She didn't wake up in her cell, for the first time since arriving. She was on her back - on the same table, if the stickiness under her body was the drying blood - with her hands now tied above her head. She felt tears falling again, leaking out from eyes still too tired to open. How did she even have any left? Janie was the cryer, not her. Was Jane crying? Did she realize Darcy had disappeared? Did anyone? For the first time she considered that they wouldn't even think to search for her, and it woke a terror in her.
"Ah, good. You are awake finally. Shall we now begin?" The small man, the talker, asked kindly, almost gently. He asked, though Darcy was certain her answer wouldn't matter.
Darcy struggled to open her eyes. Her left eye finally cracked open, vision blurry but slowly focusing. She looked to her right and saw an IV in her arm. They were giving her something.
"What's...in… IV…?" she rasped, questioningly. She wondered if she could tug it out somehow. What the fuck were they putting in her? She tried unsuccessfully to move her arm.
She heard the smile in his voice. Sick fucking bastard. "It is nothing, my dear, no need for you to worry your little head on. It is important that we keep you hydrated so that you stay strong enough to give us what we require. It would not do to have you pass too quickly, before you have opportunity to share with us all the answers? Now, I ask a final time. Are we ready to begin?"
What the hell did they want her to share with them? She didn't know anything. She was the weakest link in the entire group. Why had they kidnapped her? No one had even tried to come for her yet. She was desperate to try and think of a means of escape. Is that why they took her? Because she was the only one who wouldn't be able to get away? What the hell did he mean, not die too quickly?
She was cold, naked and trembling, scared, miserable, terrified, and a complete and utter mess. She shook her head slightly, confused.
"No?"
He touched her then, his sweaty hand on her collarbone, blessedly warm and deeply unwelcome. It started trailing down her body, to her breast, following down the outline of her waist, lower.
"This is not a problem, of course. I have prepared for this something that may change your mind and make you more… receptive to our process. Afterwards, I think, we may be ready to begin, when you more fully understand your position here." He fell silent then, running his hands down her body, smiling when she slipped and expressed more discomfort and pain, taking pleasure in the frightened trembling she was still fighting to control.
His left hand squeezed her breast in a deep, bruising massage, thumbing roughly at her nipple. His other hand went lower, until it was cupping her where she didn't want him, didn't want to feel him, didn't want him to touch her, his fingers pushing into her, invading her. First one, then another.
Oh, no. God, please no.
It hit her, all at once and ridiculously too late, and Darcy knew what was about to happen.
...
She felt very young. And very frightened.
...
She hadn't waited on purpose, hadn't signed a pledge or planned to wait for marriage. She'd just...never found the right person. No-one had ever been quite special enough.
Nothing about this was right or special. Whatever she thought or wanted, it didn't matter.
She bucked up on the table, her back bending in an arc, desperate to fight him, yanking against her bindings, fighting, screaming, snarling. Her teeth came out, gnashing and violent, and she roared her frustration at being touched, at being held down. The world had been reduced down to these cold rooms, and she filled that world with the sounds of her resistance.
"Please Heimdall," she begged, when her struggles proved useless. "Please see me. Please send Thor. Please Gods, please..." Her cries were desperate, raw prayers, and it felt like damnation when they went unanswered.
Nobody came to help her.
Any pretence of kindness had evaporated; his touch was ruthless where his words had been gentle. The asshole proceeded as if she wasn't resisting at all. Something in her pinched, and the shock of the pain left her breathless. In an automatic response; she slammed her knees together, anything she could do to stop it, desperate to get him out of her, away from her.
"Tovarisch," he called out, followed by more Russian that she didn't understand, and he pointed towards her.
The two other men in the room strode over quickly and each grabbed a knee and forcefully spread them apart. The talkative man started to climb on the table, on top of her.
She felt crushed under the weight of him, and what he was doing. His touch woke fire in her wounds, and she ached for it to catch and become real, to consume her and end this. The merciful darkness rose up in her mind again, and as the world tilted she let herself fall into it.
