"So, I thought we would stay another night?" Sam suggested as he brought their lunch tray from the hall.
"Another night? Why?"
"I want you to be comfortable when you get to my sisters. I know it's stressful going into an environment you don't know, so I thought giving you another day—or longer if you need it—would be good."
"But your family..."
"Will be fine. I don't want to thrust you into something, and I know that by bringing you with me so quickly I already have... I'm hoping this eases you into it, I guess. But it's up to you."
She dropped her gaze to the table...
He was trying to help... and if he thought this would help then it probably would.
So, she nodded. "Another night sounds fine."
Although, from the back of her mind came a thought.
He probably doesn't want you screaming and waking up the house.
She bit down on her molars, barely nodding in thanks as Sam passed her a plate.
He also probably wants to make sure you're not going to hurt anyone.
She grabbed her fork and stabbed a radish, her mind becoming a torrent of cutting thoughts. So much so that after eating a few bites of her lunch, she quietly excused herself and slipped into her room.
Beneath a mountain of suffocating covers she found herself hoping the roaring of her heart would muffle the voices inside her head that were telling her she was making a mistake. A selfish mistake that could end in someone getting hurt.
But they were right; she was a dangerous burden. She should be working through her problems alone.
⁂
She felt like she was dragging her feet as she emerged from her room a little while after dawn.
She had fallen asleep twice over the last eighteen hours, and both times she'd been woken up by nightmares. And through some miracle she hadn't woken up Sam, so rather than risking leaving her room in the early hours of the morning, she waited to a slightly more reasonable hour.
With all of the grace that Hydra had trained into her, she moved silently to the coffee pot, filled it, and hit brew before sending Bucky and Steve quick 'good morning' messages.
As soon as the pot was finished, she poured herself a mug and took it to the balcony, settling herself on one of the cushioned chairs and letting the morning sun warm her skin.
She stayed there as the sun crawled through the sky, and at some point in what she figured was the afternoon, the door behind her slid open and Sam walked out.
"Hey," she mumbled, looking over to him.
"Hey, feeling any better?"
"I'm alright. When do you want to head out? I figured you would want to be on the road already."
He nodded, letting his eyes move from her to the city that sprawled around them. "I thought we could stay another night. Give you some more time."
Her shoulders tensed.
This was why she wanted to be alone; she was holding him here. Changing his plans. Stopping him from seeing his family.
"I don't want to keep you."
He turned back to her, moving to lean his back against the rail. "And I don't want to put you into an uncomfortable situation. Another night is alright—actually, I think it's a good idea."
"I'm fine."
"You haven't slept."
"I've slept."
"Not without nightmares," he pointed out in an almost exasperated tone.
She frowned, looking through the glass of the balcony to watch the cars in the distance. "How did you know that?"
Sam was silent for a few moments. "You told me..."
She flicked her eyes to his, confusion bubbling over. "I told you? When?"
"When we had lunch," he said calmly, although his eyes betraying his worry.
She repeated his words, searching her mind for that interaction. Vaguely, now, she remembered him coming out with sandwiches and fries, and them exchanging a few words.
The lapse in her memory caused her stomach to curl in on itself and she pulled her lips between her teeth in an attempt to stop the tears that threatened to spill.
"We should stay longer," Sam said gently. "I don't want to keep throwing you into unknowns. At least if you go slow you'll have time to adjust."
"Right. Okay. Whatever you think is best."
She hated those words. Hated that she was agreeing. Hated that she was keeping him here even longer.
"I'm gonna make us some hot chocolate, yah?"
"I guess they don't have apple tea, huh?"
It was a weak attempt at joking, but Sam apparently appreciated it because a gentle smile came to his lips.
"No, unfortunately not."
"Then hot chocolate sounds great, thanks Sam."
⁂
It was the same nightmare as before; an unknown agent would start by breaking her arm, and then the Russian would come, choke her, threaten her, then begin carving her ribs.
The third time it seemed to drag out longer, a few more inches, then another rib.
And the next time she fell asleep, he smashed her forehead into the wall before letting her body crumple to the ground so he could begin his work on her thighs.
Her dreams weren't the way it actually happened. Her scars were given to her on different occasions, spread out, but for some reason her brain was mashing them into one long, horrendous torture session.
