From Darkness

I did what I could to clean off all the blood and dirt. I didn't think I had the energy to take a full bath or shower, and I didn't want to risk falling asleep in a tub full of water. It took me a while to feel clean again, and I only stopped because my hands were still shaking, and I kept dropping the washcloth. I was grateful for Bucky's shirt once I was cleaned up. It was too big for me, but I felt much less exposed wrapped in his long sleeves. I could wear it like a short dress, so it didn't bother me that my legs were exposed. I dumped the top into the trashcan and hoped I never saw it again.

I wanted to go back downstairs to see how they were doing with Russell and offer help, but now that my feet were no longer numb, everything ached. I could barely walk across the bathroom, and Bucky intercepted me when I reached the hallway. His hands were full, so he motioned toward the room across the hall. I went that way instead. I took a seat tenderly on the chair by the window and pulled my feet up. The shirt was large enough to pull over my knees, so I could curl into myself without feeling vulnerable.

"I got you some things," Bucky said as he emptied his hands onto the stand beside the bed. "I brought you more water, and they had some leftover bread. They make it fresh." He handed out the glass of water, and I took a few sips before staring silently into it. The water tasted better. Not stale and metallic. And now that I was clean, everything felt more real.

"I um," he started, sitting down on the bed across from me. "I've been remembering things better now. I remember her."

"Who?"

"Beata." I turned away again. "She took blood samples from me once. They told her she wasn't allowed to talk to me, but—she asked me what my name was. When I didn't answer—she told me a story about how every soul has a name. And how you're not supposed to give it away. Especially to—trolls."

I wasn't sure why he was telling me this. They'd shown me pictures of her, but there wasn't much left of her to figure out what she looked like. But I didn't want to think about it yet. I didn't want to have to grieve someone I'd never met, and they didn't exactly give me enough time to deal with it when they forced me to see her. They just wanted me to hate him.

He looked confused as he gazed out of the window behind me as if he wasn't quite sure why he'd told me that story either. Or why she'd bothered to tell him about trolls and secret names.

"Why did she take your blood?" I asked to get both of us back on track.

"I don't know," he admitted. "They sometimes did. Maybe for tests. Maybe to try and replicate what they'd done to me. Given her occupation, I'm going to guess that's what it was for."

"She worked for them." He shrugged slowly.

"She had a special skill set. And being that she lived in Sokovia, I don't think they gave her much of a choice."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Sokovia was soviet in the 1980s. She had a skill set that would have singled her out. They would have found ways to make her do whatever they wanted. Threatened her family. Killed her friends. Things like that."

He stood up and crossed the room to the window beside me. His hair had fallen back in his face, and the outside light illuminated him. He parted the curtains with the tips of his fingers to look out at the back of the house. Even from the top floor, I could hear the chickens and goats. Like a constant backdrop of life and noise. It was preferable to the seemingly endless silence that made my ears ring for days.

"I wasn't the only one, you know," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"They were always trying to replicate it. Someone succeeded eventually. I tracked it down. He knew me. The man who had it. He said my name right before I killed him."

"Who was it? Do you remember?"

"Howard Stark." He gave one of those half-smiles. Not genuine. Only meant to mask pain. I leaned forward and rested my chin on my knees. "I think we might have been friends once. Worked together, at the very least. He said my name like he knew who I was. Then he begged me not to kill his wife. I did it anyway."

"Bucky, I…." I didn't know what to say.

When I looked back at him, the pain was hidden behind that mask of cold indifference. He was good at that. Pretending he didn't feel anything. I always knew that. I just didn't realize how much of what he hid away was pain. I knew there were painful things in his past, but he never really let me in. Not by much.

"I understand why you said what you did," he continued, his voice as coldly indifferent as the mask on his face. "I would hate me too. And I'm sorry you saw me at my worst. It's probably best that you did. Maybe if you remembered from the start—none of this would have happened." He went back to the bed.

"What they did to me," I started, "you don't think it's like—what they did to you, do you?" He considered that for a moment, but he had his back to me again. His expressions were unreadable entirely now.

"No," he said. "When you were—not you—you called it 'Chaos.' Russell said the same thing. But I don't think they meant chaos as a verb. I think they meant it as a noun. A name."

"What do you mean?" He glanced at me over his shoulder.

"Chaos was a god. The mother of all gods, so to speak. You said that it felt alive. I think you might be right. I think that Beata discovered it. Not created it. I think she was just trying to learn how to control it. I think it just needed a host. That's what she created. Not the weapon. But the Vessel."

