Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
May 31, 2014
It's been a month since the rooftop breakdown, a month since Indigo found herself teetering on the edge of despair. Since then, she has become a prisoner in her own bed, trapped in a cocoon of silence and solitude. Each day blurs into the next, a relentless cycle of waking up to the same sterile room, with only fleeting visits from the outside world to break the monotony.
Dr. Helen Cho's daily check-ins have become a routine, Bruce tags along with her. He says it's to learn from her and to check in on Indigo, but she knows he has a crush on Cho. She like him too but hasn't realized to yet.
When Natasha enters, her presence is a temporary reprieve from the suffocating silence. She sits by Indigo's bedside, her silent companionship a balm to her fractured soul. But even her steadfast presence cannot dispel the shadows that linger within.
Indigo's severed ties with the outside world, relinquishing her phone to Tony in a feeble attempt to shield herself from the onslaught of hate and threats that bombard her from all sides. The outside world feels like a distant memory, a place she no longer belongs to.
And then there's Steve. He comes, like clockwork, each day bearing the weight of his own guilt and remorse. He apologizes for Bucky's actions, for his absence during her darkest hour. But his words fall on deaf ears, for it's not Bucky that weighs heaviest on her heart, but Steve's abandonment.
Bucky was a victim of circumstance, manipulated and coerced by Hydra. But Steve, he had a choice. A choice to stand by Indigo's side, to offer solace in her hour of need. Yet he chose silence, leaving her to drown in the depths of her despair.
Now, Steve's daily visits only serve as a stark reminder of the void that exists between them. His silent presence looms like a specter in the room, a constant reminder of the fracture that has formed in their once unbreakable bond.
Today, as Indigo wakes to the familiar sight of the her bedroom ceiling, she feels a presence lingering in the shadows. She turns, and there he stands - Clint, a silent sentinel in the corner of the room. Indigo reaches for the glass of water beside her, her fingers trembling as she lifts it to her lips, all the while acutely aware of his watchful gaze.
The room feels smaller, suffocating, as if the walls themselves are closing in around her. Indigo finds herself longing for the solitude of her bed, for the sanctuary of her own thoughts. Yet, even in her darkest moments, she cannot escape the watchful eyes that follow her every move.
"How long are you going to act like this Indigo?" Clint says, his words hang heavy in the air, each syllable a sharp reminder of the weight of her own inertia. Indigo turns her gaze away, unable to meet his eyes, unable to confront the truth that lies within his words.
