12. Rising Sun
Stopping in front of a large building in a slightly better, or at least a less diminished, part of town, Ava looked up at the tower of brick and steel in front of her. She still remained quite apprehensive about trusting the detective. After all, he carried himself in a sort of awkward state, as if his own mind lay somewhere between this world and somewhere else.
Unbuckling herself and getting out of the car, she followed the detective inside and into the elevator. The elevator slowly ascended, it's metallic hum filling the void of silence that developed between the two. She noticed that he was looking at her with a strange expression on his face, his brow raised partially in amusement.
"What?" She finally got out, her ire at the man's unsettling nature already taking over.
"Pardon me for staring." He started, glancing away from her slightly. "It's just the… absurdity of this whole thing just caught up with me."
"Only just?"
He nodded sheepishly, his tired eyes showing just a glint of mirth.
They carried on in silence until, the elevator shuddered to a halt. Stepping out, she followed the detective hesitantly down the aged and slightly weathered corridor. Taking out his keys, he opened a door at the end of the hallway and quietly stepped in. Following behind him, she was greeted with the sight of light flooding a stark and plain apartment. In the front room, there was a plain couch and a small TV against the wall. A book shelf filled with various novels, indexes, and tomes stood on one side of the room and a desk on the other side of the room, scattered with papers and files. It had a minimalist, albeit lived-in feel to it.
"Not much to look at, I know." He stated, noticing her observing the bare apartment. "I'll be right back."
She watched him disappear down the hall, his form bleeding into the shadows of the unilluminated apartment. Having escaped any immediate danger, she allowed herself to relax just a bit. Her adrenaline now dissipating, she felt the sting from where the bullet grazed her much more now. Looking down at the wound, she saw part of her light grey suit discolored by a sizable red stain.
Taking off her mask with a hiss, she dared to press her hand to her side and was greeted with another wave of pain through her system.
Feels worse than I thought it would…
"I've got the first-aid kit." Detective Corrigan returned, a small white box in his hands. "Now let's patch you u – "
He paused as he took a good look at her face for the first time. From where she stood he seemed almost judgmental, or critical perhaps. It was a short pause, and the stare he gave was fleeting if one wasn't noticing. But she noticed, and his look of mesmerized curiosity all but unsettled her even more.
"What is it?" She asked warily, unsure as to what was going through his head.
"Nothing." He answered plainly, aware that he had been staring for longer than he should have. "Here, sit yourself down."
Too tired to resist his politeness, she sat herself down onto the couch. Kneeling down in front of her, she let him inspect her wound. Under normal circumstances, she'd have been content to do this herself. But obviously these circumstances were far from normal.
There was a familiar prickling of pain, like a short series of stabs permeating from her left side. She felt awkward letting him treat her wound. Awkward in the sense that for the first time in her life, she had allowed her weakness to be exposed in front of someone new for the first time in years.
"You got lucky. Seems like it's only a graze, granted it's a fair bit deeper." With a sigh, he leaned back and looked up at her. "I don't think you'll need stitches, but you're going to have to take off that suit."
She looked back at him with a questionable stare, her eyebrow raised in obvious hesitance. Given how much she'd already been through, the thought of taking off the suit which had proven so instrumental in suppressing her pain in the home of a total stranger was not exactly on her agenda.
Then again, getting shot at and tracked by Hydra agents wasn't on the cards either.
"Look, Ms. Starr. I won't presume to know what you're thinking. Nor will I try to unnecessarily impress upon you my goodwill to get you to trust me." He placed the first-aid kit onto the bed next to her. "But if it makes you comfortable, I'll leave this here and leave you to it."
Without another word, he stood back up and walked down the hall into the kitchen. Looking away from his retreating shadow, she grabbed the first-aid kit next her and opened it up. She saw that everything was there, bandages, rubbing alcohol, the lot.
Hearing his movements in the kitchen, she took the opportunity to take of her stabilization suit. Placing it on the bed next to her, she started to get out objects from the first-aid kit and began patching herself up. Mercifully, she didn't need stitches, so a simple disinfecting and bandaging was all she needed.
Having patched herself up, she noticed that her undershirt still had a long open streak from the gunshot graze. Looking around the empty room, she realized that she didn't have any extra clothes on hand. Just as she considered her dilemma, she noticed from the kitchen the sound of a light piano providing support to a very somber trumpet, it's music filling the whole apartment.
Almost blue
Almost doing things we used to do
There's a girl here and she's almost you…
Daring herself to walk into the kitchen, she crossed found the detective sat at the dinner table, a glass of whiskey at hand with a bottle right in front of him. He was facing a large window that seemed to frame the whole apartment, staring blankly at the city lights below. At a table near the hallway entrance, stood a table with a record player on it, a vinyl record spinning out it's somber tune.
There was a melancholy air to him as he sipped from his glass. From the darkness, she could see his reflection in the window. It seemed tired and weathered, as if he'd just seen eternity through the window.
