SANCTUM | Avengers

15

- FIFTEEN -

"The name's Nick Fury," the man replies, his voice low and commanding, "and I should be asking you the same damn question."

"I have a feeling you know exactly who I am, Mr. Fury," I reply, bowing my head in mock admiration. My stomach crawls at the tone of my own voice.

"Very true, Agent Blahov. I though just maybe we start this off as an honest relationship," he deadpans, looking me straight in the eyes. His brows furrow, his black eyepatch moving with it. 

"Well, you probably can guess that's not really my style," I smirk, showing my teeth.

"And you can probably guess it's not mine either," he states, his one eye boring in to mine.

"So what do you want here?" I walk to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. Anything to stop him from noticing the new, nervous tick in my trigger finger- what happens a few days of not being used.

"The same as you," he replies, casually sitting back in the arm chair. I perch on the couch across from him.

"And what might that be?" I ask, cocking my head to the side and holding on tight to my cup.

"Freedom," he says simply.

"And what makes you think I don't already have it, Mr. Fury?" I ask, talking another sip and meeting his eyes again.

"You're still here, aren't you?" he retorts, trying to call my bluff.

Despite my decisions, I was born and bred for conversations like this. My mind whirs, my pulse regulating as a sense of normality sets in place.

"I have the world at my fingertips," I spit out at him, letting him see my anger. Why not try to play his game. "I could leave, stay, kill, survive, destruct, conquer. I could do anything now, Mr. Fury."

I don't let him notice the nausea that runs through me as a snap at him. I have done this time and time before, but this time it's different.

He lets out a low chuckle. If I cared, I would've been infuriated and he knows it. I shrug it off. He can laugh at me all I want; one day we will be able to see eye to eye.

"Listen, Ms. Blahov. I am not here to ascertain you abilities," he states, enunciating every syllable. "I am here to ask you something."

I scoff, placing my cup down on the coffee table, but folding my hands on my lap. 

"You're not my director," I sneer. "Last I checked, actually, you weren't the director of anything."

I dig at him, all to try to break his wall as he tries to break mine.

"You're right, I'm no director. Just a man who cares very much about you," he states, his southern American accent coming through stronger than ever.

Maybe if I had not been trained, my mouth would have dropped open in shock. In all of my years, I can't recall a time somebody had said they cared about me, let alone a stranger. His bold statement catches me by surprise and I hesitate for a split second. Only a second.

"Caring about people doesn't get you soldiers, Mr. Fury. You and I both know that well enough," I gesture lightly to my eye and nod in his direction.