CHAPTER NINE.



—chapter nine.

❛ penelope. ❜


MADELEINE DELACOUR'S MIND WAS A CESSPOOL OF DESTRUCTION.

She'd often likened it to an apocalyptic wasteland, sinking alone in downtown Washington. There was no chance to breathe, not with the arid, toxic air choking out every bit of her subconscious at all times. And every surface was coated in litter. Fragments of lives Mae couldn't remember living. She couldn't bring herself to get rid of any of it; what if one day, it all came back? But that thought wasn't comforting when every day, every night, every minute she was reminded of all the things she had lost.

And all the million, trillion fucking ways she was broken.

"There's...you're not okay."

Mae's thumb rubbed absent-mindedly across the loose page. The pad traced the faded black and white features of the stranger she had fought so vehemently for. A page she couldn't feel the significance of, anymore.

Photos floated past her in her mind, carried by a lifeless breeze. They told her she had a right to her anger. That somewhere someone had caused her pain and it linked back to America's Avenger. But the rest of it was lost to time and the stupidity of an eighteen year old girl in a car. And no one could tell her what she was missing, why she was so frustrated and hurt.

"Everyone else always called me a fool for sticking with ya...but I wanted to help ya."

Steve Rogers had been saving the world since he was sickly and seven. A good person through and through; no serum could change that unarguable truth. She hadn't read hundreds of testimonials for nothing. She knew, even if her addled mind argued otherwise, that Captain America was a hero.

"I guess they were right, in staying away."

Was she just that desperate, to be cynical, that she tried to twist America's Golden Man into a villain? Her life didn't work out, so therefore everyone else must be miserable too. She was broken, so everyone had to crack too. There were no heroes. No 'good guys'. That...hadn't been her goal, but it felt like that was what her conscious wanted. Deep down.

"There's something so completely fucked up about you."

Mae couldn't help it; she laughed. Deep, hoarse chuckles ripped from her dry throat like sobs, thrown at the pages in front of her and the empty room. How many times had she heard that before? Maybe others were politer, more considerate to her shattered, amnesiac brain, but they all meant the same thing. And she could do or say or pretend as much as she wanted. The truth wouldn't change.

Therapy wouldn't fix it. Nor would the copious pills Dr. Crane prescribed, full bottles dwindling by the day. The dreams still stuck. Her head still hurt. Her body still hated her. Her parents still needed to sign off on her sessions and her medicine and supervise her decisions, because she was — as Diana so aptly put it — completed fucked up.

And there she was. Scrutinizing Theona, her only friend. Taking a hidden and brief military career as the answer for hating her. Killing herself over America's Idol, a man she did not know at all. Who cared, about Steve Rogers' past? He'd done more than she ever would.

That doesn't mean he's good.

Or that Theo's not a liar.

Mae chuckled aloud. "Christ, Delacour," she groaned, rubbing at her dry and aching eyes. Frustration pulled, but she ignored it, trying to block out the waste of her paranoid mind. "You never stop."

Diana's tear-filled eyes glared at her as she pressed at her eyelids. "You're not a very nice person," the tiny woman repeated, once so joyful and lovely. "You're not a very nice person. You're not a very nice person. You're not a very—"

"—I get it, I get it," she snapped to the air, dropping her hands. "Stop it."

Diana's voice faded. But that wasn't any better.

The heavy, dark silence of the room pressed into her body. It didn't help the two angry sides of her brain, both vying for her attention. Mae turned up the tiny radio on her desk, letting the white noise sing a little louder. It didn't help much.

What kind of person just never mentions a military career? Especially when you're recognised with such honour. Makes you wonder what else they're hiding.

"Shut up," Mae muttered, tugging at the ends of her hair. "Shut up, Delacour."

Your sister never liked Theo. Maybe there's a reason for that.

She hummed, pulling harder. But the dull pain wasn't silencing her conscious' thoughts. "Abigail just likes being in control. We know that."

Sure. But Theo also took your computer. All your tech. And her answers for why? Kind of suspicious.

"To fix it."

So she says.

