From Darkness

Bucky carried me up the stairs after the old woman. She led us into another empty bedroom right off the stairs, and he set me down on the bed as she shuffled around the room. She fluffed pillows, got blankets, dusted off surfaces, all the while prattling on in a language I didn't understand. Bucky, however, followed her movements and seemed to make sense of her words. He stuck close enough to me that I could feel his heat. His shoulders were tense as if he might have to protect me from her, but he was obviously trying very hard to not appear that way to her.

"We're married," he whispered from the corner of his mouth when she went to the other side of the room to dust off an old, unused dresser.

"I'm sorry, we're what?" My heart jumped into my throat. I was either missing a very vital memory, or I'd misheard him.

"Russell said it's the only way she'll let us share a room, and I'm not leaving you." I relaxed and pinched my lips. I was glad I hadn't forgotten something so important, but I couldn't argue since I didn't know how much she could understand.

I wasn't sure I even wanted to be alone. This all felt more real when I could feel someone beside me.

The woman said something and turned back to us. Then she stuffed the extra blankets into his hands and gave me a smile. He waited for her to leave before relaxing. He stood by the door, listening to make sure she was far enough away, and then the tension drained from his shoulders.

"There's a bathroom across the hall," he told me, dropping the blankets on the bed.

The bedroom didn't seem as well lived in as the one downstairs. It looked more like an unused guestroom. It was bare of personal belongings. The furniture was dusty as if they'd been expecting someone who never showed up.

"I'll help you clean up, and then I'll find you something to eat," he continued. He pulled the backpack off his shoulders and dumped it on the floor next to the chair beneath the window.

I wanted to pull my feet up and wrap my arms around my knees. It was how I kept myself warm, and it must have become a calming reflex. But my feet were worse than my hands, and I didn't want to get dirt and dried blood all over the bedspread. So I just stared at my lap and tried to focus on what was important. If this was real—I needed to know a few things. If it wasn't—well, then I'd just have to deal with that when the time came.

He was kneeling on the floor with his back to me now. Putting himself in a vulnerable position. He'd done this on purpose. It was a test. He wanted to see if I'd take the bait and attack him again.

"How'd you get me out?" I asked. He seemed to be expecting my questions.

"I've been scanning the airwaves nonstop. Hydra's information is encrypted. But it's not impossible. I was hoping to at least figure out where you were being kept. Then I'd worry about getting you out. Finally, I picked up a signal that made sense. Russell's code. The one from your book. He gave me a transfer route. The signal was short, but I got enough before it went dead."

"It could have been a trap."

"I was expecting it to be a trap. I'm still surprised we made it this far."

"You said there were scouts."

"Caravan that size? Always scouts. They expect interception."

"They tranquilized me first. Why?"

"I'm only dangerous at close range when I'm unarmed. You were a bigger threat. Not because you had the gun."

My chest felt heavy, and I had to shove the pain back down into the darkness before I could find words. I didn't want him to see that it hurt. I'd done enough damage already.

"What happened to them?" I asked then. He was still digging through his backpack. I didn't know if he was actually looking for something or just letting me have a moment of peace without being alone. Finally, he just sighed and didn't move.

"I think you know," he said quietly.

"I didn't see."

"But you know."

"I don't know anything. I suspect. I—when it happens—I shut down. It's like being stuck somewhere in the dark. But the dark is alive. It moves, and it thinks, and it makes decisions for me. And then I don't know who I am or where I am. It takes me a while to be me again."

"I noticed."

"Did I kill them? All of them?"

"Everyone except Russell. Which means that—you have more control than you think."

"Right. And then I shot him. So it doesn't really matter, does it?"

"It does matter because it means you can learn to control it."

"What if he dies?"

"The wound isn't fatal. He lost a lot of blood, but I see no reason to believe he won't make it. As long as it doesn't get infected." I slumped and tried to dislodge the lump in my throat. He was being far more forgiving than I deserved. Especially since the gun had initially been aimed at his head.

