It had been a week.

It had been a week since I had discovered that the Angel was gone, and I still wasn't sure how to process the information. The Angel was gone? The thought whisked through my mind for the thousandth time, and for the thousandth time I searched deep, going through horrible memories and thoughts, searching for the incredible power that had dwelled within me for so long.

Nothing.

Not a hint—not so much as a shred of the strength… or of the healing.

I stared into the mirror, glaring at the face I had come to know and hate so much. I had just gotten out of the shower, and my wet hair hung in soaked strands over my face, dripping icy water down my unclothed body. I still didn't have any clothes, so Laura and Clint Barton both had been lending me clothing. Laura's came in the form of pajamas and jeans, Clint's in the form of flannels and t-shirts, which I was very grateful for. The couple was so incredibly kind, and I was very thankful to have had the opportunity to get to know them. All the same, I was worried. They would hate me when they found out what I had done. And since the Angel was gone, I would be defenseless—or maybe that was better, because I didn't want to hurt them.

I sank down on the edge of the tub, rubbing my arms. I was suddenly freezing. Goosebumps rose on my arms. How could this be happening? For so long I had wanted her gone, wanted to be free of her, but I always thought it would be my choice. I never thought she'd be taken from me. And now that she was gone, I realized that getting rid of her hadn't solved any problems. I wanted her gone because I hoped that her termination would relieve my conscience of the guilt it carried for all the lives I had taken.

It didn't; I still bleed myself for everything I had done.

Someone knocked on the door, and I jumped at the sudden noise, slipping off the slick surface and onto the tile floor. "Katherine?" It was Laura. I sat up, curling into a tight ball with my arms around my knees. "I'm leaving some clothes out here for you, alright? Come get them when you're ready."

I managed to find my voice. It was scratchy and weak, but I managed to croak out, "Alright, thank you."

I killed my friend.

I left the bathroom on shaky legs and returned to my room across the hall. I barely made it to the bed before collapsing, fisting the soft quilt as I lay face down, breathing in the clean-laundry scent of it.

My stomach growled so loudly that I could feel it move. What was the last time I had eaten? I honestly couldn't remember. I had been skipping meals, which I knew wasn't wise, but some days I couldn't make myself get out of bed and join the family. I didn't bother trying to get up again; it was all I could do to roll over onto my back. When I did, I just stared up at the ceiling, watching the fan move in lazy rotations around its axis. The sun had long since set, and someone had closed the curtains over the window and turned on the lamp by the bed, letting warm, golden light fill the room.

Clint appeared in the door, knocking softly. "Hey." He was holding a plate of food on one hand and a pitcher of water in the other. It was strange seeing him in normal clothes. "When was the last time you ate?"

My hands rested over my ribs, and I could feel them clearly through the thin fabric. I shrugged as my stomach roared its complaint once more. "I don't know."

Clint set down his burden on the table and moved to rest beside me. "You should eat something." I didn't respond. I could feel tears burning my eyes. It's all my fault. I killed your brother. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. "It's been a week since you got here. Do you want to tell me what happened?" he finally asked, crossing his arms over the back of the chair. "I thought you were happy with Coulson… and then with Steve."

I nodded and crossed my arms under my chin, sighing softly. "I was."

His silvery gaze narrowed slightly as he tried to understand. "Then why aren't you with them?" he pressed. His eyes widened, and I wondered if he had remembered how much blood had been on me when he found me. "Is everyone alright?"

Did I want to answer? Answering might open a huge can of worms that I wasn't totally ready to search through, much less with him. Of all the people I knew, I felt that I trusted Clint the most, second only to Steve. Even so, I was terrified he'd find out about Eli, that I had killed him.

"Katie—"

"I don't know if he's alright," I gasped out. "And they're in danger because Shield is Hydra," I whispered to the ceiling, feeling a hot tear slip past my lashes and trace its way down my cheek. My vision grew blurry as my chin began to tremble, and I took a deep breath. Clint had gone very still. "It's Hydra, and I… I couldn't tell him. I couldn't tell him, and the Winter Soldier found us, and—"

"Stop." Clint cut me off. Even if he hadn't, I wouldn't have been able to go on; I could barely speak I was shaking so badly. This whole week had been horrible. "The Winter Soldier?"

"James. Bucky Barnes. My fiancé—he found me." my breath caught, and the word came out in a squeak. "And so did Eli."

Clint looked at me like I had grown a second head. "What?"