They told her what a good Whore she was, for days in a row.
She assumed it was days, at least. Hard to tell in that bright, windowless room, when her only rest was the times her mind curled in on itself.
They had all enjoyed her now, all of her. It had been naive enough to think losing her virginity would be the worst they could do to her. She now knew differently.
Growing up had always seemed like something other people did. She'd gotten on fine doing as she pleased, living with fierce joy, paying no heed to what was expected. Things would happen when they happened, why not chase what you wanted and let the chips fall where they may? So she'd studied and she'd worked, baked and cultivated a broad taste in films.
Living in the moment was all very good, she reflected, until the moment was unending torture in a Russian basement.
Whas she even in Russia? Where the fuck was she?
And where were they? Her heroes, her friends.
Where were they?
She had always imagined herself very much like Jo March from Little Women. That she would in so many ways never grow up. Never really become an adult. That she would grasp on fiercely to childhood and fiction and dreams as long as humanly possible, for fear that once she finally did "become an adult", she would lose the unending passion and playfulness she treasured, sacrificing her dreams.
She couldn't unsee the things that had happened here. Never unlive the horrors she continued to go through. Her previous innocent wonder seemed bizarre in the face of it.
These men had ruined her.
They had robbed her of every imaginable choice. At this point, she didn't even dare question their orders.
That was horrifying, in a distant sort of way.
By now, she knew that to argue, to fight, to question an order made it worse, made everything worse. Nothing more so that a single word: no. A word she had learned in the most horrific of ways meant absolutely nothing. Two letters that made no sense and held no power. It was knowing the word meant absolutely nothing to them that made her understand the uselessness of fighting back.
So she had learned to obey.
What the fuck did that make her? The man talked about her like a part of them, and that's what she felt like now. Attached to them to keep herself alive, just like the IV.
It wasn't simply physical. She had been reduced to mere survival. She knew now that she would do anything to survive, and was disgusted with herself for it.
Not that her new passivity had much effect on them. They simply dragged her around like a ragdoll now that all energy and care had forsaken her, leaving her simply a hollow shell of the person she'd once been.
Before.
She felt lied to. She hadn't really understood these particular horrors that existed. She'd known they were out there, but they seemed far away - untouchable from where she had been, at the top of a shiny tower, protected by heroes.
She'd dealt with aliens and bad guys and Hydra. She'd even had one or two kick-ass moments when it came to protecting herself against some of them.
She'd experienced death. And loss.
Her grandmother had raised her in love and naivety, the kind you try to shelter children with to protect their innocence, to allow them to imagine what always could be instead of what always is. She'd known evil like this existed in the world, but experiencing it firsthand was completely different. She hadn't known.
Now that she did, she was deeply grieved. Not simply because of what they were doing to her.
But how it had changed her on the inside.
She held such heartache and sorrow, it was physically painful. It wasn't possible for happiness to exist in a world that also contained pain like this.
Who am I?
She wasn't who she had been when they took her. That person had been stripped away, and she didn't know who they had been. Becoming something new was how she would survive; she felt indifferent about exactly what it was she'd changed into. Everything she had been - happy, defiant, cuddly, talkative - was now cold and quiet. A silent chasm punched open inside her, a wound in the centre of her being.
Thinking about the hurt inside, was not possible. A mind couldn't wrap itself around the knowledge of these things. They had hurt her, kept wanting to hurt her, and lived to cause her pain. If she had no heart, she could not feel pain there.
No more feelings. No more dreams. No mercy. No safety.
She would never be safe.
...
The demands of the nameless third man echoed through her, terrifying her.
Her mouth had swollen shut after one particularly violent event, even after she had answered all of their questions as well as she could, and they had punished her for not talking again right afterwards, even with her trying. She tried so hard to obey.
The three men lived for the violence they caused her, and relished her pain. She did her best to respond to their demands - move here, hold still - (yes Sir, sorry Sir, these words worked if she said them right, and she tried her very best to do it right) and when she behaved and did her best to please them, the small man nodded approvingly, stroked her head and called her Pet, before stepping back to observe.
