She felt slightly better as they watched the movie.
At least her mind wasn't so focused on the nightmare that—
No.
She wouldn't think about it.
About halfway through, the Soldat met the Doctor in the hall, exchanging quiet words before he returned with her medication and a cup of water. She wasn't sure why Doctor Green hadn't come in herself, but she couldn't help feeling slightly more relaxed that she wouldn't have to face her.
As she swallowed the pill, the Soldat explained that as long as her healing continued, she would be released from the medial wing sometime soon.
She wondered where she would go. Maybe her old room? She thought she might enjoy staying there more than the med room... There was something familiar about it, although she didn't actually remember it. What exactly about it she enjoyed wasn't clear, but she didn't let herself think on it much and instead, focused on the orange and purple fish on screen.
To her discomfort though, as it came to an end, she found her earlier thoughts returning and once again she was left to the buzz of her mind.
The Soldat was quiet beside her as they walked back across the hall, and she was aware of his eyes following her path to the bed, and then to where she curled up. It felt as if she could block out the rest of the world—as if it would keep her in that room, in that moment, and breathing.
"Is there something you want to do now?" the Soldat asked.
More distractions, she thought.
"Can we play again? With the cards?"
"Sure, do you want to play the same game again?"
"How many games are there?"
"Oh, hundreds," he said gently, picking up the cards from where he'd left them on the side table. "How about Twenty-One? Well, not exactly Twenty-One, since its only us, but the premise is the same."
"What is the objective?"
"To reach twenty-one. Each number card is worth its numbered value; one is one, two is two, and so on, but the cards with faces, Jack, Queen, King, are worth ten."
"What about Ace?"
"Ace, is worth one or eleven. You decide depending on what you need... You start off with two cards; for example," he said, pulling two cards off the top, "eight and seven. So that hand is worth fifteen. The player decides if they want another card to get closer to twenty-one." The Soldat pulled the next card off the deck and flipped it, showing a red King. "See, that would have pushed the hand to twenty-five and the player would have lost."
"So, you want as close to twenty-one as possible and cannot go over?" she clarified.
"Yes."
"Alright, I think I understand."
So, he dealt them both hands, and when she flipped her cards, she nodded.
Seven and one.
"Do you want another card?"
"Yes."
He dropped one face down and she picked it up, seeing it was a nine. He did the same for himself, before looking back to her. "Another?"
"How many can we get?"
"As many as you want, but you risk going over."
"Alright... no more cards."
"Okay," he nodded, drawing himself another. "Now, we can show each other our cards to see who wins."
She nodded, turning her cards over for him to see.
"My twenty beats your seventeen, sorry," he shrugged, looking up at her with that smile.
"Again."
And so, they played, again and again.
She liked the speed of this one, it kept her focused and calculating, deciding whether the risk was worth taking or not. It reminded her of the missions she'd been on, of drafting plans—but not just for Hydra.
With Sam, and Steve, and the blond woman. And now she thought there was a brunette woman as well. Or maybe she had reddish hair, she wasn't sure. All she knew was that there was another woman who she would see occasionally, her words tilted in an accent similar to the Russian, but not quite the same.
The Russian...
She pulled her thoughts away, focusing on the twenty-one she had in her hand.
"Flip?"
"Mhmm," she nodded, before dropping her cards and watching him with a look of victory.
"You're beatin' me at my own game," he shook his head, though his face wasn't upset. "How many hands is that now? Cause maybe we should go back to Go Fish so I have a chance at winning..."
Suddenly she had a memory, of laughter with Sam, while Steve watched them with a tired look.
"I have a game we can play," she offered.
"Alright," he cocked a brow, "what is this game?"
"I am not sure of the name, but we need to stand up."
He gave her a confused look, but conceded, stepping off the bed and she did the same.
She held the cards in her hand, moving—shuffling—the way the Soldat had.
Was it necessary to shuffle them?
She wasn't sure, but he had done it for both games they'd played, so she could only assume she should.
"What's the objective?" he asked, echoing her words.