So she decided against sleeping. She would fight it.
That evening while Sam was in the shower, she brewed herself another pot of coffee—with a few extra scoops of grounds—before pouring herself a mug and dropping onto the couch to watch whatever was on the tv.
By the time Sam got out of the shower, she was on her third cup, and when he emerged from his room, he sent her a sad look.
"It's decaf," she mumbled, focusing her eyes back on the tv.
It wasn't, but she didn't need the lecture he was sure to offer.
"I have a pack of cards if you want to play? Beats reruns."
She almost shook her head but forced herself to nod him over. He was trying, he wasn't leaving her; the least she could do was put the effort in to spend some time with him.
Her hopes of showing him she was alright were squashed however, as she went through hand after hand of poker, unable to focus enough to even recognize a straight.
It frustrated her; she should be able to do this. She knew how to play, she liked playing, but she could barely keep her mind on holding the cards let alone play.
Eventually she gave up, mumbling an apology about being tired before topping up her coffee and heading into her room. She crawled onto the bed and sat against the headboard, letting out a puff of air as she felt the waves of exhaustion wash over her. But she was determined.
So she took a sip of coffee and pulled her phone from her hoodie pocket.
Oh shit.
Bucky (6 more messages)
Don't worry about calling, just send me
a message when you can, alright? (3:00 pm)
She swiped open the notification, brows furrowing at the list of messages.
Bucky
Yesterday, 11:14 am
Hey, everything alright?
Sam said you were staying another night.
Yesterday, 7:41 pm
Hey, feeling any better?
Today, 1:30 am
If you're awake, I am too, so let me know if you want to talk.
12:55 pm
Not trying to bombard you, I'm just worried.
Give me a call when you see these.
3:00 pm
Don't worry about calling, just send
me a message when you can, alright?
Fuck.
Her jaw clenched as her fingers began typing, hating that she was making him worry.
Bucky
I'm sorry for not responding...
I'm alright
His reply was almost immediate.
Bucky
Don't worry about it.
Just got me a little worried is all.
Do you want to talk?
I'm fine, just heading to bed
A bubble popped up before disappearing.
Bucky
You're sure?
Yah
I'm good
How about we talk tomorrow?
Sure.
That sounds good.
Have a good night, Marlow.
Night Bucky.
She plugged her phone in and dropped it onto the side table, letting out a long breath of air as she buried her face in her hands.
⁂
A sob escaped her throat as she threw herself forward, gasping for air.
The Russian was burning her, then heating the knife and stabbing it into her flesh before ripping it from the cauterized wound.
Her stomach rolled at the memory, and she had to stumble off the bed and press her hands into the cool wood flooring before she could remember to breathe.
"Marlow?" Sam's voice came before the door flung open. "Marlow, shit."
She probably looked a mess; she felt a mess. But she had no capacity for embarrassment, she was just done.
She could barely get the words out between the tears and hitched breathing, "I can't do this Sam," she gasped. "I c-can't."
He dropped onto the ground in front of her, ever so carefully reaching for her hands. "I know it's hard, but it's going to get better," he spoke gently, so polar to what she was feeling. Even his movements were featherlight as he pulled her into his chest and wrapped his arms around her. "It will get better."
"It's only getting w-worse—every time its worse. He won't go away," she argued as she pressed her forehead into his shoulder. "He won't get out of my-my h-head."
Sam didn't say anything, but his hands rubbed up and down her back soothingly, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
A few minutes passed and her brain had finally stopped thumping, but it did nothing to quell the weight of her body. "I'm so tired, Sam."
"I know Mar. I know.... We'll find something that will help. I'll figure something out."
Nothing will help.
"For now, maybe you should call Bucky."
"Why would I call him?" she mumbled.
"You've spent the last month with him, you're comfortable with him, and he's been through the same thing; maybe he can give you some ideas on how to get through this."
She shook her head, pulling back to sit on her haunches. "I just need a minute."
"He's been worried about you, I'm sure he'll want to talk."
She shook her head again. "It's the middle of the night, he's probably sleeping. I'm just going to take a shower and stay up a little. I'm sorry I woke you up."
"It's not the middle of the night, Mar, it's ten in the morning..."
"Oh."
