Note: HI HEY HELLO, MY LOVES! For the first time in a long time I am in a spectacular mood and so here's me letting you know that I appreciate all of you and your continued love and support by gifting you with not one, not two, but three updates. Enjoy! xx
(Side note: my PMs are messing me around by not letting me reply to messages, so I apologize for not responding, but it's not intentional!)

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ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴇɴᴛʏ ᴇɪɢʜᴛ: ᴋᴀʟᴇɪᴅᴏsᴄᴏᴘᴇ ᴇʏᴇs

❝ ᴄʜɪᴄᴀɢᴏ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ's ᴀ, ᴡʜᴀᴛ, ᴛᴇɴ ʜᴏᴜʀ ᴅʀɪᴠᴇ ғʀᴏᴍ ʜᴇʀᴇ? ❞

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Twenty-two years earlier. (Y/L/N) family home, whereabouts unknown.

Your father carefully placed your delicate body back into your cradle, placing his index finger in your tiny open palm; your fingers instinctively wrapped around his bigger one and gripped it tight.

"Isn't she a beauty?" he fussed, gazing adoringly at your sleeping frame.

"Very much so," The Director concurred, stepping up to take a stand next to your father and clamp a hand on his shoulder. He knew precisely what was running through his friend's mind, and he needed to reassure him. "You're doing the right thing, Erik."

"Am I?" your father wondered, frowning a bit as he took in your infant features and how peaceful and innocent you looked. "Because I'm starting to think that I'm about to make the biggest mistake of my life."

"That can be argued."

"She's just a baby, Nick."

The Director's lips pursed slightly and his eyes narrowed infinitesimally as he looked at you. He understood where your father's hesitation was coming from; if it were up to him, Fury would personally escort you and your parents to the most untraceable, safest corner of the Earth to ensure that nothing would ever happen to any of you. Sadly, that was not an option.

Both men were not at all pleased with the logistics of what was about to happen, but they both knew what the future held, and they recognized that this was perhaps the only way to guarantee that they would have at least some form of un upper hand.

"There's no other way?" Fury spoke a moment later, voice uncharacteristically soft, "No other person?"

Your father gave a sad shake of his head as he sighed. "Not in this universe or the next," he answered, "It's her..."

"Destiny?"

"I was going to say 'birthright'," your father chuckled, looking to his friend before turning to you and gently touching your cheek, "but I suppose 'destiny' isn't incorrect."

Fury observed the act of unconditional love being exchanged before him, allowing it to run its course before he too leaned down to touch your face.

"Nothing bad will ever happen to her, Erik," he said lowly, "I promise you that."

"I don't doubt that you will protect her when I'm unable to do so," your father replied, a crease forming along his forehead, "but as much as I need you to protect her, I need you to guide her still more. Can you do that for me?"

"Hey, I'm no Norse god," Fury scoffed before nodding, "but you can bet your ass that I'll do the best that I can."

"That's all I ask of you," your father whispered, giving The Director a tight-lipped smile before turning to face you.

"My beautiful snowflake," he muttered. A sad smile graced his youthful features as he looked down at you – the epitome of innocence and ignorance – and his smile quickly turned into a frown as his thoughts drifted to what he was about to do.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, kissing your head softly before straightening up, "this is never what I wanted for you." He shook his head as he touched his right index and middle finger to his forehead, and then pressed it to yours. "But in time," he closed his eyes and when he reopened them a moment later, they were a glowing-grey in colour, "I hope you will understand the reasoning behind my actions."

With that, seemingly in a trance, he drew in a deep breath and as he exhaled – slowly and carefully – the grey gradually drained from his eyes. After the colour had completely diminished, your father broke out of his trance with a light shake of his head.

The Director, who had been looking on in silence the entire time, was the first to speak. "Is it done?" he questioned, forehead creasing as he took a cautious step forward, joining your father in looking down at you.

"Yes," your father spoke quietly.

You looked up at your father and godfather with lips curved into a smile and eyes the colour of glowing-grey.

"It's done."

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Present day. A diner somewhere on the outskirts of North Carolina.

Roughly seven hours had passed since you fled from S.H.I.E.L.D HQ, and much to your amazement, there had been no pouty-lipped, emotionless bodyguards pursuing you in a car chase, or dropping out of a helicopter, or chasing you on foot the entire way like you expected there to be. Not a single one. It was a tad disappointing, to be honest.

Sweat looked good on Brendon.

You could envision your recapture right now; a bunch of agents busting through the door and rushing over to you, weapons drawn, faces creased with a bitter mixture of anger and irritation, beckoning for you to get up, saying how could you do something like this when you know the risks involved and that Fury was irate and that you better never try something like this ever again. Then comes the rough gripping of the arm, and the guiding towards whatever vehicle they chose to accompany them on this particular mission, then the opening of the door for you (as if you were royalty, a queen being tended to by her servants and not an escaped asset; but you knew better than to think of it as any more than a guileless gallantry) and after you climbed in, the door would shut again, and they would drive you back to where 'you would be safest'.

