SANCTUM | Avengers

14

- FOURTEEN -

For the first time in my life, I am woken up by a bright beam of sun falling across my face. No blaring alarms, no cold water being poured on me, or even the dull and constant ache of pain.

Sitting up and pulling on a pair of pants and another shirt that Laura had left in the dresser, I make my way downstairs.

"Good Morning, sleepyhead," a voice calls from the kitchen. Standing at the stove, with a frying pan in hand, Barton turns and waves a spatula in my direction.

"It's five in the morning," I state, catching a glance at the clock warily.

"Mhm," he replies, looking back to his eggs on the stove. "You're the last one up, too."

I must look confused, so he explains himself.

"We're early risers" he laughs, shaking his head in dismay. "Cap didn't even go to bed last night, I don't think."

I just nod my head, unsure of what to do with this information. Before I can protest, he walks over and places a steaming plate of food in front of me. I had assumed he was making the breakfast for himself.

"Eat," he says, simply.

I almost hesitate, but the growing hunger in my stomach is peaked at the sight of the freshly buttered toast.

As I chew, he pulls up a chair across the table, and flips it around to sit on it backwards. Leaning on the backrest of the seat, his brow furrows.

"Can I help you?" I ask, starting to get annoyed with his staring.

"How old are you?" he asks out of the blue.

"Twenty-four," I respond. There was no need to hide it; I'm strong for my age. The youngest graduate of the Red Room.

Now the biggest failure, too.

"Shit," he mutters, shaking his head again. "How the hell did you get in this mess?"

He mutters under his breath, standing up and placing his hand on his temple. I can not even tell if he is asking me or himself. With no idea how to react to what he said, I change the subject.

"Have you figured out my transport for tonight?"

He just nods.

"It'll be here by midnight," he says, the phantom look of concern still on his face.

"Okay," is all I say before he gets up and places his empty mug of coffee in the sink. Sighing again, he turns back to face me. The look on his face isn't of pity, but of disappointment. Not in me, but in something else that I can't figure out.

"Listen, I still have a fence to fix so if you're here for the rest of the day, make yourself useful," he states, a small smile appearing again. "The garden needs weeding- then one out by the front. The tools are next to the porch."

He nods in my direction before walking out of the house quietly.

I follow suit, placing my dish into the sink and walking out the front door. A light breeze flows over me; it's not warm but it's not cold, either. Spotting the tools he mentioned, I grab them and make my way to the garden.

The early morning sun casts and golden glow on the carrots, lettuce, potatoes, and countless weeds lining the garden.

Plopping down on to the damp soil, I take a deep breath and begin plucking.

I sit there for the rest of the morning, getting into a peaceful rhythm and collecting a sizeable pile of weeds. The undersides of my fingernails are dark brown from the dirt, but I don't mind.