She wondered when she'd fallen asleep... she didn't feel like she'd gotten much, but considering she'd barely gotten any rest the last few days, maybe she was just deprived.
"Do you want me to call him?"
"No... I'm going to take a shower... I'll be out in a little bit."
He looked like he was going to argue, but he let out a sigh and nodded, helping her stand. "Call if you need anything okay?"
"Yah," she breathed, stepping away.
She heard his footsteps recede as she got to the bathroom before shutting the door and locking the world out. Her entire body felt on alert as she began stripping from her clothes, and the sight of her scars only made it worse; bringing her back to her nightmare.
It made her heart gallop in her chest, so she stepped blindly into the shower and turned it on, relief rippling through her at the cold water beating against her skin. It was soothing despite its sharpness, and as she pressed her back against the cool glass, she found herself finally able to fill her lungs for the first time in what felt like forever.
Eventually her mind drifted to the slow rhythms Bucky had her copy in the weeks prior, and to the steadiness of his voice and self.
Maybe I should call him.
She shook her head at her thoughts; he needed a break. He deserved a few days without having to deal with her.
She could make it through a few bad nightmares. He did it alone, she could manage.
⁂
Much like the last week, she hadn't noticed the day passing her. She just wandered through it, stopping momentarily to talk or eat, all the while being caught within her mind. She found a kind of solace in the stretches where she was away from herself; that meant she wasn't focused on the knot in her stomach that only got worse when she thought about how she was making Sam deal with her, or the impending meeting with Sam's family.
Cruelly, the excitement for meeting them had passed, and now there was only anxiety.
What if she couldn't get over the nightmares?
What if every night, she woke the house up?
What if in confusion, she hurt someone?
Thankfully, those thoughts only occasionally flitted into her mind, while the rest of the day, she kept herself lost within the fog.
Before she realized, the day had passed. And then somehow, the night did as well.
Once again, she was reminded of Siberia—but this time she was thankful for it; she much preferred the blankness to anguish.
Although Sam didn't. She noticed how he kept trying to pull her back to reality; with movies, conversation—he even tried to get her to play cards again, but that time she couldn't get herself to agree. She just wanted to be.
That was something different from Siberia; there she didn't want anything. Now, she just wanted to be left alone. She was as close to happy as she could get. Content, maybe? Comfortable?
No.
Numb.
She was numb. And she was glad for it.
When Sam wasn't directly in front of her, he seemed to disappear. What he was doing, she wasn't sure. She did hear him talking on the phone, but she didn't know with who. And even though he was only a room away, she didn't know what he was saying.
Not that she was paying much attention; the sunset was too pretty.
Pretty enough that she grabbed a blanket and moved to the balcony, letting the cool evening air swirl around her.
She wasn't sure the last time she'd seen a sunset—or rather, the last time she'd appreciated one. Her recent memories seemed to be in greyscale. Except for the red.
There was a lot of red.
Hers, theirs, everyone's.
It was enough to drown in. To fill her throat with a choking warmth. To stick to her, drip from her, stain her.
She was covered in blood.
It's everywhere.
It's everywhere.
Get it off.
She knew she stood, but then she was in the shower, ice cold water soaking her skin, her hair, her clothes.
It's everywhere.
There was no red in the shower, yet she could feel the blood beneath her nails. Could feel it dripping down her cheeks.
They made me into a bloody nightmare.
They put this blood on me.
They did this to me.
She wanted to scream and cry and pull her hair out, but she didn't have the energy. They took it from her.
He took it from her.
This is your punishment for letting them do what they did.
She panted, her breath sending blood sputtering away from her lips. But it wasn't blood. It was water. Water that was pouring down her face.
Then why did it taste like copper?
Why is it thick?
It wasn't.
It wasn't.
Her hand batted the faucet off and she shut her eyes, letting the cold sink into her bones before stripping from her clothes.
She left them pooled on the tile while she wrapped a towel around herself and flicked the light off, pushing open the door to her room. The duffle bag was open beside her bed, and she reached in blindly, pulling out a change of clothes. It seemed to take forever for her to pull on the crewneck and sweatpants, but eventually she dropped onto the bed and buried her face in the pillow, hoping to return to numbness.
⁂
She knew every beat of the dream before it happened. Knew when the bone in her arm would snap, when the Russian's hand would wrap around her throat, when he would press the knife into her skin for every question she didn't answer.
