I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who's read this far lmao, and to everyone whose left me reviews! I cherish them all, and they're so nice to read when I need a little encouragement.

ALSO this chapter is kind of a pair with my other update in RC One-Shots, called

denouement. Read it if you'd like some more character relationship stuff/background stuff :D

Chapter Thirty-Two
✭

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. On behalf of United Airlines, its my pleasure to welcome you aboard flight 2910 to…"

I glanced out the window, lined up just over the front edge of the jet wing, watching technicians wave light sticks to direct the pilots in the darkness. The cabin was filled with chatter and noise; every seat on-board was taken, but we packed lightly. The trip would only be for a few days — and I wasn't in a state to be carrying a lot of baggage. Physical baggage, anyways.

"Are you sure about this?" Steve asked from the seat next to me. Thanks to the media sideshow, he had to be extra careful moving around civilians; thus, the return of the baseball cap and sunglasses.

"Of course I'm sure." I said, no hesitation. It'd been my idea, after all. I couldn't back down now. "He said he'd let me visit, didn't he?"

It had taken three days to find out what happened to Dmitri. Three excruciating days, trying to follow the news, international events, anything that SHIELD/HYDRA might have caused at the onset of the Insight crisis...

"Yes," Steve said, his brow pinching. His wounds had healed significantly since the first day in the hospital — little more than yellow-green bruises and pale pink scars. The limp had diminished to the point where I didn't notice it until at the end of a long day. Steve paused, choosing his next words carefully. "But I'm not sure its a good idea. I don't think either of you really understand what you're signing up for."

At first, all we knew was there had been a double homicide of a man and his son at residence in St. Petersburg. Steve didn't even tell me that fun little fact until after he'd confirmed that only the man had died. The son was still in critical condition, as of the day after the attack. But Dmitri was no longer at the hospital that had first cared for him — he'd been transferred to another hospital in Germany. But when contacted, the German hospital didn't have him in their care, either. They had a lapse in documentation and couldn't find out if they'd even received him at all.

Normally, he would've been quick and easy to find — when SHIELD was still in operation.

Now, the intelligence community was in turmoil, up in arms, far too busy to be looking for one boy in a sea of chaos.

On my end, it was just a lot of waiting and waiting, hearing nothing for days aside from the brief snippets Steve would tell me. I tried to occupy myself in the meantime.

Aunt May and Peter helped me get back on my feet — literally. I'd walked very little so far, only to go to the bathroom, and with Aunt May supporting me. My legs felt weak and wobbly beneath me, and I still had some weight to regain (eating was another pastime). It gave me a little bit of hope, and also allowed me to pace when I got too antsy. There was a small outdoor park that patients could walk around in; a luxury I utilized as much as I could, just to get away from the hospital smell. It had been bad as a child, but as a super soldier, the scent was all the more intense. Still, it clung to me, even in the fresh air. Could I never escape it?

Finally leaving St. Mary's was not unlike walking out of prison a free woman.

"I have to go." I said. We were already on our way. The jet engines were already warming up. I wasn't turning back. I wasn't.

Steve had handled the search. On his own, maybe, I wasn't sure. If he had help, he didn't tell me about it — not that I asked. I only cared about what he found out.

"I know." Steve sighed. "I'm just trying to… give you a head's up. It's going to be hard. A lot harder than you think."

The truth: Dmitri had been transferred to London, having made a brief stop in Germany before completing the last leg in the journey — hence the confusion. Apparently, Diana's attorney (now de facto guardian for Dmitri) wanted him placed in the best care possible — only found in London, where a certain doctor resided that could repair the damage in his shoulder.

Hearing that felt like I'd been punched in the gut. Of course, I remembered shooting him. But this was the first I heard of the consequences of it. Clear, visceral details that made it feel so much more real, and not just another nightmare in my head.

It was another thing I carried with me when we boarded that plane. It had been hard to convince Aunt May to let me go; she didn't want me out of her sight, but she sure as hell couldn't afford to go to London, even for a day. She had work and Peter had school. I guess I did, too, but that felt unimportant right now.

