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ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴇʟᴇᴠᴇɴ: ᴡᴇʟʟ, ɪ'ᴍ sᴛɪʟʟ ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ

❝ ʏᴏᴜ'ᴠᴇ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ᴀ ɢʀᴀᴠᴇ ᴍɪsᴛᴀᴋᴇ, ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛᴏʀ. ❞

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                             YOU BIT YOUR BOTTOM LIP AND RUBBED YOUR ARMS AS YOU PACED THE LENGTH OF THE GLASS OFFICE. Two hours had passed since you'd arrived back at HQ, and Brendon still wasn't back yet. If you weren't worried back in Germany when he told you that he was staying to fight, you definitely were now. Yeah, Brendon could handle himself – you knew this, but the dread in the pit of your stomach wouldn't go away. As much as you despised him, and sometimes wished he would just disappear, you didn't actually want him to die.

Because you still needed him there to protect you.

Just when you thought that you were going to pass out from worry, Brendon entered the room.

You sighed in relief as your bodyguard made his way closer to you. "You're alive."

He cocked an eyebrow at you. "Don't sound so disappointed," he scoffed.

"I-I'm not," you frowned, "I'm actually..."

"Devastated?" he offered.

"Yes," you sighed, rolling your eyes. "I was so hoping you would come back in a body bag."

"Well, I'm always happy to disappoint you," he smiled sarcastically.

"Wouldn't have it any other way," you returned his smile, with ten times as much sarcasm.

Brendon ran his hand through his thick hair, and it was only then that you noticed the huge gash across his forehead. You let out a horror-filled gasp and he gave you a perplexed look.

"What?"

"You're hurt," you grimaced, crossing over to him so that you could get a better look.

"I'm fine," he brushed you off, "It's just a little scratch."

"It's more than a 'little scratch'," you scoffed, "Let me see."

Despite Brendon's best efforts to keep you away from his face, you managed to coerce him into sitting down on the sofa, while you went to grab the first aid kit that was stashed in the cabinet in the opposite corner of the office.

"I don't want you anywhere near my face," Brendon snapped as he eyed you while you unpacked the necessary supplies.

"Well, that's too bad," you retorted, breaking off a piece of cotton wool from the roll and opening the bottle of anti-septic, "because I'm going to clean you up."

"I already told you, it's just a scratch. I've been through worse. A lot worse. I've been blown up; I'm sure I'll be able to handle this," he sneered, trying to swat away your hand, which was trying to touch the anti-septic soaked cotton wool to his wound.

"Will you stop being such a whiny bitch for one minute and let me fix you?" you groaned frustratedly.

"What," he swallowed hard, narrowing his eyes at you, "did you just call me?"

"A whiny bitch," you repeated, and with that, you placed the cotton wool over the gash in his forehead.

Brendon hissed, jolting a bit at the sudden surge of pain that was sent through him as a result of the medicine taking action and you smirked at the reaction you'd gotten out of him.

"Wow. You'd think that for someone who's been blown up, you'd have a much higher pain tolerance. Do you cry like this during combat on missions too?"

"Shut up," he growled through clenched teeth, eyes boring into yours. You simply shrugged and continued dabbing the wool against his head, and admittedly, doing so with a bit more pressure than was necessary, which didn't go unnoticed by him. "You're doing that on purpose."

"Doing what?" you asked innocently, cocking your head to the side while your hand continued its movements.

"Just stop messing around and finish up already."

Removing the wool, you wrapped it in a dry piece, for discarding later. Then you picked up the healing cream, screwing open the cap and squeezing a little bit out onto your finger before leaning in closer to Brendon.

"Keep still, please," you requested, and you gently smeared the cream onto his cleaned-up cut. While you proceeded with slowly and carefully rubbing it in, you could feel his eyes on you, but you didn't look at him. Once the cream was entirely rubbed in, you picked up a Band-Aid from the kit, opening it and tentatively placing it over the wound. "There you go," you whispered, smoothing out the creases in the plaster, "All done."

You pulled away from Brendon and turned your gaze to meet his. His face was obviously as hard as always, but his eyes looked slightly softer. Slightly.

"Thanks," he mumbled, and you nodded in response, folding your arms.

"Sorry to interrupt this sickenly adorable love-fest," Tony said as he strutted into the room, "but it's bad manners to leave without a proper goodbye."