"Shut up," Mae repeated. Her fingers started tapping on her desk, faster and faster as her anxiety rose. She glanced around at everything on her desk. Her case file on Captain America, silly and irreverent feeling now. To the papers on 'T. Chavez', esteemed rescuer and military personnel. To her radio and the white noise vibrating out she could barely hear anymore.

Her fingers tapped faster. The faces below her, the notes she'd fought tooth and nail for. William Gardner's unfamiliar face blurred. 

Everything was too quiet. Too dull. It was just her and her mind, the wasteland she kept getting sucked into — god, when was it going to end?! 

Her fingers curled into fists, pounding at the surface of her desk, wishing for something to break up the monotony. But it barely reached her ears. She scraped at the wood with brittle fingernails and cringed at the sharp noise, but it wasn't enough.

Her lips pressed together, voice box humming out a shaky, rhythm less song.

Not enough. 

Everyone's lying to you, Mae.

You're alone.

You need to figure this out.

Open your mind.

Figure this OUT. 

THINK. THINK. THINK. THINK. THINKTHINKTHINKTHINKTHINKTHINK—

And then a sound, sort of like a crash, interrupted.

Mae's hands paused in mid-air.

That...that wasn't her. Was it?

She turned in her desk, shivering like her room wasn't coated in sweltering heat. Her head cocked, ears pointed out to pick out another sound.

A distant thud. The same dull crashing sound as before.

And that definitely wasn't her.

Memories of weeks ago drifted to the top of her shaken mind. The icy panic pressing its cold nose to her spine, the copper smell of a stranger's blood...Theo screaming in her ear, trying to get her to respond...

"I'm-I'm-I'm home, an-and there's, there's s-s-someone at the door, th-they—"

"—Mae. Grab the bat. Now."

"Wet some towels. We need to get rid of this blood if we're going to fix him."

"Keep it together, okay? I can't deal with you both right now." 

"Shut up," she grumbled to her mind, probably the thousandth time that night. She stood up, knees knocking like a newborn foal's, and took a couple steps forward. Her thoughts ignored her warning, just as they always did, throwing fragmented memory after memory at her. But she had bigger fish to fry.

Mae shook her head and moved towards the door. She could still hear it. Like someone crashing against the walls. Trying to break in? 

"Christ, this apartment is a nightmare," she muttered. Her fists folded and unfolded. Crescent moons decorated the insides of her palms, pale whites quickly fading to tomato-reds. "Maybe..." 

Maybe she should take up Abigail's offer. Move back home to her, once the school year was over. At least Abigail was normal. Abigail would help her. She knew what Mae needed, always, even if she didn't want it.

Her fists unfurled once again. Her shoulders heaved and fell.

For now...

Silver gleamed in the soft lighting, juxtaposing the once calm space of the bedroom. Mae lifted the kitchen knife, flipping it over in her palm. She had taken it after the arrival of James, just in case, and while she didn't really think she had the guts to use it, it was at least something.

"Just a precaution," she told herself. Just in case someone's there. Again.

Bile in her throat, Mae opened the door and freed herself from her bedroom prison. The rest of the apartment was covered in darkness. Theo was probably fast asleep; the woman could sleep through a thousand hurricanes. No other voices greeted her.

She flipped the hallway switch on. Still no one to see. All the furniture was bathed in tawny light, and Mae squinted at all the shadows, trying to see if there was any crouched figures or waiting eyes, peering back.

Maybe she was just losing her mind.

But another thump, louder this time, disrupting that belief. Mae's eyes darted over to the closed door of the guest bedroom. There was no light slipping under the doorframe, but as another thud came, she knew it had to be coming from there.

Of course.

She reached for the knob. It was cold. And, also...

"Unlocked," she whispered, easily turning the knob. "Strange."

Mae tentatively pushed open the door. The knife in her hand rose, a just in case, and her heart throbbed in her throat.

The golden light of the hallway bathed the midnight coated room in a dull sheen, enough for her to make out the vague details of the room. Everything was plain. Perfectly put together. Made bed, empty desk, a small backpack in the corner of the room, some sort of red book poking out of the gap...

