'She wears strength and darkness
equally well,
the girl has always been half goddess,
half hell'
Nikita Gill

~

"Lewis?"

"Yes?"

"Cue the music."

'Bad Reputation' by Joan Jett is blasted out of every speaker in the building, thanks to my little British scientist. He may not be a whiz at computers, but the tablet held in his hand belongs to none other than Nicholas J. Fury himself, bestowing Dr Thompson the ability to lock and open almost any door, override the PA system, give clearance to nearly any computer, and so on and so forth. Every bit (ha, computer puns) of data and information we're supposed to obtain from the labs will be downloaded onto that tablet, likely making it the most knowledgeable tablet of all tablets.

Me, personally? I'm just glad Fury kept my Spotify playlist on it.

HYDRA agents left, right and centre. Lewis is constantly locking and opening doors to trap them in rooms, or dropping elevators forty stories high full of the bastards. We've started heading further and further up the building, hot on Brock's tail. Even if he doesn't have the sceptre now, I will get its whereabouts out of him. HYDRA cannot get their hands on an infinity stone.

"Alpha lock."

Steve announces his success over the first helicarrier, prompting a sigh of relief from me. So far, so good. No screw ups yet, but now that everyone knows how this plays out – Pierce and Rumlow included – there may be a few mishaps along the way.

"Falcon, Swallow, Hemmings, where are you now?" Hill inquires their position, just as I freeze over another agent and watch their body fall and shatter on the floor like a fine porcelain plate.

"I had to take a detour – man, this déjà vu crap is messing with my head." Audible gunshots boom in the background as Wilson responds, and not just normal guns either. Those had to belong to a fighter jet.

"Trying to get these guys off Falcon's back." My baby sister scowls, hissing as more gunshots are also detectable from her end.

"Still on the ground, lot of HYDRA guys down here." Sam Hemmings informs us, the deafening cracks and sizzles of electricity sending static through the earpiece for a few moments, drawing a cringe out of me.

"Do we have eyes on Rumlow?" I ask Lewis, blood bending the gun in another man's hand and watching as he fires it at his tyrannical comrades.

The Brit only smiles apologetically, shoulders rising as he shrinks into himself. "Unfortunately no, I-I seem to have lost sight of him."

"Dammit!"

Growling in outrage, I ignore the piercing pain of my stab wound as well as the bruises all over demanding my attention, viciously stomping my right foot to the ground and raising my corresponding hand up, stalagmites spurting from the floor and impaling the remaining agents once again.

Two more HYDRA are there when we finally arrive at the hall that leads to the labs, and yet, when they turn to face us, guns at the ready, two bullets find their homes expertly in their skulls. Pausing, with my hand out protectively in front of Lewis, my narrowed eyes and tense frame dissipate into alleviation when my new blonde bestie casually waltzes over their corpses, lowering her gun when she recognises us in return.

"Lillian?"

"Sup Sharon, nice shot – you've met Lewis right?" My words are in rapid quick fire mode, or as I like to call it, Tony Stark's word vomit pace. "Sharon, this is Dr Lewis Thompson – Lewis, this is Sharon Carter, Agent 13," I politely introduce, mildly panting from my exertion through the pain. That still doesn't stop me from snapping my fingers and watching the neck of an incoming agent crack at an unnatural angle, however.

Mouth ajar; staring between the now deceased HYDRA goon and yours truly, Carter tries to gather the remnants of her composure, a billion and one emotions and thoughts flashing behind her blue gaze. "Okay... what is going on? Out of nowhere I suddenly remember that you're an assassin, and all this," she gestures wildly about, referring to everything unfolding round us. "Has happened before. We're reliving the same thing again, and you – snapping fingers, snapping necks... that's a thing you can do now too?"

Grinning crookedly – not that she can see it behind the mask covering the lower half of my face – I casually lean some of my weight on her for the time being, trying to catch a moment's break. "Long story short, I was kidnapped by an intergalactic alien space grape Titan, accidentally messed with some omnipotent, all-powerful space rocks that made everyone forget me and turn back time a few years, so I've been trying to make sure the timeline plays out right, and then I finally got my fingers on Loki's sceptre, hence everyone remembering, but then Rumlow was all like 'Blergh! It's me' and he stabbed me, so now he has the sceptre, which we're presently trying to get back. Oh, and the snapping necks thing is a new trick, neat huh? Makes un-aliving them that much easier."

One perfectly plucked eyebrow arches on the SHIELD agent's face. ".... I'll pretend to understand everything that just came out of your mouth – wait, did you just say un-aliving?"

"Euphemism for murder. Gotta be considerate of the younger ages – child friendly book and all – don't we?"

"The answer, to the question you are presently pondering, is no," Lewis attempts to console the fairly befuddled blonde agent, ungracefully smiling in her direction, but reverting back into the normally socially awkward scientist who struggles to make eye contact that he is. "No one knows what she's talking about. Only C-Captain Rogers speaks fluent Lillian."

"Anyway, point is, we're hunting Rumlow," I dutifully notify the SHIELD agent, attempting to curb my carefree, sarcastic disposition for now. "Wouldn't happen to have seen him recently, have you? Huh, I wonder if he has his Snapchat location on, that would be a convenient plot device."

"W-We still need to recover several bio-chemical weapons and my research from the labs," Dr Thompson regretfully informs me, wincing apologetically. "HYDRA already has the sceptre; we simply cannot allow them the opportunity to acquire any of my notes or more SHIELD weaponry."

Tilting her head pensively, Sharon regards Lewis thoughtfully, before nodding once in his direction, an air of finality about the act. "I'll cover you Dr Thompson, wouldn't want to prevent Lillian Nightshade from her warpath."

Patting Sharon Carter appreciatively on the back, I grin weakly at the blonde, knowing she would be able to see the smile in my eyes. "Such a considerate friend Carter. Remember – everything needs to play out just like it did the first time, kay?"