I wasn't too psyched to be back on a plane, either — the last time I'd been on one (from London, no less) had gone rather poorly, to say the least. For once, I wanted to experience a normal trip.

It was Steve who offered to be my chaperone, if you could call it that. The way he and Aunt May had discussed it in front of me gave me the distinct impression that they'd spoken more about it before, when I wasn't there. Just those long, knowing looks and deep silences.

Not that I could blame them. When I wasn't a ball of nerves, I was dead asleep, and not on a reliable schedule.

When I first heard that Dmitri was alive and in London, I nearly cried again. I didn't ask if I could see him, not right away. Not just because of its feasibility, being in another country across the ocean — but if I even should.

If Dmitri even wanted to see me.

He, at least, would have no problem remembering what had happened.

I wouldn't blame him if he didn't. In fact, it'd probably make this a lot easier, if he chose no for me.

And yet, Dmitri had accepted, as Steve learned via attorney. One visit.

Just one.

"There's also something else." Steve said, as the jet began heading down the runway. From his carry-on backpack, he pulled out a blue notebook, and handed it to me. "The FBI also found this in Pierce's home. I think… I think you need to read it."

I blinked at the notebook, taken aback. "I already did."

"All of it?"

"...No." I admitted, finally taking it. Slowly running my hands over the soft leather cover. Dingy and dirty and in much worse shape than when I found it — but still in one piece. I threw Steve a curious look. "Won't the FBI miss this?"

"They've already copied all the text and the — the photos." Steve said with a shrug. "Digitized them. I figured if I take the obsolete hard copy, they wouldn't mind."

"I don't suppose you asked them first."

Steve didn't reply immediately, gaze averted, his expression inscrutable. Then he sighed, looking back to me, "Just read it. It'll help pass the time, at any rate."

My idiot brain interpreted that line as a slight against my dyslexia, before I remembered this was a seven-hour red-eye flight and I could use all the entertainment I could get. Hell knows I wasn't going to sleep with the anxiety thrumming in my veins.

Exhaling through my nose, I gave him one last skeptical look before opening the journal and finding the last entry I read.

...Oh.

Oh boy.

Steve was right, I discovered. There was still more to uncover.

January 20th, 2013.

Something just occurred to me.

If the floppy disk hadn't seen the light of day since Dr. Müller put it in the storage unit back before 1974, how did he managed to download information that didn't exist until the 1990's? I haven't found any evidence that the unit was opened since the doctor died. But someone must have placed this disc there, otherwise I never would have discovered what I did.

And if that is the case, then that someone knew that unit would be opened once again. That I'd discover it, discover what was inside.

Planted.

Something isn't right. Cambridge One knew I would find this. He must know that it wasn't there before. Was he the one who did it?

I'm scrambling to make sense of it all. The information I've gotten from the disc all seems true from what I can gather from further research, so it doesn't seem to be leading me on a goose chase. I'm contemplating asking CO about it, but I'm worried any skepticism will scare them off. Considering what a boon they've been to me, I'm not sure if it's worth it.

Nevertheless, it is a theory I will keep in the back of my mind. For now, I will continue my present inquiries.

February 1st, 2013.

I've contacted Cambridge One about the disc. I didn't win a Pulitzer by beating around the bush. I no longer believe Dr. Müller or his son were the last to see the contents of this file cabinet.

He hasn't responded back yet, late despite his usual timelines lately. Meanwhile, I will report on more recent discoveries.

I found another mention of a possible child by this Winter Soldier, this time in a more recent document from 2001. A conversation between two unknown people, discussing the truth of the child's identity, and possibly bringing her in. The name was redacted, but I know the child to be female by how they refer to it as a 'she' or 'her'. Only four years old then. Apparently, one of them had gotten a visual of her, in a Manhattan hospital. She was very sick. Some kind of autoimmune disease. Hence the doubt at her identity as a super soldier.

