Retribution

Chapter 3

Do You Know Me?

A/N - Gracious thanks to tumbledfreckles for all her beta help on this chapter! An accompanying banner to this fic by The_Dream_Team has now been uploaded on my Tumblr!

My outburst has surprised James.

I see it in the smallest of changes; in the tightening of his grip around the clothes tucked against his elbow, in the shift of his eyes, the sharp inhale, the way he bites the inside of his cheek. I'm left floundering at the number of emotions flitting over his face in the handful of seconds that it takes for him to speak again.

"You can talk now," he says.

This is not a revelation, nor a question—an unneeded acknowledgment at best. But it sets my pulse thrumming, the relief and poorly restrained happiness in his voice hammering cracks into the colossal walls I've erected around myself.

"Yes," I whisper, the toe of my right leg stretching as it attempts to skim the cool floor. "Will you tell me?"

Hesitation has taken residence in his expression now, elation falling away. The desperation in my tone and his own discomfort finally sets him into motion—he's moving forward, placing down the clothes at the foot of the bed, locking his stare onto me as he straightens, face masking his thoughts.

I'm thrown off a cliff, grip-less, slipping surely as I try to control my reaction to his proximity. The reality of him, his gravity, seizes me like it hasn't done before, not even when I'd woken up to find him beside the bed. He's corporeal now, flesh and blood—I catch the pinkness of his otherwise pale right cheek; evidence of the side he'd favored when sleeping. Abruptly, I'm awash with alertness, brain no longer a mess of clouded, hysteric thoughts and body functioning well enough to keep me sitting, blinking, taking him in.

I catch his smell—nostalgically pleasant—when he's finally in front of me. My neck strains with effort to keep my eyes on him, until it eventually gives up, and I'm left with no choice but to drop my gaze.

James sits down to ease the pressure. The mattress dips under him, our knees almost touching. "I will. But you need to drink some water first."

This is no bargain at all; my hands are eagerly reaching for the bottle he offers. Our fingers brush lightly during the exchange, and I see his hand frozen in the same place for a second too long after I've already pulled back. The cool liquid is an elixir in my mouth, on my tongue, against the walls of my throat. It slides down my body until I can feel it awakening me, hungry for more.

The bottle falls on the bed soon, empty.

"Better?" he asks, lips slanted in amusement.

In all honesty, I could down five more. "Yes. I feel like I haven't tasted water in forever."

That wipes the smile right off his face. I almost wish I had kept all honesty to myself.

But I've been suspended in the unknown for long enough, so I suck in a breath, let the words fly out. "How long?"

He doesn't like the question; his brows have scrunched together in the middle, shoulders almost sagging with an invisible weight as he runs a hand over his face. I hold my breath, wait for him, try not to push. When the arm drops back against his thigh, I know he's steeled himself, eyes haunted and weary but braced against some force I can't fathom.

The whole spectacle looks much too serious for the kind of gravitas that can be attributed to two simple syllables, one simple question.

Though I suppose 'simple' is a rather subjective term—perhaps it's not quite as easily applied to the kind of narrative I currently find myself a part of. But what do I know of the world, of stories and realities and all that lies in between?

Nothing.

Before my thoughts can spiral any further, James exhales harshly.

"Just half a day," he says, and I'm instantly opening my mouth, ready to clarify, but a raised hand and a hurried nod of the head stop me. "I know. I meant just half a day since you were last awake. But before that…" He breaks off for a second, and I want to ask if I can borrow some of his courage, too. "Two years."

Two years.

The answer is a cruel mockery of the abstractness of time as it rattles around inside my head, because isn't time just a construct meant to keep track of change and progression? In the grand scheme of things, two years are nothing. Two years come and go all the time. Two years means I've aged only slightly, hardly lost my whole life swimming through nothingness.

But here's a pleasant self-discovery—I don't give a fuck about the grand scheme of things.

Two years of my life.

Gone.

No, not gone. I blink my eyes, bite the tip of my tongue. Stolen.

In this moment, I am scrambling to latch onto the only two things that anchor me to the present, that hold me together and prevent the fracture of my very being into pieces too vitriolic to survive.

First, my unparalleled need to know what has happened to me, what continues to happen to me. If I haven't been awake for two years, why do I not have memories from the time before? Has trauma beyond my wildest imaginations compelled my brain to block out everything it has ever known? Where did those years go?

A dull ache forms around my temples at the crash of questions.

Second, these men. Evidently, I'd been something more than just a bleeding carcass to them if James possesses this information about me: my name, how long I've been gone, possibly where we were. How do the other three fit into this scenario? What roles do they play? Who are we hiding from?

