I look down. I’m covered in blood. Is it mine?
I stagger. Everything is too bright. Too loud.
Somewhere in the back of my head a voice tells me to turn.
I see movement. Muscled arms, black leather. I try to walk towards her. I’m kneeling? Someone touches my arm. Soft hands. A heartbeat. I fall.
When I wake, I’m in my room on the BUS. The lights are off, but sunlight streams through the gap in the blinds and digs ice picks into the back of my skull. I roll over, bring a hand up to rub at my face. A searing pain in my leg hits and I am dragged from the last vestiges of sleep. Ugh. I gently sit myself up and lower myself to the floor. My ankle is in some form of brace. I guess I have FitzSimmons to thank for that.
When I have finally wobbled my way to the living quarters, everyone is in animated conversation, wearing equally devastated expressions on each face.
I take another step and everyone is silent as they turn to face me.
“You’re awake!” Simmons is the first to speak, her enthusiasm sounding forced.
“What’s wrong?”
Clearly something is seriously wrong- they all look at each other worriedly before May speaks.
“You don’t remember?” There is a barely concealed hint of concern in her voice.
“No? What happened?”
Again, the team all make eye contact. Fitz drums his fingers against his thigh.
Frustrated, I ask again.
Coulson finally speaks up.
“We- uh- lost a civilian.”
I think back to the night before. We’d heard reports of an 084, but when we reached the site Hydra had ambushed us. We’d been tidying up the last of them when a civilian had come running in, screaming about her daughter. The kid was cowering in a corner, and I remember running towards her, lifting her, and then- nothing. “The girl.” I mumble, already realising what had happened. It was my fault.
My friends nod gravely and Simmons steps forward, raising her arm as if to pull me into a hug.
My vision is blurry with tears and I push away from Simmons.
“It wasn’t your fault,” someone calls.
I’m already locked in my bunk by the time anyone thinks to follow me.
I look down. I’m covered in blood. Is it mine?
I stagger. Everything is too bright. Too loud.
Somewhere in the back of my head a voice tells me to turn.
I see movement. Muscled arms, black leather. I try to walk towards her. I’m kneeling? Someone touches my arm. Soft hands. A heartbeat. I fall.
When I wake, I’m in my room on the BUS. The lights are off, but sunlight streams through the gap in the blinds and digs ice picks into the back of my skull. I roll over, bring a hand up to rub at my face. A searing pain in my leg hits and I am dragged from the last vestiges of sleep. Ugh. I gently sit myself up and lower myself to the floor. My ankle is in some form of brace. I guess I have FitzSimmons to thank for that.
When I have finally wobbled my way to the living quarters, everyone is in animated conversation, wearing equally devastated expressions on each face.
I take another step and everyone is silent as they turn to face me.
“You’re awake!” Simmons is the first to speak, her enthusiasm sounding forced.
“What’s wrong?”
Clearly something is seriously wrong- they all look at each other worriedly before May speaks.
“You don’t remember?” There is a barely concealed hint of concern in her voice.
“No? What happened?”
Again, the team all make eye contact. Fitz drums his fingers against his thigh.
Frustrated, I ask again.
Coulson finally speaks up.
“We- uh- lost a civilian.”
I think back to the night before. We’d heard reports of an 084, but when we reached the site Hydra had ambushed us. We’d been tidying up the last of them when a civilian had come running in, screaming about her daughter. The kid was cowering in a corner, and I remember running towards her, lifting her, and then- nothing. “The girl.” I mumble, already realising what had happened. It was my fault.
My friends nod gravely and Simmons steps forward, raising her arm as if to pull me into a hug.
My vision is blurry with tears and I push away from Simmons.
“It wasn’t your fault,” someone calls.
I’m already locked in my bunk by the time anyone thinks to follow me.
It’s not the first time a civilian has died during our raids. It’s not even the first time it’s been a kid. But still. I could have saved her. If I hadn’t lifted her, if I had moved faster- I mean, she’d probably have survived if I’d done anything other than lift her in the air like a lunatic. I did this. I’m a murderer. The whole team probably hates me now. I rifle through a drawer next to my tiny desk, grabbing the ornate pocket-knife I’ve carried everywhere with me since joining shield. I tug my shirt off and gently draw a line across my shoulder.
I killed someone.
The skin snags and tears and a few tiny droplets of blood bead up. I move the knife further down and drag it through my skin, relishing the burn of the blade.
That girl died because of me. Died.
I make more cuts, each time dragging the blade deeper than the last. There’s blood all over my arm now, making it hard to hold the knife. I can’t stop though.
I wonder whether the civilian died instantly or suffered for hours while I slept.
