Shattered Souls | 18+

6. The Face of the Enemy

Steve gently closes the door behind him, and Toni just... stands there, frozen. Mind spinning. Heart reeling.

Why was he in her room? Was he snooping, searching for some sort of evidence that would prove her the disgraceful monster he's always thought her to be?

"Take off the suit and what are you?"

"Genius, billionaire, voluptuary, philanthropist."

"I know folks with none of that worth ten of you. And I've seen the footage. The only thing you really fight for is yourself."

The duffel bag hangs limply from her now-numb fingers, her eyes lingering on the door.

"He's my friend."

"So was I."

Toni misses her friends. It shocks her to her core, but she misses the long nights spent typing up mission reports for Fury. She misses the shit-hole Chinese takeout they used to order. She misses the movie-nights, the missions, the laughter. Hell, she even misses the small, insignificant arguments.

Was that what Rogers had with Barnes before he went under the ice? Everyone always referred to them as family, as brothers—perhaps even something more (though that was just speculation between her and Nat). All Toni knows is that if Rhodes or Pepper died, and Toni had a chance to get them back, she would do anything and everything in her power to make it happen. Even if it meant lying to her friends. She would stop at nothing. And that's exactly what Steve had done. He'd had the entire government after him, he'd tarnished his new relationships. The world was falling apart around him but it didn't matter because he had Barnes.

Toni's chest aches. Ah, there it is again. Regret, remorse, guilt, and running like a current through it all, understanding. They were one and the same, her and Steve. Two sides of the same coin, or some shit like that. She hates that she understands him. It makes everything that much more difficult. It would be easier if he shared that same understanding of her; of what she'd been through, her fucked-up past. Nat did. So did Clint—even if he was an asshole about it at times, Toni knew that if she truly needed him, he'd be there. And maybe there was something building between her and Sam now too, but not the others. Not Maximoff, or Lang, or Steve. They didn't understand her, even if they thought they did. Their perception of her was crooked—bent, like the funhouse mirrors you see at carnivals. She knew what they expected her to do when emotions ran too high: flee. Scurry back home to her money and fame and tech and one-night-stands. It's what the Toni of four years ago would have done.

Toni decides, still staring at the space where Steve had stood, pleading her name, that she's not ready to forgive. Or forget. 

But perhaps she'll prove them wrong instead.

. . .

Toni doesn't sleep that night—unsurprisingly. Instead, she fabricates what she hopes is a substantial apology to T'Challa. Well, not an apology, per se. Just a nicely-worded speech telling him where, exactly, he could shove his kingly advice, but that she'd try to cast her emotions aside when it comes to Barnes from now on (though Toni suspects she'll never be able to fully succeed in that endeavour). She's already lost so many people. She doesn't want to lose him too.

Toni decides to head to the lab, and, of course, Shuri is already there, her hair in little buns on the top of her head, her lip slightly curled in concentration. Her eyes are immediately drawn to the object looming on the table in front of the princess.

"That Barnes' new arm?"

Shuri doesn't look up. "Are you here to destroy it like you did the last one?"