And in the center of all of that, glowing a bright, angry red—why did you leave me in there for two years?!

"Evans," his voice is hoarse, careful, and I've lost sense of how long I've been sitting there for. My folded leg has fallen asleep. "Are you—talk to me. I'm here."

"But you weren't." The sharpness of my own tone surprises me. I don't stop. "You weren't there for two years."

James looks like he's been slapped across the face, hard. I watch the muscles in his forearms pull taut with tension, fingers furling against the mattress beside him. Hazel eyes look at me; dull, upset, tortured. "You're right. You deserve to be angry."

This is not what I want to hear. It makes me feel slightly nauseated, makes something bubble under my skin.

"Thank you for the permission."

A muscle ticks in his jaw. "I'm not—"

"Why not?" I'm shooting bullets at him now, uncaring where they hit, which ones ricochet. "Why didn't you come sooner? Why didn't anyone else? Am I—was I that terrible a person? Did I have no one? Why was I…there? Why were there fucking wires inside me, James? Why am I bleeding everywhere? I cannot, I cannot, I'm—"

"Shit, shit," he's shifting forward, eyes wide and panicked in the face of my questions.

But no, I realize half a second later, it's not the questions that have unnerved him; it's me. I've scared him.

My chest heaves with dry, aching breaths, lungs expanding and contracting and expanding and contracting again but unable to convert air to oxygen. I feel empty and full at the same time, sounds like I've never heard before echoing in my ears: stinging wheezes, shattered cries, suffocation.

"Evans, come on, stay with me," James implores, and warm hands slide onto either side of my head. It's the first time he's touched my face, thumbs pressed on cheekbones—gentle and firm at the same time—long fingers gripping almost half my head, brushing over cropped hair. "Breathe. Deep. Slow. It's okay. You're okay."

I realize this is not normal, air should not crack in my chest like this. Maybe the impending disintegration of lungs is here now, ready for its payback, for all the moments I've been allowed to selfishly breathe. The anxiety that wants to build itself like a pyramid on top of its reflection at this thought takes monumental effort to push back.

I hang onto James's words for help, his eyes like anchors in a tumultuous storm. "You're safe," he nods, pouring the conviction into me. "I'm here and I'm sorry, but you're safe now, I promise. I'm here."

My hands shake as I lean forward to rest my palms on his knees. I don't understand why I've done it until I feel the solid sturdiness push comfortingly against my skin. Even in my subconscious, I'm aware of this unsettling assessment: he is stability, I am disorder.

There's a split second in between where I feel him tense under my touch, but it's gone in a blink and I'm thinking I've imagined it. Wouldn't be the first time I've let my mind run away from me, after all. I concentrate, instead, on reality, on keeping my grip, on not slipping.

"Do you want more water? I can just—"

My chipped nails almost dig into his thighs, vehement, alarmed, and I jerk my head from one side to another. Just once.

No.

"Okay, okay, I'm not leaving. Just breathe, Evans."

I do as James says.

I breathe.

I inhale.

I exhale.

I do it again.

I do it until it no longer feels fake.

I do it until wheezes have turned into silent gasps.

I do it until I no longer need to consciously do it.

And throughout the whole thing, I don't cry.

Maybe it's just another one of those things that my body has forgotten how to do. My visceral want to shed tears is strange, depressing and melancholic even in my own thoughts, but I can hardly help it. It stems from a need to drive out some of this heaviness from inside me, a desperation with which I seek an exchange of grim musings for some joy.

"Better now?"

I look up at him, at those words, pull my trembling hands away from his legs. I don't know how much time has passed.

His expression is woven out of sincerity and concern, and there it is—the slightest tug of guilt in my belly in spite of my earlier determination to not feel the emotion.

"A bit," my voice says, gulping in air, "I shouldn't have lashed out at you like that."

James's hands are no longer on my face, and I don't recall when he slipped them away. Something bitter twists around his mouth. "I'm surprised you haven't before, honestly."

That rings too close to Sirius's comment from the morning and I'm immediately knocked back by the sting his words leave on me. The callousness in his tone—harsh, acerbic—is not something I've encountered before, not something I ever want to get accustomed to, because he's been the only thing I've held onto in a painfully dark world. In my nascent reality, I've revolved around his sliver of light when falling into an abyss had felt inevitable.

But now, I've pushed him away with my accusations. My bullets have left chinks in his armor that no longer feel fixable.

I am so, so stupid.

"Reckon I would've lost my mind if I were you," James says, and the words are so soft that I'm leaning closer to catch them in time before they're eaten up by the night. For a moment, I'm left grappling—he doesn't hate me? He's not upset?—before it finally settles in my head that he's bitter for me, and not because of me.