She felt enjoyment rise in her chest—no, that wasn't the word... she was... excited. Not quite as excited as Doctor Green, but excited, nonetheless. Although she tried to tamp it down, not wanting to spoil the game.
"Ptichka?" he asked, voice light with a smile on his face.
She tried not to stifle at the name, instead holding tight to her excitement and looking at the Soldat dead in the eye before taking the cards into one hand and bending them into an arch.
"To pick up the cards," she said, before letting the cards jump from her hand. They flew into the air around them, dropping like leaves off a tree and she couldn't help the smile that came to her face at the sight of his.
He looked at her in amused confusion, head tilting as laughter escaped his throat.
The last of the cards dropped, and she felt her smile widen.
He is enjoying it.
So was she.
Her breath hitched, and a sound she hadn't heard before escaped her.
Her laugh.
She didn't have time to be stunned; she enjoyed it too much. It felt good—especially after the night and morning she had—and as the giggles didn't cease, she found herself leaning against the bed, a hand pressed to her tummy as she looked from the cards to Bucky.
She couldn't describe his smile; it was wide but gentle, and though his laughter had stopped, it was clear that he was still enjoying himself.
Good.
"Sam," she giggled, trying to stop so she could explain, "Sam did that to Steve one time. He—he was not happy with us, but we laughed. It was in a jet, and I think he said that he was finding cards for a long time after. They got wedged behind seats and boxes, so we had to buy a new deck," she said, chuckles slowly dying.
"You and Sam always loved to drive Steve insane..."
"A good thing?"
"Yah," he breathed, "and it's good that it's coming back to you. It's good to hear you laugh again."
"I have not in a long time, have I?"
"I don't think so," he said sadly, although a gentle smile was still there.
"It feels good. I like it."
"We'll have to find you things to laugh about then."
She nodded in agreement. "Yes."
The smile dropped and he cocked a brow. "But now you have to pick up the cards."
"That is not part of the game," she argued, lips still pulled up.
"It definitely is."
"Well, that is not fun," she huffed, trying to push her face into something of unenjoyment, but the Soldat just laughed.
"That's the risk of Fifty-Two Pick Up; sometimes the sucker doesn't pick up the cards," he shrugged.
"Does that make me the sucker?" she asked.
He let out another chuckle and nodded. "Unfortunately, yes."
"Well," she huffed. "Can you help a sucker out?"
He frowned a little before grumbling, "Yes."
She felt there was something she was supposed to say, and she wracked her brain as they started collecting cards, scraping and flipping until the messy handfuls were in one neat pile.
Then she remembered.
"Thank you!" she exclaimed, excited that she'd remembered the word. "Thank you," she repeated, words gentler as she looked at where Bucky was sitting on the ground across from her, the box of cards in his hand and a startled look on his face. "I remembered the words and I got excited," she explained as a new feeling sent warmth to her cheeks.
Bucky smiled.
He smiled a lot.
She liked that.
"It's alright, I just figured you were passionate about thanking me."
She bunched her brows, staring at him in question. "What is that tone?"
It was his turn to look at her confused.
"That tone, of what you said. It was the same tone the blond woman had spoken to Sam in, and I think you have used it before, but I don't know what it is..."
"Sarcasm, I guess," he shrugged. "It's like you're mocking your own words. Like if I were to say, wow, you're really tall, I would be being sarcastic."
"So, it is when you say a lie?"
"No, not necessarily, just when you are saying something that isn't necessarily what you mean. Or when you want someone to know something without saying it explicitly. Or exaggerating... Damn, it's difficult to explain, actually..."
"Did I say sarcastic things before?" she asked, shifting to lean her back against the bed.
"Hell, you may as well have only said sarcastic things," he chuckled, propping a knee up and laying his arm across it "That's why you and Sam got along so well; you two were always going back and forth."
"Oh... Was I that way with Steve?"
"No, Steve is... more serious, I guess. You two are kind of opposites actually. But you worked well with each other and balanced each other out."
"Hmm... And what about you and me? Before Hydra we knew each other, right?"
"Briefly. I met you the same day I got my new arm. It was the day that we had a battle. Do... do you remember those beasts? They had six arms and two legs and—"
"Yes," she cut him off, mind traveling to her nightmare.