I have no name, but it's more than enough information to go on. If the age is correct, then the girl must be fifteen or sixteen now. And I already have a possible candidate.

Rebel Columbia.

March 10th, 2013.

Cambridge One is powerful; I have no hard evidence of this, just a sense that they're in control. Whenever they speak, I have this strange notion that I know them. When they finally responded to my inquiry, it felt condescending, almost like they expected it. Something about the language they used was so... familiar. And that's besides the fact they didn't seem afraid at all of my accusations.

They sent their message via letter — to my lunch meeting with my editor, at a restaurant we picked on a whim. It was a power play; CO is watching me at all times. They can reach me, wherever I go, at the drop of a hat.

And he has agreed to meet me. Perhaps I've finally proven myself.

March 13th. At the Jefferson Memorial. Public, open. I wait with baited breath. Will they be there? Or will it be another trick?

Right now, it only seems mildly taunting. No threats have been made, but I won't deny I'm a little scared. I wish I knew what I was dealing with sooner.

In the meantime — I've been looking more into Rebel Columbia and this mysterious soldier child, looking for a connection. I've been scouring hospital records across the island for girls born in 1997 that had an autoimmune disease, or similar. The results? In the hundreds. Not quite as bad I thought, but still a lot to sort through. Many don't live in the city anymore, or come from a neighboring area. I can't narrow down the hospital, unfortunately — the best way I can is finding out which ones were also treated in the same area.

Its hours and hours of research. I'm weeks in and it feels like I'm going nowhere.

And then it hits me, when I visit a museum with Dmitri today. I don't need any of that.

Because I might already know.

The Winter Soldier, a man with a red star on a metal arm. I've seen some hazy images. I know where its placed. And I've only see a marking like that on one other person.

Amelia Fletcher.

The girl that tutors Dmitri. The one I ran into today, by some luck, of all places. In all this time, I've forgotten she had that tattoo; it struck me as significant when I first saw it at that dinner with AIM CEO Aldrich Killian (rest in pieces) — but I've been so caught up in all my work I've forgotten.

But she's the right age. I've seen her file. She's the exact right age; not only that, but I can say that even from a layman's perspective, that she easily fits the profile of Rebel Columbia. Nearly six feet tall, blonde, extraordinarily healthy and athletic — a far cry from the sick child that was mentioned so many years ago.

I'm not sure what to do with this information. I can't say I ever liked her; a punk, a troublemaker, sure, but an assassin? If she is Rebel Columbia, then she is clearly a capable and trained super soldier. Yet that tattoo can only have one meaning, I'm sure. Just what that training is meant to do. And who trained her.

There's a good chance I'll run into her again. I'm not sure what to say. She might be the key to breaking this story wide open.

But I can't alarm her. I certainly can't alarm Dmitri, who not only doesn't know about any of this, but I'm pretty sure has a crush on this girl (I regret not doing my own background checks on his tutors all those months ago— then I wouldn't have this problem). I doubt he has any idea what she could be, either. I don't want to break his heart, as much as he might need it. It might happen anyways. I don't know if this girl is even safe, much less trustworthy.

I feel like I'm on a runaway train, racing straight towards a fate that I cannot escape. Powerful, unstoppable, inevitable.

Explosive.

Until I can get her alone, and collect all my evidence to face her with, I will treat her as I always have; if the girl is as well-trained as I imagine her to be, she may be able to detect something is wrong with me.

And if she is working for the enemy, then all the better she doesn't know.

And, finally, her last entry.

March 12th, 2013.

I've stumbled across something. Something I don't think even Cambridge One knows about. I discovered an image, a copy of some kind of handwritten algorithm; I couldn't make heads nor tails of it, but brought the image to a friend of mine (identity undisclosed) here at Georgetown, an expert mathematician and computer analyst.

When he looked at that algorithm, I watched as all the blood drained out of his face. For a long minute, he was entirely speechless, and I had to coax it out of him — the meaning of the algorithm.

