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ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ғɪᴠᴇ: ʙɪᴛᴛᴇʀsᴡᴇᴇᴛ

❝ ᴀɢᴇɴᴛ sᴍɪᴛʜ ʜᴀs ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʀᴏᴍɪsᴇᴅ. ❞

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S.H.I.E.L.D Safe house, somewhere in Pennsylvania.

The gravel path crunched under your boots as you made your way towards the front door, the chill in the air causing you to zip up your jacket in an effort to retain your body heat. The safe house was much bigger - and more beautiful - than you imagined, and of course, the security was of top-notch quality. S.H.I.E.L.D had stopped at nothing to make sure the house had optimum protection, even going as far as to surround it with reflective panels - not unlike the ones they used on their quinjets - so that to anyone who wasn't looking for it, the house would be impossible to notice.

Brendon worked on unlocking the door, which took a while, since there were multiple codes he had to punch in and identification protocol he had to go through. You used this time to take in your surroundings a bit more, slowly rotating in a circle to fully digest the gorgeous scenery. The house was situated not too far from a mountain range, allowing a breath-taking view all around.

After about three minutes, Brendon announced that you could go inside.

"Taking that long to unlock the door can't be too helpful in a life-threating situation, can it?" you questioned sceptically.

"It only took that long because I didn't check in beforehand like agents normally should. In case you hadn't noticed, I had bigger fish to fry," he responded, holding the door open for you as you stepped over the threshold.

"Woah," you whispered.

"Not too shabby, huh?" Brendon smirked as he placed your shopping bags in the entryway.

"Are you sure we didn't take a wrong turn somewhere and end up at Tony Stark's place instead?"

"Oh, sweetheart, believe me, Stark's place makes this one look like trash." Brendon's phone rang and he removed it from his pocket, face hardening once he saw the caller ID. "I have to take this, it's The Director," he said, walking into the next room. He backtracked a bit and stuck his head out to look at you. "I'll be right back. Don't-"

"Die? Yeah, I think I'll be fine."

~

"Sir."

"Agent Urie. I trust everything is in order?"

"Of course, sir," Brendon confirmed, peeping through the glass door at you as you examined the house in awe. "She's safe."

"That's good. Especially since we know for a fact that she was one of the reasons for the attack."

"One?" Brendon quizzed. "You mean there were other motives?"

"They stole Snowflake. I'll give you one guess as to why."

"Can't we track it?"

"We could. Unfortunately, the only man who knows how is now involuntarily under Hydra's influence."

"You mean-"

"Agent Smith has been compromised."

Brendon let out a shaky breath at The Director's words. Smith was quite easily his closest friend - more like a brother, actually - and one of the only people he would trust with his life. They'd trained together, become official S.H.I.E.L.D agents together, and fought some of their most challenging battles together; the thought of his best friend now being under the control of the enemy made Brendon's stomach drop and his head spin.

"I recognize that this may be hard for you, given your relationship with Agent Smith," The Director spoke, a hint of sympathy in his voice, yet it couldn't compare to the natural urgency and strictness in his tone. "But I need you to focus on (Y/N)."

"Y-yes, definitely, sir."

"Good. Because as of this moment, we are at war."

~

"Are you okay?" you questioned while setting down two steaming mugs of peppermint tea on the glass dining table, concern etched on your face as you watched Brendon, who was biting his lip and tapping his foot nervously as he focused his gaze on the sizzling flames in the fireplace across the room.

"Hm? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," he grumbled, eyes not once breaking away from their gaze on the fire.

"No, you're not," you sighed as you took a seat diagonally across from him, wrapping both hands around one mug, grateful for the extra little bit of heat it offered. "You're uncharacteristically silent; it's scaring me a little."

Brendon scoffed. "Is that your way of saying that you miss our not-so-playful banter?"

"Maybe," you shrugged. "But I can tell that something's bothering you, so what is it?"

"When did you start caring about how I feel?" Brendon asked, his words coming out slightly harsher than he'd intended it to.

You let out a breath and broke your gaze on him, looking at the liquid in front of you instead. "Look," you started, voice calm and soothing, "You said it yourself during the drive here, I don't want to keep fighting. With the way things are going, it looks like we're gonna be stuck with each other for a while, so we can at least try to make it bearable." Brendon's gaze still hadn't shifted from the flames, but his foot had stopped tapping, which you took as a good sign and continued.

"I can see that something's upsetting you, and I want to help. You've saved my life more than once, so the least I can do is help you through whatever it is you're dealing with."

Brendon finally looked at you. He was admittedly taken aback by what your words to him and was almost afraid of opening up to you, all things considered, but looking at you with your soft features, hair messy and tangled, pyjamas on and eyes that seemed to see right into his soul, you looked the epitome of sincerity and he knew that if there was one person who would understand what he was going through, it was you.

"Agent Smith was compromised."

You raised your eyebrows and tucked your hair behind your right ear. "Are you two close?"

"He's like a brother to me."

"I'm so sorry, Brendon," you spoke, reaching out for his hand; you hesitated briefly, your hand hovering just barely over his before you rested it on his damaged knuckles.

Brendon flinched slightly at the contact; he'd gotten so used to every bit of human physical contact being violent or intended to harm him, that the affectionate, gentle nature of your touch was exceptionally foreign, but at the same time, not unwelcome in the slightest.

He was so used to being a perfectly functioning machine: get briefed on the assignment, complete the assignment, report in, start all over again; but the simple feeling of your hand on his made him feel something he hadn't felt in a long time...