It’s the least I can do to make myself hurt. I carve another line and almost laugh when the skin gapes open like some deformed mouth.
I don’t deserve to be on this team, this plane full of good people. Good people don’t kill kids.
Eventually the adrenaline has worn off and my arms and thighs feel like they’re on fire, struggling to clot. I wrap them tightly in gauze and let myself fall onto my bed. When I sleep, I dream of burning buildings and splatters of blood.
When the next day finally comes, I shower and wash off all the blood. The team will want to know if I’m ok, and I really shouldn’t miss any more training, or May will stop teaching me. I catch my own eyes in my reflection and only then do I realise how terrible I look. There are black shadows under both my eyes, my hair is matted, my skin seems a shade too pale (which can probably be attributed to the blood loss) and my lips are torn and bloody. Sighing, I carefully add a thin coat of concealer under my eyes and apply lip balm on my injured lips. I attempt to comb my hair out and tie it back out of my face. Already I look much better, and I hope the rest of the plane’s crew believe it. Finally, I carefully wrap a bandage around both my arms and pull a long-sleeved shirt over the top, wincing when the bandages pull at my cuts.
May throws her first punch and I duck under it, coming back up with a right hook. I can feel every wound on one arm opening and I bit my lip to avoid gasping. May slows down her movements considerably and I worry that she’s seen, but she sweeps her leg out and I fall to the ground. This time I can’t conceal my wince. May tells me to get up and I push myself to my feet with a grimace. I’m sure she’s noticed by now, but I just mutter a sorry and raise my fists again. We’ve only been sparring for a few more minutes when May suddenly steps back. I freeze, knowing already that she knows.
“You’re hurt? Show me,” she orders, not bothering with sensitivities.
“You know what, I’m just gonna... go” I try to leave the room, but in a matter of seconds she has me pinned to the wall.
“Take. Off. Your. Shirt.”
“Sorry, but you aren’t really my type,” I deadpan, but seeing her facial expression I resign to my fate and gently pull my shirt over my head, feeling relieved when she finally lets go of me. To my shock, my sleeves are already showing patches of blood and my bandages are positively soaked.
May’s eyes narrow as she sees the extent of the blood and the symmetry of the bandages, and with the steadiness of years of experience she carefully unwraps the sodden bandage.
The damage seems worse now than it had this morning. I’ve clearly torn all my clots off and there are patches of black bruising where I’ve pressed too hard. A little blood oozes from the deeper wounds and little bubbles of fat are visible in places.
May is not an emotional woman. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen her looking less than completely controlled. That’s why it breaks my heart when I look up and see how pale she has suddenly become. There is no way that she hasn’t understood the endless horizontal lines.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” I beg. “I swear I’ll stop; I know I’m letting the team down but they’ll hate me even more if they find out!”
May completely ignores me and calls out for Simmons. I look up to the ceiling to avoid the glare she’s undoubtably sending me. After a few minutes of tense silence as we wait, she steps away.
“You do not move a muscle. Understand?”
I nod guiltily and she strides out of the room, without so much as glancing back.
The very second that the door swings shut behind her, I slide to the floor and cover my face with my hands. I’m going to get kicked out of shield and I’ll have to live on the streets and I’m going to lose the only family I’ve ever had and they all hate me because I killed someone, that civilian died because of me and now I’m letting them all down by self-harming and-
The door opens again and May comes back in. Without a word, she walks to me and crouches down to my level. Instinctively I flinch away- she’s come to punish me- but she pretends to take no notice and instead pulls my hands from my arms, where I realise I’ve dug my nails into the open wounds. She helps me to my feet and, in an oddly motherly way leads me to FitzSimmons’ lab. Fitz is nowhere to be seen and Simmons’ eyes are red as she sits me down and begins washing some of the blood off. Dissimilar to her usual bubbly self, stays almost completely silent as she stitches me up, aside from apologising profusely whenever she deems that she has hurt me. May eventually leaves the room, and only then does Jemma pull me into her arms and hug me as tightly as she possibly can. I wrap my injured arms around her and quietly cry into her shoulder. She rubs circles into my back and I wish that I could spend the rest of my life encased in her arms, but eventually she releases me.
“Sorry about that,” she laughs awkwardly, wiping at her eyes.
“It’s ok.” My voice is hoarse from crying.
“Anywhere else I need to stitch up?” she queries, and I nod, carefully shedding my tracksuit pants and the thick layer of bandages that shield my thighs. Jemma gasps and turns away when she sees how deep they are. She’s disgusted by me. She dabs at them with disinfectant and carefully stitches and wraps them, then gives me a painkiller and helps me into the pristine white bed of the med-ward.
She stops at the door as she leaves. “Please, Daisy-“ her voices catches, “We couldn’t bear to lose you.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and she closes the door behind her.