Her eyes darted over everything until another loud groan came from the corner of the room. She looked down to see...the outline of a man's body, shaking around a thin sheet. Writhing like a snake on the floor. It didn't take a genius to guess who it was.

Muffled whimpers trembled out of the twisting shadows. 

Mae gulped. She didn't move from the doorway of the room. The knife in her hand hovered by her side, frozen like the rest of her body. She just watched. Listened to him cry out against his dreams' hand on his throat. Watched him suffer.

It reminded her of a dying deer at the side of the road. Like standing over it and wondering if putting it out of its misery was the right thing to do. But the cries of pain were stronger. More tormented. He was fighting a battle and she was just watching him lose.

A strange sensation itched the back of her throat.

Her fingers twisted around the kitchen knife. 

What's he dreaming about? 

Does his brain hate him, too? 

Torture him, even in his few hours of sleep?

Theo's words from weeks prior seeped into her thoughts. 

"He had a rough go at life. Weird childhood, bad parenting kind of led him down a bad path with some bad people. I won't get into it, just for his sake, and yours 'cause we'll be here a while. But he was a good guy, or he was trying to be, he just...stuff he was involved in, it's hard to shake."

James gasped out and with a flurry of white sheets, sprang up.

Mae flinched. But she didn't move.

In what felt like slow motion, two eyes lifted and met hers. They were angular, and bright, and cold. She couldn't look away, paralysed in the wolf-like gaze.

James' chest heaved. It looked like there were trails of tears flickering on his cheekbones — though it was hard to see for sure from such a distance. He looked wrecked, like a sole survivor from a torturous war. He was worn and he could barely breathe, judging from the way he gasped into the dull apartment's night.

And still, he didn't look away.

The same tickling sensation from before got stronger in Mae's throat, snaking up to her brain, itching at every crack of skin they could grab. There was something...familiar, about the way his eyes traced her face. Fragments of memories floated around, trying to find a place in the missing puzzle pieces. But nothing fit.

She didn't know this man.

He didn't know her, past whatever Theo had said.

Mae gulped.

He heaved yet another large, shaking breath.

Another second passed and then—

Mae turned on her heel and rushed out, slamming the door behind her. She ran all the way back to her own room, scooping Bowie up as she went, and locked the door as soon as she got in. Her legs finally gave out and she slumped against the door, sliding down. She tossed the knife to the other side of the room; it clattered against the wall and fell too.

Bowie mrrped in annoyance, and tried to get out of her arms. But Mae held tight and buried her face in his soft, grey fur. She breathed in deep and tried to hold that oxygen as long as she could, until her head spun.

She exhaled into the quiet gloom.

It was going to be a long night.

ALMOST TWELVE HOURS and an extremely long, exhausted workday later, Mae was stumbling back into her apartment alone. Theo was working late and she had to take a cab, which was fine with her. At least that meant a moment to breathe.

Mae sighed and locked the door behind herself. She adjusted her grip on her bag and used her free hand to rub her temples. "Coffee," she muttered like some sort of mantra. Coffee would help. God knew Advil did jackshit. And—

Just like it had last night, Mae's entire body froze, that time in the doorway to the tiny kitchen. Her eyes widened, and that same chill shivered down her body, tickling every curve of her aching body.

James was out of his room.

He was more than out. He was at her kitchen counter. Alone. Mug in front of him. Nothing else. Gloved hands tightening on the cup, a small detail few would see but Mae noticed immediately.

He didn't look at her, but she could see from his pursed lips and fists he knew she was there. He was just waiting for her to move, so he could react and probably flee the scene.

She could just flee first.

But — 

Mae stared at the entrance to the kitchen. Silence buzzed in her ears like locusts. 

Run, Mae. Run.

No. Stay. Talk to him. You have a chance. You deserve to know more.

You don't need to get to know the fucking guy—

—but he could know more about Theo. Or just have answers on something. It'd be nice, to not be afraid of literally everyone in your life, wouldn't it?

A couple answers won't fix everything. 

You want to know more though. You're curious about him.

"Christ," Mae mouthed to herself, massaging her temples. "Delacour, c'mon..."

