From Darkness

Getting back on my feet was hard. My head didn’t want to clear, and the pain lingered behind for days. Bucky said it didn’t necessarily mean it was getting worse. He was trying to be optimistic about my ability to control it. It was still hard to shake, and I’d definitely never been out for a full nineteen hours before. Even after taking out a whole caravan and lab. Regardless, he let me sleep it off and only woke me when I was shifting and groaning from so much pain that he knew I’d be conscious soon anyway.

He helped me back on my feet and let me lean on him until I regained my footing. Then I stumbled into the bathroom to try and clean myself up and recover my strength. But I didn’t look too good. I was gaining my weight back. But my skin was pallid, and there were dark circles under my eyes. I looked sick. Not from malnutrition. Like it was eating me alive.

When I returned to the front room, he was in the kitchen cooking, obviously still pensive. I hobbled in and took a seat on the counter so I could stay close to him.

“Do you remember,” I started cautiously, picking at the side of the counter, “when we first met?”

“Not an easy question to answer,” he said. “We apparently met before we met.”

“I meant the first time. The real first time.”

“I remember Beata—when she was—It must have been you.”

“I don’t think that counts. Even if it is a little weird.” I couldn’t see his face, but I was pretty sure he smiled.

“You mean when I killed your friends,” he stated with a flat and emotionless tone. The mask.

“Yes.”

“I remember some.” I took a deep breath.

“I’m starting to piece things together too. I think—before—I was just struggling with regaining my memories and also balancing survivor’s guilt. My therapist was right. But now—things are a little clearer.”

“Like what?” He sounded cautious too. As if he was testing the waters. Wondering if it was really me or not. But I didn’t feel detached this time. I didn’t blame him.

“I remember that you got me out. I remember you dragging me through the woods. You let me go.” He paused for a moment before resuming his task.

“If I let you go, it was because I was ordered to,” he told me.

“I figured as much.”

“I just wanted to make that clear. I wish I could tell you I did it because I liked you. But I wasn’t me then.”

“I know. I know there was a reason they sent you to me. They knew that Beata knew about you. Probably knew she’d wanted to save you too. You got me to spill.”

“That wasn’t any skill on my part. You seemed to know exactly what you were doing. It was strategic.”

“You remember?”

“Bits and pieces.”

“Right. I knew they’d sent you to me for a reason. I knew why. The only thing I didn’t expect—was for them to make me forget. Everything.”

“That took years to accomplish, Jo. You still had some sense of who I was when I got you out. They were working on you for a long time.”

“When I was working for SHIELD.”

“That’s right. They had other ways to make people forget. Matters of the mind.”

“The only thing I don’t understand is why. I know why they sent you to my cell, but why did they want you to be the one to drag me out? Why did they want me to believe you’d done it of your own free will?”

“Exactly as you said,” he told me. “They wanted you to believe I’d done it of my own free will.”

“But why?”

“Beata wanted me to go free. They probably did it to bait you. If you went back and told her husband that I let you go because I was being nice, then you’d be more likely to come back with him. They needed both of you. As I said, you still knew enough of who I was when I got you out. It was strategic for them too.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I wish I could tell you I let you go because I wanted to.”

“Don’t be sorry. I meant nothing to you then. It would have been farfetched to believe you’d let me go because you thought I was cute.” He didn’t say anything for a while, and I sat there staring at his back. He had his head bent as he looked down at the pan on the stove. Only his arms moved as he stirred or reached for things. I remembered when he couldn’t figure out how to warm up spaghetti sauce in a pot. Now he was making whole meals by himself.

“Buck?”

“Mm?”

“There’s still one thing that doesn’t make any sense about that story.”

“What’s that?”

“You let me go because you were ordered to—but I don’t think they ordered you to give me that knife.” He froze again for a long moment.

“No,” he said. “They didn’t.”

“Then why?”

“Your handlers were my handlers. You killed two of them before they subdued you.”

“You wanted me to kill them?”

He paused before speaking a quiet, “Yes.”

I understood without him needing to elaborate. It wasn’t difficult to see. As terrifying as they’d made him out to be, they couldn’t get rid of the marks of abuse that would haunt him forever. Handlers, he called them. People who’d hurt him. Treated him like an animal. Physically and mentally abused. It was probably the first time in my life I didn’t regret taking a life. Or two, according to him. Even when I thought I was protecting people, I still felt guilty. But somehow—I didn’t feel it now.

I suppose that was love, wasn’t it? When you’re ready to kill to protect someone?

“Did they suffer?” I asked. “Your handlers that I killed?”

“You got one in the throat. Got the other through the eye. They died fast. But still—not a pleasant way to go.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Not killing more of them.”

He turned his head and glanced back at me. I could almost guess exactly what he was thinking by his expression. It was a look of curiosity. As if he wasn't sure he knew me at all. There was a question in his eyes before he turned away. I got the distinct impression he was wondering about how I really felt about him.

But he never voiced it. He turned his back on me again and went back to work. I could smell whatever he was cooking. Something savory. My stomach felt empty and hollow even though it was too early to eat dinner, and he’d probably already had lunch. I guessed he was just making something for me, knowing I’d be hungry after being out all day.

I slid off of the counter and wrapped my arms around him. I could feel the heat of the stove on his chest, but he kept the pan far enough away to keep me from being burned. I rested my head on his back and hoped that he got the answer to his question.

I did love him. I had no doubts about it now. I just hoped he wasn’t going to hate me when I had to leave.

I slipped away, intending to return to the main room. But he stopped me. There was a hand on my shoulder, and when I turned, it slid to my face to cup it. He brought his eyes close to mine so I could see that he was sincere.

“The man who hurt you,” he started, “the one who held your head underwater when you fought back?” I nodded slowly. “He lives in Florida.” I shook my head now. Not knowing why he was telling me this. “Lived,” he corrected. “There are some things I don’t regret.”

And I knew what he was saying when he pulled me to his chest and kissed the top of my head. “People tell you they love you with their actions,” my mother once told me.