Oh, and Brendon would be there, too. He'd be the one doing the arm gripping and tedious lecturing.

He would be – if they had shown up.

You were 99% sure that there would be no S.H.I.E.L.D agents finding you anytime soon – even your bodyguard. You had taken all the precautions necessary to ensure that you would be off S.H.I.E.L.D's radar for a significant amount of time; about forty-five minutes away from HQ, you pulled over at a convenience store to stock up on supplies and to use the ATM to withdraw some cash from the credit card you had taken. You withdrew as much money as you could but made sure not to max it out and once you pocketed the cash, you bent the card in half and tossed it in a nearby trashcan before hurrying back to your vehicle and driving off; you took the back route out of state, opposite to the route you were originally driving on so as to throw S.H.I.E.L.D off.

The SUV wasn't a problem, either; you had specifically targeted the only off-limits one – that was due in for a repair to its tracking system. It would suffice as a reliable form of transport until you could get to somewhere you could find something more practical – it wasn't the most inconspicuous of vehicles, after all. So as far as practical things go, you had done everything to make sure that you were a ghost.

Yet, you still couldn't shake the uncertainty of that 1%.

"Hey, pretty eyes," the busboy's voice broke you out of your trance, and you shook your head a little before turning to him with raised brows. He slung a tattered dishrag over his right shoulder and cocked his head up at you. "You alright?"

"Perfect. Why do you ask?"

He made little effort to hide his amusement when he replied, making vague hand gestures at the crockery on the table in front of you; the food on which lied entirely untouched.

"Rez brought your food over a solid fifteen minutes ago, and you haven't taken a single bite. Haven't even nicked a fry."

Your gaze fell upon the burger and fries combo in front of you. The sight made you nauseous all of a sudden. The sun had only risen about an hour ago; you should've ordered something more breakfast-friendly instead.

"Oh. Yeah," you mumbled, voice completely monotonous; you didn't care to be wasting precious moments on useless talk with a busboy when your time could be better spent gazing out of the diner window and thinking about how much of a disaster your life is.

For goodness sake, busboy, let a girl be depressed in peace.

An uncomfortable quiet was what followed, as you took it upon yourself to study the top bun of your burger in detail while your newfound acquaintance rocked back and forth on his heels, occasionally letting out a low whistle. You counted eighteen sesame seeds before he broke the silence.

"So do you want me to heat it up for you or...?"

"Actually, if you don't mind," you lifted the plate from the table and handed it to him, "Make it a take-out, please."

He thinned his lips and gave a two-fingered salute. "Sure thing."

"And," you stopped him before he could walk away, "could I pay in the meantime? I'm kinda on a... tight schedule."

"Yeah, 'course. You can come right up front; Bets will ring you up."

"Thank you," you gave him a small smile as you gathered your jacket and car keys and slid out of the booth.

Bets was a pudgy, ginger-haired woman, dressed in a classic diner uniform – white skirt draped with a splotched red-apron and a white shirt with her name embroidered across the breast pocket. She wore glasses that despite her efforts to keep them in place, kept sliding down the ridge of her nose; her eyelids were overly caked with blue eye shadow, and you could see the stains her red lipstick left on her teeth when she grinned at you as you approached the till.

"Cheeseburger and shake, righ'?"

You confirmed with a nod, only offering Bets a sliver of your attention, since most of it had now been drawn towards the TV bracketed to the wall on your right. The volume was turned down rather soft, so you couldn't quite make out what was being said, but there was no mistaking the blue-eyed man whose picture took up the majority of the screen; the background was of some or other hotel or conference center – you weren't too sure. Even through a picture being broadcasted on a TV screen, his allure radiated through, drawing you in instantly. It was ridiculous that someone had that kind of magnetism, but even in the way he was posed in the picture, eyes sparkling and a coy smirk on his lips, it was clear that he had the ability to charm everyone and everything he came across – even the lens of a camera.

"That'll be $9.28, hun," Bets spoke, and you fished through your pockets before pulling out a ten and a five and handing it over.

"Keep the change. And, uh, could you turn that up, please?" you waved a hand at the TV and Bets obliged, picking up the remote and turning the volume up.

"...Doctor Aaron Ross, world-renowned agnoiologist, physiologist and expert on Norse mythology, will be concluding his five-day seminar with an exclusive panel hosted at The Ritz hotel in Chicago, Illinois this evening. The event will begin at 6pm and..."

"Chicago," you muttered, catching the attention of the busboy, who'd just set your food down in front of you; he arched his brows as you turned to address him, "that's a, what, ten hour drive from here?"

"Twelve, actually."

"Twelve," you repeated with a nod as you turned to look at the clock hanging on the wall above the exit.

7:30 am.

Extending your thanks to the diner employees, you grabbed your food and dashed for the SUV, starting up and heading for Chicago. If you kept up a steady pace, you'd arrive at around 8pm. And maybe, just maybe, you'd be able to score a dinner date with a certain acquaintance.

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Thank you for reading x

Note: Don't forget to comment which chapters you want to see from Brendon's POV in the chapter titled
'A/N - Vote Here: Brendon's POV'