Not had been the right decision. This particular nightmare had been trying his best to keep his head, not bothering with bargaining or getting angry but watching and testing his restraints and then the restraints had released on him and in the military, you don't hesitate. Even if he'd wanted to draw it out, they'd starved him dry. He hadn't been so hungry in recent memory. He had barely the presence of mind to make sure the man died, one precise and vicious bite-and-tear painting the wall red before a quick snap of the neck, no chance he might survive the venom and transform, but it hadn't mattered anyway. Jasper had drained him, and with it, drowned his last hopes of being reunited with his family.
Oh, they'd welcome him back, but he wouldn't welcome himself. He'd never been as strong as the rest, but he'd also never relapsed, and he'd told himself he never would. Never mind that it wasn't his fault. Never mind that he'd held back and stood between his fleeing family and the black beetles of SHIELD agents descending on them, never mind that they'd thrown him into a pit and discussed with interest right in front of him his eyes as they'd darkened from gold to soulless shark-black.
He hadn't known how long he'd sat there, watching the blood dry on his fingers, before she'd come in. He'd wondered if she'd been nearby, or if he'd only been imagining her particular tangled flavor of emotions, but he was in no position to be angry. She had warned them. Possible she herself hadn't been told how fast they'd be moving in. It was still a tense several days laying low, hiding from the sun, hiding his eyes behind sunglasses even indoors, before she'd managed to maneuver them both to her safehouse in the woods.
And she'd left him there, and he'd really expected he wouldn't see her again. His first few days had been a shipwreck, a drifting agony of indecision—he'd come close to leaving that first night, come close to running south again, looking for Maria again, she'd take him back and he was useless to anyone else like this—but this place was far, far off any beaten trail. When he got hungry again, animal blood was all he could scent, and he thanked every god he cared to name for that. It kept him there, the silence and the solitude and the peace, and by the time he hears footsteps in the leaves, his eyes are back to bright, burnished gold.
She doesn't say a word when she stares him down like she's angry about something and walks past and inside, and he frowns and almost follows, but no, that's not the look of someone inviting questions, or company. Instead, he slips into the kitchen for the first time to see what's there, and it's sparse. If she's staying, and it looks like she might be, he'll go out and bring something back for her. Even though this is her house, and he is her guest, he feels oddly like he ought to be a good host.
He is still on the porch, a finger marking his place in the book he's reading, something he hasn't gone back to since he'd first looked up to see her watching him. "Yes, ma'am," he says, standing immediately and setting the book aside, and folding his hands behind his back, not quite at a military at-ease but it's there in him. "Welcome back. I must say, this is a surprise."
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Oh, they'd welcome him back, but he wouldn't welcome himself. He'd never been as strong as the rest, but he'd also never relapsed, and he'd told himself he never would. Never mind that it wasn't his fault. Never mind that he'd held back and stood between his fleeing family and the black beetles of SHIELD agents descending on them, never mind that they'd thrown him into a pit and discussed with interest right in front of him his eyes as they'd darkened from gold to soulless shark-black.
He hadn't known how long he'd sat there, watching the blood dry on his fingers, before she'd come in. He'd wondered if she'd been nearby, or if he'd only been imagining her particular tangled flavor of emotions, but he was in no position to be angry. She had warned them. Possible she herself hadn't been told how fast they'd be moving in. It was still a tense several days laying low, hiding from the sun, hiding his eyes behind sunglasses even indoors, before she'd managed to maneuver them both to her safehouse in the woods.
And she'd left him there, and he'd really expected he wouldn't see her again. His first few days had been a shipwreck, a drifting agony of indecision—he'd come close to leaving that first night, come close to running south again, looking for Maria again, she'd take him back and he was useless to anyone else like this—but this place was far, far off any beaten trail. When he got hungry again, animal blood was all he could scent, and he thanked every god he cared to name for that. It kept him there, the silence and the solitude and the peace, and by the time he hears footsteps in the leaves, his eyes are back to bright, burnished gold.
She doesn't say a word when she stares him down like she's angry about something and walks past and inside, and he frowns and almost follows, but no, that's not the look of someone inviting questions, or company. Instead, he slips into the kitchen for the first time to see what's there, and it's sparse. If she's staying, and it looks like she might be, he'll go out and bring something back for her. Even though this is her house, and he is her guest, he feels oddly like he ought to be a good host.
He is still on the porch, a finger marking his place in the book he's reading, something he hasn't gone back to since he'd first looked up to see her watching him. "Yes, ma'am," he says, standing immediately and setting the book aside, and folding his hands behind his back, not quite at a military at-ease but it's there in him. "Welcome back. I must say, this is a surprise."