The last she saw, her blood was on his face, smeared from his cheekbone and into his beard, clumping it together like glue. But she wasn't sure when that was. Maybe he'd already wiped it away. Maybe that was a different memory.
All she knew was the cement was blissfully cool against her back, but it bit into her bones painfully.
"You know we will eventually find out who you work for, uh? You cannot keep your secrets forever."
She said nothing. She couldn't. Her throat was burning from the screams he ripped from her, so she just kept her gaze on the wall beside her, letting tears fall from her eyes as blood dripped from her skin.
"You are not getting out of here. Accept your fate, ptichka."
He straddled her torso, using the knife to pull her face up to look at him. "You belong to Hydra," he mumbled, patting the blade against her cheek before a grin slowly grew on his lips like he'd suddenly had a thought.
How she could grow even more afraid, she didn't know, but her head shook weakly as he stood and used his boot to hook her side, flipping her onto her stomach.
She tried to get away—she tried—but he halted her movement with a foot to the back of the skull. Her nose scraped against the cement before her cheekbone and temple cracked against the floor, sending shocks of pain through her skull that brought more tears to her eyes.
The pressure disappeared as he shifted, but it was only a momentary reprieve because next he was taking hold of the back of her shirt and ripping, tearing the already torn and bloody scraps clear away from her skin.
"Shlyukha Gidry. Vot ty kakaya, ptichka. Prinyat eto."
His voice was biting, almost as biting as the knife that started slicing through her skin.
She bucked against it, survival instincts taking over as a rush of adrenaline surged and ordered her to get away. But rough fingers threaded through her hair to push her head down while a knee was pressed into the base of her spine—she couldn't fight against him. Couldn't get away.
But her body didn't give up. It lurched against the knife point, working to deepen the cut despite its attempts to get away.
The weight on her spine increased and her throat felt like it was coated with sand.
She was screaming.
God, she was screaming so loud, but no one would help her.
"Shlyukha Gidry."
Shlyukha Gidry.
She couldn't tell if he was saying those words or if they were in her head, but they were repeating, over and over.
Hydra's whore.
Sobs were wracking her body, and with each spasm, the pain intensified.
Hydra whore.
At some point, the knife stopped cutting, but each breath was agony. It stretched the skin, tearing the flesh further and letting more acidic air wash over her exposed muscle.
"Vy ne chto inoye, kak telo, kotoroye nuzhno ispolʹzovat. Ty prinadlezhish Gidre. Ty prinadlezhish mne."
The words were spoken into her ear, deathly calm, and it felt like a blackhole was sucking everything from inside her.
You are nothing but a body to be used.
You belong to Hydra.
You belong to me.
A hand slithered up her hips to her waist, and her body jolted, squirming to get away, to avoid the touch. But she couldn't.
He shifted his knee and easily yanked her towards him, pulling her against him, inching his hands—
She flew forward, out of the bed and to the ground. Everything was burning. She could feel his hands on her, feel his breath on her. The words he etched into her felt like fire, and she cried out as the memory replayed in her mind.
She hated him.
She hated everything he did to her.
But mostly she hated her skin. How it kept evidence of her past, and how it worked with him to make sure she would always be reminded of him.
It hurt. It hurt so much.
Her hip pressing into the floor was a vivid reminder of being in that cell and of those months where she refused to speak. Of his knee pinning her down.
The tears that pooled beneath her cheek were the same.
As were the sobs that shook her.
Uncontrollable. Like he was still—
The door cracked open and she immediately shot upwards, pushing herself backwards to avoid whatever nightmare was coming in.
"No," she begged, watching through blurry eyes as whoever was across from her paused.
"Marlow, it's me. It's Sam. I'm right here, okay?"
"S-Sam?"
"Yah, it's me."
"Sam," she broke in relief, bracing her hands against the ground.
His steps were careful as he approached before dropping to kneel in front of her. "It's me," he repeated quietly.
"He—" another sob cut off her words and she bowed forward, her fists brushing against Sam's knees. "He won't get off of me. I can't get away from him."
"He's not here," he soothed as he reached for her hands tentatively. When she didn't pull away at the touch, he wrapped his hands around hers and inched closer. "He's gone."