What he said didn't make a lot of sense. The algorithm was a prediction; taking past events and formulating the future. But the past events of what? I asked.

He didn't seem to know how to answer me. Stammered, stumbled over his words. Of people.

Predicting who they become.

I asked what the purpose of this algorithm was. He said he wasn't sure, but that the algorithm had to have been made by some sort of genius, some kind of savant. The work was brilliant, beautiful even, but terrifying. But a part of it is missing, and indicates where the photo cuts off the rest of the algorithm. Whatever its for, whoever made it, cannot be discerned from this image alone.

But I do know another thing, of which I do not tell my now-beleaguered friend. That this is part of a government project. Something the organization SHIELD might be working on.

PROJECT INSIGHT.

She'd known.

Diana knew who I was right before she died.

It had taken me a solid thirty minutes to parse through it all. The entire thing left me shaken. It felt like I was holding a prophecy in my hand, my future foretold. I wondered if Diana realized just how right she was — about the Winter Soldier, about me, about Dmitri — everything.

Steve, seeing the look on my face, said, "Guessing you finished it."

"Yeah," I murmured, closing the book. I swallowed, but my throat was completely dry. Glancing up, I noticed Steve's expression and frowned, "You read it, too."

"Of course I did."

My only response was a deep sigh, sinking back into my seat. This was going to be a long six and a half hours. Reading Diana's words, she sounded genuinely terrified of me; considering what she managed to piece together, I'd be pretty scared, too. If only she had any idea of what was going to happen. She wouldn't have let me anywhere near Dmitri.

Flipping the journal to the back cover, I opened the pocket flap, pulling out the old photos that Diana had collected. Of the Winter Soldier. Of Bucky.

You'd only know it was him if you were already familiar with what either looked like. Face hidden in each image, I only recognized the slope of his shoulders and the hint of dark hair. I flicked through them one at a time, checking the dates written on the back. 1963, 1969, 1974, 1988, 1996…

I felt, rather than saw, Steve leaning in slightly to study the photos, too. It was only an afterthought, but I ended up asking in an offhand tone: "Where do you think he is now?"

Steve responded with a long huff of air, contemplating. He didn't ask who I was talking about. "I don't know. Keeping his head down, not drawing any attention to himself. On his own somewhere. Surviving."

I frowned slightly, blinking up at Steve. "You don't think he got caught? That he's… free?"

"If he was, we might've heard about it," Steve said, tilting his head in thought. There was a hint of doubt in his tone, but he sounded a little more confident when he said, "But if he knows something we don't, I don't — I don't think he would have gone back to them willingly."

I took that in, nodding slowly. "Not that there's much of HYDRA to return to."

"No." A ghost of a smirk drew across Steve's face. "But the FBI and other agencies are on the lookout. Either he's been able to escape them, or…"

Steve didn't finish that thought, a pained look crossing his face. I had a pretty good idea of what he was going to say, though. Dead.

"He's not," I said quietly. I'd been terrified of the Winter Soldier for too long to ever believe that falling out of a helicarrier could kill him. That anything could kill him. "He's still out there. I'm sure of it."

It wasn't necessarily meant to be reassuring, but when an arm came around my shoulders, I glanced up to see Steve's smile. Small, subdued, but a smile nonetheless. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you had more faith in him than I do."

I flashed him a nervous attempt at a smile, and glanced away. "I wouldn't exactly call it faith… but sure." I opened my mouth to say something else, but my attention drew the occupant of the seat on Steve's other side; already dead asleep, with headphones over his ears. Looking back to Steve, I appraised his questioning look, before murmuring, "Can you… can you tell me more about him?"

For some reason, the question felt like a risk — and not just because we were in a plane full of civilians. Part of me felt like learning more about the Winter Soldier — Bucky — was some kind of forbidden knowledge, and would just make the whole reality worse somehow. That maybe I shouldn't know; that I'd regret it. That trying to humanize this nightmare was some kind of disservice to… the people he's hurt? Killed? All the destruction he caused? Something like that.