"On it," the determined SHIELD agent assures, starting back in the direction of the labs, Lewis fumbling to trail after her. "Give Rumlow hell for me, Nightshade."

A slow, bordering sadistic grin curls at the corners of my lips as I saunter in separate direction from the two, weary from today already. The voice synthesizer in my balaclava mask only aids in making my words sound more menacing than usual. "Hell would be too kind for the bastard, Carter."

"Bravo down." Wilson proclaims not long after my deviation from Lewis and Sharon, just as I vault over a guy, thighs wrapping around the neck of the HYDRA agent behind him twisting my body until we're both on the floor, the Nazi bastard's attempts at escaping progressively becoming weaker and weaker.

"Two down, one to go." Hill announces at the same time I impatiently give up and just snap his neck between my thighs.

Everything, so far, excluding losing the sceptre, seems to playing out splendidly. Adelaide, Sharon, Sam and Lewis are all taking precautions to make sure things run the same way as last time; Steve, Nat, Wilson, Hill and Nicky are doing exactly what they all did the first time – I hope, anyway – and I'm about to finally punch Rumlow in his self-satisfied, pompous face. I only have once concern as of now, and nothing can prevent or hinder me from my task—

"Incoming call from Tony Stark."

"Motherfuc—"

"Shady, hey, my favourite little assassin. So, weirdest thing just happened. There I am, whiskey in one hand, gorgeous CEO in the other, when Miss Potts here suddenly gasps like Nikki didn't just win the Bachelor, which, let's face it, Clare clearly should've won, but either way Juan Pablo Gala-whatever has a very punchable face—"

"Is there a point here, Shellhead? Because I feel like I'm about to throw up, I've been lightly stabbed, thrown out of a car going 65 miles per hour on the highway, have bruises in places I didn't know existed, am currently trying to find a Nazi bastard who stole an Infinity Stone, and every time I breathe, it hurts."

Pause.

".... I swear I've watched a telenovela with that exact same plot before. Minus this Infinity Stone. Is this a joke? Tell me this is a joke. If it is, you could have at least told it in Spanish; stick true to the telenovela Elsa."

Sighing, beyond exhausted, and wanting to do nothing more than rip the mask from my face so I don't need to endure this call, I groan out "I wish this was a telenovela. At least that way, I'd get paid for this shit. But alas, no, the fall of SHIELD is quite real, and if you're calling to let me know that people remember me, I'm aware. Appreciate the thought, though."

"Ah, right, that. Well, now that I am caught up on the situation, I'll be there in twenty."

Gritting my teeth in frustration, I backhand another opponent, taking my frustration out on the idiots around me as I make my way towards the stairwell ahead. "No, Tony, you can't—"

"You've been stabbed."

"Lightly," I rebuke, stumbling into the stairwell haphazardly, grimacing every time I inhale. It really does hurt to breathe.

"Don't let them stab you again, or kill you. I'll be there soon."

"It's not like I just stand there and take it T—"

"Tony Stark has ended the call."

"Asswipe."

Scowling, I give up on the mask, pressing a button by the ear and causing it to recede and contract into two separate ear pieces, allowing the lower half of my face to be free again. Glaring at the stairs before me, I huff, letting myself have a tick to recover before tackling the task ahead of me.

By this point, the song overhead has drawn to an end. And whilst I appreciate the fact that Lewis is still letting my playlist continue to play, I'm equally as appreciative of the fact that no one else seems to mind the fact that I'm playing my playlist in the middle of code red espionage-Nazi crisis. Friendship goals, my dear readers.

"Winter Soldier has been sighted, taking down SHIELD pilots. I think he's going after Captain Rogers and Falcon." My boy Sam, who is still on the ground by the sounds of it, warns the rest of us, prompting yet another wince from me when the unmistakeable crack of electricity interferes with the coms again.

"Charlie carrier is 45 degrees off the port bow." Maria Hill continues to keep us updated, the briefly worrisome sound of gunshots detectable over the line before she continues on as unmoved as she previously was. "Six minutes."

'When I was a child, I heard voices
Some would sing and some would scream,'

Ah, 'Arsonist's Lullaby' by Hozier. Fitting, if I could currently control fire.

It isn't long until I hear word from my baby sister again, Addie informing us "Wilson and Rogers are engaging the Winter Soldier; I'm going in to aid them."

"No, there are HYDRA agents currently loading weaponry into vehicles and about to get away, I need you on them." Maria doesn't miss a beat, issuing orders as resolutely as Nicky.

Addie audibly sighs, and yet nonetheless concedes. "On it."

'You soon find you have few choices
I learned the voices died with me,'

"Emergency evacuation. All personnel proceed to designated safety zones." Fleetingly, the alarm overpowers my music, the announcement resulting in agents pooling into the stairwell I'm making my way up. Every single one of them makes way for me as they filter down the stairs, parting as diligently as the Red Sea did for Moses.

'When I was a child, I'd sit for hours
Staring into open flame,'

"Nightingale?" Hill calls, just as I reach the thirty fifth floor.

"What's up?"

"Rumlow's heading for the Council – Wilson dealt with him last time, but I thought you'd like the honour this time, timeline anomalies aside."

"You are a God given saint Maria Hill," I cry, briefly stumbling on a step, only to be caught and righted by a SHIELD agent on her way down. Weakly smiling at the woman, I nod my thanks before progressing forth with a newfound vigour. "Does he have the sceptre?"

"Negative."

"Shit. On my way."

'Something in it had a power
Could barely tear my eyes away,'

Something about being given a strong incentive and reason to press forward has awoken an undiscovered strength in me, a similar sensation to what I experienced barely four minutes ago, when I manipulated the water within the bodies of those HYDRA agents. The problem is, if I allow myself a proper moment to really think about what has transpired the past five minutes – everyone remembering, being stabbed, SHIELD crumbling around me, Steve remembering, bending blood, these unfamiliar yet euphoric sensations of power, Rumlow snatching the sceptre right from my grasp and just about everything else that has happened – it'll all compromise my common sense and ability to think clearly. I suppose that's one of the few things that Steve and I share in that regard, keeping things bottled up during a crisis or fight, and allowing ourselves to truly think and feel such blinding thoughts and emotions in a safer environment and time.