Her fists tightened and she let her head hang between her arms. "I can f-feel him. He's never going to be gone... He's i-in my skin."
Sam was silent at that and she remembered that he didn't know.
"When I was... being interrogated, he—" she panted, "he tortured—tortured me, and one o-of the thing... he cut me, my back, he—"
She couldn't stop the wailing cry that pushed from her lips. It was a mixture of fear, anguish, pain, frustration—everything she felt then and was feeling now, and it stopped her from saying anything else. Of voicing what he'd done and what was left behind.
She was folded into her knees, unable to keep herself sitting up any longer, like her body was giving up.
But Sam wasn't.
He pulled her gently at first, just enough to get her to look up, and then he shifted closer to bring her into his arms.
The gentleness of his movements made her emotions feel two-fold, and she crumpled against him, gripping one of his hands to her chest as she felt his other hand fall to the back of her head.
"You're going to make it through this, alright?" he mumbled into her hair.
How could she ever? How could she make it past the feeling of violation? Of Invalidation?
The Russian was right; for ten years, she was a body. That's it. And really, that's all she had been her entire life. She was a paycheque and wallet photo for her mother, a punching bag and servant for her mother's boyfriend, a replaceable grunt for a security company.
The brief stint while on the run was the only time her purpose was more than to fill an allotted space, but even then, they could have done the job without her.
She wasn't special. She wasn't a superhero. She was just a body waiting for an order.
"Just breathe, alright? That's what I need you to do right now, focus on breathing."
She shook against him, breaths hitching to the point of her diaphragm hurting.
"My house in Delacroix is a big blue one," he said quietly, the hand in her hair moving to stroke down her neck. "Not a bright blue, but a light blue, almost like the sky. It has a wraparound porch, and out back there's a big old dock that stretches way out into the lake..."
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to picture the house.
"Me and my sister used to race down the dock. See who could get to the end first. Don't know how many splinters my feet got from running it barefoot, but my mom had to keep tweezers in the bowl by the back door... We'd spend most of our spare time out on that dock, fishing, talking, eating... And at nighttime, the fireflies come out, make the place look like a Disney movie."
She hadn't realized, but the sobs had calmed, leaving her with near silent tears and shaky breathing.
"It's quiet out there, one of the quietest places I've ever been. Makes you feel like the rest of the world doesn't exist..."
She tightened her grip on his hands slightly and he squeezed back, like a silent reassurance that he was still there.
"I'll show you the best places to find crawfish. And in town, where you can get the best biscuits. I'll have to get you onto my parent's boat, show you around the bayou and to the public docks... The town is quiet and friendly. It's safe."
Safe.
Safe until I go.
Until I get scared and hurt someone.
Her jaw clenched and she tried to hold back another wave of tears that formed at the reminder of her relocation.
And how she was still keeping Sam holed up in some hotel.
How was she supposed to stay with him? Her nightmares were only getting worse, if this ever happened around the kids, they would be terrified. Why would Sarah and Sam want that around the boys?
"Hey," Sam mumbled, pulling their hands up so she would sit up. "I'm going to get you some water, alright?"
She nodded passively, letting go of his hand as he stood.
Staying with them is a bad idea.
She decided then that it was no longer a possibility. So, she stood, grabbing her phone from the side table and her duffle from beside her bed before sliding on her sneakers.
Sam was still in the kitchen as she stepped from her room, making her way silently through the darkness and towards the door. She was just passing him when he shifted.
"Marlow?"
She paused but didn't turn. She didn't want to see his face.
"Marlow, what are you doing?" His voice had hardened, shifting to something akin to fear.
She didn't know what to say. She didn't want to say she was leaving, but that's exactly what she was doing; she was too much of a burden, too much of a threat.
But because she couldn't handle saying those things, she kept silent.
"Mar, let's just wait until morning to figure something out. Don't leave right now. Please."
But if she left now, he could sleep. He could rest. He could leave in the morning and see his family.
"Go back to bed Sam."
She didn't recognize her voice, but once the words were out of her mouth, she continued walking. It felt like miles. Like the door wasn't a dozen feet away, but on the other side of the city. She just wanted to be out of that room, away from people and in a place she could pause for a moment. Think. Figure something out.