Almost blue
Flirting with this disaster became me
It named me as the fool who only aimed to be…
His slightly drunken reverie was interrupted as he caught a glimpse of her reflection from the window. Looking back from his chair, he slowly regarded her appearance. Stripped down to her light grey tank and leggings, she hugged her arms in discomfort of the whole scenario and looked away.
"Do you have any clothes I can borrow?" She spoke up, her eyes shifting between the detective and her torn tank top.
"Sure. Give me a moment." He said as he slowly stood up from his chair.
Ava remained standing at the entrance of the kitchen, as the record player continued playing.
Almost blue
Almost touching it will always do
There's a part of me that's always true... always
"You should've just called me over once you'd finished." His voice rang out from what he assumed was his bedroom.
Emerging back into the kitchen, he held out a white shirt, a grey police hoodie, and grey running pants, all folded neatly in his hands.
"The restroom's on the left, if you also want to clean yourself up." He said as she gratefully took the clothes from his hands.
Going inside the restroom, she immediately turned on the faucet. She allowed herself to be lost in the sensation of cold water running over her hands, in between her fingers. All her life, those tactile sensations remained lost to her. She could feel warmth and coolness well enough, but it was always blunt. It was more of a general feeling rather than a sensation. Cleaning herself up as much as she could, she changed into the clothes given to her and stepped out of the bathroom.
Stepping back into the kitchen, she tried to ignore the detective's gaze as they both stood in front of each other. Any trace of malice or suspicion had gone, but it still felt, in her mind at least, like a confrontation. It seemed to be a silent competition to determine who could be the most awkward. If it was a competition, she won when the detective gave an awkward cough and looked away.
"Do you want anything to eat, or something to drink?" He trailed off.
"A glass of water." She asked, trying to find a bit more firmness in her voice.
With a nod, he went to get a glass from the cupboard. Taking the opportunity, she sat down at the table on the seat opposite him. Gently, placing the glass of water in front of her, he gave a small smile as he sat back down and downed the rest of his drink.
Almost you
Almost me
Almost… blue
"What is that song?" She asked, as the final notes of the piano signaled the song's end.
"Hmm?" He looked up from his glass.
"That song. What is it called?"
"Oh, it's called 'Almost Blue'." He said loosening his tie. "You've never heard it before?"
She shook her head, "No, I've never listened to music much."
"And why's that?"
It was such an innocent question, but it immediately triggered so many memories. The feeling of pain and loss. The brief of flash of light that blinded her before she awoke amidst a pile of rubble. Spending years bending to the will of an organization that cared little for her pain. Sleepless nights, feeling her body phase between this world and the next.
"Never had the time."
Seeing the small quirk of his brow, she realized that he noted how he must have stepped upon a sensitive subject. There seemed to be a look of understanding in his eyes as he regarded her reply. Getting up, he lifted the needle of the silent record and switched the record player off.
"Why were those men after you?" He asked, pouring himself another whiskey.
"I used to work for them. Technically." She began hesitantly. "I was an assassin for S.H.I.E.L.D. for most of my life. After they collapsed, I hid away. A friend of mine, Dr. Bill Foster, he took me in."
She sipped on her water, savoring the coolness of the liquid down her throat.
"But Hydra must have taken an interest in my talents."
"And how did that come to pass?"
"There was an… incident, of sorts… back in San Francisco. The same people who first recruited me as an agent now want me back but working for Hydra this time."
"And I'm guessing the reason they're after you so bad is because of your… 'talents'."
At his emphasis on "talents" she felt her hand phase slightly, immediately hiding it under the table.
"Yes."
"What happened?"
Silence settled back again between the two, as she tried to gather the strength to recount the memory of that awful day. Noticing her obvious change in mood, he went over to a box that was underneath the table.
"Would you mind, if I put on some music?"
Looking back up at him with her tired eyes, she noted the look of patience on his face as if he was waiting for her permission. It touched her in an odd way. Very few people in her life were ever patient with her or cared about her opinion. Bill Foster was one. Janet Van Dyne might have been another. But here she was in a stranger's home and being treated with kindness. It was as foreign as living without the constant pain that had so defined her.
With a small nod, she watched as he pulled up the box and placed it on the table.
"Do you want to pick a song, or shall I?"
Getting up slowly, she took a breath as she flicked through the various singles, EPs, and LPs that were in the box. Stopping at one, she saw that it was covered in a blank white sleeve. Scrawled on one corner were the words "For Jim", but other than that there was nothing to indicate what ever music it contained within. Handing it over to him, he regarded the words written on the sleeve for a moment.
It appeared it was her turn to stumble over his unwanted recollections as he looked over the record in the same way one looks at lost loved one. With a nod and a sigh, he placed the single onto the record player and let the needle drop.
With a heavy acoustic guitar playing its first notes, she started her recollection.