The relief in those moments were beginning to feel…strange to her. There certainly was no joy. But there was a newfound inner voice urging her to remain submissive, to do what she was told; that the punishments would be lighter, or more forgiving if she did what she was told, or at least tried harder to.
The lack of sleep and pace of questioning had her fumbling, missing something or moving too slowly, and if she couldn't follow the simple commands at the immediate time they were given, so stupid and clumsy she couldn't move and do the simplest things, they'd all move in - together, like a pack - to hurt her in some inventive new way.
They asked so little, and she couldn't even do that.
The spiral of terror wrapped tighter around her.
...
She had held out against the questioning for as long as she could in the beginning. It might have been hours or days, she didn't know anymore. The certainty that she had not been missed, that no-one was searching, reinforced itself in each moment of pain, in each minute that passed without being rescued, her resistance crumbled.
24 hours, wasn't that the old saying? Survival rates of kidnapping victims take a nosedive if they're not found in the first 24 hours. Basically zero chance after 48. Had they looked for 24 hours? Had Jane tried longer before giving up? How long had it been?
A long time had passed now. They hadn't come for her, which meant they had most likely given up on believing there was something to find at this point. They probably believed she was dead by now. No point doing search and rescue for a body. She wasn't worth risking a battle for.
She wondered if they would give her a funeral. One she couldn't attend.
Words had started tumbling from her lips after one of them had stabbed her in the shoulder blade after one particularly gruesome questioning session. Her screams were silent, punctuated with shouted nonsense words as she tried to find answers that would please them. This must be the peak of her anguish; this would end soon enough. One way or another.
"Where is Jane Foster?" His accent was so thick it was hard to figure out what he was saying at times. Not that it mattered. She couldn't speak. "Stark Tower," she mouthed, barely able to remain conscious, her vision going grey.
"What was Jane Foster working on? Wake up - you must wake up! What had she discovered?"
She couldn't breathe. No more breathing meant she would die; this thought wasn't as comforting as she'd hoped. She shook her head, confused.
"How do you not know? You must know. You've worked with her!"
There was a long pause, the threat of darkness looming over her. He slapped her, and she gasped, breath saving her even as it damned her to remain here.
"For her," she cried, words simply tumbling from her, in sequence, out of sequence, who could tell. Could they understand this accent? She didn't know what she was saying, she didn't know what was being asked of her anymore. "Not with her. Not smart enough…"
It went on, and on, and on.
That one had happened very recently, actually, now that Darcy thought about it.
When she'd held back in an attempt to not give away any information on Janie to protect her, (she had tried so hard to be strong,) they always seemed to know. This one time, he had moved the hilt of the knife in her back, slowly, until she couldn't hold in the answer, screaming and begging them to stop, that was everything she knew, stop it please.
Each time she felt the hot blood pour over her shoulder blade, she distantly marvelled that her body had anything warm left in it. It wouldn't be long now, surely. Hopefully. She would bleed out and let the coldness into her heart, and she could finally die.
They left the knife in when he threw her back in her cell.
She was unconscious before her head hit the floor.
The day the tall one took a steel pipe to her knee, and to her hip, was the day she begged them to kill her.
...
They threw her back in her cell, and shut the door, laughing.
...
That was alright. Death was coming for her. She knew. And she wasn't scared anymore. Finally, pain without fear. Present, constant and factual.
She floated in the dark and the pain.
She'd heard the explosion, but it hadn't done much more than rattle the walls of her cell. It had woken her up. She was so tired.
Her eyes drooped.
There was a grinding noise outside of her door, before the door to her cell creaked open slowly, but she didn't even open her eyes. Tried to not even acknowledge it, though her body betrayed her and flinched anyway at the sound.
There was a soft intake of air. Not a gasp, nothing so conspicuous. Whoever it was that had opened the door had not fully expected to find what they saw upon entering.