I didn't always have this ability, mind you. Certainly didn't when Ally was killed in front of me. I think it's one of the few things that Steve has rubbed off on me – and I can't say that I'm mad.

The fleeting internal monologue only lasts until the thirty ninth floor, upon which another update filters in from Maria. "Falcon?"

"Yeah?"

"Hemmings is currently overrun and trying to hold his position in the helicarrier bay. He needs backup."

"I'm on it." Wilson instantly responds, alleviating my concerns a little. Sam really did sound like he was struggling down there.

'All you have is your fire
And the place you need to reach,'

Arriving on the forty first floor, I stagger out of the southwest stairwell and into the office overlooking the Potomac river, spying the doors on the other side of the room which, if Hill's Intel is accurate – it always is, what am I saying – should be the very doors Brock Rumlow will stumble out of anytime now.

Careening over to lean heavily against the wall on the right side of the double doors, I feebly tilt my head back against the wall, trying not to think about the aches that feel like they're tearing my cells apart with a vengeance right now.

There's something peaceful about the room. Perhaps it's the view, perhaps it's the silence. The chaos outside is numbed to my ears through the thick glass and walls. Standing here, observing the carriers outside looming over the water like wrathful storm clouds, not unlike those that supposedly cloaked the skies before the planet wide floods in the Bible; there is something unsettlingly peaceful about it all. Not the serene, gentle-hearted peace, but rather the kind of peace brought by acceptance. Some, not all, feel it before death. Others, at many points throughout their existence. Some never feel it, constantly preferring to live in denial.

Says a lot about me as a character, doesn't it? I've accepted my past transgressions; the fact that I'm Loki's daughter; that I no longer can manipulate and create earth or air; that my cells were torn apart, regrown and moulded for a new infinity stone; that Ally died; that I have a sister; that I'm in love with Steve Rogers; that I am no longer controlled or ordered by any person or organisation. All I've tried to do my whole life was tame my own internal suffering and demons, domesticate them and point them at my enemies under the request or order of someone else, because that's what has been expected of me. It feels nice to not domesticate my wild spirit, but rather accept it and have my own control over it.

'Don't you ever tame your demons
But always keep 'em on a leash,'

"I'm on 41, headed toward the southwest stairwell."

"Peek-a-boo bitch."

A harsh, mean right hook makes a beeline straight for Rumlow's face the moment he kicks open the door, the HYDRA scum barely a foot into the room before being bamboozled by my abrupt appearance. His own damn fault for not following the simple first step of entering a room that hasn't been cleared; check your corners.

Crack.

God that felt good.

Swerving out of the way of my other attacks which, in all fairness, are a tad bit sloppy because oh, I don't know, I've been stabbed, a couple expletives hiss through Brock's gritted teeth as he distances himself from me, glaring at me and nursing his broken nose. "Really Nightshade?"

I shrug wearily, slouched in pain and fatigue. "Check your corners, dick."

Pulling back his hand to analyse the crimson blood staining it from his nose, the stare he throws me could nearly be described as exasperated, though, if I didn't know any better, I would say a pinch of admiration was there. So clearly, I don't know any better, because that would be insane.

'When I was 16, my senses fooled me
Thought gasoline was on my clothes,'

"Don't want to fight you Lilly, this is only gonna hurt –"

"You literally stabbed me six minutes ago."

"—we've worked together, side by side. I've seen how your determination and raw will power alone gets you through anything, powers or not. Hell, you said it yourself, I stabbed you six minutes ago, and here you are, challenging me when you're in no state to fight—"

"I just broke your nose."

"– though, even in your current state, you're still a more worthy opponent than the ex-USA airman following Cap around in those pigeon wings. He came at me from where you were hidden a second ago last time as well—"

"And I still broke your nose."

Growing more irritable than anything else now, Brock outwardly displays his displeasure at my incessant commentary. "My point, Lilly, is that HYDRA could use someone like you, they have in the past. Last chance."

Snorting my amusement, I quirk a brow, as if to say 'you're kidding right?' "Yeah, well, as you so eloquently pointed out, I tried the whole working for HYDRA thing. Didn't really tickle my fancy."

Scowling, the HYDRA dickbag begins to shed himself of his bulletproof vest, his cocky, arrogant disposition not making him look as nearly powerful as he thinks he is. "Don't be stupid Nightshade," he warns, rolling his shoulders back to loosen his muscles up. "You know there are no prisoners in HYDRA, only order. And order, comes through pain."

I tiredly tilt my head to the side, regarding Rumlow sardonically. "I'll take my chances buttercup."

'I knew that something would always rule me
I knew the sin was mine alone,'

Brock Rumlow doesn't fight smoothly, or swiftly. He doesn't allow the current of the fight to direct him, doesn't pour into each move fluidly. Instead, he's rather like a landslide; jagged but incredibly forceful, an unstoppable, strong force meeting attacks head on with durable, solid blocks instead of dancing and dodging around them like air. This would be fine in any instance where I'm not severely exhausted, drained and in immense pain, for I could react swifter, dodge more nimbly. But, as I so eloquently put it at the end of chapter twenty seven; I'm currently running on spite, fury and Redbull, and that is more than enough to get me through this.

"Where's the sceptre?" I demand, kicking away the fist going straight for my face.

He hisses at the contact, after all, my combat boots aren't exactly gentle. "Long gone now. Never gonna see that again."

God fucking dammit.

A hard, harsh elbow finds its mark across my mouth, resulting in splatters of scarlet to decorate the cold floor. Weaving under his next strike, I curse, and slip my leg around his ankle and behind him, sharply shoving him backwards for Brock to lose his foot. Unfortunately, he twists around before falling straight onto his back, catching himself promptly and swerving onto his feet.