My very essence burns, flush with gratitude.

"I wouldn't rule out me having lost my mind quite so easily, Potter," I say, throwing back his last name at him as he's done for me. Eyes widen infinitesimally, brighter; he likes it. "Would it scare you to know I've considered myself insane a handful of times already?"

But he just shakes his head. "You're not going crazy. Things around you have been a bit…mental."

He can say that again.

"I need answers."

"I know."

"Help me. Please."

The most unexplainable phenomenon unfolds before my eyes then. James looks at me in a way that empties all the air inside my body, like he's never looked at me before this moment, like he's seeing me for the first time. I wonder what he finds, whether it's the same girl he'd saved, whether I'm the person he expected me to be or the bitch Sirius hopes I'm not.

I wonder why I even care.

"Do you trust me?"

His question is unexpected. I'm not prepared enough to school the shock in time.

It is too soon. He sees it in my face, smiles ruefully.

I'm stumbling in my haste to assure him. "It's not like that. I don't even know enough to trust anyone or anything yet. I've even taken my own name from you. But, it's not—when you say that I'm safe here, I trust that. I believe that."

He's nodding. "Okay. Good. It doesn't matter though—you don't need to explain yourself to me. Or to anyone else."

I know that. "Why did you ask?"

The light in his eyes has shifted again, and I'm fleetingly pondering how many shades of colors can bloom in those irises when he replies. "Because I'm going to tell you what you want to know. Whether you decide to believe anything I say or not is up to you. But—I need you to trust me on one thing: if I decide to hold back on…certain information, I want you to trust that it's not out of any malicious intent to keep you blindsided. It's just a lot to unpack together and I'm not sure if—if you can—"

"Bear it all at once?"

He struggles, lips pressing together, jaw clenching, brows knitting, even as the rest of his body remains stoically indifferent. Finally, a nod of the head. "Yes."

I don't blame him.

I've not been the best recipient of difficult revelations since I've woken up. Despite what James says, I cannot dismiss the very real possibility that I'm not completely right in the head. I'm set off easily, too cautious, too volatile, ready to flee at the first indication of danger—though from what and to where, I do not know. With thoughts that lead nowhere and panic willing to make itself known at any available opportunity, my own apprehension at getting to know too much at once has me considering the weight of his words seriously.

The nightmare from the morning flashes before my eyes, making the decision for me.

"Okay. I understand."

James blinks, almost as if he's taken aback by my easy concurrence. His surprise does not abate his relief. "What do you want to know?"

Such a laughable string of words; what do I not want to know? Where do I even start?

The flood of questions proliferating inside my mind is thrilled, bouncing against each other, vying to wriggle their way to the forefront in a bid to have answers. I find myself searching—picking, observing, assessing—for the first one that burns curiosity through all my nerves.

I'm successful in my hunt soon enough: "Where was I? What was that gray room?"

"Gray room?" he repeats, and then his eyes clear. "Oh, you mean—it was an experimentation facility. A lab, for a better word—St. Mungo's."

The amount of dread the answer induces in me is truly commendable. "Experiment?"

"Yes," James says. His voice is steel; hard and unwavering. "It used to be a hospital a few years ago. But now—it's nothing more than what you must've seen. They've turned it into an underground hub for carrying out inhumane experiments. You've been their test subject for two years."

I feel violently sick.

Pushing down the bile threatening to rise up my throat is a challenge harder than expected.

"Who's 'they'?"

The first hints of hesitation shadow over James's face. We've barely started and he's already stepping around me tentatively. I might've found it in myself to be more annoyed if every single second from this standpoint did not terrify me to my bones.

"They call themselves the Death Eaters."

My mouth drops open. "That's rather dramatic."

He huffs out a humorless laugh, head lolling back for a moment as his eyes stare at the ceiling. I'm mesmerized by the movement of neck muscles, the Adam's apple that pushes lightly against skin—skin that stretches and dips smoothly into sculpted collar bones, broad shoulders, straining the fabric of his t-shirt.

Quite unbidden, insecurity slams into my gut; I'm little more than a wreckage next to him.

"They live up to the name," James is saying, and his eyes are back to me. They're dark, raging with quiet fury. "The whole operation is led by a man named Tom Riddle, though he goes by Voldemort these days. To put it mildly, the blood on their hands is enough to fill rivers to the brim—Death Eaters, indeed."

Shiver runs down my spine. I no longer want to linger on this moniker.

"What—what operation?"

"To find people like you."

I've been tossed into rough wind, clueless as the gale shoves me around, this way and that. People like you, he says, as if those words should suddenly open doors to comprehension that has eluded me for so long.

"What do you mean?"