The pounding in her head didn't alleviate with the shock; if anything it worsened. And she knew the only good solution was sitting six feet or so from the stranger at her counter. So, Mae, despite all instincts inside her saying to run or launch your bag at his face or scream bloody murder, she continued into the kitchen.

Mae put her bag down on the counter — where James sat, where he silently watched her, thinking something she couldn't even begin to glean — and turned to start making coffee. She grabbed the tiny container of grounds and scooped it into the machine. Her hands were like willow branches in a hurricane. She tried to steady them, but with the pair of wolf eyes digging into her back, it was hard to even try to keep calm.

Still, she tried. She kept her back to him and focused only on making coffee. She watched the dark liquid pool at the bottom. She watched the numbers deplete.

Nausea bubbled in her stomach.

His eyes dug into her back.

She coughed into her cup, clearing her throat. Slowly, her body turned to face him.

"You've left your room."

James didn't speak. But his head dipped into a barely visible nod.

"Do you only leave when I'm not here?"

He watched her carefully, the same haunted look he wore last night. He shrugged.

Well, that will get us nowhere, Mae's exhausted brain quipped. She sighed and turned back to the coffee machine. "Would you like some?"

That time, there was a noise. His voice sounded rusted. Hoarse, probably from lack of use. She guessed even Theo wasn't doing much for making him a socialite. 

"Sure."

Mae steeled her body, forcing herself to not react at the voice. Though it was hard. She'd only heard him speak once before, the gasp for help outside her door. That stayed with her. But this...he sounded so, so tired. Had he slept at all while he'd been with them? Last night...it hadn't looked like sleep came easy.

It looked like there were trails of tears flickering on his cheekbones — though it was hard to see for sure from such a distance. He looked wrecked, like a sole survivor from a torturous war. He was worn and he could barely breathe, judging from the way he gasped into the dull apartment's night.

Her grip on the coffee decanter tightened, and she looked back at James with pursed lips. Still a dangerous stranger. Don't sympathise with someone who won't even meet your eye. Who almost died on your step. You know better, Abigail reminded her in her head, reproachful glare. 

"Thanks," he muttered, low and soft. His gloved fingers wrapped closer around his mug.

She nodded curtly. "Yep."

Silence hung between them, a handmade fence she could barely see through. Neither of them touched their coffee. It sat steaming by their hands, oblivious of the tension suffocating any sense of joy in the Washington apartment.

Mae drummed her fingertips against the countertop, feeling steam tickle her chin. Think, Delacour. Think.

"You know, I," she stared at the rippling liquid in her mug. "I don't trust you, James. You're allowed here because Theo's vouched for you. But I don't know you, like she apparently does. And I will not be stupid enough to trust a random stranger. Especially not one..."

Like you.

The man across from her nodded slightly. He didn't look up. "That makes sense."

Mae's brows furrowed. "Hm?"

"You don't know me," he said, still with gravel in every syllable, "and I...did not make the strongest impression. Only a fool would blindly trust someone like me."

She watched as his fingers, coated in worn black leather, fidgeted at the handle of his mug. He had had them on last night, too. Which meant he probably wore them all the time. Why? 

Lack of fingerprints?

Tattoos? Some sort of easy identification?

Scarring? 

"Theo likes you," Mae told him. "She's spoken highly of you."

James' lip twisted up like she had said something funny. "That's...generous of her."

"Well, I — um, sure. She really trusts you. Which is the only reason you're still here. Because I don't know you. And your behaviour shows no reason to trust you. And I realise I sound cruel in that, but I also don't want intentions to be crossed or —"

"—I don't trust myself either," James' gruffly cut in. "It's fine."

Mae blinked. "Oh...kay."

"I'm sorry."

"For?"

"Being here. Believe me. If I had another option. I would leave."

She nodded listlessly. "Yes. Theo has that kinda effect on people. If she thinks you need something, she won't leave you be."

Once again, James looked like she had made a joke, and not a bitter statement towards their only mutual point of interest. But whatever it was, he didn't linger on it or share, so Mae didn't ask.

"If you want me gone," he said, staring at his own black coffee, "I will leave. Right now."

Mae hummed. "Theo wouldn't let you."