At the same time, I had also enjoyed the last time Steve talked about Bucky, and their shared history. There was something strangely grounding in all of it and, well, we had another six and a half hours and I wasn't sure if I was going to get any sleep.

"Sure," Steve said, and a new light entered his eyes — just like the last time, a sort of softened spirit taking hold. He scanned the interior cabin, the aisles and people around us, as he thought about it. "Let's see… did I ever tell you the first time we went on the Cyclone at Coney Island? Right after we ate our weight in hotdogs and cotton candy? Well, let's just say I was a boy of many regrets…"

~o~

Apparently, I had severely underestimated how tired I was, because I ended up falling asleep on the flight. When I opened my eyes, early morning light came in through my window, and I winced. My neck had a terrible crick and my pillow had a funny shape to it — Steve's shoulder, I realized, when I finally yawned and lifted my head.

"Had a nice nap?" Steve sounded amused, but I was too busy rubbing my face to look at him.

"Peachy," I muttered, voice groggy. My immediate desire was to go back to sleep, but just then the intercom clicked on, the pilot announcing the approach of London, and I groaned. Survival was now dependent on caffeine —

Only, wait. I couldn't drink caffeine. It wouldn't do anything for me.

The exhaustion was, perhaps, a preamble to the day I had in store. London was gray and rainy, which I decided was appropriate given how I was feeling. When we first landed, I felt a hint of dread in my stomach. We're here. From then, the dread only deepened, becoming more prevalent and nauseous as we entered the city proper.

I saw things I didn't think I'd recognized — a graffiti'd metro sign; an oak tree with one half of its branches severed for phone lines; an upside-down trashcan with abandoned coffee-cups left on its upright base. We were traveling through a neighborhood called Covent Garden, which I'd never been in before. At least, not with Wanda and Pietro.

I spotted a busy outdoor cafe and a nearby dog park, on a slight hill. Nausea almost overwhelmed me, but I managed to keep it down.

No, the last time I'd been here was with the Winter Soldier.

When we reached the Thames, I caught a glimpse of Tower Bridge, which felt like another slap. Half of it was hidden behind scaffolding and tarp — still under repairs after the attack in November.

If Steve noticed any of this, he said nothing. We could've taken a taxi, but he preferred to drive a rented car. It made it safer to talk, at least, without worrying about an eavesdropper; as it was, I didn't say much, taking in the familiar but uncomfortable sights, and working on what I was going to say when we finally reached the hospital.

That last part never really happened. I had plenty of ideas, sure, but doubt clouded my mind and everything sounded stupid or horrible after a few minutes of thought. I kept casting aside one speech after another. Why was I even working on a speech? It wasn't like I was going to a press conference; assassins weren't meant to answer for their crimes.

But that was exactly what I was here for.

When we finally reached the hospital, I stared at it out of my window, not immediately getting out of the car when we'd stopped. The Royal Heart Hospital. There weren't a lot of cars parked in the lot just outside of it — this early in the morning, visitors weren't allowed. We diverted to breakfast at a nearby cafe, but I wasn't very hungry. Too distracted by my thoughts, and still dealing with the nausea that drifted in and out of my gut.

In a way, it felt like we were simply delaying the inevitable.

Steve offered a few words of reassurance, but they weren't exactly hopeful, either. Maybe he didn't want me to feel too good about this — which I didn't want to, at least. There wasn't much anyone could say to me that would make this in any way better.

This day wasn't going to be anything else but terrible. But it had to be done.

Those were the words I told myself, an attempt at steeling my nerves, when we finally walked through the front doors of the hospital. Right on the dot for visiting hours. Steve asked if I wanted to wait a little. Maybe I was impatient. Maybe I just wanted to get it over with. Rip the band-aid off. Waiting wouldn't make it feel better.

There was no good timing for this.