And now I see it: his wholehearted reluctance, the bravado he's put on for my benefit faltering, crumbling down in fine shreds around him. His right hand runs over dark strands, grips the back of his neck, drops down to rest a hair's breadth away from mine. My fingers take concentrated effort to stay put. "I mean that you're special, Lily."

He's delaying it. I won't humor this.

"Special, how?"

A long, shuddering breath. "You can do things; things that are not considered normal, extraordinary things that lie beyond the capabilities of other human beings."

As if I haven't been feeling abnormal enough already.

I fail to control the shaking of my hand when my fingers reach up to touch my mouth, an aggravated rush of breath escaping through the gaps. My heart pulses somewhere near the jugular, mouth gone dry, fingertips brushing against chapped skin of lips. I should ask for more water, but answers take precedence.

Every passing second is time I require to push the words out.

"What can I do?"

James's response takes less than half a moment, but infinitude lies in that tick of silence in between. "I don't know."

Well.

Talk about being anticlimactic.

"What?" My stomach is tumbling. "How can you not—are you lying to me?"

"I told you I wouldn't do that." Hazel eyes blaze, and the fire in them has rendered me speechless. Just his eyes—fierce, intense—feel more alive than the whole of me, and I'm delirium-soaked again. "I told you the decision to trust or not lies with you, but if I don't want to tell you something, I'll just not say it. I won't—I don't want to lie to you, Evans."

My small nod of acceptance has him closing his eyes—a prolonged blink—before they open again, calm once more.

"So, you really don't know?"

"No."

"But how's that possible? You seem to know everything else about me."

"Not everything," James sighs, roughly dragging a hand over his face. He doesn't pull the fingers away completely, so I'm rewarded with the view of a half-smile that is both rueful and amused at the same time. "Though not for lack of trying."

I wish he would make sense more frequently.

I say it. "I wish you made sense more frequently."

This gets soft laughter spilling out of him, and the sound is real, unlike that husk of an angry laugh he'd released earlier. "Sorry. Sometimes I just say things out loud without really thinking through them. Let's just say I've considered myself insane a handful of times as well, yeah?"

My lower stomach has developed a sudden fancy to inviting home a swarm of butterflies simply because James has smirked at me.

I vomit my next question. "Do you know me?"

"Sorry?" he shakes his head, confusion plain on features. In hindsight, I could've—should've been more specific. "I'm kind of lost here. Do I know you in what sense?"

I discover that words are funny things; I always seem to have a plethora of them inside my head, running over each other in their haste to dominate, pointless, directionless, ready to jump onto a tangential string of thought at a moment's notice. The irony here is that not one of them seems willing to make an appearance or travel down to my tongue when I'm in need.

The absurdity of my struggle to find words, therefore, is not lost on me.

I finally settle on: "Did you know me? Before."

"Before," James whispers, unwitting or uncaring that I am all but hanging onto each breath of his. I haven't felt this way since the gray room—this muted atmosphere, this slowness, this underwater, dream-like state as he looks at me for an eternity. Perhaps words have betrayed him as well, hiding behind the comfort of their own non-utterance. "Before what?"

My incredulity answers him. Are you fucking kidding me?

"Right, um, before," he fumbles, looking torn, and for what, I haven't the faintest clue, "no, I didn't."

There's something lodged right under my ribcage, heavy and uncomfortable. I recognize it to be disappointment. His answer leaves me unsettled, a barrage of confusing thoughts and contradictions pooling in from hidden doors.

"I mean, not really."

My eyes are snapping to his. "What? What do you mean by not really?"

"I'm sure you don't remember this but," he did not just—"Fuck, I mean you probably wouldn't remember it even if you had your memories intact because of how long ago this was. Anyway, we lived in the same neighborhood for a while, as kids. And um…you sort of couldn't stand me back then. To be fair, I was an annoying piece of work."

There's no universe, no parallel reality where I can imagine not remembering someone like James. The notion is so implausible that I have to reign in a scoff of disbelief. Instead, I wrap myself around the warmth of his tone, the fondness lacing his memories of a time I have no recollection of—a time that sounds simpler even to my unknowledgeable ears, a time that doesn't feel like it belongs to this world.

A staggering sense of wistful sorrow has clamped around my heart; I ache for these memories he speaks of.

"What happened then?"

"Just life." He shrugs. "We moved away after some time. And I didn't see you again after that."

The tale he's recounted for me is an inadequate justification for how I've seen his demeanor construct around me. I'm enticed to voice my thoughts, to ask if he's lying to me again, omitting some details for my sake, but I can't get the accusation out.

It's quite the surprise to learn that I've let my walls crumble. I'll trust him until he gives me a reason not to.

