Reclaiming Shadows

[INT. STARK TOWER – CALLIE'S APARTMENT – WEEKS LATER]

The days blurred together like wet ink on parchment—smudged and indistinct, moments bleeding into one another until time itself felt irrelevant.

Callie lived in a half-state, not quite present, not entirely gone, suspended in the ache between pain and numbness. Her apartment had become a still life: untouched mugs, folded blankets, soft lamplight flickering like a heartbeat she no longer trusted.
Since the incident, she hadn't been left alone for a single hour. She hadn't asked them to stay—but they had, anyway. Tony, Natasha, and Wanda had quietly formed a rotation around her. Not as guards, but as sentinels of love—always near, always vigilant. They never intruded, never pushed. They simply were. And somehow, that constancy felt like the only thing tethering her to the world.
They brought with them warmth and gentle distraction. Shoulders to cry on. Arms to collapse into. Voices that tethered her to reality when she began to drift too far from it.
But no one—not even them—could make her eat.

Every morning began the same. Someone coaxing her awake, speaking softly in case the weight of her nightmares still lingered in the air. Someone placing a small plate in front of her: toast, fruit, maybe eggs. Sometimes oatmeal, or a muffin. Always something simple, comforting.

And every morning, Callie stared at the food like it was a foreign object. Like it didn't belong to her world anymore.
The act of eating felt like betrayal. Her stomach twisted in rebellion before the first bite ever touched her lips. Food represented life, and she didn't feel alive enough to claim it. The hunger she felt was not physical—it was emotional, buried deep beneath guilt and grief. When emotions surged—fear, shame, the ever-present guilt—her appetite vanished like smoke in wind.

---

[Callie's Apartment – Morning]
Tony was with her today. His presence, usually loud and unapologetically bold, had softened. He sat beside her on the couch, his bravado stripped down to something quieter, almost haunted. The mug in his hands had gone cold, long forgotten. His gaze never left her.
She sat curled into herself, knees tucked under her chin, hoodie sleeves pulled over trembling fingers. She was fidgeting—a new habit. Fingernails tapping lightly, almost rhythmically, against the fabric.
He finally spoke, his voice low, as if trying not to startle her.

"You know," he said gently, "you don't have to be strong for me. Not right now. Not after everything that's happened."

She didn't look at him right away. Her eyes stayed fixed on the floor, glassy and rimmed in exhaustion. Her voice was a whisper, barely there.

"I'm not being strong for you. I just... I don't know how to let go. And I don't know how to fix it."

Tony reached for her hand. She flinched—just slightly—but didn't pull away. His fingers wrapped around hers, grounding her.

"You will fix it," he told her, calm and certain. "Not all at once. Not tomorrow. But piece by piece. And you won't be alone while you do it. We've got you. I've got you."
She shook her head, slowly. 

"I don't want to burden you. I don't want to keep being this broken... thing."

"Callie," he said, pulling her into his arms with a quiet urgency, "you're not broken. You're hurting. There's a difference."

She sank into him. She didn't cry—but she didn't need to. The tremble in her shoulders, the way she clung to him like a child lost in a storm, said enough.

Tony whispered into her hair, "I'm not going anywhere. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."

---

[Callie's Apartment – Night]
Natasha came that night, like dusk itself had decided to take human form. She found Callie at the kitchen table, sitting perfectly still. A full bowl of soup sat in front of her—steam long gone, the surface glazed over.

"You've barely eaten today," Natasha said softly, pulling out the chair beside her. Her tone wasn't scolding. It was understanding, even gentle. Callie didn't respond. She only stared at the bowl, as if hoping the food would disappear. The scent was heavy, too much. Her stomach churned with a strange nausea—not from the soup, but from what it represented.

"It's not just the food," she whispered, almost to herself. 

"It's what it means. Taking care of myself feels wrong. Like I don't deserve it. Like I'm not allowed."
Natasha didn't flinch. She reached out and placed her hand gently over Callie's.

"That voice in your head?" she said, "The one telling you you're unworthy? That's not you. That's trauma talking. That's Hydra's echo. You're allowed to take up space, Callie. You're allowed to be cared for. To rest. To eat."
Tears brimmed in Callie's eyes, but she blinked them away.

"I can't forget what I did," she said, her voice cracking. 

"What they made me become. What I let happen."

"No one's asking you to forget," Natasha said quietly.

"But maybe it's time you stopped punishing yourself for surviving."

Callie inhaled a shaky breath. Her fingers curled around the spoon. Her hand trembled as she lifted it.

The first bite wasn't easy. Her stomach recoiled. Her throat tightened. But Natasha just smiled, patient and proud, like that one spoonful was a small miracle.
And maybe it was.

---

[Callie's Apartment – Morning (A Few Days Later)]
Wanda arrived with a basket of fresh fruit and warm muffins—soft scents of vanilla and cinnamon filling the air. Most of it would go uneaten, but she brought it anyway. Not out of pressure, but out of hope.
Callie sat on the edge of the couch, legs tucked under her, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders like armor.

"I know you don't feel like eating," Wanda said softly, settling beside her. "But would you try? Just a bite, for me?"

Callie looked down at the muffin in her hand. Her fingers shook as she broke it apart. Crumbs tumbled into her lap like sand through an hourglass.

"It feels like feeding a ghost," she murmured.
Wanda gently tucked a loose curl behind Callie's ear. Her touch was feather-light, her smile warm.

"Then let's feed the ghost," she said, "until it feels human again."

A pause. And then—a bite. Small. Reluctant. But real.
---

[Callie's Apartment – Days Later]
Time hadn't stopped, even if it had lost all meaning for a while. The world outside continued on: sunrises, city sounds, life. And slowly, tentatively, Callie began to inch her way back to it.

The shame didn't vanish. Her appetite didn't return like a flipped switch. But the fog began to lift, little by little. Bite by bite. Day by day.
Tony's loyalty was fierce and unshakable. Natasha's strength was quiet but constant. Wanda's grace felt like balm on old wounds.
They didn't force her forward. They simply walked beside her.

Some days, she still left the plate untouched. On others, she managed a few bites before her chest clenched with guilt. But they noticed—each time. Not with fanfare. Not with praise. But with the brush of a hand, a proud glance, the kind of love that asked for nothing in return.

They didn't celebrate progress. They honored it.

She wasn't healed. Not yet.

But she was healing.

And more importantly—she was no longer trying to do it alone.
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Word Count: 1235