So someone new. She knew she should feel afraid, but she felt nothing.
She heard them take a slow step towards her, the leather of his boots creaking as they moved. And then another step, closer, another stretch of leather.
They would drag her out when they wanted. They would hurt her when they wanted. They would kill her when they wanted.
She could barely breathe, it hurt so bad. Her leg was broken. Possibly her hip. She drifted in and out of consciousness, shivering and laying on the cold, wet concrete. She coughed a deep, crackling sound. She couldn't remember what it felt like to be warm.
"Darcy," a man's gentle voice whispered to her in the dark, his voice deep and gravelly.
Her eyes shot open, burning when they caught the full bright light outside the cell, but she stayed on the floor as she'd learned to do, her body recoiling, waiting for the hit.
Hearing her name being said wasn't a good thing. She'd kept it quiet, kept it inside her head, only mouthed it there when she was in her cell, as a reminder to herself that she still had a name - that she was still a person. Hearing it spoken only meant one thing.
It meant pain coming.
It meant a beating, more than she could take, and then more still. They wanted to take away her name, and they had. They'd said her name and hurt her until the word was a weapon too, and she feared hearing it. "Names were for people," they'd told her. "Not playthings."
They hadn't actually said her name in so long, now, it seemed. They'd called her Darcy, over and over again, until she refused to respond. They beat her when she had responded - lifting her head, or turning to whomever had said it. When she proved she would not respond to it was when they moved onto to different forms of torture.
They'd taken to calling her simply Whore or Pet. Both simple names, each with a very specific set of simple rules. Easy for a thing to understand.
Whore is what they called her when they wanted to take turns using her body. They each had their various horrible ways of getting off, every one enough to make her vomit afterwards when she felt the filth leak out of her. She could do nothing but bear it, to suffer through it until they had used her enough to their satisfaction.
Perhaps the worst was when they had used toys on her, playing with their plaything, laughing as she bucked and writhed to get away from the buzzing. Laughing as they pushed it deeper, pulling physical reactions from her even as she fought. Making her wet. Making her…
Don't think it.
It was one of their favourite games, praising her when they forced her to…
She hadn't wanted it. She'd tried not to. She couldn't remember...
You're not Darcy when you're here. Don't think. Don't be anything.
You will fucking take it, you fucking bitch of a whore. Just like that, deeper. You shake all you want to Whore, try your best to not feel the pleasure your body betrays you with - your tears and attempts to escape make it delicious to watch. They had whispered these things in her ear. And they had goaded her attempts to get away and laughed gleefully at her in her desperation to escape.
She retched, her body shaking through dry heaving as her body attempted to reject the memories of what they'd forced her to do.
She lost her grip on time again.
...
Pet was the name given when they were trying to gather information from her. They would talk to her so softly, with false kindness. They promised her terrible things, a glass of water, a blanket, a swift death. She knew they were lies, and couldn't say so, and called them promises instead.
All she had to do was to follow instructions. Their instructions. And answer each one with, "Yes, sir." Answer every question she was asked. Sit here. No, kneel. Put your hands behind your back. Suck this. Lay here. Open yourself up for me.
Pet was worse than Whore. Way worse.
Worse in a way she couldn't yet swallow, but knew to the deepest parts of what made her who she was; that she had made herself into Pet, out of desperation and survival instincts, but nonetheless, the creation had been hers, the effort she put in to please and to be "good", as disgusting as it made her. Where Whore was something she couldn't have prevented, and hadn't been able, despite her best attempts.
But she'd learned quickly.
Whore at least seemed like a victim. Pet actually worked to please them, so they wouldn't harm her further. And during those times, they actually didn't beat her much. Only when she disobeyed or failed. They would punish her cruelly, and then she would berate herself. If only she had done better. If only she had tried better.
Next time she would be better.
She understood Whore and Pet, and the differences between them. She hated them both. It was a torture in itself to be called either, to prove to her that she wasn't worth even her god-given name.
