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Chapter 23– Stolen Moments
"Who put those bruises on you?"
Now on most occasions, Ophelia would welcome the thought of Natasha fighting on her behalf. But the homicidal scowl, coupled with the deep worry as her eyes scanned the handprints on her neck, disallowed any attempt on her part to joke about what happened.
"Shit happened Nat. What's done is done, can't do anything to change it." Ophelia sighed heavily, roughly clearing her throat as she pondered the thought of facing Thanos again.
If it was up to her, she'd never have to lay eyes on Barney's psychotic twin again. But an uneasy chill travelled to her bones, fearing a future that spelt nothing but misery and doom for her loved ones. Call it intuition, call it paranoia; but Ophelia had never felt as much fear as when Thanos held her neck in his grip.
"I'll tell you soon, I promise." Ophelia continued, absentmindedly nodding her head.
While the rest of the Avengers shared a concerned look, Bruce took one look at her injuries and whisked her away from the rest of the team. He gently ushered her back into the house while carrying a first aid kit, ignoring the harsh whispers coming from the living room, and lead her to sit on the kitchen counter.
He navigated her house with ease, instinctively knowing the twists and turns and what creaky floorboards to avoid. It was telling that Bruce had spent a long period here, long enough to be comfortable here at the very least. Maybe all of them had.
Ophelia knew she was focusing on trivial and meaningless details to avoid the torrent of emotion churning in her mind. But she'd dealt with her trauma by avoiding it for the longest time. It was the only way she could ever cope with the tragedy of her life, to shove all her fears into a tight box in the corner of her mind and hope nothing ever released it.
Bruce categorically checked up her injuries from most to least concerning, focusing the majority of his attention on the dark bruising of her neck.
The silence was stifling.
"So uh, nice haircut." Ophelia awkwardly started; her eyes fixed on a kitchen cabinet to avoid the doctor.
A quick breath of amusement escaped his lips involuntarily at the embarrassed brawler.
"You've been missing for half a year and that's how you greet me?" Bruce said, his hands carefully wrapping a pack of ice around her neck, earning a wince.
"Well, I was gonna start with the grey hair, but I thought that'd be rude." She replied, absentmindedly moving to scratch her neck only to be met with a stern stare from Bruce.
As he moved on to the gashes and bruising on her face, the nervous doctor refused to meet her eyes.
"Every Wednesday you'd call me. Or I'd call you, it just became an unspoken thing. You'd pester me about your math homework, or I'd make you explain Twitter to me again. Nothing about my life has been that constant in years." He explained, his eyebrows furrowed in apparent frustration as he dabbed alcohol wipes on her cuts.