So, I incline my head. "You're seeing me now."

"Yeah," James breathes, eyes widening as if the awareness has embraced him just now, "I suppose I am."

My skin feels over-sensitive all of a sudden. "Are there others? Like me?"

A slow nod. "Yes."

"Do you…know anyone?"

Another flash of hesitation. "Yes."

The hammering against my chest is painful, and anticipation stings the next breath that I draw. "Like Sirius?"

He doesn't move at first, doesn't even blink, and I'm speculating whether the question has actually left my mouth or if I've simply convinced myself it has. But before I can repeat myself, James pinches the bridge of his nose under his glasses, forefinger and thumb squeezing some tension away.

"I suppose there's no way I can refuse to answer this one since you've made your own deductions already."

I lick my lips, idly poke the ankle that has fallen asleep. "I have…a theory."

"Oh?" he asks, and I catch a glimpse of his blinding grin again. This amuses him for some reason. "Great. I'd love to hear it."

I'm sure he would, if I could get myself to stop gaping at him. If it weren't entirely in bad form, I would've asked James why he doesn't smile more often. Though looking at the state of affairs, there's probably a good reason behind it—there needs to be something to smile about.

"It hinges quite heavily on my assumption that Sirius is the one who got us out of the gray room. Am I wrong?"

His stare is relentless. "You're not."

"Okay," I'm nodding, untangling my leg from the sheets because I really need to feel the limb now. Pinpricks and needles burst over skin, under bandages. I hiss in discomfort. "So, I know we didn't actually leave the room by the door."

"Right," James agrees, and his hands are suddenly hovering over my ankle. "May I?"

I'm not certain what he's asking permission for, but I agree anyway. And then his fingers are sliding around my heel, pulling my leg straight until my foot rests on his lap. There's nothing inherently mesmerizing about the action, and yet, it feels unquestionably intimate to me. Something warm creeps up my neck, and I know I must be turning red. But James doesn't look up, and I can't see his expression—only the top of his mess of a hair.

I don't think I'm breathing at this moment.

"These bother you, don't they?" His voice is quiet, one finger hooking under the lowest twirl of bandage. My toes are tempted to curl into themselves.

"They make me feel broken."

He inhales deeply, the sound too loud against the hush of night. "You're not."

I press my lips together because I don't know what to say to that. The silence is what prompts him to finally drag his eyes up again, and they lock onto me with purpose. "Can I take them off?"

The question is unreasonably stirring in his voice. "Yes."

I don't even get an acknowledgment from James; his fingers immediately get to work. With his left hand supporting my calf, holding my leg steady, his right one starts unwinding the frayed edges of the bandage. Knuckles brush over my skin during this endeavor, and I'm aflame at every touch. Unreasonable.

"Go on. You were saying?"

It's difficult to recall, but I get there eventually. "The room. We left in the blink of an eye. I remember feeling…unpleasant."

The downplaying of sensations on my part is abhorrently extreme.

"What did you feel?"

"Pain—beyond what I'd already been feeling, that is. It was like I was turned inside-out, like I was sure my body wouldn't hold anymore."

The skim of his fingers stutter for a beat. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

"So?"

"So what?" He doesn't look up, dedicated to the task at hand. "You haven't told me your theory yet."

My fingers clench the sheets. "He can jump between places?"

A quick, final tug: the bandage falls away from my knee. I find my eyes instantly drawn to the scars dotting my shin at intermittent intervals. They're no longer the ghastly holes I recall from before, proof that the skin has stitched itself together, albeit rather slow. If it's been over a week, I shouldn't be able to make out the angry edges of the injury still, nor feel the wisps of pain that cling on resolutely.

James's touch—gentle, careful, brushing down the side of my leg—has me looking at him. He stares back. "Precisely. Teleportation."

My mind is immediately a jumble of nonsensical thoughts.

Teleportation, he threw at me as if it's not completely insane, as if I'm not bucking under the implication of what it means for me. I'm once again submerged under the reckoning that I know absolutely nothing. If my brain has retained the elemental knowledge of how the world functions, why has a piece of information such as this blown me to smithereens? Is it because it's not "normal"? Because it's not something that has been ingrained into my being since the so-called beginning?

I think my face betrays my rising anxiousness, because James's hand is wrapping around my foot—still in his lap—firmly. "Evans," his voice warns, "relax."

I shake my head. "I'm fine."

"I think it's better if we stop here for now."

"No!" I pull my leg back, folding at the knee once more. The sensation of sheets against hypersensitive skin is too agitating. Wordlessly, I lift my other leg onto the bed, and his fingers restart the process of removing the bandages again automatically. "No, please. I need to know more."

