making my way to a secure location when I was knocked off my feet by a blonde girl. You."
My mind jumps to the memories of my time in Rochina, trying to find something that will confirm what he is telling me. But try as I might, my mind remains blank. I don't recall meeting him in Rochina, but I don't think that he is lying. Blaming it on the fact that I had been focusing about nothing but Bruce and the soldiers chasing us at the time, I only give a small shake of my head. "I believe you. But I don't remember this encounter. I was a little preoccupied at the time."
A faint smile graces his lips. "Yeah. I guess so."
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"I recognised you when I first saw you. I just didn't know from where for a while. By the time I realised, I was already gone. I didn't think..."
"You didn't think that we would see one another again."
"No. No, I didn't."
"But- but are you sure that that was the first time you saw me? What if...?"
"I'm not lying to you," he says, with no bite to his tone. "Why would I?"
I remain silent at this. Though he has assured me multiple times now that he has no clue about the strangers in the alley or anything about the facility from which my powers came from, there is a nagging thought in the back of my head that tells me something isn't right here. Something just doesn't fit. It makes no sense Riley and the others know about him. How could they? He claims not to know them. The fact that they had seen us together doesn't help matters either. Because from what they said, the only time that I have been anywhere within proximity of these people besides our encounter in the alley, is in the facility. According to them, that is. A period of time that I seemingly can't remember.
Is James telling me the truth?
"I should probably go," he suddenly says, pushing away from the sink.
A startled noise emits from the back of my throat, and my hand latches onto his arm before I can stop myself. "What? No! You can't just leave! Not now!"
He reaches up and grasps my hand in his before he gently tries to pry it away. "Lydia-"
"We have to find out how these people know about you and me. We need to find them, and we still haven't worked out the meaning of the visions yet-"
"Lydia-"
"-and you only just came back," I finish, watching as his brows jump with surprise. "You haven't been here for that long, and it's been so long since I last saw you. You could at least stay until the morning, that way I can check your arm before you go-"
"Lydia, it is morning.
My mouth remains open, and the argument that it can't be morning already dances on the tip of my tongue. But James nods his head towards something behind me, and I find myself turning around before I say anything to him. My lips seal shut at the sight of a red haze in the sky, the sun beginning to peek over the horizon. With a start, I realise that it is much later than I have perceived it to be. We must have been talking for hours now, yet it still feels as if he has only just arrived.
"I have to go," he quietly adds, grabbing my attention once more. With the fight slowly draining out of me, he removes my hand from his arm, guiding it back to my side. Once it hangs limp, he slowly lets go, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Do you have to?"
"I can't stay."
"Right. Assignment."
"Yeah," he softly confirms, his voice barely above a whisper. Before I can say anything else, he carefully moves past me, and heads towards the table where his bag is. I watch him go, not having it within me to follow after him. I know that there is nothing that I can say that will convince him to stay. His stubbornness rivals my own, and I can't help but feel that after our recent conversation, he doesn't want to remain here. Not if doing so means that he would have to delve into any topics of conversation that he refuses to talk about.
But I can't accept that this is the last time that we will see one another.
"You're gonna come back this time, right?" I ask before I can stop myself.
He has moved towards the window at this stage, but he pauses at my question.For a moment he stands as still as a statue, undoubtedly mulling over my words. But he eventually turns back to face me. His eyes manage to shine even in the dim lighting, and his chest heaves as a sigh of defeat falls from his lips. He has no obligation to promise me such things, and he may not want to make them in the first place. After all, we aren't what some would call close. I brace myself for the rejection that he is bound to serve, telling myself that I can take it.
But three little words throw me completely off guard. And I'm left thinking about them long after he disappears through my window, and vanishes into the night."
"Yeah. I will."