I was really crying now, and I was holding a pillow to my chest, hugging it tightly. "Eli—I don't know how, Clint, but he came back. I don't know how, but he did, and—he attacked me. I was in a fight with a Hydra agent, and I got shot. Eli appeared and tried to subdue me, and I fought back—I tried to call Steve for help but Eli wouldn't let me, and he attacked me—the next thing I knew, I was in the woods, covered in blood. I had my wings back, and the Angel was gone. I don't know what happened, Clint, but—" I swallowed. "But—"

Clint had gone very still, connecting the dots in his head, and he stopped moving entirely when he solved the puzzle. My heart was physically hurting, it was beating so quickly. "I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice choked with tears. My breathing grew labored. "I'm so sorry." Before I could say another word, he was gone, slamming the door behind him as he went.

My head fell back against the comforter, and I curled into a ball, shaking with sobs. I killed him. I killed him. I killed him.

"Katherine?"

My eyes shot open, and then immediately squinted, stinging—I must have fallen asleep. The curtains had been pulled back, allowing dim, pre-dawn light to lessen the shadows in the room. The window was open as well, allowing a cool breeze and the smell of pine to fill the room—it smelled like James. I was hugging a pillow closer to my chest. Laura was sitting on the bed beside me, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder.

"Are you alright?" she asked gently. A little girl with brown hair stood beside her, her little arms crossed over the top of the mattress, her chin resting atop them. Big brown eyes stared curiously up at me, and my throat constricted. I'd never have a little girl, not after the Red Room. Not after what they did to me. "Clint told me what you said."

My gaze shot to her as my heart stuttered to a stop. I expected her to look furious or afraid, but… She didn't seem angry or frightened. On the contrary, she looked sad, understanding. She looked like my Mom. "Everything?" I repeated, the word a squeak.

"What he knew," she amended, her free hand brushing through her daughter's fine hair. "He's figuring out what to do."

I glanced down at the little girl. "Is he…" I swallowed, licking my lips. The fight-or-flight feeling was back, but weak. I knew I was too weak to run and that I would never fight to hurt Clint or his family. "What's he gonna do to me?"

Her hand stilled, and the little girl leaned into her touch, bright eyes flickering between her mother and I. "That's what he asked me. I told him I wanted to hear the whole story from you before I made up my mind."

"Should she be in here?" I asked softly, nodding towards her daughter. In response, Laura leaned down and murmured something into her daughter's ear.

"Go on, Lila," Laura murmured. The little girl smiled and darted from the room. A moment later, her laughter was joined by that of her brother. A pang went through me. I missed Steve so much. Our last conversations had been full of strife, both of us yelling… he thought I had lied to him; he didn't trust me anymore. And now, with everything that had happened, I didn't know if I'd be able to face him again.

"Eli died almost a year ago," I whispered, a shiver running through me—the feeling was similar to the one I used to get in grade school whenever the class clown would decide to rake his fingernails down the chalkboard. "He was shot through the chest. Clint was there, he saw him die… and he saw me change. Hydra and the Red Room, they changed me into a monster, and Clint saw it before I got captured. Clint and the Avengers rescued me," I provided her with some background information before launching into the real story. "I was with my brother when I ran into Eli again at the Triskellion." Her eyes widened. "He attacked me and tried to hurt me."

"And you thought it meant he was working for Hydra," Laura surmised.

"I didn't know what to think," I breathed. "I just knew I had to escape, but… when I woke up, I was in the middle of the woods. I was completely healed, and I had wings again. I don't know what happened, I don't understand it."

"What do you think happened?" Laura asked.

"I think I killed him," I breathed, my fingernails digging into my knees. I had crossed a line and I knew it, and no matter how hard I scrambled to try and get back over it, it was impossible. "I woke up covered in blood, and he's the last person I remember seeing."

"It sounds to me like you were defending yourself," she told me gently, prying my nails off my knees.

My throat burned, and I shook my head in the negative. "If the Angel attacked him, it wasn't defense" I breathed, staring blankly at her. "It was a slaughter. I was unconscious, I don't remember, I didn't have control—" I pressed my head into my hands.

"I never had the chance to meet Eli," Laura said softly, rubbing my back soothingly. "But Clint told me about how he was when he was a boy. But from what you've said," she murmured, placing a hand on my knee, "whomever it was that tried to kill you, it wasn't him. The boy Clint grew up with wouldn't have done this."