"She wouldn't be able to stop me."

A mirthless snort escaped before she could stop herself. "Right."

"I — I just mean—"

"—I know what you mean."

"Do you?"

Mae didn't know what the hell that meant. But the conversation was going on too long, and she probably didn't have enough nervous energy left to ask James 'hey, why are you suddenly so talkative and snarky?'. So she let that one be.

"I don't want you gone," Mae said, though her brain was screaming otherwise at the top of its metaphorical lungs. "I'm not that cruel."

James' head lifted slightly.

"I do, however, want to say this." She put her mug down on the counter and in an act of faux confidence, planted her palms on the counter. She tried to draw herself up as intimidating as possible; not because James looked like he was in a place to hurt her, but he was still a tall, very built man. And she was still barely clinging to life most days. 

"I don't like people. I'm not Theo. I won't try to be your friend, or force you to talk, or anything like that. I don't need to know you like that. But I, um," once again her mind screamed at her to shut up and run, but she continued. Prove Diana wrong. "I'm not well. Mentally. I was involved in an accident years ago that's left me a screwed up shithead. I'm full of extreme paranoia and trust issues. I-I constantly function with the idea that I'm going to die. And what that means, what you need to know is that my home is the only place I feel safe anymore. I don't want someone living here who's going to screw me up even more. Selfish as that sounds."

Mae almost said more, fed him a few more crumbs of her crumpling brain. But she swallowed those back down; James was still a stranger. A temporary houseguest.

"So. Please, let me know now if you'd rather be left alone forever. If so, that's fine. But I don't want to be scared in my own home. If you want to be a ghost, tell me. If not, use the communal areas. Leave your room. Drink coffee outside of when I'm at work. Exist. Because otherwise, this arrangement will not work. My mind's too screwed up lately to recognise familiar ghosts from strangers. I can't guarantee I won't do something stupid if we continue going about things this way."

She paused, then nodded once in a sort of half-assed props to herself, for finishing that spiel.

"That's not what I...okay."

She pursed her lips. "What?"

James rubbed a hand down his face. Heavy stubble shadowed his sharpened cheekbones. He looked both a century old and barely a man. And once again, Mae had the intrusive curiosity bite at her mind, wondering just what this man went through to get to this weary-dripped point in his life.

"I'm sorry," he said lowly. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I was trying to do the opposite."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I don't think either of us were planning to be in this position."

"I, no."

"So we're just adapting. It's fine."

He glanced at her through his calloused fingers, "you're very matter-of-fact about all of this."

"I—" what was she supposed to say? This wasn't planned, Mae's brain screamed, searching for something else to respond with then absolutely nothing. "I guess."

James kept his gaze on her. He had surprisingly bright eyes, a gentle blue-grey warmed by the kitchen lights. One could even say they were pretty. Mae only felt nervous, though.

"Can I ask you a question?"

She nodded, because she supposed after all that, he had earned some answers of his own. Just as long as they weren't remotely personal. Or —

"Why were you in my room last night?"

— like that.

There wasn't really a good answer. He didn't know her and she didn't know him and she didn't want to explain anything about her to a stranger. Also, there was the fact that she was just there. In his room, over him with a knife like a goddamn crazed woman with no reason and holy shit, was Mae the problem in every situation she'd ever been in?! 

 "There's something so completely fucked up about you."

"I-I heard you."

His right hand's fingers circled at an old stain on the counter. She figured he was trying to act casual, but the tenseness in his shoulders, in the way his muscles stayed rigid as cut stone, told her he was as uncomfortable as she was about all of it.

"I woke you?"

"No." The word hung heavy. "I heard sounds. I worried it was something else. So I went to check."

His brows curved down. His hand had stopped moving.

There was so much to say about what happened last night and absolutely nothing, too. There wasn't a word to express the panic that forever filled her wasteland mind. There wasn't a way to express to this stranger what was wrong with her and why she had stood there like a ghost over his writhing near-corpse. 

So, Mae abandoned her attempt at an explanation yet again, and took a large gulp of her bitter coffee.

"I have them too."

James' jaw ticked. "What?"