Kicking an office chair in his direction, I vault over the working desk, snatching up a tin of sharpened pencils and pens. One by one I expertly throw them as if they're shurikens, irritating Brock who continuously has to bat them away. Upon reaching the scissors, I flick my wrist until they're open, launching them at him and nicking the side of his head as he swerves out of the way.

"Scissors? Seriously?"

"You're just lucky I don't have an eraser."

'All you have is your fire
And the place you need to reach,'

"One minute." Hill announces the moment I notice a Gerber Mark II blade in dick prick's hand, winking deviously at me in the sunlight pouring through the windows. Sometimes I merely block his sharp swipes, forearm to forearm, other times I somehow manage to muster the strength to call forth my blood bending and stop him from slashing me just in the nick of time, even with the insane, life leeching exhaustion weighing down on my body like a heavy suit of armour.

I've used my powers too much in the past ten minutes, and I can feel it in my bones. I'm paying the toll.

'Don't you ever tame your demons
But always keep 'em on a leash,'

"Where is the Lillian Nightshade I fought with? Never thought she'd stop fighting back," Brock spits, delivering another power punch straight to my gut, right where he stabbed me. Really felt that.

One of my legs wobbles enough from the overexertion that I collapse onto one knee. Glaring daggers up at Rumlow, I still manage to block half of the next onslaught of spirited, relentlessly fierce strikes, painfully gritting my teeth at the cruel words thrown my way by the asshole. The other half that I didn't block? Those hurt.

"Tougher than nails."

THWACK.

Jaw.

"Stronger than vibranium."

CRACK.

Ribs.

"Didn't give a damn about orders, not really."

SMACK.

Cheek.

Laughing bitingly, the sadist grins wickedly through his blood stained teeth, momentarily pausing to stare down at me, bordering on disgust. At least, that's what I think I see through my tumultuous vision right now, like vertigo on steroids. "Though, you did always follow Cap around like a whipped puppy. Pathetic, really. Righteous boy-scout he is. Almost blind to your admiration. He'll be the first to go, of course. Son of a bitch is too big of a threat. Wouldn't mind pulling the trigger myself—"

Hot, piping, red fury. Ire. Wrath.

Fire.

'When I was a man I thought it ended
When I knew love's perfect ache,'

Fast as a viper, my fingers snap out and curl around the harness straps that cross over his torso, yanking the HYDRA agent down to my level. My other hand finds its home around his throat, the choking hold as immovable as a crocodile's jaw lock. Slowly, inch by inch, oblivious to Rumlow's struggles, I rise to both feet, staring up at the bastard with all the fire of a thousand suns, and all the rage of a million hurricanes. And I see it. More than just a detectable, flickering glimmer behind his dark gaze. Fear.

I don't waver at it. Pity has no home within me for Brock Rumlow.

'But my peace has always depended
On all the ashes in my wake,'

"30 seconds, Cap." Maria's words are drowned out by the raging crackling and roaring of acrimony in my ears and thrumming in my veins, as is Steve's voice, pained and groaning as it is.

"Stand by."

"Hit me, stab me, cuss me out to your heart's content," I vehemently hiss, gloved fingers closing in on Brock's airways so fiercely he starts violently choking. Bringing him closer, forehead to forehead, nose to nose, he can feel my hot fury fanning across his face, the matador quaking in the presence of the bull. "But if you think for one second that I will sit down and take it, that it will hurt me or break me in anyway, that I'll never stop fighting back, then you have never really fought with me. And now? Now you'll know what it feels like to fight against me."

Even through the gloves, a warm, orangey glow begins to emanate from my hands, the hiss and smell of flesh being burned cracking in the air, in symphony with Brock's angered, pained cries. So enraptured within my own firestorm of fury, I never noticed the HYDRA scum scrambling for one of the knives he keeps hidden in his boot, until it grazes across my cheek.

Though I release him, he doesn't get far. Walls and pillars of fire that reach for the heavens loom all around us, like reapers assembling before a mass genocide. Twisting to face me in an amalgamation of horror, anger and disbelief, his glare is much weaker than it was before. An ember to my wildfire. "You will never be one of them," he croakily seethes, headstrong and vindictive to the end. "No matter how many heroes you surround yourself with. This is all you're good for Nightshade. Don't kid yourself into believing you'll be anymore than a villain."

"There are times when you need someone to get down and dirty in the mud so the people that are clean don't. I can be that for the heroes," I retaliate, flames curling like serpents up my arms. "My hands are stained with dirt, and they always will be asshole. I know that. That only makes me even more dangerous, because all those things that heroes aren't prepared to do to people like you? I will."

'All you have is your fire
And the place you need to reach,'

A firestorm of unprecedented, pure, burning flame swarms until all that the room is, is red, orange, yellow and torridity. Similar to how a piece of art elicits and inspires raw emotion through image and colouring alone, reflecting the artist's beliefs, emotions, memories and morals, this is my art work. The very artwork inspired by Brock Rumlow.

I lose sight of him amongst the flames, but I can hear his cries, even with the deafening cracks of the fire impairing my hearing. Black smoke convulses above, darker than the night, an eerie reminiscent of a death eater. The building groans, the infrastructure weakened by the spreading flame. It becomes more difficult to inhale, the air growing thin, smoke scratching down my throat like sandpaper, the breath in my lungs feeling thick and heavy enough to be solid. So consumed by anger and the fire, I almost didn't hear it. Almost didn't hear him.

"Charl—"

BANG.

Like that first breath of the snowy winter morning's air, the kind of air that burns cold like mint in your lungs, I snap out of my all-consuming rage. My fire still burns – and in all honesty, it never truly diminishes – but the sound of Steve being cut off by a gunshot is bone-chillingly harrowing to say the very least.

"Steve?" I croak, metallic, scarlet blood trickling down my nose, the gash in my left cheek, and the two separate splits in my lips.

Several long, deadly silent moments string out into small eternities, and I feel my heart leap up and clog my throat for each and every one of them. I swear, if that virtuous Boy Scout has gone and got himself killed—

"Charlie lock."