"How long has it been?" I asked. He went back to his backpack. I couldn't see what he was doing. The room was shaded by the trees from outside. The morning was cool and gray. And the desaturated color leaked in through the curtained window. But it wasn't dark.

"Two months," he said.

"Two months? From when I…."

"When you fell."

I looked back down at my dirt-smudged legs. That couldn't be right. That didn't make any sense. It took me months to recover from a shattered shoulder. And it still never really healed. Whatever I'd done to my body when I fell—it had to be just as bad. If not worse. Unless I misjudged. Or it just wasn't real.

But I didn't get a chance to think about it much longer. He stood and tossed a shirt over his shoulder.

"I'll help you get to the bathroom," he said.

Then he scooped me back up into his arms, and I didn't try to fight him. It didn't make any sense, but his heartbeat was strong and even. And for that brief moment in his arms, I felt safe and calm for the first time in a very long time.

Then he set me down on the edge of the bathtub in the tiny, cramped bathroom, and I was forced to deal with the present again. I moved to the other side so I could watch him while I cleaned myself off. I didn't like not being able to see him. He set the shirt down on the edge of the tub so I could grab it when I was done.

"It's clean," he said, but he wouldn't meet my eyes. He turned on the water and went to get a towel. I watched him while I waited for it to heat up. Once he found what he was looking for, he went to the small sink and began to clean the blood off of his face.

"Where's Graham?" I asked as I got to work scrubbing the dirt off of my bare legs. He took a long time to answer. Too long. Long enough to make my heart rate speed up. I was frozen. Unable to move until he found his voice.

"You remember him?"

"I remember enough."

"He was shot," he explained. "I don't know when it happened. He was in bad shape."

"Where was the wound?"

"Upper chest. Right side. Under the shoulder. Through and through at an upward angle."

"What happened after we left?"

"I got him into a car and drove him to a hospital. He was conscious for fifteen minutes. Kept trying to tell me to leave him and go back for you."

"You didn't."

"Believe me, I wanted to."

"Why didn't you?" I remembered how he felt about Graham, and I wondered if he'd saved his life only because it's what I'd wanted.

"He was just a kid," he said instead. "A kid with a mouth on him, but just a kid."

"And you trust him now?"

"I was wrong about him. Trust isn't easy for me. I didn't trust you for a long time either if you remember that much."

I nodded slowly and pulled the bandages off of my feet. The water was already dark with dirt and blood, but it was warm and soothing against my skin. I couldn't remember if I'd ever bathed the whole time I was there. I remembered bits and pieces of consciousness. But so much darkness too. Empty spaces where the darkness took control.

"Why are you speaking about him in the past tense?" I continued.

"I'm not. I got him to a hospital, ditched the car, and went back to try and pick up your trail. I didn't stick around to see how he was, but I've been keeping an eye on newspapers. I haven't come across any police reports or obituaries. If the wound was fatal, it would have made the news."

I watched him dab at the wounds on his face with a washcloth. I must have hit him pretty hard if he'd bled like that. It was just a branch, a relatively large and heavy one, but still only a stick.

"He was still breathing?"

"When I last saw him, yes."

"And you couldn't go back to check on him?"

"I was trying to find you, Jo. He was in good hands, and the hospital wouldn't release his information over the phone." He stepped away from the mirror and handed over the washcloth, but now I was busy picking at the bandages that were stuck to my palms. "I did the best I could," he said. I reached for the washcloth, finally meeting his eyes. He was sincere. I nodded.

"I believe you. I just—can't sit here and do nothing. I need to be sure he's okay. I need him to know I'm okay too. Jesus—two months? It feels like it's been forever and like it was just yesterday all at the same time."

"I know that feeling." I had no doubt that he did. "But you're recovering a lot faster than I expected. We'll get it figured out. Right now, we just need to keep you safe and hidden long enough to recover."

"And then you'll take me to Stark?" He was still standing by the tub, watching me pick at the bandages that had glued themselves to my hands.

