Cherry || b.barnes

05 || Coping

»You got a good feeling about her, huh?« Agent May questions while I get up from the dirty ground. 

The gazes of numerous people linger over my body, sending goosebumps all across the skin. I'm not used to all the attention, not used to missions in public. Usually, I'd start with dusk, end with dawn, always morphing with the shadows and not once tapping into the light. Now, there's a flood lamp illuminating every inch of my presence, and I feel very uncomfortable with it. 

Not that I would show it. Any sign of fear, of insecurity is a sign of weakness, and I cannot afford to let them people see it. Not strangers, and certainly not Hydra's nor S.H.I.E.L.D.'s agents. The last thing I want is for them to see I'm putting on a mask as soon as more than three people are around me, my inner self short before collapsing like the building I jumped out of a couple minutes ago.

It's easier when I'm on mission, running. Blending everyone else out, the target my main focus for whatever price. But I'm not anymore; succeeded the task as I did every single one in my life, some requiring more sacrifices than others. And I swallow down the heat trying to crawl up into my face, before handing the test tube to Fitz. 

Simmons, the girl from the couple of the lab with huge brown eyes and a longer, slim face walks up to me immediately. I don't know if it comes from sympathy or from duty that she feels responsible, but as soon as she grabs my injured arm, I snap it back. The wound is still prominent, although the bleeding already stopped, leaving my arm in a wet scarlet. She glances at me worried, but other than that, the shake of my head makes her retreat. 

And then, finally, the pain sets in. Next to the fiery stash in the beginning, the wound on my left upper arm didn't come to my attention for adrenaline was rushing through my veins and extinguishing everything and anything else. Now, I slowly get aware of my sore legs from the up and down, hopping from roof to roof and levels down, levels up. If I was in better shape, this might be less effective, but I only kept up what was necessary for the streets during the last years. 
Then, tiny shrapnel-like splinters get a place in my mind, an area coating me along my right upper thigh to my right shoulder. A glance aside confirms my assumption: When the building collapsed behind me, the explosion must have sent some glass splinters far enough for them to sink through my grey hoodie and bury themselves in the upper layers of my skin. »Yikes.« I murmur underneath my breath, while asking Simmons in the same exhale for tweezers. I wonder if my face has also been hit, but I don't think so.
The only thing fortunate is that I barely got punches. One to my rips, one below my eye surely causing bruises, but that was that. Not that they would last longer than till tomorrow, anyways.

»In the airplane.« she responds then with her rather light, transparent voice, and I nod in thanks to her before starting off into the direction of the engine.

One shouldn't see the vehicle, but I guess I can be done with hiding what I'm able to do anyways after this drama, so I make no explanations nor excuses when I walk towards the building, sensing where exactly the jet rests in invisibility. 

*

»I will ask one last time, Cherry.« Coulson demands sternly. We're back in the facility, after I pulled out every single splinter and cared for my own wound. I don't trust them how far I can see them, any of them, and the possibility of them getting the smallest amount of blood of mine under their fingers is a risk I won't take. Plus, I don't like physical contact. At all.

I just don't feel comfortable with people being close to me. After years on my solo trip, I force myself not to shiver when someone merely tips at my shoulder or steps into my comfort zone, a circle around me with a diameter of one meter from my core. I don't like hugs when I'm sad, I don't like people trying to steady me with both hands on my shoulders when I'm confused, and I certainly don't like anyone disinfecting and dressing my injuries. »What are you?«