"That's when we met. You were gone about three weeks later."
That didn't make sense.
"I am confused. You said you got your arm a month before I returned. If we met when you got your arm, and but I was gone for ten years—that just doesn't make sense."
His jaw tightened and he nodded. "It's confusing. Do you want me to explain, or do you want me to let you remember?"
"Will it be easier to remember?"
"It might be less... confusing. There are things you'll need to remember in order to understand."
Frustration coursed through her. "Alright..."
"We were friends though," he said gently, bringing her back to her previous question. "I teased you, probably more than I should have, but you always bit back."
"That was a good thing?"
"Yah, it was."
"Hmm. And what about the green one? Bruce?"
"You met him the same time as me, but before you left, he was busy helping build... a machine. To help with the aftermath of the battle."
"So we were not close?"
"No, but you knew him."
"And there were others too? That I knew? That are not around."
"Yah, a lot went home to their families," he explained. "Some we lost..."
"They died?"
"Yah," he breathed.
"I don't remember them..."
"No... but you will..."
The way he said that made her think it would be hard. She wondered what it would feel like; whether it would be similar to how she feels about killing innocent people, or whether it would be a different feeling.
It was unsettling not being able to remember... everything was so confusing, and more so as she tried to organize the thoughts already in her head.
"Did your memories need to come back? After Siberia?"
"Yah..."
"How did you keep track of them? They go by so fast, and I don't know when they took place, it is so confusing..."
"For a long while, I didn't do anything, I just let them float back. But I eventually got a notebook, wrote some stuff down, figured out a timeline for myself. There was so much, it probably wouldn't have all fit anyways, but I only wrote a few things down, like markers."
"That might make it easier... It just feels like so much; and it is not even all there yet."
"It's frustrating," he nodded, "especially when something is so close, but you can't pin it down."
"Yes. That is what it all feels like; nothing before Hydra is clear..."
"But Hydra is?"
She just nodded, not trusting her words to come out without wavering.
"It's alright if you don't want to answer, but... when you were there, did they use a machine to clear your memories? To wipe you?"
She cocked her head, mind turning. "I am not sure... I don't—"
And then she remembered it.
The fear.
"No, no—no—no, you're not putting me in that thing!" she bit.
"Ah, so my ptichka recognizes this device?"
"Stop," she growled, honing in on the Russian. "Don't fucking do this."
Her heart beat hard enough for her to feel it in her ears, watching helplessly as she was forced into the chair, feeling leather straps squeeze her chest and legs while her arms were locked into metal restraints.
"Don't fucking do this," she seethed, as if her words would suddenly shock the Russian into changing his mind. "Don't," she panted, "do this."
"Don't worry, my ptichka, it will be over soon."
"I am not your ptichka, you fucking bast—"
She remembered the pain.
She didn't know what to expect, but nothing could have prepared her for the feeling of having her brain scrambled. Fried. Blended.
There were no words that could describe it—not that she could even attempt, considering all she could comprehend, was blinding pain.
She remembered the emptiness.
She was forgetting how to be alive.
It wasn't long before she couldn't remember not remembering. She didn't know what happened before that moment, or what would come next.
Then, she just didn't know.
She simply was.
She remembered how that emptiness faded slightly, only to be replaced by a new type of emptiness. One that stayed for years; where she couldn't speak out, couldn't argue, couldn't decide.
"I'm sorry," the Soldat said.
"They did," she nodded, not even hearing him. "Over and over, until I was nothing. They just kept doing it—I was so scared every time, but I didn't know what was coming. I just knew it was bad. And it hurt."
"I'm so sorry."
"They... they did it to you too, didn't they? I think I knew. I don't know how, but I knew that they did it to you."
"Yah, they did it to me too..."
"I am sorry. I wish I could have stopped it from happening to you. If I knew, I should have tried."
"What happened to me was not your fault. I'd been with them for years, long before you came—my mind was gone when you came."
Her brain once again started to feel overwhelmed. "How could you have been there longer than I was if I left you? When did they take you?"
He looked so at war with himself, whether he should answer or not.