He does not look happy, but this is not about him. "Okay."

"Tell me how you know I have this…ability without knowing what it is."

A frown makes an appearance between his brows, and his lips pucker in concentration. When James speaks next, I'm certain he's weighing his words very cautiously. "Because I know what the experiments are for. The fact that Voldemort's kept you under observation for so long—there's no other explanation. But I haven't been privy to the details of your abilities and so, I don't know."

Something about his tone…

"And how have you been privy to the other details?"

That makes him stop entirely, palm resting over ankle as he returns my gaze, unblinking. "No."

"No?"

"I won't answer this one."

Frustration and annoyance erupt inside me vehemently, and I want to drive him to do it, to give me answers, but then I see the determination etched into his every single cell and exhale. Fine, my huff says, I'll let you have this.

I expect to see relief on his face at my compliance, but somehow, there's a sense of defeat that has taken over the air around him. I loathe it with a passion.

"James," I call, hauling him out of the darkness, "will you tell me about my family?"

Despair lines his face. "Evans, I really—"

"Please," I whisper, "I need to know this."

He doesn't say anything for a while, quietly removing the bandages until pale skin and dotted scars are the only things that remain in view. Without warning, he shifts closer, reaching for the gauze around my right arm as well. I do not protest.

"Your parents were really kind," he starts, and my breath hitches immediately, "They loved you a lot. I don't remember much of them, but you look a lot like your mother. Her name was Rose and your father's Charles. You loved them right back, with everything in you."

His use of the past tense has gouged a hole in my chest for parents I don't even remember.

"How did they die?"

James bites down on his bottom lip, eyes sad. "They were killed by the Death Eaters."

I'm no longer certain that I can bear to listen to this. Is there anything in this God-forsaken reality that will not carry waves of pain and suffering to me? Am I doomed to experience nothing but cruelty at the hands of time as it makes me its plaything?

My eyes fall shut, and I mourn for my parents, feeling illogical guilt over not having memories of them.

James reaches for my other arm and steadies the shaking limb. "I'm sorry. You have no idea how much—and I shouldn't have said—"

"No," I counter, opening my eyes with a deep inhale. "Thank you for telling me. I asked for it."

He holds my gaze for a beat before nodding. "Of course. You don't have to thank me."

I wonder about his need to constantly say that, as if he can't wait to shed my gratitude from his conscience like it's venom. I don't share this with him, of course, because it dangerously sways into insane territory. And if I can recognize the lunacy of this thought inside my own head, it certainly does not bear mentioning outwardly.

"There," James sighs, pulling away the last twirl of gauze. "Now you no longer need to feel broken."

If only it were that simple.

I don't respond, instead taking a few seconds to dutifully drink in the sight of my own skin. At first glance, my arms look just as mutilated as my legs—healing but not healed. But then I'm squinting, eyes drawn to a patch of skin on the underside of my right wrist that looks especially scabbed.

The fingers of my left hand reach out to brush over it gently. "What is…"

"That's, um, we did that."

I'm snapping my gaze to his. "What? Why?"

"They had a tracking chip inside you," he says, "we had to get it out as soon as possible before they could trace us here."

Dregs of a memory resurface and I'm reminded of the sharp piercing I'd felt on my arm. Had that only been right after we'd left? "So, you just cut it out of my skin?"

James looks troubled. "We didn't have a choice. It was—"

"No, that's alright. I just wanted to know. Lucky you were aware it was embedded in the wrist."

I'm not the least bit surprised when he purses his lips, unwilling to address my tacit implication. He thinks he's overshared for one night; I'm inclined to agree.

There's still so much to know, so many questions that want to suppress me under their burgeoning weight. But my heart feels heavy, nerves tired, head still processing information from something fifteen minutes ago. I'm rather certain I could implode at the slightest push.

"Hey. Are you okay?" James asks, soft.

No. "I don't know."

He doesn't pry. "You need to eat something."

I'm sure I do. But if I spend a second longer in this filth of a decaying dress, I might start acting like the bedlamite I already suspect myself to be. "I want to clean up."

It's like the words have triggered some realization in him. James twists around slightly and pulls forward the bundle of clothes he'd brought in. I'd forgotten about those, too. "I got these for you. They're some old clothes of mine," he adds, not meeting my eyes. "Sorry. We didn't have much else."

I'd prefer even a burlap sack over my current attire. "It's alright. I'm grateful."

He nods, and there doesn't seem to be anything more to say, so I slowly drag my legs over the edge of the bed, clamping my jaw shut against the pain that shudders through the limbs. The balls of my feet press onto the floor first, appreciating the sensation, before the flat and the heels follow. I gulp in a large, steadying breath, and push myself up using tremulous arms.