"It's not your fault. Well, it kind of is. But you couldn't control it," he said with a twitch of his lips.

You let out a small giggle and tightened your grip on Brendon's hand a little bit, his eyes narrowing for a second as you did so. "Are you gonna be okay? Do you wanna talk about it more or...?"

Your bodyguard took a deep breath as he contemplated your offer, looking around at the dead-quiet house before shrugging his broad shoulders a minute later. "Got nothing better to do, I guess."

"So when did you two meet?" you initiated, sipping your tea.

"We met at the MEPS. We enlisted at the same time," he recalled, steadying his gaze on his hand, which he clenched and unclenched repeatedly, "We were both 18, both naïve but stubborn as all hell - we clicked immediately. Never thought we'd see each other after that, but then we were placed at the same base."

You nodded along with his story, showing your support.

"He's my best friend. Hell, he's my brother. I mean, I've fought wars with that guy. Any and every type imaginable. He's one of the only people I've ever really, truly cared about, and I have no idea what I'll do if he's gone."

Even though it was only for a moment, having Brendon open up to you - even if it was only the tiniest amount - gave you some reassurance that he wasn't actually one hundred percent made of stone.

It's a pity that assurance wouldn't last longer than a few days.

"From what I know, what I've heard and observed... I'm sure that S.H.I.E.L.D will find a way to bring him back," you comforted, offering a weak smile.

"I hope so," he muttered, "But this Hydra we're dealing with, here. I wouldn't bank on anything."

~

You'd been at the safe house for three days now, and honestly, you felt more at peace there with Brendon than you had anywhere else. Maybe it was to do with the fact that the house was somewhat of a sanctuary for troubled minds, or maybe it was because you and your bodyguard seemed to be living together in perfect harmony.

Three nights ago, for the first time in what felt like forever, Brendon had allowed himself to be vulnerable. He had no idea why he opened up to you with such ease, when he had one of the toughest exteriors to crack. But whatever the reason, he now saw you in a way he never had before.

Of course, he wouldn't dare to show it; there was no way in hell he would risk damaging the façade he hid behind, but he had become slightly warmer towards you, albeit not openly. It was the little things, such as making you coffee in the morning, or playing your favourite music - small gestures of kindness. He thought he was being subtle enough in his ways that you wouldn't notice, but you had. And you were grateful for it; it meant that there was hope that the two of you could be friends - as opposed to biting each other's heads off at any opportunity.

"Something smells good," you hummed as you made your way into the kitchen. Your eyes widened at the sight of Brendon with the sleeves of his black t-shirt rolled up to his elbows, one hand holding a wooden spoon, which he used to stir the pot of spaghetti sauce he was standing over. "You cook?"

"Is that so hard to believe?" he cocked an eyebrow.

"You don't seem like the cooking type," you said as you walked over to him.

"Again with the stereotypes," he rolled his eyes and pointed a finger at you. "I'll have you know that I make the best spaghetti in the world."

You scoffed. "Every guy thinks that he makes the world's best spaghet-mm," Brendon sticking the wooden spoon in your mouth, allowing you to taste the sauce, cut you off. "Oh my god," you moaned.

"Uh huh," he smirked, moving to strain the pasta. "Why don't you go and set the table, I'll plate up."

You nodded and fetched the necessary crockery from the cabinets before heading to the dining room to set the table. You'd just finished setting down the wine glasses when the unmistakeable sound of a gunshot made you snap your head up, as your heart started racing.

"Brendon," you croaked, your voice shaky, worried that the shot might've been at him.

"It came from outside," he explained, rushing to make sure the alarm system had locked all the doors and windows like it should have, his gun already in hand. "I'm gonna go check it out. Go upstairs to the panic room and don't leave until I come to get you, okay?"

You nodded and ran upstairs, as he'd instructed.

Brendon exited the house, making sure the door was secure behind him, and took careful steps down the stairs and onto the gravel path, weapon aimed and ready to shoot at anything that moved.

The night air was freezing, and the vapour from Brendon's exhales formed small clouds of fog as he turned his head in every direction.

"Walker?" he called out, waiting for the agent stationed at the gate to answer him, a feeling of dread setting in when he got no reply.

Brendon picked up his pace as he travelled towards the gate, breaking into a run when he noticed a heap on the ground that looked suspiciously like a body. When he got close enough to see clearly, his suspicions were confirmed.

He knelt down and placed a hand on Walker's body, carefully rolling him onto his back as he prayed that he was just knocked out. "Shit," he muttered as he saw the bullet hole in his fellow agent's forehead, jumping to his feet immediately. "(Y/N)."

He sprinted back to the house.

Brendon took the stairs three at a time, wanting to reach the panic room as soon as possible, his heart rate increasing with every step he took.

"(Y/N)?" he yelled urgently as he burst through the door. You weren't there and almost as quickly as he'd entered the room, he left again, desperately searching every room in the house for you as your name escaped his lips over and over again in a yell that got more desperate with every repeat.

Within less than five minutes, Brendon had searched the entire house, but you were nowhere to be found. As he stood in what was your temporary bedroom, his chest tightened as his breathing became unhealthily fast; he squeezed his eyes shut tightly in anger and pulled at his hair in frustration, repeating 'stupid, stupid' to himself as a mental image of your face burned itself into his mind, making it all that he could see.

He let out a furiously animalistic groan as he flipped over the glass nightstand next to him. Glass shattered everywhere, including on his body, leaving tiny cuts in is wake, but he didn't notice.

"FUCK!"

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Thank you for reading x