ʀᴀɢᴇ ﹠ ʜᴏʀʀᴏʀ

THE LION ROAR BREAKS THROUGH a convulsing body, unable to attack with the reinforced restraints in place. Somewhere someone beats words into his head like a ritual chanting. Though the words come in a language he’s become fluent in, they pass over his translation and process only as sounds and syllables. The lights shut off and the convulsions stop, words leaving lingering echoes and static noise. He resists the urge to catch his breath, staying silent as to remain undetected and listen for movement, but the dark is silent too. He knows it isn’t empty.

The lights turn back on and the roaring returns only it doesn’t come from him. In his place, shackled down, is a woman. The room fills with screams this time from both of them, drowning out the chants. 

When they brought him back with them, and in all honesty it felt like they were taking in a stray who did not want to be taken, he meant to find his out. When they said they could help, instinct told him to refuse. Tests and experiments didn’t seem like a better alternative to the life he’d been living hidden away in a dingy apartment, but it changed when something else made him consider the option.

He doesn’t call this a home and he doesn’t know the extent of his temporary stay, but he sits next to Natasha, knee knocking against knee like kids. Forgetting what they were talking about, they’d fallen into a silence of staring at the same rip on his jeans. They read each others minds somehow, always knowing what the other might be thinking about, predicting their next move. That’s how their eyes end up meeting at the same level.

His calm expression now gone, tension builds at his brow with every inch that he moves to press his lips to hers. Like flipping a switch somewhere in him, he quickly becomes consumed. The second that his hand locks on her knee he retracts and mutters an apology under his breath, turning forward on the couch with a hunched back and clenched fists. It isn’t the kiss that he apologizes for, its everything that he won’t tell her and everything else that she already knows. The light that went off in his head like a muted alarm and the ripple down his back that felt more like vertebrae stacking up for combat. He mentions that they’re starting tests tomorrow, that they’re confident, but doesn’t mention that he isn’t.

   HIS COMMENT DOESN’T COME AS A SHOCK      though MJ does find herself amused in the attempt. Though most turned a blind eye to the ghost among them, news blasts getting straight to her phone made him very recognizable. She understands the broad strokes, the specifics of his abilities are concealed as the arm that usually drops down near her. Her head tilts, following his down-tracking gaze,      “      In that case I’ll get you another before Dana gets in here and takes over      ”      It’s not often the end of her shift comes as a disappointment.

   HER SISTER LIKED TO SAY      (      liked to complain       )      about MJ’s ability to talk to anyone. For the most part, there’s truth in it. Caught up in details of their daily lives, there is something of interest to be found even when waiting for the subway. He’s different. Not a way to pass the time, not a usual airy conversation. Her ever-present smile widens when she sees him there, his presence alone can bring it about.

   AS PROMISED     she pours him another, leaning in as she slides the glass his way. If it’s a secret, she keeps her, complete with lowering her voice as she teases,      “      You must really miss hangovers, huh?      ”

  IT WOULD SOUND SAD TO ADMIT      that he’d been spending his nights the same way, sat in a barstool for longer than it takes to finish a drink. An unnecessary amount of time for someone who goes alone and with no intention of losing sobriety. But no one questions him because no one notices him. Well, save for one.      “    Dana.   ”      He drums his fingers against the bar top. He doesn’t know Dana but he’s sure she can’t do her job like Mary Jane, though he runs the risk of seeming obsessed if he leaves the moment she does. 

  WHAT ONCE WAS CUSTOM      he’s found to have gained new meaning in the contemporary world. Manners are seen as too polite or pretentious when they once were commonplace. Men held doors, walked people home, shook hands, took off their hats (  though he’s learned to hide behind his  ). He can’t help it when his old instincts kick in. Sometimes they’re confusing like he’s stuck in a warped time and other times they’re refreshing, like seeing an old friend or getting a piece of yourself back that was lost somewhere in the rubble.

HE SHAKES HIS HEAD AND BITES HIS LIPS. She makes him laugh whether she tries to or not, and it’s a nice change. Different, being able to have a conversation about nothing over eggs and toast and being completely satisfied with that. It’s different having his time filled with the presence of someone else and not be alone when he would have thought he needed to be. And though it seems and feels easy, it’s fucking hard. The smile isn’t.