"Is this another thing that will come with time?" she bit.
He nodded. "What happened... it's so difficult to explain, I don't know if I could do it in a way that you would understand without you remembering it..."
"Alright," she whispered, the feeling of being lost almost suffocating.
But then her mind returned to the memories that just reappeared, and her heart sunk. She could almost feel the pain now; the sharp ache that threatened to split her skull. The feeling of nothingness that came afterwards.
How had she lived like that for such a long time?
How could she have obeyed them?
What if they find me again?
She wasn't sure if the Russian was still alive, but others could have carried on his work, they could know about her, they could track her down. She didn't want to go back—couldn't go back—but she'd tried to fend them off before and it hadn't worked. They broke her. Like the Russian said, he made her into the perfect soldier. Made her do whatever they wanted.
And they could do it again.
Someone would—
"Ptichka, take a breath."
They were coming.
"Come on, I know you can do it, count your breaths—"
"They're coming," she argued. "They're going to take us again, they're going to hurt us again. I don't want that—but they can—"
He was suddenly in front of her, eyes locking with hers. "They're not coming, I promise. They can't hurt us anymore."
"But what if they do? I tried to fight them, I didn't want to be there but they kept me. They can do it all again—I don't want to become like that again," she said shakily.
"They won't—"
She shook her head, not wanting to be placated when there was such a big threat behind them. "They could find a way! I cannot go back, I cannot," she pleaded.
He reached forwards then, grabbing her cheeks gently to keep her still. "They're gone."
She froze. "What?"
"They're gone. Steve got rid of the main players and then you guys tracked down the last of them," he said before his face fell and he shut his eyes, letting out a frustrated sigh.
How... how could she have tracked down the last of them? She'd only just arrived; just became active, just—
More memories flooded her brain. Like his words were all it needed to unlock a history she had no idea was there.
It was still only flashes; working on computers, sneaking through halls, nights on uncomfortable couches, but she knew that it was all to track people down. She remembered time in hot, stuffy rooms within sand colored buildings, and drinking apple tea on rooftops at night.
She remembered finding people, not just Hydra, but others, and stopping them. Trafficking rings, weapons manufacturers, larcenists—anyone who was profiting off injustice.
Sam, and Steve, and... the blond and brunette women. Their names were so close... but she couldn't think of them.
But it wasn't their names that were making her head spin. It was that the memories she had that looked recent. Modern.
The technology, the clothing, the world looked recent.
The buildings she walked through weren't carpeted in brown shag or yellow linoleum, there weren't large computers or boxy machines. It all looked like it did today.
How?
The word repeated in her mind, over and over.
I was frozen in 1979.
How could the memories with Steve and Sam be from before that?
Wait—how could they be from before that? They were young. They looked the same. But Steve didn't.
How do I remember him young?
How are the others still younger?
She thought back to Hydra, to those early memories where she'd been put into that machine.
What was before that?
She squeezed her eyes shut, the hands slipping from her cheeks as she forced the back of her head into the mattress. Her mind was a hurricane and she couldn't find the center. Memories flew past, but it was like she was trying to catch the storms water with her hands; she could get drops, but not the whole picture.
"I don't understand," she grit.
"Do you remember the stones?"
Stones.
The word sent a whole new frenzy of memories, of battle, clearer now that it had been, and a large purple man with a golden glove—no, gauntlet—that had colorful jewels inlaid within it.
She knew those stones had awesome power, and that she was afraid of them.
They killed me, she remembered.
That man killed me. But I am alive.
She was in a forest but then she was being brought through a golden ring of sparks to continue the fight in the waste of some explosion.
Stones.
They ended up on the hand of a man in a red suit.
'Return the stones.'
'Remember, you have to return the stones to the exact moment you got them or you're gonna open a bunch of nasty alternative realities.'
What did that mean?!
Return the stones.
Return the stones to the exact moment you got them.
1970, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2023.
1970.
1971.
1970.
That is when they took me.
I... was in a cell.
That is when I saw the Soldat for the first time.
But I called him something else. Something else. But that is his name—no, he has a name. A real name.