The tendons in my legs scream in agony. And then my knees buckle.

Fortunately, I don't slam to the floor and snap myself to pieces—a scenario that feels highly probable in my state—because arms wrap around me instantly, breaking my fall. I'm momentarily stunned; I hadn't even been aware that he'd been standing beside me, foreseeing this exact situation, no doubt.

Something erupts inside me, and it's not sweet; it's ugly and dark and repulsive. It's humiliation.

I don't look at James as I steady myself against him, hands wrapping around his arms as I plant my feet under myself again. They shake violently, but I hold on, stubborn, feeling something like a whimper or a sob rattle in my chest. For the first time, I don't want to let it free, because it's all wrong. My own sense of belittling and feeling like something less is not why I want to cry.

For his part, James doesn't say anything, doesn't mention the reddening that I'm certain has taken over my entire profile. In the absence of his voice, I'm left to rage inside my own mind, feeling an overwhelming amount of helplessness and disgust grow roots within me. My body won't cooperate with my burning need to stand strong and it's a travesty that far outweighs any emotion I've felt so far.

I almost miss my past self from the gray room—at least I hadn't needed a crutch back then.

It's only when dim yellow light assaults my eyes that I register where James has led me. It's a modest bathroom, a bit too minimalistic. I take in the lone basin, bathtub and toilet. All white, all old. There's nothing else.

His hands on my shoulders squeeze gently. I can't look at him still. "Can you stand?"

I don't know, but I very well won't say no. "Yes, I think so."

"Okay," I feel his exhale lightly on the top of my head. I'm suddenly aching to turn around and assess just how much taller he stands next to me. What a fool I make. "Wait here. I'll get the clothes."

He waits for my acknowledging nod before his hands leave me, hovering in the air for a second in case I collapse again, but I will not. I allow my teeth to clench together painfully hard, manipulate myself into believing a fabricated reality where stability is my friend and not a nemesis. It seems to work.

Once reassured, he leaves.

I dare not move a muscle until he's back, afraid of losing balance again. It takes longer than I expect, but when he jogs back inside, I'm automatically turning my head around to see the reason behind the delay.

James carefully hangs the clothes and fresh towels in his hands on a hook behind the door that I've failed to notice before. I watch silently as he pads around the bathroom, turning on the taps above the bathtub, placing a new bar of soap on the side, checking the temperature of the water that flows out. He's patient, relaxed, undemanding.

Inexplicably, my warm appreciation for him in this moment manages to thaw the blistering ice that has morphed my insides.

"Evans," he calls, and he's earned the pain that it takes me to face him again, "I'll wait outside. Let me know if you need anything."

I bite my lip. "Okay. Thank you."

After a second that feels too prolonged in view of James's unwavering stare on me, he turns around and leaves, shutting the door and dragging out a rush of breath from me in the process.

I look around for a few seconds, and then make the painstaking journey towards the tub. My fingers tremble tellingly until I've rested them against the wall, using the solidness of it to guide myself forward. It feels less like walking and more like dragging.

Water has filled the large basin to about three-fourth of its capacity by now, and I figure it's as good a time as any to rip off the dress that sticks to me like an additional layer of bloodied flesh.

Except, my calculations are all wrong. I've not accounted for my body's sheer inability to function as anything more than a flimsy house of cards; more inclined to collapse than it is to endure.

Terror has seized my thoughts, but I'm still making an attempt. I reach down, spine bending—but no, it refuses to bend, adamant in its role as a rusted metal rod. Desperation is clawing up my throat now. My fingers scramble with intention to reach the hem of the blood-soaked dress near my knees. I'm almost there—tips skim the edge, a sudden, broken whimper flying out my traitorous lips—and I've finally grasped it, harsh material caught between a clamped fist.

I straighten, panting with the effort, sweat flowering against my hairline.

It's a victory that I can't bask in for more than a few fleeting moments; I've barely dragged the cloth up to my stomach before I'm letting go, sagging against the wall behind me, allowing despair to envelop everything.

It takes no genius to inform me this: I'm incapable of even taking off my own clothes.

My gut has twisted in on itself, abasement and weakness merging into one another to create a monstrosity of an emotion that has me clapping a hand over my mouth, fighting off yet another bout of rising, overpowering panic. I stare at the yellow-tinted wall across from me, try and remember how to breathe.

I stay that way until something wet against my feet jerks me back into myself.

Eyes follow a sluggish trail from the water pooling around my feet, steadily, rapidly, to where the bathtub is submerged under its own contents, waves of water crashing out from its edge. My mind registers that I need to move right away, close the tap immediately, and yet, I just blink at the scene, transfixed by how the liquid flows out of its intended container because it can't be suppressed any longer.

