Mirror, Mirror ↠ Steve Rogers

Chapter Eleven

Leila tries a number of med bays before finding what--or who, rather--she's looking for. The room is empty except for the two of them. Romanoff, sitting on the edge of a cot, watching a restrained Barton start to regain consciousness. There's a softness in Natasha's eyes that Leila's never seen before, and she feels a pang somewhere in her gut, watching them.

There are times when she thinks she belongs on this team--when she matches Clint's banter point for point, when she and Natasha fight like a well-oiled machine, and she feels like she's a part of something.

Then she sees the two of them without her and all of that fades away. She's never been privy to their pasts--she's just picked up bits and pieces along the way. Enough to know that the two of them are always going to be closer to each other than they ever have been or will be to her.

It's better that way, really. She's never shared their conviction, and if she had that kind of commitment--if she felt that kind of tie to anyone that they clearly share with each other--

Leila needs to be able to run. It's the only way she's survived her past, and everything she has planned for the future relies on it. She needs to be able to drop everything and run when it comes down to it, and she can't have baggage pinning her to any one place, or ideology, or person. Or people.

Strike Team Delta is a nice fantasy. A fun time killer. It can't be more than that.

She leans in the doorway quietly.

"Have you ever had someone take your brain and play?" she hears Clint ask, sounding groggy. "Do you know what it's like to be unmade?"

Yes , Leila thinks. I do.

"You know that I do," Natasha says softly.

You know. There's the difference.

"Why am I back?" Clint asks.

"Cognitive recalibration," Natasha replies, smiling just a little. "I hit you really hard in the head."

"Thanks."

Natasha unfastens his restraints in response. Clint sits forward, rolling his shoulders and his neck gently, and his eyes fall on Leila in the shadow of the doorway. Natasha follows his gaze, looking anything but surprised. No doubt she noticed Leila's presence from the beginning.

"Hey, Princess," Clint says hoarsely. She smiles at the nickname. "I see no one's tried to carve your heart out yet."

"Oh, they tried," she quips, crossing her arms. She sees his mouth twitch in a smile, but it fades just as fast.

"Did I?"

"Clint," Natasha reprimands gently, but Leila shakes her head.

"No." At his skeptical look, she adds, "Honestly, I haven't seen you since we got debriefed after Riyadh last month."

He nods. "Where's Coulson?"

Natasha glances over at her, and for a split second Leila worries that her comms got knocked out before it happened, that Natasha doesn't know--

But no. Leila recognizes the weight in her eyes. Natasha heard everything.

They turn back to Clint together. "He didn't make it," Natasha says.

Clint seems to freeze for a moment, then his jaw clenches as he nods. His gaze hits the floor before he turns his head. He takes a deep breath.

"Okay," he says. "How many other agents?"

"Don't do this to yourself, Clint. This is Loki. This is monsters, and magic, and nothing we ever trained for."

It's true, Leila thinks as she leans by the doorway, trying to relieve the stress in her neck. She might be unique, but compared to Loki, compared to everything she's seen in the past few days...well. She's good at compartmentalizing when she has to, but eventually things are going to settle, and today is going to be yesterday, and when that happens, she's going to have trouble wrapping her head around everything that's going on now.

It doesn't occur to her to worry about whether she will be alive by the end of it. Leila's own survival has been the only constant throughout her life. Powers or no powers, by the skin of her teeth or not, Leila always, always finds a way to survive.

Clint doesn't seem to process Natasha's statement, his still-waking mind grabbing onto just one word.

"Loki. He got away?"

"Yeah. I don't suppose you know where?"

"Didn't need to know. Didn't ask. He's gonna make his play soon, though. Today."

"Then we have to stop him."

"Yeah? Who's we?"

Leila would like to know that too, actually.

"I don't know. You, me. Whittaker." She tilts her head in Leila's direction. "Whoever's left." A steely resolve has crept into Natasha's voice, one that makes Leila almost believe that she's right. That they can pull this off. That there will be some tattered semblance of the status quo waiting for them tomorrow.

Clint seems to feel similarly. "Well, if I put an arrow through Loki's eye socket, I'd sleep better, I suppose."

Both women smile. "Now you sound like you," Nat says.

"But you don't," Clint replies. "You're a spy, not a soldier. Now you want to wade into a war. Why? What'd Loki do to you?"

Natasha hesitates. There's a certain tension in the air as those familiar words--a spy, not a soldier--float around in her mind. Was it really only hours earlier that Leila said those same words to Rogers? When did things shift for her? When did they shift for Natasha?

She doesn't know, because Natasha doesn't answer the question, and Leila knows why. Natasha might trust Leila with her life, but she doesn't trust her with her secrets. Leila would be a hypocrite if she blamed her.

She leaves them, slipping back into the hallway without a word. A few moments later, when she's too far to make out any real words, she hears them pick their conversation back up.

She doesn't know where she's going. She just walks. Every right step is a name, every left one is a location. Clint is with Natasha in the medbay. Steve is talking to Stark somewhere. Thor's whereabouts are unknown. Banner's whereabouts are also unknown. Coulson is dead. Fury and Hill are on the bridge, last she checked.

And she's wandering the hallways, by herself. She promises herself that she doesn't wish she wasn't alone right now. She's almost managed to believe it when she turns a corner and finds Rogers heading her direction.

He's got his full suit on again, and he's not moving like he's broken anymore. He's walking, back straight, every step laden with purpose. He makes direct eye contact, and she can tell without him saying anything that their earlier altercation has been forgotten. Something's become more important.

"Rogers," she greets.

"Where's Romanoff?"

"Medbay six with Barton. Why?"

"Loki's targeting Stark Tower. Suit up and meet us at hangar twelve in fifteen."

Leila doesn't enjoy taking orders, but through her time at SHIELD, she's learned when to follow them. Rogers doesn't have any official authority over her, but his voice, the set of his shoulders, tells her that their best chance of getting out of this alive is by listening to him.

She's a spy. She's not a soldier. But he is. He knows what war is. And she knows that regardless of his personal feelings towards her--whatever they are--she's more valuable to him alive than dead.

She does not trust him with her secrets. But she trusts him with her life. For the purposes of this particular battle, anyway. Enough to warrant an honest, if rare, promise:

"I'll be there ten."