Part Four
You're in the bathtub, chin deep in hot water and bubbles, when you come to your senses. You had been here far too long and you were getting far too comfortable. The problem was, of course, that you didn't want to leave. You liked it here, your little room with the comfy bed and the never ending stack of books on your night table. You liked the kitchen with all of it's delectable ingredients that Natasha and Wanda were slowly but surely teaching you to turn into delectable meals. You liked the gym with it's treadmills and punching bags. You liked sparing with Steve and Natasha, keeping yourself sharp and in shape.
But it didn't matter what you liked, you remind yourself, the only thing that mattered was that Bucky Barnes wasn't going to accept you, or your help, no matter what you did, and it wasn't healthy for either of you to be living in such close proximity to one another.
You knew that, you did, but still… It was hard.
For one thing, you knew you couldn't tell anyone. They would try to convince you to stay, and you were very aware of just how easy it would be to convince you. That meant slipping out in the middle of the night, and getting far enough away that anyone who came looking wouldn't find a single trace of you. There was also HYDRA to think about. It didn't matter. You needed to leave.
But not tonight. You slip into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and pull your gloves on. The kitchen is quiet, and you pull a can of soup from the cupboard and dump it into a sauce pan on the stove. You hum quietly to yourself, an old nursery rhyme from your youth.
The footsteps are all but silent, and your hand freezes mid-stir; even though you expect to see him your heart still clenches when you turn your head to see him in the doorway, a frown on his face.
"I'm almost finished," You say quietly, "Just let me get a bowl and I'll be back in my room."
"You told Steve that you hid my memories instead of erasing them," he says, ignoring your statement, "But you can erase memories. Why didn't you just erase yourself?"
"What do you mean?" You want to reach out, taste his emotional state, but you're afraid he'll sense even that.
"If you were going to betray me, why not just erase yourself altogether? You could've come here and I never even would have known who you were. Wouldn't that have been easier?"
"You know the answer to that," You have to stop yourself from stepping towards him, "I thought I could save you. Wipe your memory and then restore it when the opportunity presented itself. But I never had a chance. I never got close enough to you again. I tried. I killed six men before they managed to sedate and freeze me." Your soup simmers forgotten on the stovetop as two tears slip from beneath your lids and slide silently down your cheeks. "I know that you hate me for what happened, but you will never hate me more than I hate myself."
Your muscles tense, not with fear, but surprise as he takes a few tentative steps into the room. You can see the silent debate behind his eyes, and you would give anything to know the thoughts that fly back and forth. Finally, he raises his head, meeting your gaze. "Prove it." Although he's still blocking you, the stress in his expression gives you an idea of the wordless plea behind his eyes: Don't hurt me. You don't know how to tell him you're thinking the exact same thing. You peel the gloves from your hands slowly and let them fall to the floor as you bridge the distance between the two of you. You lift your trembling hands and place them on his temples, and then you can feel him; the fear, the pain, the hope. But his guard is still up.
"You have to let me in," You tell him, your voice barely a whisper, and to your amazement, he does. It's simple to destroy what remains of your mental wall and you're rewarded with a quiet gasp as the forgotten images and emotions flood through his mind. You don't stop there; he had told you to prove it, and you would. With tears steadily coursing down your face you show him everything that had happened from your point of view; the love behind your relationship, the fear behind your pseudo-betrayal, the pain behind your decommission.
Finally, you let your hands fall from his face. Behind your still closed eyelids one of the memories linger; the feeling of his fingers stroking the flesh of your cheek. You're afraid to open your eyes. Afraid to face reality. The memory is much better, safer.
Your eyes flutter open in surprise as actual fingertips brush your skin from your temple to chin. His blue eyes are inches from yours as through the physical connection you hear him in your mind: I'm sorry.
No, you send back to him, I am.
I know.
He smiles at you.
You smile back.
The End