But he was the Soldat then. He hurt me. They were asking me questions and they hurt me to get answers.
What did they want me to tell them?
"They took me," she mumbled, opening her eyes and focusing on the ceiling. "They took me into a room, and hurt me because I would not tell them... I would not tell them who I was, but I could not because... because... I don't—"
The suit.
It let her travel. To that location. To that... time.
I could not tell them about the suit.
"I could not tell them about the suit, about how I got there, so they took me. They wanted to know who I was. What the suit could do. How I knew things... There were different rooms... I was not always in Siberia, but they moved me there," she explained shakily. "They hurt me. To make me tell them, but I knew that if I told them, something bad would happen. But then the—the Russian, he thought I would be helpful. He put me in that machine, and I couldn't get away—I tried to fight them, but they put me in it, and I couldn't think anymore. I was so empty, I wasn't me, Bucky, I was..."
Bucky.
That was his name.
She looked up, meeting his eyes. "Bucky," she repeated. "That's your name."
He watched her sadly but managed to push a shadow of a smile to his lips. "Yah."
"They made us train together. We went on missions together. You were like me; you were the only one like me... But," she realized, "it was not you, was it?"
He shook his head. "No, it wasn't me."
"But you said that those things happened to you," she argued, worry building in her stomach.
If it wasn't him, who is he?
"I know it's confusing, but the Soldat you knew was me before, but not me now. When I was in Siberia, you weren't there."
"What do you mean you but not you? How was I not there?"
"The suit let you—"
"I know, travel to a different time," she interrupted, "but you were there with me."
"It was... a different me. It didn't happen in this time, it happened in a separate time."
His words reminded her of what Bruce said, and suddenly, it made sense.
'Remember, you have to return the stones to the exact moment you got them or you're gonna open a bunch of nasty alternative realities.'
"Separate reality," she mumbled. "I was in a different... timeline?" she asked as a hazy conversation bubbled up in her memory.
"Yes... and so the Soldat you knew wasn't me. I don't know what happened in Siberia when you were there... I wasn't there with you."
She felt something inside her break. Because the one person who she thought knew what happened—what she did, what they did—actually didn't. She was alone in what happened.
She remembered feeling alone in those cells, she knew no one was coming for her, but she held some type of confidence that she would get out.
But she didn't.
And now she was alone again.
Her eyes welled with tears for the second time, hating the emotions she was feeling. Hating that she couldn't make them stop.
In that moment, she wished she was back in Siberia; empty.
"I have to remember alone," she whispered, voice cracking as tears dropped.
He moved immediately, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her against his chest. Her hands fisted his shirt as a sob was muffled into his shoulder, and they didn't stop when his hands tightened around her. Thye actually seemed to get worse.
"I'm with you. You won't be alone."
"I don't want this," she cried. "I don't want to remember. Everything they did and everything I did, it's... I don't want to be alone."
"You're not alone, I promise you're not alone. I'm here, Sam, Steve, they're here. I might not know what exactly happened, but I know Siberia. I know the pain."
"But you have no idea what I have done," she said, voice breaking.
When he found out, he would look at her like a monster. Like Hades, who wanted people to suffer. Because when she was with Hydra, she hurt people, made them afraid, dragged out their deaths for the amusement of the agents.
"No, but I know what they made me do. I know it wasn't your choice, but I also know it doesn't matter what I say. It still feels like you. It hurts—I know."
"Why does it hurt?" she asked, voice so faint. "I don't want it to hurt, I want it to go away. I want to be empty again."
"No," he shook his head, "you would miss out on your life if you were like that again. You'd never get to laugh with Sam, or irritate Steve. Or eat melon or drink coffee. If you were empty, you would never get to enjoy those things again. I know it's hard, I know, but you'll make it out the other side. The pain will get easier, you'll find ways to manage it, to start moving forward. You will. You're strong; if one of us makes it out, it'll be you."
She pulled back to look at him. "Me? I—I don't understand, you do all those things, has it not gotten easier?"
His jaw flexed as if he were biting back his words and it was the only answer she needed.