"Oh my god," you said in awe as you stared at the designer suit-wearing legend that stood in front of you, "you're-"

"Tony Stark," he cut you off, extending a hand for you to shake, which you nervously did, "Billionaire, genius, playboy, philanthropist. And you're (Y/N)," he snapped his fingers. "Wow, you're more beautiful than your S.H.I.E.L.D mug shot lets up."

"Erm, thanks. I guess," you chuckled weakly; he gave you a tight-lipped smile in response. "I have a mug shot?" you cocked your head at your bodyguard.

"You said you were coming to say goodbye?" Brendon stood up from where he had been sitting on the black leather sofa and approached Tony, ignoring your question.

"As sad as it will be for all of you, yes," Tony bowed his head. "I'd love to stay and help you with your complications, but there's some urgent business that I need to tend to in New York."

"Well," Brendon said, extending his hand toward the older man, "thanks for all your help."

"Don't mention it, kid. If there's anything else you need, just call," Tony shook his hand and the two men exchanged a nod before Tony turned to his left, pointing a finger at you and frowning. "When all this is over, I'm throwing a party at my place, and you're the guest of honour. You look like you know how to have a good time." And with a wink, he walked out the door, backtracking after about two seconds. "(Y/N)?"

"Yeah?"

"Your father was a great man."

~

"Has he said anything?" The Director asked, taking a stand next to Agent Hill, joining her in looking through the glass window at the assassin, restrained to a chair and incubated in a steel-glass case.

"Not a word," she answered, a frown on her face. "And it's very unlikely that he will. He's trained not to speak unless he's previously received direct orders to do so."

"We need him on our side. Is there any chance of getting through to him?"

Hill shook her head solemnly. "He's totally loyal to Hydra; we'll never be able to get him to crack by tossing random things from his past at him."

"Not just random things, Agent," The Director spoke, hands clasped behind his back as he kept his eyes on the assassin.

Agent Romanoff turned to her superior with a disapproving look. "Sir, I don't think that bringing up his past is a good idea. We have no idea how he will react."

"Well, I guess we're about to find out."

With those words, The Director entered the security code into the system next to the door, allowing it to slide open. He took short, meaningful strides towards the cage, stopping just short of the door. The assassin raised his head, and the two men stared intensely at each other.

"Do you know who I am?" The Director broke the haunting silence after a few seconds.

No response.

"Do you know who you are?"

No response.

"No?" The Director took another step closer. "I can tell you, if you want."

No response.

"My name is Nicholas Fury. I'm The Director of Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division – S.H.I.E.L.D – but you knew that already." The assassin remained quiet, but never once broke eye contact with The Director. "Yes, of course you did. You know all about S.H.I.E.L.D, don't you? You know everything, since Hydra made you their bitch."

The Asset's jaw seemed to clench just a little bit, catching the attention of The Director, who took it as a cue to continue.

"Your name is Grant Douglas Ward. You were abused as a child by your family, and as you teenager, you tried to burn down your family home," The Director paused, searching for any sign of some type of reaction, but he found none, "You were imprisoned until you were freed by John Garret, who trained you to become a cold-blooded killer. You became extremely loyal to him. Then – Hydra found you. They found you, and they turned you into a weapon. One of the most dangerous weapons they've ever had. You've been on S.H.I.E.L.D's hit list for years, among the world's most wanted. Of course, we haven't been able to find you. Until now," The Director pressed a finger to the glass, pointing at the silent, statuesque assassin, "You practically handed yourself over to us. You're a smart kid. You should've known that this wouldn't end well for you. We'd have caught you eventually. We always do," The Director nodded, more to himself than to anyone else, "But if you co-operate and give us what we need, we may be able to come to some sort of arrangement. We know that Snowflake powers your weapon, and we know that Hydra is planning on using it to produce an abundance of much more dangerous weapons. So here's the deal: you help me take them down and I won't kill you."

The assassin finally broke the eye contact, looking down and frowning at the ground before returning his gaze to The Director, eyes darker and hardened immensely. Leaning forward as much as he could, he spoke two words, loud and clearly.

"Hail Hydra."

The Director held his gaze for a few more moments, before turning and walking towards the exit; the sound of the assassin speaking again stopped him in his tracks.

"You've made a grave mistake, Director."

"I have? How so?"

"You shouldn't have lied to her." The Director's entire body tensed. "Once she opens that book, it's all over."

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