But then a hand wrapped around her bicep, and regardless of how gentle it was, her mind turned off as she fell back onto her training.
She turned, sending her fist towards the person's face, but before it could make contact, they caught it and pulled it down.
"Mar—"
She yanked her hand out of their grip and swung her bag into their chest, using the moment of surprise to kick it and the person over the back of a couch.
The Russian's voice praised her, and she shook her head in confusion.
The Russian's not here.
Where is he?
Where am I?
Hotel.
With—
"Oh God, Sam!"
Once again, she came back to herself, her heart immediately going erratic as she took a step forward.
"I'm alright," came his voice from the darkness. "It's alright."
It wasn't.
It was anything except alright.
She hurt him again.
It was Sam. How could she do that?
"I-I'm sorry. I didn't—I—
"Marlow, please don't go anywhere, come sit down—"
"No," she bit out as she took a step back, "I hurt you a-again—I need to go."
"I'm alright, I shouldn't have scared you," he bit in frustration.
See? You're making him mad.
This is your fault.
You hurt him.
"Mar, you need to breathe."
She snapped her eyes to where Sam was only a few feet away now.
Breathe?
Suddenly she realized her lungs were burning, so she tried suck in a breath, but failed as it got caught in her throat.
"I n-need to g-go," she gasped, taking another step back.
"I need you to stay here Marlow," Sam opposed.
She shook her head, opening her mouth in an attempt to explain how dangerous she was, but the words wouldn't come out. It felt like a hand was squeezing her throat.
Like you did to so many people.
The mental image was enough to cause her knees to buckle, and somewhere in front of her, her name was shouted, but she was more focused on the pressure in her skull. It was pounding, hard and loud enough she wondered if the rest of the world could hear it.
She tried to take a slow breath in, but it was jagged and not nearly enough to stop the burn.
Just breathe!
"One minute!" Sam yelled before lowering his voice, "Marlow focus on my voice."
Too close.
He's too close.
She scrambled backwards, heart pounding as she squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her jaw.
"Marlow breathe, please breathe."
The pounding was louder now. She thought her brain was about to explode. It certainly felt like it was.
And then there was a cracking noise and she was sure.
I'm going to die.
I'm going to suffocate.
I'm going to—
"Marlow, I need you to breath."
Her eyes flew open at the proximity of the voice, body recoiling before she saw a pair of familiar eyes.
Bucky.
"Like we did before, just a small one," he said gently, taking hold of her wrist to guide her hand to his shoulder.
She could feel his back expand as he pulled in a breath, and she did her best to follow, but she couldn't get it down.
"Here," she heard Sam say somewhere in her periphery, but she didn't take her eyes off Bucky's. "Marlow, I want you to hold this."
Something cold was placed in her palm and she wrapped her fingers around it, following the familiarity of an order.
That's what you're good for.
"Again Marlow, in," Bucky mumbled, taking a breath, "out."
But she couldn't. She couldn't even follow an order. She couldn't breathe. Her eyes closed as she felt her lungs refusing to work.
I'm going to suffocate.
"Hey sweetheart, come on, look at me, focus on me. Focus on my breaths."
She blinked her eyes back open, vision blurry with tears.
"That's it. Now, breath in," he hummed, and she sucked in a gasping breath, "mhmm, you got it, now let it out."
She followed again, letting out a sobbing exhale.
Her hand felt wet, so she dropped her gaze and opened her palm finding the remnants of an ice cube.
"Cold's good," Bucky explained, "now again, in."
She felt his back expand and tried to follow, but again, she struggled.
Bucky looked lost for a moment, before hesitantly lifting his left arm and ever so gently wrapping his hand around the side of her neck, just under her ear. Her heartbeat thumped against him, but the cool metal was like a zap of calming energy.
"In," he repeated gently.
She tipped her head in a subtle nod and pulled a short breath through her nose, the relief of air in her lungs enough that she shut her eyes and savored the moment before shakily letting it go.
"Yes, that's it, now do it again, come on, in."
Together they took a short breath in, and again, the feeling was like bliss. She pressed herself further into his hand, basking in the last dregs of its coolness.
"And out."
She blew the air out before Bucky had her repeating the cycle.
And then repeating it again.
At some point, the tears that unknowingly started had stopped, and her brain felt slightly less like it was going to explode.
