Distressed // Steve Rogers

8 - Acceptance

In the amber glow of a single bulb Talia stood in solitude. She could feel the acidic burn of bile in her throat as acceptance settled over her with a sardonic grin. It coated her, wrapped her in its twisted vines and smothered her. It crushed her as the last shreds of defiance, of strength, of dignity fled from her. He mind reeled and her heart hammered against her ribs as she let the pain come. She let it beckon her, its palm outstretched as it reached for her, its fingers curling with the power it knew it contained. She let it scratch against her and sand her down until she was nothing once more. She let it erase what she thought she had known as her head fought to catch up with what her heart knew.

Her heart knew Steve.

Admitting she knew him - that her heart ached for him, that even when she did not know who he was she had longed for him - admitting it all was opening the floodgates to the agony of the lost and she was drowning. In the waves of tormenting confusion and loss there was something afloat; something distinct and different; something she could cling to. When the anger passed through her she gripped it with both hands, consuming it as it consumed the space around her. She became it. She encouraged it. She needed it.

Talia was angry at the betrayal. Betrayal had come to her in many shapes, many forms and many faces. None stuck out to her now quite like that of her handler. He, and so many others, had built her to be the machine they had desired. They had stripped her of her thoughts and her feelings. They had torn her from her friends, her family. They had, piece by piece, picked her apart until there was nothing left of the girl these people once knew. She was not the woman she once was. She did not know that woman and standing in the burning glow of a dimming bulb she felt the bitter sting of tears as she realised she did not know herself.

With the pain of acceptance came the fear of the unknown and with fear came the approach of footsteps in the dark.

*

"Munch?" Natasha approached cautiously, her eyes flicking down to Talia's hands as she gripped the counter.

Talia had hunched over as the waves of pain and anger washed into a constant roll of crisis. She shook as her knuckles whitened and her jaw clenched. She wanted to turn to the woman behind her and melt into her. She wanted to let this stranger hold her, tell her everything would be okay, keep her safe. She wanted to understand, and yet she did not move, she simply closed her eyes and let the tears roll from her cheeks.

"I hope it's okay I call you that." Natasha continued, unaware of the torment of her sister's mind. "I heard someone out here and I thought I'd check if... hey." She paused at the sight of tears and rushed to Talia's side, her hands hovering lamely over her back as she recalled the way she had stated she didn't like touch. "I'm here Munch. Just breathe. Are you okay?"

Slowly Talia straightened up, looking up to the ceiling as she brushed the tears from her eyes and tried to find a soft smile.

"Yeah," she stifled a cry, "I'm fine."

When she turned to face the mirror image beside her she saw what she feared in the emerald of her eyes and her world splintered once more. She saw pity. Turning quickly she moved to get some water, flooding the space with the harsh glow of the refrigerator light.

"May I ask," she spoke casually, trying to shift the focus from her weakness, "why Munch?"

There was a soft chuckle from the woman now leaning against the counter behind her and Talia turned slowly, careful to avoid eye contact, holding out a chilled bottle of spring water.

Natasha took the bottle and rolled it in her hands, intrigued by the casual notion of the gesture; a gesture that said Talia had on some subconscious level registered Natasha's needs and acted impulsively to meet them; a gesture that suggested empathy, which in turn suggested she was here for herself and not a mission.