"The nightmares. They keep me up most nights. If I can even sleep."

He didn't speak.

"Most nights I don't sleep. Much. If at all. I'm assuming that's something you struggle with too."

A small sigh escaped James' rough lips. "I...sure. Yeah."

Mae took another mouthful of coffee. It burned as it slipped down her throat, heating her insides with some unfamiliar sensation. She downed another.

"I'm up most hours of the night," she repeated awkwardly. "And...well, I'm not one to be a comfort to anyone. I won't be any help if you want a friend."

"Everyone else always called me a fool for sticking with ya, for trying when they knew you didn't want to be friends, but I tried. I wanted to help you."

"So?"

She swallowed back the image of the shaking, teary-eyed Diana and focused in on the sight ahead of her. Coffee mugs, two of them. One bottle of Advil on the counter. One man in front of her, dark hair and furrow-browed, just as tense looking as she felt. He looked as uncomfortable as she felt. She was making him uncomfortable. Because she made most people uncomfortable.

Abigail said once that she used to be the life of the party. That she used to be good with people. A good friend. Maybe that wasn't true anymore, but it'd been her once.

"If you can't be alone," she said quietly, trying as hard as she could to not flee the scene, "I'll be around. Not as a friend. But just as a body."

James tilted his head, sending dark tendrils down over the eyes she still couldn't really see. "Thought you said you didn't trust me." 

"Yes."

"It doesn't seem like you like me much, either."

Mae gave a little shrug at that, trying to ignore the flurry of angry memories that came to light with that statement. "I don't like most people. But I don't think you're that bad."

"That I doubt."

"You're quieter than most. Everyone is too," her non-mugged hand waved through the air, "loud. Needy. Consumed with their self-importance."

"What makes you think I'm not?"

Again, her shoulder raised and fell, because she didn't really have an answer. Considering this was their first conversation, there was absolutely nothing for her to go off. "Point is. I'll be around. Don't expect anything, but if you don't want to suffer alone...most nights I'm out here. So."

She turned away from James, non-verbally communicating she was done with the conversation. Not like he seemed like he wanted to talk much more either.

"I'm sorry for coming into your room last night. It won't happen again."

With her back turned, there was no guessing how he was reacting. But it wouldn't have mattered; James seemed a mystery regardless of expression.

"It's fine."

Mae bit her lip, still staring down towards her room. "I'll start dinner at five. If you'd like to join Theo and I, there will be some for you."

"Thanks." 

"Yep."

And then she hurried away just like she had last night. Her brain was a hurricane and her hands were shaking like a 8.0 earthquake was cradled between her fingers. She could hear Abigail screaming at her, asking why the hell she'd talk to a man who broke into her apartment with a gunshot wound. Theo's voice echoed too, making Mae feel small about her inability to have conversations with seemingly anyone, anymore.

And Diana cried, reminding Mae that, "there's something completely fucked up about you". A thousand people confirmed that. A thousand lost relationships. People she could barely remember anymore. Faces she couldn't forget if she tried. Some she'd only ever found in her nightmares.

And then there was James. 

Mae slid down her door frame, staring blankly at the white wall across from her. 

"What the hell are you doing now, Delacour?"




PENELOPE: the wife of Odysseus, one of the protagonist and namesake of Homer's The Odyssey. Odysseus was called away to the Trojan War, and left Penelope for twenty years alone. While he was away, over one hundred suitors came to call on Penelope, trying to woo her and convince her Odysseus was already dead or lost forever. Penelope, however, never lost hope and spent those twenty years coming up with ways out of their wooing. One of these ways was deciding to weave a shroud on a great loom, for her father-in-law Laertes eventual death. She told her suitors that when the shroud was done, she would choose a husband. However, every night, she would unravel her progress and start all over, gaining her more time.

Many of her suitors as well as those around her thought she was foolish to wait so long, especially as a woman with little to her name and a son to take care of. But Penelope was steadfast in her waiting, even though she had no way of knowing of Odysseus was alive, and if she was wasting time. She was devoted to her husband regardless, and cunning in her ways of waiting for him, against her suitors and time.

REWRITTEN: o7/21/22.

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