Lover's Pursuit

7. Where's her hand?

Your POV.

My head pounds with an inexplicable ache as the woman speaks to me. I can't understand why she's referring to me by a name that feels so familiar, though I know it not to be mine. I feel my screws falling loose as the pressuring pain between my ears grow.

I walk away from her as she calls after me. She rushes to keep up as I re-holster my gun and mutter assurances to myself.
"Y/N, wait!"
I turn to her, suddenly recognising her voice. I've heard it before, I'm sure I have.
"Don't call me that."

She stopped, regarding me with a grieved expression. She nods, reaching out to touch my arm. I hold my breath at the back of my throat and keep my eyes on her's as her fingertips brush my metallic wrist.
"What did they do to you?" She asks, with a crack plaguing her voice.

I gently push her hand away, turning once again to leave. As I walk, I don't dare turn back to face her. I don't dare to find out if she's still there, if she's watching me go.
I rush back to my apartment and slam the door, barricading it shut with a tool in my pack.
She's compromising my first solo mission - that's all this is. It's a tactic, a move. I'm sure she knows Clint, there's no other explanation. I need this distraction terminated. I need it gone.

I lift the phone and contact Rumlow, giving him an exact rundown of what happened. Though, as I did, an impending dissatisfaction caused me to stutter and lie. I'd had this trained out of me. I hadn't lied in years.

"Sir, can I ask you a question off-record?"
There was a momentary pause in conversation.
"Okay, my dear."
"Why did it hurt? When she called me Y/N?"
My eyes shot downward as the location device from my suitcase beeped, its front glowing red. The sound was quiet, yet alarming.
"Ignore that. We're sending files your way."
"But that's my location dev-"
"I said ignore it."
He cuts me off, a clear disdain in his tone making me question whether my curiosity was a dire mistake.
"Just complete the mission. That's all I'm asking. Goodnight, soldier."
The line goes dead.

I laid my phone on the kitchen countertop, frantically rummaging through my belongings. Finally, ripping apart the outers of a box to reveal tubs of Benzodiazepines.

"Thank God."
Whilst dry swallowing a handful, I sent myself to bed.

In what I assume to be the early hours of the morning, I shoot awake. I hear the faintest of sounds, indetectable to an untrained ear.
As I move to swing my feet off the bed, my ankles are caught and I'm dragged to the floor.
As my legs are pulled from me, my forehead makes unforgiving contact with the ground beneath. A cracking sound echoes between my ears and before I can feel for damage, I'm encased in darkness - something covering my head.
Upon lifting my hand to the sorest spot, the material feels hot and wet. Blood.

I feel myself become hoisted into the arms of multiple people, quiet chatter taking place between them in Russian. As much as I'd like to deny it, I'm aware of who I've succumbed to.
The phone call was a mistake.

I find myself screaming uncontrollably, scenes of a little brown teddy atop my bed that never existed being taken from me.

I'm reaching for someone's hand, yet I could not recover why. I'm clawing the air looking for anything to hold. Where's her hand?

Before I find anything, I'm out cold.