***
3rd Person P.O.V
"Tough questions are being asked about the Avengers themselves, including their sudden appearance, and their equally sudden disappearance. While some have celebrated their extraordinary heroics, others question their involvement in the extraterrestrial attack in Manhatten earlier this week. Public concerns have only increased due to the lack of information released about the team members themselves, including the mystery girl who seemed to aide the Avengers amid the attack. Authorities have yet to confirm if she is a member of this team. If so, she falls in ranks with Tony Stark 'Iron Man', and none other than Lydia Hathaway-"
His blue eyes flicker down to the radio built into his car at this. His fingers switch it off entirely only moments later. Every media platform has focused on nothing but the alien invasion, and the Avengers for the past few days. At first, upon hearing who the team members were, he had attentively listened to every news report. He had read every newspaper, every online article, and had scourged every piece of footage just to see her face. But then it became too painful for him to read. Or watch. He had begun avoiding the media like the plague, not wanting a reminder of what could have been.
He guides the car to a gentle stop in his driveway, quickly turning the ignition off soon after. Grabbing the bag of groceries that he had tossed onto the passenger seat before, he undoes his seatbelt and removes himself from the vehicle. The lights flash as he locks it, illuminating the night air. At this time of night, the neighbourhood is practically silent. The only sounds to be heard are those of a stray car driving by here and there. He had chosen this place for how peaceful it was. It is far better than his previous home.
He takes the porch stairs two at a time and slips through the front door after unlocking it. To the left of him in the living room, he can still hear the buzz of the television that he hadn't turned off before he left. The volume is down, but he knows that it is another news station reporting the events of the past week. Every channel seemed to bloody well be doing it at this point. Suppressing a roll of his eyes, he only kicks his boots off and moves down the hall to the kitchen.
Even though the kitchen and the dining room adjourn one another, light only illuminates the former part of the room when he flicks the switch. Casting the latter in shadows, he only tosses his keys onto the marble kitchen island. The grocery bag swiftly joins them, and he begins to remove each item. He runs the shopping list in his mind to ensure that he has everything to make himself dinner. Satisfied that he has left nothing behind, he moves towards the fridge, deciding that a quick drink before starting won't hurt. Peering inside, he grabs one of the few bottles left.
"You've got lousy taste in drinks, kid."
He doesn't flinch at the sudden sound of the voice, nor does he call out in surprise. His head only snaps towards the dining room, believing the voice came from there. It takes a moment for his blue orbs to adjust to the darkness, but when they do, they spot the outline of a figure sitting at the table. He can't make out the intruders face in the shadows, but he doesn't have to see it to know who it belongs to; he would know that voice from anywhere.
"I'm more of a bourbon person myself," the intruder says, pushing the chair away from the table. It scrapes against the floor in a hair-standing manner, but the intruder doesn't seem fazed. Nor does he bother to push it in. He only steps forward, moving directly into the kitchen, and coming to a stop on the other side of the island. His grey combat gear coats his body, but the hangs limply behind his head, revealing his greying blonde hair, which falls to a stop just behind his ears. Despite his age, there are hardly any wrinkles surrounding his icy blue eyes, and stubble decorates the bottom half of his face.
It's the bloodstains coating his dark suit, however, that causes his heart to jump to his throat; it's fresh, and there is a lot of it.
"But I'll take what I can get," he now continues in his gravelly voice, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a smirk. "You going to offer me a drink, Will?"
Will closes the fridge door with a thud, and a shiver as icy as the drink he holds runs down his back. "What are you doing here?" He demands, his voice surprisingly calm.
"Is that any way to greet your old man? I just wanted to come and say hello."
"Last time I checked, you don't do social calls. So why are you here?"
"How about that drink?"
Will can't refrain from rolling his eyes. His father is easily the most stubborn person that he knows. The two of them would be standing here all night long playing this back and forth game unless Will gives him what he wants. Sighing, he stretches his arm out, offering a momentary truce with the drink in his hand.