But when she opened her eyes and saw Bucky watching her carefully, her eyes burned again.
"Thank you," she rasped, wrapping a hand over where his was still pressed to her neck. It had gone warm, but the pressure was still comforting somehow.
He sent her a sad smile, and his right hand squeezed hers. She wasn't sure when he'd grabbed it, or whether it had been the other way around, but she was grateful for the grounding contact.
"Mar, you should drink," Sam said quietly after a few silent moments.
Both her and Bucky turned, looking to where Sam was leaning against the wall on the other side of the room. She nodded and Bucky's hand slipped away from her neck, but his right thankfully stayed wrapped around hers.
Across the room, Sam pushed off the wall, moving past the couches slowly before crouching in front of her and handing her the bottle.
"I'm sorry," he whispered before dropping his eyes and standing.
Marlow's mind was too foggy to process his words at first, but by the time she tried to refute, he was speaking again.
"I'll be back in a little while, alright?"
That sent alarms through her mind.
"Wait, where are you going?"
"Just down the hall. But don't worry about me, just... I'll be back."
His voice brought tears to her eyes; it was so... hurt.
Because I hurt him.
He opened his mouth as if he was going to say something else, but turned, slipping from the room silently.
"I did it again."
"Did what?"
"Hurt him. Attacked him. This is why I need to leave; I'm dangerous. I can't keep lashing out on him."
"You're not dangerous."
"Then what am I?" she snapped.
"Scared. You're scared, and you're allowed to be scared."
She frowned at that. "I don't want to be scared. Not when it ends in someone getting hurt. I need to leave."
"Not right now. Right now you need to calm down. We can figure the rest out tomorrow."
"There's nothing to figure out," she mumbled. "I'm not going with Sam. I'll find a place to rent, and I'll stay there until I get myself under control."
"Marlow..."
"I can't do it, Bucky. I can't live with the risk of hurting him. Did you not see him? He hates me. He's scared of me. But he can't tell me not to come because he's too good of a person to go back on his word. So I'll go back on mine; I'm not going with him."
"He isn't afraid of you," Bucky said desperately.
"He is—"
"Marlow, he's afraid for you. He's upset because he has no idea how to help."
She shook her head. "No. Sam deals with this stuff, he knows what to do but I can guarantee that the people he's helped don't try to punch him when he does. He's afraid of me. Or at least is afraid I'll hurt his family."
"No, Marlow, no, I promise, it isn't you. It's not your fault."
He sounded genuine, but he was wrong.
He had to be.
Sam was trained in this stuff, has dealt with people who had worse issues than she has; he's not confused, he's scared.
Bucky could believe what he believed.
Bucky...
"What are you doing here?" she asked, finally realizing that he was here, but she was no longer in New York.
"Sam's been texting us with what's going on... Said you've had a rough couple of nights and asked if I could come to see if I could help."
"You... you came all the way here because I've been having nightmares?" she asked quietly.
He shrugged. "More or less, yah. Sam said it's been hard. Judging on what I walked in on, I guess it has been."
She shifted her gaze, looking past him to the couches. "It hasn't been that bad. I've been out of it most of the week..."
"Out of it?"
"Yah... just... not here. Not in the moment."
"Is that what you meant before? About not being in your body?"
"Mhmm. Everything just feels like it's passing me by, which is good. I'm not constantly being overwhelmed by my emotions or memories. It's really only when I'm sleeping that they hit me full force."
He let out a breath and nodded. "How much have you slept?"
"A few times. But I've been avoiding it," she added quietly.
"Because of the nightmares?"
"Mhmm."
"Do... do you want to talk about them?"
She contemplated the question, unsure of whether her mouth would cooperate long enough to explain. "It's only one nightmare. But each time it gets longer..."
Bucky shifted, moving to lean against the wall beside her but taking care not to separate their hands.
"It starts with an agent... he breaks my arm. And then the Russian comes in... starts questioning me, then... cutting me. It's all the times he cut me. T-this time, he was o-on top of me—my back—"
She stopped and shook her head.
But Bucky knew the rest.
Her stomach sank as he untangled their hands, but immediately he wrapped his arm over her shoulder, sliding his left hand into her grip instead.