"My father was a scientist for S.H.I.E.L.D. but his work was discredited and regarded too dangerous for them to continue. But he carried on anyway. He was based in Argentina, experimenting with technology that would access the quantum realm. But something went wrong."
She paused just as the slow strum of the guitar made way for a soft, crooning voice.
There is a house in New Orleans
They call the Rising Sun
And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy
And God I know I'm one…
"There was an explosion, it killed both of my parents. I came out unharmed for the most part but…" She breathed deeply as she recalled. "… but the explosion released energy from the quantum realm that… altered my molecular structure to the point where it was unstable. Every molecule of my body phased between this realm and the quantum realm."
"Phased? So it stopped, the quantum phasing?"
"Not entirely. I met a woman who helped me control it. Or at least provide enough stability to suppress the pain. But I'm not fully healed yet. They're still working on that."
The detective took small sips from his glass as he listened to her. His face remained unnaturally blank, but there was a hint of emotion in his eyes. Now whether that was sympathy or rage, was another question.
Go tell my baby sister, Lord Lord
Don't do what I have done
To shun that house in New Orleans
They call the Rising Sun…
"So, if your friends are working on a cure, how come you're not with them?"
An odd feeling went through her, hearing him call Lang, Pym, and the Van Dynes her 'friends'.
"My friends," She started, testing out the word on her lips, "are wanted by the FBI. The short of it is that hiding out with them posed a greater risk of me being exposed, which would mean that I'd have to turn myself in before they could find a cure."
"The Sokovia Accords." He nodded, understanding her situation.
I'm going back to New Orleans
My race is almost run
I'm going, going back to spend my life
Beneath the Rising Sun
O-ooh…
The singer ended his solemn account and the guitar strummed out it's final notes signaling the song's end. With a small smile, Detective Corrigan quickly downed the last of his whiskey.
"You picked a damn good song."
Hesitantly, she nodded in silent agreement.
I don't even know the song.
"You've no idea what that was, do you?" He accused, the effects of the whiskey starting to take hold.
At the sight of her embarrassed blush, he gave a small laugh. He leaned forward in his seat, having managed to contain his laughter, and in a serious tone of voice continued.
"So, what do you plan on doing now?"
"I need to find my friend, Dr. Foster first."
"And then?"
And then...? Stay in Gotham? Keep running? Risk going back to San Francisco?
"I… I don't know."
Emerging from the bedroom with a pillow and a blanket, he placed them on the couch. Detective Corrigan – Jim – had offered the bedroom for her. She watched him in fascination as he prepared the couch.
"Good night." He said promptly.
"Good night." She returned, in kind.
Walking silently to the bedroom, she chanced taking one last glance at the strange detective. Noticing her gaze, he gave her one of those tired yet genuine smiles that he seemed so adept at giving.
Before she could turn back around, he spoke up one last time.
"House of the Risin' Sun."
She paused, staring back at him in confusion.
"The song you picked?" He clarified, as he set about undoing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. "That's what it's called: 'The House of the Rising Sun'."
With a final nod, she turned around and closed the door. Sliding into the bed, she turned off the table lamp and drew up the covers. It had been so long since she'd slept in a bed, a proper bed, not an over-glorified cot. She savored the texture of the duvet, the feel of the fibers against her skin, the uncompromising warmth it provided. And yet despite all of it, all the comfort and reassurance, she couldn't resign herself to sleep.
Too many thoughts had deluged her mind. How would she find Bill Foster? Is it better to stay in Gotham or leave? How did Hydra find me in the first place? And top of all of those questions was the one that her survival seemed to hinge the most upon.
Can I trust Jim Corrigan?
He seems to be trustworthy enough. He's certainly generous. But there's something off about him, as if there was a part of him missing.
The slight creak of the wooden floor sent her adrenaline rising slightly. From the small sliver of light that peeked from underneath the door, she could see the shadow of what she assumed was Jim Corrigan moving toward her room. Clenching her fists, she steeled herself as she mentally readied for whatever fight was to come. But it never came.
Passing her door, the shadow disappeared out of sight. She deduced that he was headed for the kitchen, but for what purpose?
And like a haunting lullaby, the song she'd chosen earlier was playing again albeit at a slightly lower volume. Amidst the first few strums of the guitar, she heard a chair being opened and glass thudding against wood. With a final intrigued gaze at the door, she slowly lowered her head onto the pillow and allowed the music to let go of her thoughts.
Well, good night Detective Corrigan.
.
.
.
There is a house in New Orleans
They call the Rising Sun
And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy
And God I know I'm one…
Music:
1) Chet Baker - Almost Blue (cover)
2) Sam Cohen - The House of the Rising Sun (cover)
Here's another one! I don't devote a lot of time to writing this story, I'll admit. But when I do, I get a surprising amount done.
Any and all reviews and/or criticisms are welcome, so long as they're civil.
