The Avenger's soulmate

Chapter seven: The tenth.

They sat opposite each other. Voices reverberated off the cafe walls, almost silencing the soft strings of jazz music buzzing through some speakers near the bar. They sat opposite each other. Ophelia tapped her foot against the floor, her shirt collar was pressing into her neck uncomfortably. Steve rubbed his palms together, watching her nervously. As he gazed, she tugged at her shirt, adjusting the collar with a hook of the finger. This was not how she wanted to spend her morning.
"My name is Steve" the man leaned back, "Steve Rogers."
"Ophelia. Ophelia Mikalin."
"Mikalin? That's an interesting name." He said with a smile, clearly trying to create a small conversation. But there's nothing she would say to that. Mikalin was the name she gave herself after she'd clawed her way from that agency's grasp. Its origin? She had no idea. "Is it your parent's name? Or are you involved..." he cleared his throat awkwardly as a smile grew on the woman's face,
"Involved?" she tilted her head.
"Do you have a partner?"
"No no, I broke up with him like a week ago."
His eyes widened, "So, you had one?"
Oh. She'd seen what she'd done. Told her soulmate about a relationship with someone she had not forged a connection with. Awkward. That's what made this situation again: Awkward. Ophelia bit her lip, a horrible sensation pooling in the bottom of her stomach; It made her want to do many things: Vomit, eat, and have a cigarette. Instead, she tipped her head back against the cushions, "Yes. I had one."
"Is that why you ran?"
"Reasons for why I ran off..." she grasped her temples, "we're not close enough to discuss."
"About that..."
"Yes?"
"I want to accept you."
"Accept me?" she frowned, drawing closer to him, "is–is that to do with our connection?"
Steve Roger's expression was beginning to mirror hers, "you don't know?"
"I don't know any of this deal, darling."
"I–" his cheeks flushed a subtle prink, "The mark. To solidify the bond, you accept it. If you wish to... sever the bond, you break it, decline it."

There was one fact Ophelia Mikalin knew about soulmates. It's that they feel everything you feel. Not all the time. Only sometimes. So when Rogers began to tell her what she could do with her mark, her mind sparked up. If she severed the bond, they felt no pain of hers. No burn of a cigarette on her skin, no ache when she landed on an old injury or broken bone, no past terrors that haunt her in the night. She'd feel no pain or fear of letting them down. It would work, logically.

"So, what happens if you accept it and I don't?"
"Will you?" his face turned pallid. "Not accept it I mean."
There was a long silence. Ophelia leaned back, sinking into the sofa cushions. The answer was only written in pencil, it was erasable, and she could change her mind. Did she want to?
What if they took her again? Slid those needles into her skin. Applied that electricity to her brain, dulling her soul, making her the hollow shell again; Making her the killer again. They'd feel it all, the screams of agony, the pleas, the pain. All would be felt and never stopped. They couldn't stop it. Neither could she. All logic yelled for her to decline it. Break that connection of souls. So she spoke slowly, "I don't know–
"You're our final piece," he spoke abruptly, he'd shifted closer, desperate to grasp at the ends of this conversation.
"Final piece?" she met his gaze now, misted over by tears, a silent message trying to transfer to him. This conversation needed to be over. The shadows in her skull grew restless, flexing in her palms. They wished to do what she did, touch her soulmate, hug him for the first or final time. A lightbulb in the corner of the flickered. Dark wreaths coiling around the glass. Their cage was fracturing. This conversation needed to be over, no matter how quickly.
"You're the tenth–" Glass exploded in the corner. A trapdoor in Ophelia's chest snapped open and her heart fell through. Breaths labored from her lips. Tenth. Nine others. No. No. No. Her shadows licked at the glass shards, unnoticeable to the woman who scrambled to pick them up. Her soulmate was studying her reaction, the panic on her face. Tenth.

Ophelia steeled her expression, locking away the racket in her heart, she sat up taller. She was one of ten. This will make everything easier. Relaxing into her chair, she smiled, "Then I will not be missed."
The mass of muscles, so organized and sculpted, perched on the edge of his seat. He looked worried. Worried for her. Worried for himself.
"What do you mean?"
"My life is complicated, Steve, like you wouldn't know."
"Try me." his words fell more like a plead than a statement. It made her laugh, lightly, covering her mouth delicately as she did so.
"I'd love to, truly but..."
"But?"
She didn't want to say it. She didn't want to hurt by saying it. Her mind was dead of logic, she just needed him to understand.
"Love is not an option," she said finally.
Silence pursued. Uncomfortable and unwanted. Steve's face had fallen, his baby blue eyes dimming. "Are you not accepting the mark?"
Ophelia leaned over the table, looking at the uncaring couples around. "I have no mark to accept," she whispered, pulling her up her sleeve only halfway. This should scare him away. Pale lines etched into her skin, a mask of whiteness dressed like a plaster over her skin, hiding away her marks. A sharp breath sucked through his lips and for a second, Opehlia felt she saw his gaze mist over as it studied that jagged scar. He leaned forward but halted, he seemed to want to touch her, to trail his hand over the ragged lines. Part of her wanted him to do that too. To touch her, to caress her skin, kiss it–She could not approve of it–The mark she once had. Her brain said no, soulmates are linked for eternity, what she feels, they have to too. Her fear. Her paranoia. Her pain. Her shadows. That was not the life she wished for them. There are nine of them, they could lose her. They wouldn't even notice her absence. And yet, in her gut, writhing like a snake was a hope, a single optimism that maybe she could accept it. Live a life of love. Make up for the love she lost from her parents, from Jackson. Her soul might fix itself, they may fix it for her.
So she rose, covering her arm once again, "Goodbye Rogers."
Teary eyes looked up at her, widening softly as the feeling of pain failed to rip over him. She never severed the link. Nor did she accept it. Did he still have a chance? Did they?