The smell hit me immediately. Too clean, too bitter. A dryness that seemed to stick in the back of your throat and across your tongue. I'd been so relieved to leave Baltimore that I forgot I was just heading into another sick-tasting hospital.

That nausea came back in full force, along with a host of childhood memories I didn't want to deal with right now. I closed my eyes, swaying slightly on my feet as Steve talked quietly with the nurse at the lobby desk. I heard her voice respond — but none of her words landed on me. Just garbled nonsense as my mind started to spiral away from me.

Then a long, silent walk. Corridors and elevators; strangely quiet and serene. It set me on edge. The place felt empty. Hollow.

Soon, too soon, I stood in front of a door. The door. It was already open, so I stopped just outside of it, not wanting to look inside. Not wanting to be seen.

Just in case my courage failed me.

Hand on my shoulder. Steve spoke in a gentle undertone. "You don't have to do this, Mia."

I stared down the hall, past the doorway — Seeing the white walls and black tiles, windows and landscape paintings, but not actually looking at any of it. Just an unfocused blur. My thoughts expanding further and further out of my reach. Then, like a rubber band, they all snapped back into my head at once.

You killed his father.

Rocking back on my heels, I took a deep breath, closing my eyes. I got this far. Just a few steps further.

You hurt him.

"I'm okay," I said, even though it wasn't a direct response to what Steve had said. But that seemed to be his intent. I opened my eyes again, curling my hands into fists. Feeling the strain and pull of muscles and tendons across the back of my hand, the bite of nails into my palm. I repeated it, more for myself this time. "I'm okay."

Just like a band-aid…

One step forward. Then another. Steve's hand fell away, and I entered Dmitri's room alone.

I got as far as the doorway before I froze. The air left my lungs in a quiet rush. My eyes didn't stray on the boy lying on the only bed in the room.

Steve was also right about something else.

I absolutely wasn't ready to see Dmitri.

Dmitri's eyes were closed, his head propped up on several pillows. There was a pallor to his face, shadows under his eyes. His right shoulder was in a sling, and beneath that I could make out several layers of bandaging and gauze. Something about him seemed wrong, but I couldn't immediately figure out what or why.

The room was empty besides him, and plainly decorated. The window on the left let in dim, gray light — the only light source in the room. A vase of dying flowers. A radio was set on the table next to him, but it played no music. The only sound was the gentle hum of the IV machine next to the bed. The room was almost cold, and I felt entirely unwelcome here.

Then Dmitri opened his eyes, and it hit me. He wasn't asleep — a fact I realized belatedly, finally finding the missing piece. His jaw and neck were tense, muscles and tendons pulled taut. From pain?

Or from fear?

For a long moment, we just watched each other. I didn't know what to do. I opened my mouth but nothing came out. Too afraid to move, too afraid to speak.

Finally, something came to me, and as I opened my mouth again, I took a step forward.

"Don't —!" Dmitri spoke almost immediately, his voice tight. I came to a halt, but not because he said that. But because I saw him flinch first. His whole body tensed. His free hand clenching the sheets.

I closed my mouth, swallowing thickly. Kept my arms at my sides despite how badly I wanted to hug myself.

My worst theory had been proven correct. Dmitri was afraid of me.

Losing my train of thought, I just stood there in silence. Watching each other again. Trying to get a bead on Dmitri's state of mind, anything to help direct me. But his expression guarded. Not quite hostile, but almost. I knew I was walking on thin ice. I couldn't afford a lot of mistakes until I finally crossed the line.

Dmitri took a deep breath, perhaps to soothe himself. Or maybe seeking patience.

At last, he whispered, "Why are you here?"

I blinked in confusion. "Because you let me —"

"I know that." Dmitri said, his voice low but sharp. It made me flinch slightly — he'd never cut me off before. His face was disconcertingly emotionless and difficult to look at. "I meant why did you come?"

"I just —" my heart hammered, and I glanced away. My face flushed. I didn't think I'd have to explain myself like this. "I wanted — I wanted to apologize. To…"

Words failed me. Apologize was a sorry choice to describe what I wanted to do. What I needed to do. What Dmitri deserved.