Immediately I am overwhelmed with the desire to bleed. I made Simmons cry, for god’s sake. I can’t believe I’ve done this to my friends. I carefully lift myself out of the bed and make my way to the hallway, wrapping a thin blanket around myself to cover my bandages. I briefly wonder if they’ve told the rest of the team yet- how long will it take for Coulson to kick me out?
Luckily there seems to be no-one in the hallway so I can tiptoe all the way to the gym before I reach any resistance. Usually at this time of day various people would be exercising, whether it be Coulson jogging or FitzSimmons trying to prove that they aren’t weak, but when I peak around the doorway, all I can see is May using the punching bag. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her hit this hard before, even when she is in life or death situations, and it hurts to know that she’s probably imagining that it’s me. The only way to get to my room and retrieve my knife is through the gym, so I try to walk quietly behind May, hoping that the sound of her bare fists hitting plastic covers up my breathing, or however else the spy always knows people are nearby. I’ve almost made it when she turns around.
“Oh great, you’re back.”
I do a little wave and try to keep walking, but I know it’s futile so I barely try.
“Come with me” she orders, and I follow her disappointedly.
We reach Coulson’s office and I realise in shock what she wants me to do.
“Woah, no way” I say, trying to edge around her.
“You’re telling him.” She commands, but seeing my face she softens her tone. “I can come with you if you want, but he needs to know.”
I nod numbly and she opens the door, beckoning me inside. Coulson is sitting at his desk, probably filling out paperwork, and he looks up in surprise when we enter.
“Agent May, Daisy.” He greets, putting down his pen and looking up.
“H-hi,” I stammer. “I- uh- have to tell you something.”
“What’s wrong?” he asks, sounding genuinely concerned and I feel a fresh wave of anger at myself for ruining all of this.
I carefully shrug off the blanket and let him see the bandages in all their glory. He makes a tiny choking noise and stands up.
“You did this?”
I nod dumbly and flinch away when he gets too close. May makes a little movement in my peripheral vision and he steps away.
“Can I see?” he asks gently, a stark contrast to May’s orders before.
I unwrap one of my shoulders and he steps towards me again.
“Oh Daisy…”
Something in me snaps. “I’m sorry, okay? I killed her and its all my fault and I let the whole team down and now everyone is upset because I did this and I’ve ruined everything-“ I gasp for air and feel strong hands on my shoulders, holding me in place.
“Daisy, I need you to breathe with me,” May says from in front of me. “Come on, it’s going to be ok, I just need you to take a deep breath, ok?”
I follow her instruction and find that the burn in my chest subsides quickly and my breathing returns to normal. May guides me into a chair and I fall into it, still struggling to get my heart rate under control. Coulson is still just standing there, looking shell shocked, and its kind of endearing to see how he ceases to function. May sends a pointed stare in his direction and he seems to snap out of it, going back to his own chair.
“Daisy?” I look up from my lap and he continues. “We really care about you. I mean, I think I’m speaking for both May and I when I say that you’re like a daughter to us.” I gasp. They think of me as their kid?
He looks to May and she continues. “Was what happened in Bahrain my fault?”
Immediately I butt in, horrified that she’d even ask. “Of course that wasn’t your fault!”
“Then how was it your fault that the civilian died? Did you specifically set the bomb that killed her?”
“But if I hadn’t lifted her she’d be fine-” I’m kind of struggling to find an argument that makes any sense compared to May’s. I wonder how many times she’s had to have the same argument with herself.
“If I hadn’t shot Katya she’d be fine. In our line of work, we’re going to make bad calls and people are going to get hurt. It happens to all of us. But you can’t be hurting yourself because of it.”
Coulson looks hurt that May mentioned Bahrain but he nods in agreement. “We’d never ‘kick you off the team’. I promise. But you can’t keep going like this. Some of those cuts are deep, Daisy. Imagine what’d happen if you went too far one day and bled out. It’d break the team. It’d break us.”
I look down ashamedly. I know he’s right but I don’t know how to fix it.
“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
Coulson butts in. “Relapse is a part of recovery, we just want you to talk to us next time. I’ve never met someone who doesn’t relapse once or twice.”
Met someone? There are other S.H.I.E.L.D agents who do it? They must see my confusion, because May and Coulson make eye contact and he nods at her reassuringly. May shrugs off her jacket and I see row upon row of white lines. May? The powerful woman I see before me, who I’ve seen beat up ten men in the span of three minutes.
It’s shocking, but in a way it makes sense. I’m sort of crushed by guilt, but when Coulson and May and I make our way back to the main space, I look around and see the faces of a team wracked by pain. And more than that, I see a family. My family