Played by the Enemy || Captain America || Book 2

Chapter 5: Fear Isn't Real

          I don't even bother trying to lightly wash my body anymore. Snatching the scrub with a growing vengeance which refuses to sit idly deep within, I clean my skin 'til it feels raw, watching as the scabs from wounds strewn across my body obtained by training peel off and allow the blood to churn with what's supposed to be the ice cold water.

          Why is it so hot in here?

          Finally realising that sitting in an ice cold shower for over two hours isn't going to do a thing to stop the heat consuming my body or the fight I'll have to partake in soon, I frigidly turn the shower off, taking tentative steps out before seizing the towel.

          Showers use to be an escape for me. After an assignment, I would lock myself in the bathroom and shower for hours. Ally eventually learned to leave me be during this time, because outside the shower I was a cold, heartless beast, someone who was hired to murder for a living, and it didn't bother me at all. Not one bit.

          Inside the shower though, I would allow the stresses and weight of the day to collapse onto me. How else is someone meant to manage all those years of seeing people die, killing people in ruthless ways, growing up around hidden veils and webs of lies, and then to top it off, starting anew the next day? Any logical or humane person would break by then if they didn't have some sort of release.

          Mine were showers.

          That explains why I started cracking once I met Steve. My showers weren't as frequent, and even then they were rushed. I had to find other means to release it all, but I didn't. I kept it locked inside, screaming and clawing like a caged animal. That of course explains the occasional breakdowns I had. I don't know how some people can bare this; I don't know how I do.

          Wrapping the towel limply around my already sweating body, I wring enough water from my hair to prohibit it from dripping as I stumble into the bedroom, ignoring the pain from the cracked ribs I received only a day or two ago. While they're proven quick to heal now, they remain quite painful until they do so.

           Sam isn't in the room; he must have left a little while ago. While he's not had his sleeping patterns as irregular or non-existent as mine, they've still be all over the place. I mean, at the moment it's probably at least another hour until the sun peeks over the Asgardian waters, but I haven't slept a peep all night. Not since Loki told me I have to commence in combat with Adelaide.

          Dragging out my uniform, I stare down at it in utter distaste and revolt. I used to love wearing it. I would wear it with pride and wonder, especially considering it replaced my old suit from when I was an assassin/mercenary. Nicky made it just for me, and the design instantly swooned my interest.

          Now it's a constant reminder of what I'm put through. A constant reminder of what I did to Roy Harper. A constant reminder of how the Scarlet Bitch toyed with my mind. A constant reminder of how I almost murdered the man I love.

          When did I get so mushy?

          Feeling my skin crawl in disgust as I slip the leather black suit on, with all the buckles and the katana sheathes to follow, I reach for my weapons next. To say Loki was above mildly impressed at my katanas would be an understatement. His curiosity piqued to its highest point, completely enthralled by the substances that make up my swords. I don't blame him for it, not like Asgard has adamantium or vibranium on hand.

          I slide the black katanas into their sheathes, slipping a couple sharpened daggers into my sturdy combat boots afterwards. I've really cut down on weapons since I first began, but I'm finding that I'm relying more and more on my powers than before, which isn't entirely good. I can't just confide in my elemental abilities, for one day they may not be in my dispatch to utilize and I'll be all on my own.