"It's over now," he mumbled, pulling her into his side. "He can't hurt you anymore."
"But it's part of me. He's in my skin. I can't escape that."
He was quiet a moment. "That time will always be part of you. It's not something you can forget or ignore, and a physical reminder makes it so much harder to separate yourself from the past, but you can't let it... define you. Don't give him that power."
"He already has it," she whispered. "He's succeeded. What's left of me is his. Nichego, krome tela, kotoroye budet ispolʹzovatʹsya."
"No," Bucky bit, pulling away to look at her. "Marlow, no, you're not. You're not nothing and you're not just a body."
She just shook her head, unable to even begin explaining how true it was. She didn't want to explain it, she didn't want it to be true. She didn't want to prove to Bucky that it was true.
"Nothing he said was true, alright? None of it."
"You have no idea," she murmured.
His thumb brushed the skin at the base of her neck soothingly as he nodded minutely. "I do though," he said gently,
"I really hope you don't."
She felt as if he was peeling back every layer of her soul as he watched her, and to her heartbreak, she saw how much he did understand.
His jaw tightened before he pulled her into his arms, wrapping an arm around her waist as the other braced her head, keeping her stable against him.
"I'm sorry."
It was only when it was whispered it a few more times that she realized it was her saying it. That she was wishing over and over that he didn't understand.
"It's alright, Marlow. We'll be alright."
She let out a shuddering breath and pressed her eyes into his shoulder, letting the rise and fall of his chest influence her own.
Soon, their breathing was synced, and she felt the pressure release from her brain.
She shifted her head, letting her cheek rest against his shoulder. "Thank you," she whispered again.
It didn't feel like it was enough; the words were used for such trivial things, what he'd done for her deserved something much more significant, but she didn't know what.
He didn't say anything, just squeezed her a little tighter, and for some reason, she thought he knew what she meant.
But then he spoke up. "You should get some sleep, it's almost four in the morning."
Immediately she shook her head, pulling back to look at him. "I'm not sleeping. I can't—I can't see him again. It's too—"
"I'll be here, don't worry. I'll wake you up if they start."
"But—I..."
"I know how hard it is. But you need sleep. I promise, I'm here, alright?"
She let out a short breath, clenching her jaw and nodding. "Please wake me up."
"I will."
They stood and she guided him into her room, but their entwined hands tugged her back as he stopped halfway to the bed.
Through the darkness she turned to look at him in confusion, finding him glancing between the bed and her.
"Please."
She hated how scared she sounded, but it felt like if he let go of her hand, everything would fall apart. The world would slip away, and she would be back in that cell.
Her breath was caught in her throat until he nodded, squeezing her hand and stepping forward to encourage her towards the bed. She climbed on then shuffled over, letting out a breath as Bucky sat next to her and settled against the headboard.
Suddenly she felt a wave of humiliation; she'd practically begged him into her bed, and probably made him uncomfortable, and—
"I'm sorry," she blurted, "if you don't want to be in here, or on the bed, I don't—it's alright..."
"Marlow, I understand," he whispered, holding out a hand between them.
She looked at it before sliding her hand into his, brows furrowing as she tried to stop her eyes from burning at the gesture.
"I didn't have someone with me, I don't want to make you go through that. I understand wanting someone... Needing something to... keep you away from those memories. I get it. And if I can be that for you, well... I'm glad."
She knew that if she opened her mouth, she wouldn't be able to string two syllables together before tears interrupted her, so she tightened her hold on his hand and nodded.
Bucky shifted slightly, lowering down so he was propped against the pillow and pulling Marlow to lay down.
The thought of her nightmare had her hesitating, but she conceded, dropping her head to the pillow and letting their hands rest between them. Almost immediately, the tiredness that hung in the air around her dropped onto her shoulders, willing her eyes to close as her body begged for unconsciousness.
But she fought it. Every time she would find her eyes closing for more than a few seconds, she would force them open, doing her best to ignore their burning.
She didn't need sleep. Laying was enough rest. She would—
"It's alright, I'm here. Try to sleep."
"I can't," she breathed.
"I'll wake you up," he insisted gently. "I'm here okay? I'm not leaving."
She let out a breath and nodded, trying to convince her brain to relax.
Trust him.
He'll wake me up.
Trust him.