"How could I get past it all if you can't? You're—you're a fucking superhero for God's sake, I cannot—I can't do it. I don't want to do it. I don't want this," she shook her head, head pounding as memories and thoughts clarified in her mind but she didn't know how much she could take. She felt she was about to shut down, like a computer running too many programs at once.
Too much data.
"You can. You will... You're strong."
She shook her head again. "And you're not?" she whispered.
His lips pursed as he watched her. "I'm trying, but I don't know if I'll ever get past what I've done. If I'll ever stop being that man."
In that moment, he looked broken. As broken as she felt. It was like he'd given up and was just living with the things Hydra had done to him.
Maybe that is what he was doing. Maybe that's what she should do.
But he had so much faith in her. He barely knew her, and yet he believed in her. Maybe he needed the same; someone to believe in him. Someone who understood.
"I am not strong enough to get through this alone—I don't want to be alone again... and so the only way I'm trying is if you try with me," she said, throat still tight with tears.
"It's not that easy; the things I've done, I can't just come back from that. There are consequences."
"But I did the same, how could I come back from it?"
"Those things don't exist here. Here, you're Marlow Hendrix, the woman who helped save the world, the woman who fought with Captain America to stop bad people. You haven't hurt anyone here."
"That doesn't mean I can forget what I have done," she bit weakly. "Those things are real, they were real people that I killed, that I tortured, only, I don't know how to get back to face what I've done. How I could get back to—"
"You're not going back," he interrupted, hands tightening around her slightly as if he was trying to keep her from walking back to the machine. "No. You're not risking it."
"So I'm just supposed to live with what I've done? You want me to move on, ignoring the blood on my hands?"
"I... I just want you to do better than me. To live. To not be stuck in the same hell."
"And I want you to have the same chance. I can't do this by myself—"
"You won't be by yourself; you have the others—"
"They don't know," she whispered weakly. "They never could. But I won't just leave you behind. As selfish as I'm being, I need someone... Please."
"I don't think I'm the person you need. I'm not... I'm not good. Or a good support. I won't be able to help you in the ways you need."
"Please."
His eyes flitted between hers, and she could almost feel the look of pain that was written across his face. But after what felt like an eternity, he nodded.
The action had her wrapping her arms around his neck and a wave of relief flowing through her.
"You're not selfish," he mumbled into her hair. "I..." he trailed off, shaking his head slightly, "I need someone too," he whispered.
He sounded ashamed of the fact, and she nodded, trying to convey that she understood and that it was okay.
"And you are good. You have not left my side, you have watched over me, helped me learn. You help just by being nearby... There is more good in you than you believe."
He didn't say anything, only buried his head into her shoulder while his arms tightened around her torso.
⁂
Neither of them knew how long they'd been on the ground for, just breathing through the stress of what had just happened, but eventually they pulled apart.
In that time, the girl's memory had become sharper and sharper, until she was able to create a rough line of her history.
The oldest ones seemed to be deeper rooted; not necessarily clear, but the most... tangible.
She remembered flashes of her family—or what would be considered family. A mother and a man she thought must have been her father, although she wasn't certain. She remembered her childhood home, the carpet that smelled musty, the TV that hummed with electricity, the closet door that never stayed shut. She also remembered the screams that echoed through the halls, and the creek behind her house that she would escape to when they got too loud.
When she was older, she left that house, moving to a country where she spoke little of its language. She remembered being in front of computers, being bored. And then she remembers being angry. Always angry. That people were being hurt, that for so long the people responsible got away with it.
Hydra, she realized. She was mad at Hydra.
She wasn't exactly sure what she was doing, but she knew it had something to do with what the Soldat—Bucky—had said about her tracking down the last of them. Because her next phase of memories were of Sam, Steve, the two women, and passing faces. Some were friendly, some were not. Some helped them; letting them hide away and offering them food. Others, tried to kill them, but that seemed normal.
Her time with them didn't seem long. It was fleeting, really. But there were such strong emotions connected to that short time, and it was unlike anything she'd experienced before. She'd never felt the need to throw herself into danger to protect another altruistically, but she knew she had. And she believed she would do it again. It was a strange feeling to know that that was there, but being unable to remember why.