"How could it be anyone else?" I cut her off, my voice trembling. "It was him, I felt it—"

"Katherine, listen to me. It wasn't your fault." My face crumpled, and I pressed my face into my pillow. Laura was silent for a few moments. She finally spoke again, staring off into the distance, watching the sun rise over the tops of the trees, burning away the fog. "We all do things we regret," she murmured to herself, unconsciously tracing one of the quilt patterns with her fingertips. "But we can't crucify every person who makes a mistake. You know, Natasha was trained by the Red Room," she turned her warm gaze to rest on me. "And when Clint found her, he gave her a second chance."

"I've had a second chance," I whispered, glancing down. I was unable to raise my voice any more for fear she would hear how close I was to losing it. "I don't deserve a third."

"Everyone deserves a third," she countered, her tone hardening. "And a fourth, and a fifth. You are a child, and you have gone through horrible things, things no one should ever have to experience."

"I'm not—I'm almost ninety," I tried to explain, ready to go through my aging process for the ninety-seventh time.

She cut me off. "How old were you when you stopped aging?"

"Eighteen, I think." I couldn't remember, not really. Did I stop aging after Azzano? Or did I stop aging when I was captured in '46?

"Then you're still a child," Laura Barton said firmly, her eyes sparkling. She touched my hair gently, and I leaned into her touch, my throat closing. It had been so long since I had had a maternal figure in my life telling me that I was worth it, that I was innocent. Even if it wasn't all true, I still missed it. "And it's a mother's instinct to protect children whether they belong to her or not."

I was choking up. I could barely remember my mother, and here was a woman showing me more kindness and motherly love than I had known in a dozen lifetimes.

"I don't blame you," she murmured, pulling me into a hug. I hugged her back tightly, able to hold onto her without fear of hurting her. "And I don't think Clint does, either."

"I don't."

I looked up over Laura's shoulder to see Clint standing in the doorway, a heartbroken look on his face. It didn't take long to realize that he had heard everything I had shared with Laura.

"I should, but I don't. If what you said was true, about Eli, then… I can't blame you for defending yourself. I can't not give you a second chance, or a third one, not when I gave Nat one after finding her in the Red Room."

He crossed to sit beside his wife, placing his hand on hers.

"Why don't you hate me?" I whispered. I glanced down at my fingernails. They were scrubbed clean, but I could still see the decades of blood that stained my hands. "After all I've done—?"

"Because you're a kid," he replied. "A kid I promised to protect."

"But I—" I had killed his brother. I killed Eli. If someone ever killed Steve, I wouldn't give them a second chance; they'd be going down.

"Stop." He shook his head. "I'm not changing my mind." He gave me a small sad smile and stood up again. "Besides, there's someone here to see you."

I frowned, confused, but followed Laura as she led me downstairs, Clint following behind me. I should be honest: I still was half expecting to get an arrow between my shoulder blades for what I had done. When I stepped into the living room, I stopped short immediately, shocked by the presence of the man before me. He looked much better than he had the last time I'd seen him—he had healing cuts on his cheekbone, nose, and the area above his eye. Fading yellow bruises dotted his skin, and he moved gingerly as though his ribs had been broken. Clint stepped around me, moving to rest his hand on his wife's hip.

"Thank you for coming," he said to his teammate, who nodded but said nothing.

Lila and her brother Cooper looked up from showing him their drawings. The siblings smiled first at me and then at their parents before flying from the room. I was partially inclined to follow them. Indeed, I actually flinched, jerking back towards the door before Clint placed a steadying hand upon my shoulder.

The large man glanced up with a smile, and his eyes—the same color as mine—locked with my own. The smile slowly faded from his face, replaced by a heartbroken yet loving look that shook me to the core as it had ever since I'd discovered he was still alive. It still baffled me that he could love me after everything. My breathing grew labored, and tears sprang to my eyes.

"Steve?" I breathed. He was okay. He was alive.

When he nodded, I rushed forward and dove into his arms, wrapping my arms around his chest. I almost fell over backwards, my own energy throwing me back—running into his chest was like running into a brick wall—but he caught me up, catching, keeping me from falling. "Steve—" my voice broke, and his grip tightened. One hand rested on my back, the other on my neck, and he cradled me as though I was something precious, something that needed to be protected.

"Katie," he murmured, his chest humming with the word, with the name. I dug my fingers and buried my face into the soft cotton fabric of his shirt, unwilling to let him go. He smelled nice—like soap and shaving cream—very different from James's forest-y scent.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, tensing as the words escaped me, waiting for a rebuke, a lecture, a strike, all of which I would deserve. I was sorry for everything. For being weak, for not going after James when I had the chance, for not telling Steve about the Winter Soldier before it was too late. I was sorry for not being a better sister. I should have looked for him, and I should have kept him from leaving in the first place. "I'm so sorry."