"Apologize?" Dmitri repeated, and sounded rightly scathing. "After what you've done?"

His voice was quiet, strained even, but every word hit me like a bullet. I closed my eyes, bracing myself. Not even Steve's warning could have fully prepared me. This is a mistake, just leave, just leave and never look back — but my feet remained planted where they were. I wasn't going to run like a coward. I came here to face Dmitri — and what I'd done.

So that's what I was going to do.

I couldn't think of any response to his question. There was no right answer. Maybe he wasn't expecting one. Dmitri just stared at me, waiting, so I replied in a small voice, "I wanted to see how you were doing."

"How I'm doing?" Dmitri said skeptically, narrowing his eyes. He shrugged his good shoulder, gestured to the other one. "Well, my shoulder is ruined and my collarbone is broken. I can't move my neck without pulling something that hurts. I'll probably never dance again, not like this. I'm lucky that I'd be able to even use my arm after this. And that's aside from the fact that both my mother and my father are de —"

His voice broke, too fragile to continue. Dmitri squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away, towards the window. Took a deep, shuddering breath. Let it out slowly.

Finally, he finished, in a mutter, "Sorry."

I hadn't said a single thing — just listened with wide eyes as Dmitri's rant intensified. Emotion built up in my chest, but I wasn't fully aware of it until I saw Dmitri's stoicness finally collapse. Only to watch him rebuilt it again, right before my eyes.

"It's fine," I said quietly, my voice hoarse. I took one step forward, then another. Testing the waters. Dmitri didn't shift his attention from the window, and didn't react. "You're right. I'm not… I'm sorry. For everything that happened. It was my fault and that I couldn't — I couldn't stop —" The words refused to come. Frustrated, I switched tracks, "I'd give… I'd give anything to fix what happened, if I could."

My voice echoed gently in the quiet space. All I could hear was my heartbeat and the sound of hallway noise. I was tempted to close the door for privacy, but I was pretty sure Dmitri wouldn't like that.

As it was, he said nothing. No response, as he continued to stare out the window. I wasn't sure if he was looking at anything in particular — the translucent curtains prevented from seeing anything clearly — but he most certainly wasn't looking at me.

I got the message clearly enough. Dmitri had nothing left to say to me. I worked my jaw, considering my options. Maybe now was a good time to leave. I'd said what I'd come to say. But it didn't feel enough. It didn't feel nearly enough.

There was so much more I wanted to say, but there weren't enough words in the dictionary to describe how I felt; the true depth of my regret, my guilt, having betrayed and hurt my friend. Was there any way I could really describe that? Perhaps, when I wasn't currently feeling and thinking the way I was right now.

The point was moot. I had nothing left to say.

I looked down, saw the strap of my backpack, and remembered I still had the blue notebook. And I realized I still had something left to give.

"I-I think you should have this." I said, taking my backpack off, opening it. Pulled out the journal and lifted it for him to see. "You don't have to read it. You can throw it away, if you want. But — well, it's yours now. It's up to you."

I didn't know if I had any right to be giving this away, but I didn't care. I already read the whole thing, and it belonged to Diana, so now it technically belonged to Dmitri. But Dmitri didn't look up. I just stood there for a moment, feeling stupid, before finally making myself move. Walking slowly, carefully (afraid to scare him), I came up to his bedside to deposit the book on the tray nearby. "I'll just leave it here, then…"

I was about to pull my hand back when Dmitri suddenly grabbed my wrist. I froze, startled — I didn't even notice him look over — but Dmitri just flipped my hand over. Revealed the pink cross-crossing lines of the healing wounds across my palm and fingers.

A line formed between Dmitri's brow. His Adam's apple bobbed in a swallow, and he murmured, "How did this happen?"

Russian. It made me pause when I caught it, wondering what it meant. Maybe it meant nothing. But I didn't want to think so.