"We'll talk about it." He knelt down in front of the tub. I hadn't even noticed that he'd taken off his glove and rolled up his sleeve. His metal arm was shiny and exposed. Like a powerful weapon in a tiny, floral bathroom. "Let me try."

"It does something—to the blood. To the brain. You saw their bodies, didn't you?" I asked him, refusing to give him my hands.

"I didn't stick around long enough to get a good look."

"They were transferring me because—I was a danger to everyone there."

"Quarantine." I nodded.

"Yes—but I don't think it's like a virus. I think that it—well thinks."

"What do you mean?"

"It's alive. It's sentient."

"Why didn't Russell get hit too?" I pinched my lips shut and looked back at my hands. "He was awake long enough for us to talk. He said it didn't hit him because you didn't want it to."

"There's also the possibility that Beata made him immune. I don't know how it works. But I know I've tried to kill you twice since you picked me up. What makes you think I won't turn it on you?"

"Because we're having this conversation. You know who I am and what's happening. You didn't before. It took you a while."

"And if I lose control again?"

"You won't hurt me," he said, reaching for my hand. He pulled my fingers apart. "You just have to let the bandages soften."

"What makes you think I won't kill you?"

"Because I'm me. And you're you."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"I remember staying with you at your house in DC. I remember watching you fall asleep in my arms. I'm not sure of a lot of things. But that's the first time I can remember being absolutely certain about something." He didn't finish. I had a feeling I knew what he was thinking, but he didn't get it out.

"What were you certain of?"

"That if you had your way, nothing bad would ever happen to me again. You'd do whatever you could to protect me."

"I was a different person then."

"No, you weren't. Something bad happened to you. And it may change how you are or how you feel. But inside—you're still you. Still the woman who," he paused, "who saw who I really was. When no one else did."

The bandages had come apart enough for him to peel them from my hand. Once he got it off, he ran his metal fingers over the healing gash that was slashed across my palm. It wasn't bleeding anymore, but enough blood had dried to my skin and the bandages to stain the water again.

"I killed someone," I told him as he examined it. "Or at least—I tried to."

"He said it was broken glass. You were holding it in your hand. There was a force. It looks like you were using it as a weapon." He dragged his finger along the jagged gash to show me the direction of the movement. I'd swung down. I could still feel the way it jerked in my hand when it made impact.

"How can you tell?" I questioned.

"You can tell a lot by the shape of a wound."

"I thought you said you weren't an expert." His eyebrows rose, and there was a hint of a smile on his face before he masked it again.

"My job was to take lives, not save them. That doesn't mean I can't recognize an injury. Besides, I know what it's like to try and make a weapon out of whatever you can get your hands on."

"I broke the light." He nodded and pulled my other hand toward the water. The bandages on that one weren't as stuck. Cuts not as deep. "I'm sorry—for what I said—when I was trying to hurt you." He shook his head, running his thumb along the edge of the bandages to work them loose.

"Don't be. You weren't yourself."

"I know I was confused, but that doesn't make it okay."

"It doesn't matter. What you said was true. Even if I don't remember the people I took from you. I wish I did so that I could say I'm sorry. Not that it would make it okay."

"You don't have to remember to be sorry. I can see that you are."

He didn't seem to want to continue this conversation. He put his hands on the edge of the tub and pushed himself up.

"I'll meet you when you're done."

He turned to leave, but I had to stop him. I felt awful for what I'd said. It was true, but that didn't mean he wasn't sorry. I knew he was sorry for each and every life he'd ever taken. Even the ones who'd tried to hurt him first. Even the ones who tried to hurt me. He hated himself for it.

"I don't want you to go," I said quietly. He stopped by the door but didn't ask me to elaborate. "I'm not afraid of you. I know it wasn't really you, just like it wasn't me when you found me. They wanted me to blame you and to be afraid of you. I don't think—they expected me to let you live long enough to think straight. I'm sorry I let them get to me. I'm sorry that I hurt you." He took a deep breath and sighed.

"I'm sorry too," he said, opening the door. "For everything." Then he disappeared.