His father reaches forward and takes the beer from him. Will studies him as he pops the cap, and takes a long sip. He keeps his eyes on Will as he pulls the drink away, exhaling with satisfaction as he does so. "That did the trick. You would not believe the shitty week that I've had." He pauses as if to offer Will the chance to ask to elaborate on this. But when he fails to do so, his father decides to do so anyway. "I've just finished a job."
"Oh, really? I never would have guessed that, considering the blood-stained outfit you're wearing."
Will's father sends him a sharp look. "Smartass. Watch your tone with me, boy."
"I'm not going to bother to apologise. You're the one that broke into my home; I have a right to be angry."
"I shouldn't have been able to break into this shithole in the first place-"
"Unlike you, I don't feel the need to constantly look over my shoulder. Up until tonight, I've been living in peace for the past five years. No jobs, no worries and no unexpected and unwelcome visits from you," Will snaps, noticing how his father's face darkens with each word. "So, if you've come all this way to drag me into one of your messes, then you're wasting your time; I don't want any part of it."
"Not even if it involves a certain Lydia Hathaway?"
The flinch is subtle, but his father notices it none the less. A wicked smirk spreads across his face as he watches the fight drain from Will's face, knowing that he has caught his son off guard. "Yeah. I thought that might interest you. So, are you going to shut up for five seconds and hear what I have to say? Or should I just show myself out?"
"What," Will says, licking his lips. "What do you want with Lydia?"
"A new job has come up. Not only are the people that hired me paying a shit ton, but there's also a personal stake to it as well," his father explains. "It's gonna take some time. And I want to bring her into the fold."
A bitter laugh slips past Will's lips before he can stop it. "I'm sorry, but do you realise who it is that she works for?" He questions, his head shaking with disbelief. "You're out of your mind if you think that she'll want to work with the likes of you."
"The likes of us," his father corrects, the smirk still spread across his face. "A little birdy told me that she and SHIELD are on the outs. The odds are in our favour. She hates SHIELD just as much as I do, and if she's anything like her old man, then she'll be out for revenge."
"I don't think it's that simple."
"I'll make it that bloody simple then. I have my ways, however bloody and ruthless they may be."
Will has to suppress a shudder at his father's words. He knows full well what he is capable of; he's seen some of his more gruesome works.
"As I said before, this is going to take time. We have to go about this the right way if we want everything to work out," his father now continues. If he notices Will's discomfort, then he says nothing on the matter. "The question is though, are you in?"
Lydia's face flashes behind Will's eyes at this. He has studied enough photos and video footage to commit her features to memory. She has been someone that he has wanted to come face to face for as long as he can remember. And here his father stands, offering him the chance to do so. Will knows that it will be dangerous. He knows that if he agrees, he will be forced to do things that will make him question his morals, and how he identifies himself. He will set down on a dark road that he might not be able to come back from- and that's assuming he makes it out alive.
The right thing to do would be to refuse his father altogether. To tell him to see himself out, and to never darken Will's doorstep again. But the temptation proves to be too strong for Will to decline. After all, how can he pass up the opportunity to meet her?
Lydia Hathaway.
His sister.
"I'm in," he quietly concedes, tearing his gaze from the floor to lock with his father's. They are the same blue as his daughter's, as well as Will's. "I'll come with you."
Anthony Masters' grins at his son's words. "Well, we had better get started then."
I want to thank you all from the bottom of my heart for sticking with me through this journey. Your continuous support, love and enthusiasm for Lydia and her story are the things that have kept me motivated to continue to write these past four years. Words cannot express the depth of my gratitude to you all. xxx
With that being said, Lydia's story is far from over. As the last chapter title states, it's 'the end of the beginning'. There is so much more for me to share with you, and the sequel to this story is already underway. I'm not entirely sure when it will be published, but as soon as it is, I will post an announcement here. The prequel (The Seventh Avenger: Memories Never Die, for those of you who might not know) will also continue to be updated.
You'll be hearing from me soon!
-thedivergent1 xx