My sigh of relief is as erratic as my heartbeat, the flames around me rising and falling in time with my inhales and exhales. Maria manages to get her shit together and respond before me, immediately ordering "Okay Cap, get out of there."

I press my palm a little too firmly against my chest, just over where my heart is currently running a marathon. That was too real. Too close. Just as he gets back his memories of me, for him to just be taken away senselessly like that... it would wreck me.

"Fire now."

...

.....

....

....

.... I'm sorry –

"What?" I hiss, already getting angry at the nitwit.

At the same time, Maria pleadingly tries to reason "But Steve—"

"Do it! Do it now!"

"No, don't do it now. What the fuck are you thinking Rogers?" I continue to growl, anger properly surfacing again and momentarily numbing my pain.

"Lilly, I understand you're concerned—"

"Concerned? Concerned? No, no I'm concerned about the lack of police and political accountability within our nation. I'm concerned about global warming and the growing effects of it on our polar ice caps and the hole in the ozone layer. I'm concerned that one day Toys "R" Us won't be around to give joy to the kids of the world. But I am hysterically distressed over you stupidly sacrificing yourself—"

"You said to not mess up the timeline. You said that," he reminds me, panting and by the sounds of it, in as much pain as I. "It'll be alright, Lilly."

Unable to piece together a valid argument, I instead stumblingly stagger through the angry flames to the cracked wall of glass overlooking the Potomac, staring wide eyed at the stark blue sky. The three carriers open fire upon one another, nothing held back. So many scattered bursts of charcoal smoke, orange explosions and shards of metal tarnish the purity of the light sky, and knowing that Steve is in one of those carriers is horrifying.

"Fucking hell, you self righteous bastard," I curse, feeling like I'm growing more grey hairs by the minute. "I'm coming."

'Don't you ever tame your demons
But always keep 'em on a leash.'

Trying not to pay attention to the agony all over my body, I back myself up enough to get a running start, the fire parting like the Red Sea to allow me a clear path to the window wall and world outside. "Right, no problem, easy peasy," I unconvincingly tell myself, wondering where all my convicting, persuasive speech skills went. Using every lingering ounce of strength left within me, I plough determinedly forward, my sprint far weaker than usual but still strong enough to gain momentum. The glass becomes closer and closer, until at the very last second, I throw my arms up in front of my face crossed over one another, barraging through the window and out into the reprieving fresh air, forty one stories high.

For a short while, I'm airborne. Jet-black smoke cloaks me and furls around me like dragon wings for a couple stories before it disperses. Aiming my arms forward with a newfound vigour – the I-don't-want-to-die-as-a-human-splatter kind of vigour – I watch as ice flashes out enveloped by frost and condensation, an ice slide beginning to take form. Before landing on the slide, I click the heels of my boots together, Stella and Lucas' new upgrades to the suit including retractable ice skates.

Like a newborn fawn on ice, I wobble around on the skates upon the first rough landing, the slide angling down before starting to curve up again. The ice itself is unstable and frail, for I really have exerted my powers far too much in the past ten minutes, the fire not having helped whatsoever. Once I start to find my footing and am confident enough to glance back up at the carriers, I'm immensely glad that I do.

One, in its awing yet alarming descent, is heading straight towards me.

"Ah piss," I swear, directing the ice slide away in order to dodge the incoming carrier. Then it hits me; what if Steve's on that one?

With my earpiece flicked on to only contact him, I question "Steve, which one are you on?" hoping that it isn't that one.

Upon spying the other two, I notice that another one has already plunged from the sky, half in the water, half in the SHIELD bay beneath the river. The other, heading towards the SHIELD HQ building, the very one I was just in.

None of the three options are ideal.

"The one about to crash into the building." Is his response, resulting in a rather heavy sigh of contempt on my part.

"I swear to God Rogers – that's some main movie character luck you have there," I note, zipping all the more quicker along my slide of ice towards the last remaining carrier in the sky heading straight for where I just was. "If you die on me, I'm kicking your ashes."

"I've got to save him, Lilly. I failed him last time, I can't this time."

"And by the sounds of it, I gotta save your self-sacrificing ass too."

From the building, the airships didn't seem so far away. But now that I'm heading towards them, even with the one I'm aiming for being the second closest, the distance between is noticeably lengthy. Each time I get closer, it feels as if the space between is stretched further and further, like one of those hallways on a cartoon that's comically extended. I try not to think too much about the state I'm going to find him in; try to tell myself that he has survived this before. But me being me, ever the pessimist, can't seem to get that through my thick skull.

The carrier hesitates, hung in the sky, before eating right into the HQ building, devoured by fire and smoke. "Hill! Nightshade! Where's Steve? Have either of you got a location on Rogers?" Are the first words I've heard from Natasha over the comms the entire mission so far, the stoic Russian's apprehensive tone betraying her.

"Negative!"

"Nightshade?"

"I've almost got him!" I switch my comms back on for but a moment, my intense distress beginning to affect my performance. The ice beneath me begins to falter, the slide behind me cracking and crumbling bit by bit, until I'm not only racing to reach Steve, but to not plummet to my potential death in the process.

Then, I see it. A wink in the sun. A blue, red and white wink. His shield.

It spins, tumbles. Light in the air. He doesn't follow it, thank God, but of course immediately, I begin to assume the worst.

"Steve? Steve!" I yell, throat dry and voice cracking. No don't, don't don't don't don't.

No response.

"Goddammit, answer me Rogers!" I feverishly scream, my own body not knowing whether to be terrified or furious.

Nothing.

Find him. Find him. Find him. Not dead. Can't be. It doesn't end like this. Not like this. My own thoughts begin to burst in laconic, short, nearly unintelligible sentences, my brain in overdrive. I'm so close. There's so much, so much, of.... well, everything.

Rumlow. Sceptre. Stabbed. HYDRA. Bleeding. Rage. Fire. Ice. Agony. Hellicarrier. Shield. Shield. Steve? Steve.