She only repeated her name in her mind alone in her cell, as if she'd forget it if she didn't let herself be herself from time to time. It wasn't forgotten, of course not. You can't forget a word that has hurt you so much. It was just so very strange to not hear your name for so long, and it hurt like a physical blow to hear it now.
Her eyes burned as she tried to blink away tears that welled when the light from the doorway hit her. She whimpered, waiting to be grabbed, but didn't dare a quick glance up when it didn't come. Her name had been used, and she was unfamiliar of this new type of torture. She waited. There was nothing else to do.
Who is this person? What is next?
Did Darcy even care? Was she Darcy now? Were they asking her to be Darcy now?
It had to be someone new, she didn't recognize the sound of his steps. He wasn't stomping towards her like all three of her captors did. So not one of them. Definitely somebody new.
New did not feel safe. The unknown was even scarier than the known. If that was even possible, given what she knew now. She shuddered, and waited to learn the rules here.
He came close; she could hear him take a shuddering breath in but couldn't see his boots. She refused to look up, and she heard him drop to his knees in front of her, and… then…
Nothing. He exhaled harshly, but otherwise remained silent.
She waited him out, refusing to fall into the trap.
"Darcy," he said again, his voice guttural and also sounding more…sad? And… that voice... she recognized that soft voice.
That couldn't be right. She was probably hallucinating.
Out of her side-eye, she watched him take the strap of his rifle off his shoulder and set it down slowly to his side, her eyes unable to not follow the movement of the rifle. The men didn't bring guns around her. Guns were for killing; they wanted to keep her alive.
Or...was this it? Was it finally her time to be executed?
Something glinted in her eye and she noticed his arm. The left one. It was covered in some type of armour. The other was bare and pale in the light.
It was so familiar to her. And yet, so strange. Why only cover one arm with armor and not both?
Both arms reached out slowly towards her, and she flinched harshly, cowering back against the cement wall.
He quickly leaned back again, but stayed on his knees. He rested his arms palm up on his legs.
That wasn't right either.
She hadn't followed any order to have him step back. The men backing off of her was a reward, and she hadn't done anything yet to earn that reward.
That meant this was bad. Probably very bad. This was new and she didn't know the rules. This was going to hurt.
"I'm sorry, Sir," she whispered. He breathed out harshly, obviously studying her.
Her lip trembled. She was confused. She wanted to keep her head down, remain submissive. Her broken leg made it to where she couldn't get into her taught position.
She wouldn't survive this and it would be her final brutal treatment before death finally took her.
Pieces of memory floated up from under the pain, however. Metal arm. Blue eyes. Dark hair - pulled back in a tie, not under a hat.
She knew him.
She knew.
Bucky.
But he wasn't here. She had waited. None of them were coming here.
She took a shuddering breath, and while her body was screaming no, don't do it, don't look up...
But she had to know.
She slowly peeked up, blinking away wetness out of her good eye.
His hooded, dark eyes watched her carefully, glancing at her from head to toe - assessing her - each and every cut, bruise, broken bone, and all the more, he took it all in. And then he looked right at her, eyes crinkled and sad, compassion and empathy written all over his features.
There was silence. He didn't say anything. Why didn't he say anything?
He just… waited.
He looked safe. He looked real.
But he made no more towards her, his arms resting loosely on his thighs as he looked her over, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the knife in her shoulder, silvery blue eyes glinting with a simmering rage she could see underneath his calm exterior. How had she made him angry? She hadn't done anything yet.
She had to know. Was he real? Was he here?
"Bu...Buck…" she mouthed, her voice cracking. The sound of her own voice made her immediately lower her eyes again to the floor. Why had she spoken? She was so stupid!
She wasn't allowed to look, she sure as hell wasn't allowed to talk. He was going to hurt her. He had to be a hallucination. She'd finally lost it.
Hallucinations can't hurt you, her brain told her. You can look at him. And talk to him. It's okay.