"Broken glass," I said in turn, lifting my other hand slightly and showing the matching pattern on that palm as well. I wasn't sure why it caught his interest, or why he wanted to know. I was too afraid to ask. Questioning Dmitri felt… wrong. I opened my mouth to explain just how I got cut with broken glass, but decided against it. Every answer I could think of was too complex, too wordy. I didn't want to speak too loud, or too much.

Dmitri's eyes flicked from one hand to the other, taking it in carefully. He pressed his lips together, and ran his thumb across my palm, over the shallow ridges of scars. His skin felt papery and cold. "Does it hurt?"

"Not anymore."

Dmitri studied my hand for a second longer before letting go. He fell back, slumping slightly, gaze turning towards the opposite wall. His expression dimmed again, eyes hollow. His lips barely moved when he spoke again. "My father wasn't a good man, was he?"

"No." I said. "But he still loved you."

That was one thing I knew for sure. The memory of the Chairman's torment, his expression at Dmitri's wounded form, was forever imprinted on my mind. No, I had no doubt as to how Lev had felt for his son. Monsters, even monsters like him, were only human.

Something flickered across Dmitri's face at that; confusion, doubt, contempt. Fading away again. He didn't respond, eyes searching that blank wall, as if he might find something there. What, I didn't know.

I thought about it. About expressing my regret for killing Lev — even if I wasn't in control, I'd still pulled the trigger. But I couldn't say those words. They weren't true, and I didn't think Dmitri would believe me anyways. He knew full well how I felt about his father.

I didn't enjoy it. Hell no. But I couldn't say I felt too sorry for it, either.

The true regret came from Dmitri having been there at all. That he'd gotten hurt because of it. Wrong time, wrong place. Wrong family.

"Is it over?" Dmitri's voice rasped in the silence. The question hung in the air, small and innocent, delicate to the touch. Carrying the meaning of all that had happened.

Hands clenched and unclenched at my sides. Then I sighed. "Yes. It's over."

For now.

I didn't know for sure, to be honest, but it seemed that the worst had finally passed. What came next, I didn't know. I could only hope for better things, but I wasn't sure if I'd be that lucky. If Dmitri would be that lucky. He, at least, deserved it. So I said nothing to the contrary. He had enough to deal with already.

"Good." He murmured, closing his eyes. Dmitri seemed to relax, ever so slightly. But his expression was still tense, that line between his brow. He shifted in discomfort; the pain of his shoulder difficult to bear. When Dmitri opened his eyes again, they had a dull quality, devoid of energy or life.

He still didn't look at me. "I think you should go."

I stared at Dmitri, caught off guard. Dismissed so abruptly, I almost wanted to believe I misheard him. But I hadn't.

Fighting back the hurt, I bowed my head. Wanted to say something, decided against that, too. Just gave a tiny nod and headed for the door. My hand had just landed on the frame when Dmitri spoke again.

"And please," he said, and I looked over my shoulder at him. Dmitri seemed to hesitate — his eyes met mine. "Don't come back."

A slight inhale, a tiny gasp. Barely perceptible. I just stared at Dmitri, aghast — but his gaze didn't waver.

Somewhere, deep down, I broke to pieces.

Steve was waiting for my just outside, in the hallway. Waiting on a bench, he saw me come out and immediately stood, but I just walked right past him. "Mia?"

I kept walking, my pace picking up, going faster until I was running. Vision blurring, heart pounding, ears roaring. Throat locked up, everything too hot. Down the halls, around corners, completely lost until I found an elevator. Not the same one we came up through but close enough.

When Steve finally caught up to me, I was already in tears. Seeing me curled up on the floor, back against the wall, Steve wilted, his shoulders sagging. "Oh, Mia…"

He came over and pulled me into his arms. A part of me wanted to reject it, but the warm embrace just made me cry harder. Steve rubbed my back, speaking softly. "I think you only hurt yourself more trying to do the right thing."

I just buried my face in his shoulder, pain racking up and down my body. He was right.

He was always right.