My heart skyrockets up my throat, lungs plummeting like two anvils to the earth. Steve.

Glass rains all around him, the lone body tumbling as helplessly through the sky as his shield did. He's not flailing, just motionless, dead weight, like a corpse.

Not on my fucking watch.

Fervently swooping my arms up, I beckon a vast mass of the water beneath him, a mass larger than several pools, to rise, rise up and meet him half way. The roar of the river convulsing and surging echoes my turmoil of despair, the water desperately reaching for and cradling the helpless falling body. When I spy Barnes falling after him, determined, directly heading for Steve and Steve alone, the water swells and curls around him as well, bringing both World War II veterans back down to the body of the river, cradling them as gently as newborn babies. Debris follows after them like a swarm of locusts, at least, I think it's debris. But there are so many dark specks, jumping in and out and all around where the water enveloped them.

That's when I feel it, feel me. Pain, blood, bruises, breaks, bones. The ice beneath me deteriorates, not 25ft (7.6m) from where the super soldiers were consumed. Colours all around me dance as I fall, the blues clashing with the oranges, cursing me with a disorientating headache. The sensation of water slapping my back before being devoured is like lightning striking every wound I know and didn't know I have.

And then, nothing.

***

Dissociation with your own body is a weird experience. My buzzing mind is on, awake, active, yet I don't know what state my body is in. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know where I am. My eyes aren't open, I know that much, but besides that I don't know.

The willpower required to push through and bring myself back down to earth, to become aware of reality and that around me, does not currently exist within me. It's used up, depleted, empty. I pushed past the line that delineates where the extent of my strength can reach, and then pushed even further. Maybe nothingness isn't so bad. Nothing to worry about, no pain to feel, no obligations to anyone or anything. Detachment is just easier.

Easier.

      Easier.

           Easier.

Wait.

What?

Since when did I ever pick the easy route?

Since when did I think that nothing is worth it?

That no one is worth it?

My stubbornness has often gotten me in trouble more times than I can count, conspiring against my better judgment, but now, this very second, it's the one thing inside of me that's fighting, clawing and screaming for me. Nothingness turns to numbness, and from there, I begin to pick up on little things. My body is heavy, like I am solid metal and the ground is a magnet. Cold water soaks through every fibre of my suit and every pore of my skin, weighing my short hair down as well. Ground is uneven, dirty. Uncomfortable. Head feels awkward and hefty atop my neck, requiring strength to even move. Eyes are welded shut, crusty around the edges. Metal stains my tongue, though now that I'm thinking about it, it's likely blood. Commotion can be heard far off in the distance, muffled, like someone put a blanket over it.

Stubbornness is what forces my eyes open and tilts my head to survey my heavily blurred surroundings. To the left, a dirt bank that meets the water's edge with scattered green blurs I assume are foliage, the SHIELD HQ off in the far distance, on fire. Ah yes, SHIELD fell. It's all coming to me now.

Rumlow. Sceptre. Stabbed. HYDRA. Bleeding. Rage. Fire. Ice. Agony. Hellicarrier. Shield. Shield. Steve? Steve.

Craning my aching neck to the right, I spy the super soldier, motionless on the bank. The small, near microscopic rise and fall of his chest begins to grow clearer with my vision, indicating that he is alive. Alive.

Allowing my head to plonk back onto the ground, a small, content sigh breathes past my lips as my eyes flutter closed. "Thank God," I whisper, voice water logged and croaky.

The light dusting my eyelids grows darker, as if something or someone is blocking it. Hazarding a glimpse, I beckon my eyes to open again, only to find the immensely perplexed face of James Buchanan Barnes staring down at me. Staring up at him, entirely drained of any and all strength, and completely at his mercy, I croak "Soldier?"

Realisation slaps me upon seeing his face. I never heaved myself to this bank. Never helped Steve either, and he is flat out unconscious right now. The only person who isn't, is James Barnes.

He saved Steve. He saved me.

War rages behind the eyes of the soldier; memories and HYDRA's fabrications contending with each other and reality. He looks so lost, so lonely, so unsure of everything. He looks at me, truly looks at me, and I find myself looking at James Barnes for the very first time in my life. Not the Winter Soldier.

"I..." he starts, voice nearly unintelligible, a whisper in the wind. Swallowing his hesitancy, his next words are so insecure and pleading, I feel my heart twist inside my chest.

"Is this real?"

Coughing as a result of a shaky, bitter laugh having worked its way up my throat, I nod regretfully, sympathy coating my tone. "It is. He is."

Barnes spares the unconscious Captain America a glance, before gazing back at me. "I... I know you."

"You're my new psychiatrist."

"Yes, I am you're new psychiatrist. I'll also be deeming you fit or not to partake in missions and jobs of the like. Now though, is not about me. You don't look comfortable in that chair. You can sit in another one if you like."

Blinking, shared and separate memories flash before my eyes, and, judging by his contorted expression, his as well.

"What's your name?"

I smile at the door. "Doctor Timp."

The Soldier tilts his head to the side, muddled. "That's not your name."

"No, it isn't."

"So what's your name?"

I turn the knob, throwing the Winter Soldier a gentle yet mischievous brow wiggle and leer. "When there's other people around you call me Doctor or Doctor Timp. When it's just us? Call me Lilly."

"Lilly," he tests the words out on his own tongue, and I can tell by the look in his eyes, he's desperately trying to cling to something, anything, that's familiar and real.

"Yes," I confirm, weakly smiling up at him. "That's me."

"Soldier, it's me. It's only me. My name is Lillian Nightshade, and I am here to help. They all think my name is Doctor Dolorous Timp, so we must keep it that way, but I promise you, I would never hurt you."

"You... you were there. With them. With me," he shakily states, though the uncertainty almost turns it into a question.

Nodding solemnly, I feel my smile waver. "They aren't good people. Never were. I was there to see what they were up to, and to see how they were treating you."

