Tony twists her head, tries to massage away the ache, but no luck. Without an actual masseuse going to town on her, not likely it’s going to get any better with anything short of muscle relaxers. But she’s on base, and it is both (1) extremely unlikely that she’ll find any kind of a masseuse working for Hydra, though maybe she’d be surprised, and (2) she’s not about to drug herself up in this place. She’s not suicidal. No, there’s no chance of releasing any tension until she’s sent back out on assignment.
No chance of getting out of the starched black uniform, either. She’d grown up in it, a larger size every growth spurt, nothing but black cotton, leather and canvas and the many-headed logo. It hadn’t been until she’d been sent out for the first time that she’d been able to choose her own clothes, and she misses the comfortable jeans and tee shirts. Red lipstick, too, she’d liked that, had previously only been permitted to wear it during certain parts of her training. For now, though, until she’s released from her current project, she’s stuck in the uniform.
She rounds the corner, straightening her spine and ignoring the ache when she sees the guards standing on either side of the door at the end of the hall. No weakness in front of Hydra. She learned that lesson early.
They don’t question her when she knocks twice and then opens the door, stepping inside and surveying the spartan rooms before her gaze stops at the man occupying it, giving him a once-over. Fit and healthy, almost unbelievably so, no lost weight, no sign whatsoever of his recent miraculous reanimation. “Ready to stretch your legs, Capsicle?” She pauses. “Captain. I definitely meant to say Captain.”
