shield falls and not everyone climbs out of the rubble alive. bobbi is a bruise, an exhausted scrap of a woman with a heart that beats for panic and bleeds for survival, but doesnât do much else.
clintâs the one to tell her when the dust settles (he was atlas with a clenched jaw and a tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth - bobbi spares him the full explanation after one syllable, her name; he hates talking on the phone, and she doesnât have any words to give him). theyâve lost a child together before, so he understands the desperation with which she clings to rage. to lose her footing is to surrender to the paralysis of grief, and neither have been good at dwelling on that (for better or worse). he hangs up after three minutes of silence with a sigh and the promise of brining her home. but babs wasnât theirs - she was bobbiâs, an almost-daughter, her responsibility; her family. clint canât unburden her this time by shouldering some of this weight, this terrible guilt. sheâs failed at the most important job sheâs ever been given, and bobbi knows sheâll have that to bear for the rest of her life.
waiting for extraction, shattered on the floor of her safe house, the mountains press in around her, deafen her, press her into something cold, bitter and hard. agents donât take their own revenge, but this is a new world - she has an unlimited supply of bullets with HYDRA scratched into every one of them, and no one to tell her to stop firing.
My muse is dead. Tell me how yours is dealing with it.