"What are you, his mother?" Agent Rumlow snorts his disapproval. "He's an asset, a mindless weapon. He doesn't need to be coddled by a –"

I sharply exhale, the prompt slam of the drawer cutting Rumlow off finely like a knife. "May I remind you Agent Rumlow that he is my patient? I was assigned him because of his mental instability, which is provoked by the consistent mind wipes and cryogenic freezes. You continue to treat him like a weapon, and a weapon he will be. Remember that a weapon can be pointed in any direction, so be mindful that you at least partially treat him like a human, or one day that weapon will be pointed at you."

"You fought for me," he softly recalls, faraway in memory. "You... took care of me."

"I did."

"You are but a broken, lost man trying to find his way home. Your only means of protection being your will and your bare hands," I respond softly, my right wrist managing to escape the loosened grip of his metal hand.

I bring my hand to rest on his cheek, brushing my thumb over it gently as I finish "What is there to fear in that?"

"Over all the months I spent at HYDRA undercover, caring for you, I was the one you confided in. I was the one, the only one in that pit of vipers, that you trusted," I remind him, hopeful. "Remember Afghanistan?"

Horror etches itself on his face. "You're her. The Nightingale."

"Eight men and an assassin against a damn army. The Taliban are going to obliterate them, what does Pierce think he's doing?" I continue to scowl, fiddling with cheap balaclava mask that has skull detailing clinging to my entire face and head. The only part of my head on display is my eyes, and already I find the thing annoying. Wear a mask, Ally says. Hide your identity, she says. I don't do masks. This is ridiculously stupid.

Peeking around the corner of the decrepit, mud brick, dusty building, I survey the enemy territory, sighing at how big a piece of work this is going to be. Helmand, Afghanistan. So far just a war torn province with dirt, sand, bullets, blood, army camo and mud brick, broken buildings as far as the eye can see. Gunfire goes off as often as chirping birds in a thick forest; gunpowder, rotting flesh and smoke permanently staining the air, and now my nostrils. I've been lucky enough not have an assassination contract in any war torn Middle Eastern countries before, and yet now, I kinda wish I had some experience in places like this. I don't really know what I'm about to dive in to, and I didn't bring any training floaties.

Ah well, good thing I control the water I swim in.

"Don't control the sharks though," I mumble, pressing myself back against the wall when a squad of Taliban bolt past me, frantically firing back at their opposition. And I have a pretty damn good idea who said opposition might be.

Slipping into the mud house from the back, I manoeuvre through the household in a crouch lower than ledge of the open rectangular holes in the dusty walls, the openings evidently some kind of window without glass. Black katanas strapped to my hip and back, I strain to listen to the shuffling of feet and cracks of gunfire outside, reaching the front room of the barren house hold and positioning myself besides the opening in the wall where a door once was.

Couldn't care less about the HYDRA agents, my only priority is my charge; the Winter Soldier.

"I would've died."

"Mm, you would've," I concur, a sudden coughing fit urging me to hack up more water from my lungs and to the side of me. Barnes moves forward, as if to do something to help, but I wave him off, hoarsely assuring "Fine, I'm fine."

Steve's iconic brow furrow is something he shares with Barnes, for the knot is present between his brows right now and all I can see is Steve. "You could've died."

"Yeah, I could've."

SPLAT.

The sound of the head I just severed colliding with the mud wall is unpleasant to say the least, but I've grown accustomed to it. Crouching down in a hurry, I instantly apply pressure beneath his pectorals, where Barnes is profusely bleeding from. Would've pierced the right lobe of his liver. Liver can regenerate itself at a slow rate, and doesn't need to be whole to function, but depending on how badly it is mutilated, he may need a transplant.

Confusion mars the soldier's face, yet he seems aware enough to realise I'm trying to aid him. He doesn't fight me, just eyes me warily.

I refrain from talking in full sentences, in case he recognises my voice. Even then, where I can I try not to speak at all.

Staring deep into his guarded eyes, I hesitate. For one solid second, I see past the armour of a hollow, weaponized soldier, into the eyes of a locked away, lost man who has been programmed to have faith in one thing and one thing only; his mission.

For the very first time in a long, long time, I sense a stirring, a twinge in my own guarded heart.

Empathy.

I've been him. Maybe not brain wiping, but the brainwashing and indoctrination the Hand inflicted upon on me since I was a baby still lingers deep within me. Weaponized as child, made for destruction. I was so lost until Nick Fury found me, and Ally, and gave us purpose.

Perhaps...

Perhaps I can be that for him.

"Why do I dream about you?"

"Because we're connected. I've been through... a lot, recently. Magic, gods, all-powerful stones and torture would barely scrape the tip of the iceberg of the crap I've been through the past year. Unfortunately for you, after I gave you part of my liver, I seem to have connected us. The magic that was screwing up my body was also affecting our connection, and therefore you. Also explains why, even though you can't remember anyone else – yourself included – you can remember me."

"If he dies, Rumlow and Pierce will have all our asses," Jack Rollins barks out at the doctors fumbling around trying to operate and keep Barnes alive, one brave enough to fretfully respond to the asshole.

"T-The right lobe of his liver is severely damaged. We'd n-need to do a transplant for it to have enough to start regenerating on it's own—"

"I'll do it. You can use part of my liver," I step up, emerging from my corner out of everyone's way. Dr Timp wouldn't let her patient die like this; I try to reason with myself. I'm not offering because I'm going soft, but because it'll help me maintain my cover.

Even I don't sound convincing in my own head.

"I've been through his medical records; we share the same blood type –" lie, he's not a mutant or demi-god, but that makes my blood adaptable at least " – and we're of a similar weight, minus the metal arm."

"We'll need to do a living donor liver transplant," the doctor warns. "We'll be removing 50% of your liver. It'll grow to normal size within 6-8 weeks, so you'll require a brief recovery period until then."

"Fine by me," I affirm, tilting my head to watch the bleeding out, broken man on the operation table. "The Soldier will need someone to oversee his own recovery anyway."

"You weren't just my doctor," Barnes slowly recalls, staring at me with an odd emotion behind his eyes.

