The White Queen (S.Rogers)

Chapter 72

They stood at the the entrance to the train station.

It was a moment that Brooklyn had been dreading since her father had told her that he had no intention of coming home now. That he was going to leave her, again. That he still didn't feel like it was safe enough for her or her sister to be around them. Those precious moments they had together, here in Poland were what was going to have to keep her going until he either felt safe enough, or he gave up the fight in his own time, and returned to his family.

It was a depressing thought, on it's own.

She felt like she was starting to shake apart, under her skin. The weight of being alone again was enough to make her want to drop to her knees, and let herself give up to the crushing pressure of her father's expectations of her. Keep herself going. Keep herself safe. Keep her sister safe. All of it, too much. But she would rather jump out of the private jet she was scheduled to board in less than two hours, while in midair, rather than let her father down by admitting to it.

He stood, looking at her, a torn expression on his face, as he reached out to brush a strand of stray hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. The processed scent of quality leather almost overpowered his natural scent, even this close to him. She wanted nothing more than to rip off those gloves, and press her lips to his palm, soaking up his scent, his warmth, his touch, while begging him to never leave her. To give up this folly, and let her help him. Let her get him the help that he so obviously needed.
Surely Wilson would be able to help? Even if he personally wasn't up to the task, maybe he knew someone who would be willing to help a former World War Two vet turned brainwashed HYDRA asset? Surely there was someone who specialized in that sort of therapy?

Her fingers itched to reach for her phone, to blow her father's cover. Call Rogers, admit to everything, beg him to come to where she was, so that he could help her convince her Papa to not leave. It would be so easy, to give into him, and let him back in, just long enough to regain her father.

She had not been lying when she had told her father she was tired. That all she wanted was to sleep. She almost wished she knew how to run one of the tubes they used to shove them in. Maybe if she slept the time away, when she opened her eyes again, her father would be back to how he used to be. Maybe if she slept, Papa would be home, ready to be a family again.

But she couldn't. She couldn't protect Juliana that way. The child was too young to join her, in the cold sleep that she wished for. Even if her sister was, there was too much the child would miss out on, if the older sibling locked them away in an icy slumber for the years it would take for Papa to regain his sense of person. It wouldn't be fair of Brooklyn to selfishly steal those years from her, like they had been stolen from Brooklyn.

Despite how tempting it was.

Instead, she closed her eyes, and leaned into her father's touch, as tender as it had been when she was a child. Reaching up, she blindly touched her fingertips to his jaw, feeling it flex against her skin, before she slid them up to his face, cupping his cheek as much as he began to. She felt the press of his forehead against hers, as he heaved heavy breaths, which ended in a small hitch with each inhale. It was almost comforting to know this was as emotionally difficult for him as it was for her. Some small bitter part of her heart hoped it was hurting him, as much as it was shredding her apart inside. To know that he was going to feel the tear of his soul as much as she did. It was an uncharitable thought, but a satisfying one.

"I need you to promise me, that you will remain strong." He breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "I need you to, Brooklyn. Promise me. Please?"

It was on the tip of her tongue to deny him. To refuse. "Papa..."