"So whatever Hydra did to me—it was to make me a suitable host?"

"Yes." I sighed and shut my eyes. "You should eat something."

"What for?" I asked.

"Because you need to recover your strength."

"You shouldn't have brought me here. These women could be in danger."

"Where should I have taken you then?"

"You should have just left me there." He sat down on the mattress again and then reached over to tap my arm. I jumped, but he was only trying to hand me a slice of bread. I took it and set the water down on the floor.

"You know I wouldn't do that," he said, picking at his own bread.

"Selfish decisions get people killed." He paused for a moment, regarding me, as I avoided his gaze.

"You asked me once what I wanted selfishly. You should have known the answer was you."

"I didn't think it would mean putting innocent people in danger."

"That was always part of the risk, Jo. Feels different when you're the danger, doesn't it?"

"You know exactly what it feels like to be afraid of hurting people without meaning to."

"Stark might be able to help. He could keep you under quarantine until we know for sure what it is. He has the resources."

"Stark will lock me up if he thinks it'll protect everyone. And I'd want him to. But I have no idea what they intended for me to do. All I know is that Stark won't be able to contain it. It's meant to—wipe them out. And I probably won't survive. You saw what it did to me just to take out that caravan. It's worse every single time. If I take out that many people, that many powerful people, it'll kill me. They said as much. That's why it had to be perfect." I took another bite, and he nodded.

"So we keep you from Stark," he agreed. "What do you want to do?" I shrugged and looked back at the window. I couldn't see anything beyond the curtains except for a strip of blue sky and low-lying clouds.

"I don't know," I admitted. "I hear Antarctica is nice this time of year."

"Cold."

"I could live with that."

"You want the kid to know you're safe."

"It's not worth the risk. If Stark or the others find out where I am, they'll come looking for me."

"They're already looking for you."

"They'll go through Hydra first. It'll take them a while to realize I'm not with them anymore. That gives me enough time to find a place to lie low."

"You'll be safe here for a time. When you recover—we can decide what to do."

"I should be on my own. I shouldn't even be here now, but I need to make sure Russell makes it out of this okay."

"You'll be lucky to last a week on your own," he remarked.

"Doesn't matter. How many times have you saved my life?" I turned back to him. He was still chewing on bread, giving me a wide-eyed expression that made him look innocently boyish.

"I shot you. I don't think it counts."

"It counts."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to let me save you for once. We'll call it even, and then you won't have to stick with me just because you feel obligated."

"You think I'm here out of obligation?"

"I don't know why you're here."

"Yes, you do." I shut my mouth. "Listen—you won't make it on your own. I won't leave unless that's what you really want. Not just because you think you'll be doing me a favor. I heard what you said in the bathroom. I know you don't want to do this alone."

"I'll figure it out."

He shook his head and stuffed the rest of the bread in his mouth. Most of it was still sticking out between his lips when he stood and reached for the backpack again. I watched him change out of his bloodstained shirt. And he didn't speak again until he finished and pulled the bread out of his mouth.

"The Avengers are already looking for you. They have been. And Hydra knows their transport never reached its destination. You make one mistake. One tiny insignificant mistake, and someone will find you. You don't want to go back to the states because you're afraid of hurting the Avengers and your family. And you definitely don't want Hydra to find you again. You don't know how to hide like I do." He sat down on the bed to untie his boots. "They'll have you in days. Weeks if you get lucky. I know how to hide. I know how to defend myself when hiding is no longer an option."

"We can't hide forever. They'll find you eventually, too."

"I'm counting on it."

"So what do you think we should do?"

"I think we should stick together. At least for a while. Stay here until both of you recover. I can teach you everything I know about hiding in plain sight. I can teach you how to fight again. I'll leave when I believe you really can't stand to be around me. Or when I think you've learned enough to be on your own."

"I can't risk anyone here." He got his boots off one by one, dropping them on the hardwood floor with loud thumps.

"It'll be risky no matter what choice you make," he said. "But you'll be vulnerable on your own. You're American. Beautiful. You stand out. We can survive together. If you really want me to go, I will. But if you stick with me long enough to pick up a few things, you'll have a much better chance of making it." I picked at the bread again.

"It has to be temporary," I told him. He nodded once and went back to work changing his clothes.

"It always was," he replied. But his tone had gone flat again. He put the mask back on. His emotions were unreadable.