My throat clams up, and I struggle to swallow my raw emotions down. "No, I wasn't."

"I swear, if you ask me if I'm alright one more time, I'm going to have to hit you over the head with this clipboard," I jest, unable to stop my grinning at the soldier.

He smiles in return, a small one, practically a ghost across his lips, but that's the biggest kind of smile one can draw from a man who has been through so much. "You always ask me how I'm doing. I want to know how you're doing."

"Really, I'm fine," I more sternly assure, absent-mindedly brushing the part of my blouse under my right breast that hides the scar of the surgery. "You are the one who almost died, Soldier."

"I didn't, thanks to you." The words are so gentle, so soft; I first thought my own imagination was acting up. Until the lightest of touches graze the back of my hand, like a feather against my skin. Glancing down, I spy his finger tips working their way up my hand and around my wrist, and then, I find he's delicately holding my own hand in his.

"I feel safe with you," he vulnerably confides, spoken in an even rawer and lower voice than before, as if he's afraid that the agents in the hall outside will hear.

I shouldn't, I know I shouldn't. It's bad enough that I'm growing attached, but to my own charge? Ally is going to kick my ass into next week.

And yet, I can't help myself. His eyes, such steely, piercing blue, so naked and bare and exposed right now, like I've never seen them before. Lost in his own head, asking for me to save him. With my free hand, I soon find myself bringing it up to brush his cheek so gingerly, I hardly even make contact. He's sitting down, as he usually is whenever I visit, but something in my response must spur him further, for soon after, his metal hand finds its way to my hip, drawing me closer until I stand between his legs. Must be instinct, the way he's reacting to womanly touch.

Holding the side of his face more firmly, my fingers brush back further, until they're curled at the back of his neck, my other hand escaping his hold to clasp his smooth hair as well. He mimics the action with his own now free hand, the sensation of his fingers through my wavy amber hair more than I can bear. Without a second thought, I pull his head up to meet mine, gently kissing and massaging my mouth against his shy lips. Lips that aren't shy or unsure for much longer.

"To this day, a part of me feels like I took advantage of you," I confess, chest twisting in agony. "You desperately looked for someone to confide and trust in, and even though I gave you that, I also stole moments like that from you for weeks. I grew attached, and it was selfish of me to purse you romantically when you were so raw and vulnerable. You still are."

"I still trust you." That's the most convicted he's sounded in our conversation so far, appearing as resolute as someone who is indefinitely wayward and distrustful of his own memories, allies and enemies can be. "You helped, even in those moments. They were the only moments I felt safe."

The most exhausted snort of amusement I have ever given escapes my nose, a wry smile twitching my lips up. "Wouldn't be able to have guessed that by how you tried to kill me earlier today."

He winces, physically hurt by the reminder. "He..." he falters, staring at Steve doubtful and unconvinced at his own programming. "He was my mission."

"Your friend is my mission," he evenly dishes out as a warning. Quiet, demanding, coldly empty. "Stay out of my way."

My teeth clench until it's almost painful, trying not to get frustrated with the situation at hand. "Can we take a rain check on this fight, please? I'm just not really feeling it today—"

I merely blink and he already has a gun snapped out and pointed at me. He doesn't fire, though. It merely hangs there between us, a warning and a promise. He almost seems as frustrated with the situation as I. "Leave."

"Was?" I parrot, holding onto the hope that he thinks otherwise now.

Barnes' expression tightens and furrows even more intensely, struggling and fighting to find some semblance of hard, unquestionable truth to cling on to. "I... I know him."

"You do," I affirm, trying to sound as convicting as I possibly can, being as fatigued as I am. "You were best friends, practically brothers. It's a lot to take in, but when you're ready, Steve and I will be here for you."

He seems grateful for not being pushed, and for a fleeting second, he wears contemplation on his features like he's debating just staying with us anyway. It's a passing wave, washing away as uncertainty and doubt floods back. Stepping away from me, he nods once at me, a show of thanks and farewell, before slowly making his way around me. He's a few feet behind my head, about to disappear when a thought hits me.

"The Smithsonian Museum of Natural History," I blurt out, gazing up at the clear blue sky whilst my eyelids struggle to stay open. "There's a Captain America exhibition. Start there."

I hear a falter in his footsteps, a pause in the dirt. Then, they start up again, growing further and further away until I can't hear them anymore.

It feels like I'm lying there for a long while, each of my wounds making themselves known to me, especially my stab wound, which seems to be profusely bleeding again now that the ice. Blood stains the dirt beneath me, mingling with the water. You know, if I have to go, this isn't half bad. I fought to take down a Nazi organisation that would see millions dead, I finally got to punch Rumlow's perfect teeth in, and now I lie here, beside the man I love. Not bad. Not bad at all.

The resistance in me weakens, and consciousness begins to slip through my fingers like water. Noise blurs around me. I'm barely aware of a loud, turbine like sound landing next to me, between Steve and I. Familiar, oh so familiar. What is it? Cold fingers brush me, frantic, panicked. Not skin. Metal?

The last thing my consciousness picks up on is a muffled, distorted voice, also somehow familiar, a familiarity which makes me feel.... Safe. I feel safe.

"Don't worry Shady, I've got you."

A/N: Ooofttt that was a doozy. 9,565 words. Very happy with the end result though! Hope you guys are as well.

There will only be one more chapter of this book, which should also be pretty long. Lills finally gets to talk to a Steve that remembers, which will definitely be... interesting, to say the least.

For those of you who don't know, I got a one shot book up right now. Recently posted a one shot where all my main female OCs meet, Lillian included. Feel free to check it out!

Arsonist's Lullaby is such an eerie song, love it to bits.

QOTD: Favourite villain (comic or not) of all time?

AOTD: Tbh idek, probably (because Loki is not a villain goddammit) Joker or Scarecrow. Though I do adore Jim Moriarty from BBC Sherlock and Lucifer off Supernatural.

Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx

~ T.L