Fear and heartbreak came after that. Fear that she knew was connected to her nightmare of those creatures, and heartbreak that was connected to the losses of battle that Bucky had mentioned. But again, she couldn't remember why she felt it. She didn't know those who had died, so all she was left with was a hollow ache and questions.
And then, her memory brought her to Hydra. She still wasn't sure exactly how or why she'd been brought into their clutches other than travelling back in time, but she remembered pain. Drawn out, deliberate pain.
To get answers, she reminded herself.
They needed answers because she'd told them secrets she wasn't supposed to know. They were determined because she'd stupidly and unwittingly convinced them that she was a spy. And then somehow, they became aware of the suit. Again, she couldn't remember exactly how they found out about it, but it seemed that every time they interrogated her, they wanted to know about it.
She could only assume it was those questions that led them to creating a suit of their own. One that made her nauseous to think about. One that in training, had her tearing through people like they were nothing more than fog.
She realized, or rather, remembered, that the feeling she had about killing people was guilt. She felt so much guilt she couldn't understand it. She didn't know exactly who she was before Hydra, but she knew as if it were her very essence that she never wanted to hurt anyone. And that made remembering all of those faces so much worse.
It seemed that everything around her reminded her of someone. The color of the blanket on her bed was the color of a man's suit that she'd chased through halls before ripping out his throat. The near silent beeping of a machine next to her sounded so much like the tone of the telephone that had come off its receiver after she'd smashed someone's head into their heavy oak desk.
Her victims were everywhere around her, but no matter how painful, she didn't want to be blinded to it. The least she could do was endure a reminder for what she'd done.
And so she sat, almost numbly, for the rest of the afternoon and evening.
When Bucky brought her food, she impassively took it, eating only because she knew she needed to. And when he asked her questions, she did her best to answer; if only to keep up her agreement to him, but everything in her mind distracted her.
He didn't seem to mind though; he just sat on his cot, checking in with her everyone once in a while to see if there was anything she needed. She was glad he didn't push her to talk about what she was remembering, although she wasn't sure she could even if he did.
It wasn't long after she'd curled up under the blankets that he'd shut the lights off, calling a quiet good night before his cot squeaked as he sat back down. She suddenly felt more aware of herself and him in the room. Not necessarily discomfort, but she realized how strange their situation was. How he might feel uncomfortable for needing to stay in the room with her.
But despite those feelings, she didn't say anything. She just squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to escape her reality for at least a moment.
⁂
Bucky knew she was asleep by her breathing, and although it was like she was teasing him, rubbing it in that she could sleep, his mind wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
Part of it may have been because he didn't want another nightmare; last night's was enough to make him wish he would never sleep again, but the other part was because he was nervous for Marlow.
Her memories were hitting her hard—harder and faster than they'd hit him, and he had no idea what to do. He expected it to take months, but in the last twenty-four hours it was like she'd turned into a new person.
The way she acted, the way she spoke, she was more and more like her old self, but it was happening way too quickly.
And whatever she was remembering... God, it seemed bad.
He rolled onto his back, mind turning.
He remembered the 1970's; the missions he ran, the agent's he worked with, and he wondered whether any of them had been the same as in her timeline. Whether they did actually share some experience stalking through the same halls and tracking their victims.
It was a morbid thought, made worse by the slightly relieved feeling that accompanied it. But he couldn't help it. It was some instinct to want to be together with someone—to share the same experiences, the same traumas—in the hopes of having some mutual understanding of pain.
Morbid, his mind repeated.
He wouldn't wish his experiences on anyone, yet it didn't stop his mind from finding some comfort in the fact.
I'm probably going to Hell...
What am I thinking? I'm definitely going to Hell.
If not what I did for Hydra, then for everything I did in the war.
He sat up then, letting his legs swing over the edge of the cot while he dropped his head into his hands, elbows resting on his thighs.
He already knew it was going to be a long night.
Hey!
So intense chapter, but we're getting really close to Marlow being back!
I hope you liked this one, and if you did, please vote with the little star and maybe drop a comment ;) I'd love to know where you think this story is going!