And so she did. "Please. Please be a hallucination. Please kill me. Please make it stop. Please be real. Please take me home." She whimpered.
Her eyes swept over his face, to the gun, to the door, lingering, longingly…and then back to his face.
Now that she had looked at him again, she couldn't take her eyes off of him, although found it impossible to meet him directly in the eyes. That lesson had been taught quickly and viciously. She wouldn't forget.
She focused to the right of him, to his metal arm, to the wisps of hair that had come undone from his hair being tied up, to the gun he had set on the ground next to him.
What was he waiting on? Was he here to shoot her? Why was she hallucinating Bucky of all people? Where was Jane? Or Thor? Or Natasha?
Where was fucking Captain America?
She wouldn't let herself blink for fear he would disappear.
Her vision swam; she was too drained, too drugged, or too insane, to see his face anymore. He was probably there to finally kill her and get it over with. He probably wasn't even there and all this hope rising in her chest was a new form of torture.
She was ready.
She hoped it would be quick. Painless.
If it was really Bucky, he could do it.
I know what you are capable of.
"Make it quick," she begged. "I don't want it to hurt anymore."
His eyes bore into hers, and it took great effort not to meet him eye to eye, to look away just to the side of his head, as he studied her so compassionately. His eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened as he swallowed down her words.
He stayed where he was, crouched down in front of her, searching for something, looking at her, seeing something inside of her… that she didn't want him to see.
She didn't even want to see.
Pulling her ruined knee as close to her chest as she could, she curled in on herself. She didn't want him to look anymore. Didn't want him to see what she had become. What they had done to her. What she let them do. What they had made of her. What she made of herself.
Fucking Whore, echoed in her mind as they took her over and over, brutally. You can do it, just take it, that's it, that's a good pet. All of it. Swallow. Good Pet.
She wouldn't let him see that she was broken. She didn't want anyone to see her.
Bad enough that he could see her at all, but those eyes felt like they saw beneath the wounds and blood, to the thing inside her skin that used to be Darcy.
And he could see she wasn't that person anymore.
Perhaps he didn't think she deserved a name anymore, either.
She whined softly and he tried inching towards her once more, murmuring softly… was that Russian? Was she really in Russia? Why did everyone speak to her in goddamn Russian? She hadn't been able to figure it out this whole time.
Broken thoughts ran through her mind, the confusion and conflict weighing heavily
You can't trust him.
…
He hasn't touched you.
…
You are a thing.
…
You thought of his smile when you were trying to be strong.
…
He will hurt you.
…
He wore your hat. It made you smile.
…
Names are for people.
…
He called you Darcy. Your name is a punishment.
…
Your name. You have a name.
…
He said your name and didn't hurt you.
...
At the sound of his boots scuffing against the floor, she ducked her head behind her trembling arms. Shaking like a leaf, refusing to look at him anymore, fearing what harm would come to her next. She didn't want to know what was coming. What did he want?
"Can you look at me?" he asked her softly. "Darcy?"
Her body flinched immediately. She couldn't meet his eyes. Couldn't handle what might happen.
She felt him hesitate a moment more, arms so close, yet not touching her, as he spoke into his com, "Steven, Natalia, need you both up here. Get Bruce ASAP. Tell him to bring the kit."
If only she'd been wearing her comm. Maybe she wouldn't have gotten so lost. She knew how to follow orders now. She would do better next time.
There was silence, and then static, the sound of something crashing and…a long pause. "On our way now, Buck," Captain America responded, shortly. It was the Captain's voice. Not the Steve voice.
Steve was here.
There was a loud crack of thunder. "Got one," Thor boomed. "Where is she? Where are they keeping her? We must spread out and search."
"Already on it, big guy," Tony said, as the sound of a repulsor blast sounded, shaking the building once more, as if he had decided the best way to search for her was to simply blow a hole in each locked room until she was discovered.
Could he fire again and bring the wall down? Hide her? End this?
She heard guns firing and voices yelling, "Two down" and then "On my way, Barnes. ETA two minutes." Darcy heard Natasha's voice crackling over the coms.
