014.

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He cradled her carefully, as if she were something fragile—because right now, she was.
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The sparring had been going well. Steve was always cautious when bringing Selene down to spar every morning for the past week.

Overly cautious.

He made her a nutritious meal to keep her from becoming angry and letting her predator instincts take over.

He made sure she wore the proper clothing to avoid any irritability or discomfort that could trigger her anger.

He made sure to carry her lavender purple water bottle- he decided on the happier color after she just kept choosing black for everything (clothes, shoes)- alongside his navy blue one.

Essentially, he was a worrying mother hen that she was ready to hit from breathing down her shoulder.

But right now, Selene was focused, controlled.

Clint circled her around the training mat, Selene keeping her eyes on him.

Clint had taken it easy at first, testing her reflexes, but the more she responded with precision and power, the more he pushed back. She was good—really good. Fast, calculated, relentless. But she wasn't reckless.

Not until the moment something in her snapped.

Clint had moved quickly, spinning her into a hold—one arm locked around her torso, his other hand gripping her wrist, pinning it behind her back. It wasn't meant to hurt, just to restrain.

"Gotcha," he said, grinning slightly. "You gotta work on—"

But he didn't finish his sentence.

Because the second his grip tightened, Selene's breathing hitched—sharp, panicked.

And then she wasn't there anymore.

The gym disappeared. The safe walls of the Tower faded, swallowed by the cold, sterile chambers of Hydra.

The weight of Clint's hold—strong, unyielding—became something else. The hands of an operative. A scientist. The ones who had dragged her down, pinned her to metal tables, locked her in place while voices murmured clinical, detached instructions.

Her vision blurred.

Her mind screamed.

And suddenly, she reacted.

A violent, desperate response—pure survival.

She twisted out of Clint's grip, faster than he could process. Before he could blink, she slammed her elbow into his ribs, knocking the wind out of him.

"Whoa—Selene—" His voice was strained, but she wasn't hearing him.

She was hearing them.

She struck again, grabbing his wrist and twisting until he was forced to his knees and a loud crack was heard causing him to shout in pain.

Her breathing was ragged, uneven, but her movements were precise—trained, lethal.

And she wasn't stopping.

She raised her fist for another hit—

A voice broke through. Familiar. Strong.

"Selene!"

Steve.

She froze.

A body tackled her- red hair.

Natasha.

Selene grunted as her body hit the mat and Natasha was quick to stand in front of Clint who held his wrist in pain.

Her chest heaved, heart pounding, body trembling.

The moment stretched, her mind still split between now and then, past and present. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Steve was in front of her, hands raised, eyes cautious but calm. "It's okay," he said gently. "You're okay."

Selene's breath shuddered. She blinked. The world realigned.

And then she saw what she had done.

She had broken his wrist, a complete snap in half.

Natasha was helping him to the medical bay as she stared blankly at the spot he was kneeled at before.

No. No, no, no.

Her stomach twisted violently.

Steve stood frowning, she was afraid to look at him- especially after their talk from a few days ago- but his expression wasn't angry.

If anything, he looked... concerned.

"Selene," Steve took a step forward.

She took a step back.

Then another.

Then she turned and ran.

_____

She had memorized the layout early on, slipping through the narrow metal passages with the ease of someone who had spent her life vanishing when she needed to.

It wasn't just about hiding—it was about disappearing completely. The ducts were tight, cold, and silent, far above the rest of the world where no one would think to look.

She could move unseen, listen without being found, and wait until the storm inside her settled.

Steve had searched the entire tower—her room, the training rooms, the library, even the rooftop. Every place she might retreat to. But she was nowhere.

Hours passed, frustration turned to worry, worry to something deeper, something heavier.

It wasn't until nightfall, when he sat down in the darkened living room, rubbing a tired hand over his face, that he heard it. The faintest shift of metal. The softest intake of breath.

And then he knew.

She had been above him the whole time.

In the air ducts.

Now, he stood beneath the open vent, staring up into the darkness.

"Selene." His voice was calm, even. "I know you're in there."

Nothing.

But he could hear it—the softest shift of metal, the nearly imperceptible hitch in her breath. She wasn't hiding from him anymore. She was waiting.

Steve exhaled. "Come on out."

A pause. Then—

"No."

It was small, hoarse, barely more than a whisper, but it reached him.

He closed his eyes briefly before glancing back up. "I'm not leaving."

Silence.

Then, after a long moment, he heard it—the slow scrape of movement, the faint sound of her fingers brushing against the metal as she shifted.

And then she dropped down.

She landed lightly, her bare feet touching the cool floor without a sound. But she didn't move from where she stood, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her body rigid. Her eyes were downcast, her breathing uneven.

Steve took a step forward. She flinched.

His heart clenched.

She was curled into herself, as if trying to disappear, her nails digging into her arms so hard he thought she might break skin.

He kept his voice low. "Selene."

"Go," she muttered, raw and quiet.

"Not happening."

Her breath came out sharp, uneven. She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. "Not safe."

Steve knew what she meant. He had seen it—the split-second loss of control, the way she had struck too hard, too fast. The way she had looked at her own hands afterward, horror-stricken.

"You didn't mean to."

She let out a bitter breath.

Steve took another step forward, careful, measured. "Selene."

She gritted her teeth, trembling. "Not good." Her voice cracked. "Hydra here."

She wasn't good.

Hydra was in her.

Steve crouched in front of her, resting his hands on his knees, keeping himself at eye level. "I know."

She lifted her head, eyes glossy with unfallen tears. "Not good."

"It takes time."

Her jaw clenched. "Never good?" The words were barely above a whisper.

Steve's chest tightened.

"You will be." His voice was steady. "And until then, you don't have to do this alone."

She let out a deep sigh, wiping at her face with the back of her hand. "Why?" Her eyes locked onto his, raw and searching. "Why stay?"

He didn't hesitate. "Because I know what it's like."

She swallowed hard. "No."

His expression softened. "Maybe not the same way. But I know what it's like to be stuck in the past. To feel like it owns you." He exhaled. "And I know what it's like to fight it alone."

Her lip trembled.

He reached out—slow, deliberate—giving her time to pull away.

She didn't.

His hand rested gently against her arm, grounding. Warm. "You're not alone, Selene."

Something inside her cracked.

A shuddering breath escaped her lips, and before she could think, she moved—leaning forward, collapsing into him.

Steve caught her without hesitation, wrapping his arms around her, holding her as she shook. She was silent, but he could feel her ragged breaths against his shoulder, feel the way her fingers curled into his shirt, clinging.

He cradled her carefully, as if she were something fragile—because right now, she was.

"I've got you," he murmured. "I'm not going anywhere."

And for the first time, she let herself believe it.

_____