Natasha.
Oh my God, Natasha was coming for her. Thank God.
There was relief, and then… immediate shame.
Tash would be so disappointed. If only Darcy had worn her com. Learned Russian. Taken Nat up on self defense lessons. Now that she was coming, Darcy wasn't sure she wanted to be found.
"A third down here," Clint responded. Clint! Clint was here too. Her heart leapt.
"Search the facility. Are there more?" Natasha asked. "There has to be more."
"I'm headed to the basement," Clint said, the twang of his bowstring as he drew it taut coming through the coms.
"Tony, do a flyover and see if you can trace anyone else in the building. That will be faster than blasting through each room." The voice held a mote of sarcasm.
"Already on it, Captain. Anyone found her yet?" Tony asked, voice hesitant.
Tony was here too.
They were all here.
She felt elated, joyous, relieved, and grateful. And also terrified, and frightened. And then that something dark she was dreading deep inside began to tighten against her heart, her lungs, her shoulders. She felt it physically pulling at her. She didn't want to be seen. She didn't want them to know. She didn't want them to witness her shame.
Darcy heard Bucky take a deep breath. She bravely glanced at him, his face tight and serious, his voice controlled and his body frighteningly still. But she could subconsciously feel the shaking within him. Could see his anger in the tense way he held himself.
The men who beat her, who hurt her, had raged like this. She had seen it in their bodies. They did it when she answered wrong, right before they tore out another piece of her.
She was terrified.
"I've got her," Bucky spoke into the comms, his voice like gravel.
There was nothing but static on the coms. All had gone silent.
This was it.
Her eyes closed. Her body sagged slightly and she trembled weakly, shivering. She was so tired. If he took his anger out on her, that would be the end of her. She didn't have it in her to obey the next order anyway. Her furrowed brow eased. This would all end soon.
The clanking of the chains seemed to jolt Bucky into movement. Standing up, he reached over her, ignoring her flinch, with his metal arm and began undoing her chains above her head. "Darce, this is going to hurt like a bitch, and I'm sorry," he said softly.
She jerked at the sound of the curse word, having been called that so many times, hearing the voices of her three captors echoing, "good bitch, little bitch." To have it spoken softly, almost gently - almost comfortingly - confused the hell out of her. The word was bad, and she didn't like it.
And he kept saying her name….
He continued murmuring to her in a soft gruff voice, though she couldn't make out what he was saying. Couldn't even determine if it were English.
New pain prickled in her hands as he slowly lowered her arms down, bit by bit - as if he somehow knew the pain she was experiencing - from the blood rushing back into her hands and fingers.
He watched her carefully as she breathed through it mutely, her body accustomed to this pain, and rested her hands on her knees to keep from moving her shoulder more.
The knife still lodged there, her chest and aching bones, all threatened to overwhelm her. Usually this happened while she was being dragged down a corridor, mind going through the process of shutting down, handing control over to some other self. This place was for the stillness and the dark. For steady pain she could lose herself in. She moved. She hurt everywhere. She couldn't move. She couldn't breathe.
Oh fuck.
Tears pooled in her eyes, but she didn't let them fall.
She watched Bucky back away a little, setting the chains on the ground with a heavy clunking noise, even as he tried to do it gently, in small doses - it startled her. He again squatted next to her. She looked at his shoulder, his hair - he had it pulled back in a low ponytail with only a few wisps escaping the front. Careful not to look him directly in the eyes, she noticed how he kept looking into hers anyway, expression heavy with the weight of understanding. He angled his body away, but otherwise didn't move from where he had settled down next to her.
"I'm just gonna sit here and wait with you, Darcy," he told her softly. "So you know you aren't alone. I know it's been a long time, but we're here now. We're here. We're gonna get you home." He continued to speak softly at her, to her. She lost time. But he was with her and she wasn't alone in the cell anymore.
They had finally come for her.
A tear rolled down her cheek.