I'm haunted by the comparison I make.

By the time my hand eventually closes the tap—muscles and bones groaning with displeasure—I've decided there's no way out of this.

"James!" My voice bounces off the bathroom acoustics, "Potter, are you out there?"

It takes a beat, but then there's a tentative knock against the door. "Evans? You alright?"

"Come inside."

I feel the pause he takes to follow through on my request even from the other side of the door. But then James steps inside, eyes immediately zeroing in on the water flooding the tiles, my no-doubt alarming state as I stare at him, feeling humiliation wrap its arms around me like a trusted companion.

Two strides, and he's right in front of me.

"Lily," he sighs, touches three fingers to my wrist, "what happened?"

Realization hits me that he only uses my first name in such moments of raw openness. I'm not sure what to make of that.

"The dress. I can't remove it. Hurts too much."

He doesn't say anything, simply stares, mouth parted slightly as if he doesn't dare breathe. I search for the pity in his eyes and find only sadness and understanding. "I need your help," I add, because he's waiting for me to.

James gives no acknowledgment—for which I'm unbelievably grateful—and simply walks out of the bathroom, his own feet now wet with water. I imagine the trail he must leave in the room, wonder how far and wide this house must span, until he's returned to my side, a scissor in hand.

Comprehension dawns, clear and bright, and relief duly follows.

I look at him, watch as his eyebrows rise in silent question, and nod. My heart strains against the confinement of chest muscles, only too willing to leap out as he steps closer to me—he is tall—and reaches down to hold the hem of my dress, little finger grazing thigh, snatching oxygen, emptying all thought. He keeps the blades of the scissor carefully angled away from my body, and yet, with that first snip, some string inside me becomes untethered.

I'm exhilarated.

When he hears no protest from my lips, James continues, gentle and unhurried, snip snip snip. I'd easily buy his façade of calmness if it weren't for the deep rise and fall of his chest, the redness tingeing the tips of his ears. He stands close enough for me to feel the comforting heat emanating from his body, for me to properly appreciate the strands of hair that fall on his forehead.

He doesn't look up and I don't look down.

Snip.

Air rushes over the tops of my thighs, in between my legs, and I can't hold back the small gasp that escapes. James immediately halts, and now his inhale is perilously loud. Neither of us move, and all I hear for a handful of seconds is the infrequent drip of water in the tub; evidence of my feeble attempt to turn off the tap.

His eyes are too slow in their travel to mine. The hazel has gone dark, pupils blown. My toes curl against wet floor. "I can stop," he informs, voice low.

I've managed to shake my head. "I'm okay. Go on."

He's almost relieved to look away again, and some part of me recognizes the wisdom in that. The space between us crackles with unimaginable energy, and every breath feels dangerous, as if it hangs onto the brink of something monumental.

I'm terribly tempted to let my eyes drift lower and look at the skin that each snip—slower than the last—reveals. Even stronger is my curiosity to know what underthings I wear, to see if I can glean whether they're scraps of clothing I'd shoved on two years ago being none the wiser, or whether I've been forced into them by hands that undoubtedly adorned me in this dress.

Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut, force the wayward thoughts away. I know in my bones that neither answer would be pleasant.

Snip.

When the dress flaps open near my navel, baring my stomach to the air, goosebumps promptly litter over skin, sensitive and aware. James pauses again, scissor still poised over the next patch of fabric in an 'X'.

His tongue darts out, wets his bottom lip, and my mouth goes dry.

The very next second, he's back to cutting, blades capturing the fixed attention of eyes that do not betray him by flitting anywhere else. He seems to have a much better command over his body than I do on mine. This is not astounding to me—I have long since accepted my inability to curb my senses or reactions.

And yet, as the flush creeps over my chest when he steps even closer, wrist adjusting to the rising trajectory of the cuts, I find myself irked at my skin's translucence, which, at this moment, is potent enough that I catch the changing tint from my periphery. There's a noticeable halt to James's movements once more when the edge of the scissor kisses the elastic of my bra.

I'm half expecting him to enquire after my comfort again, but he surprises me by wordlessly continuing.

And here, right now, is when those embers of insecurity I'd felt earlier decide to rear their heads and burn me alive. Because when his knuckles inevitably brush over my ribs during the next snip, I feel the touch not only against skin, but against bone.

I feel it acutely against bone. Unhealthily against bone.

And just like that, I'm crashing down again, no longer conscious of James's every move. It hits me like the darkest wave: a cruel and shallow idea that someone like him could never look at someone like me with anything akin to attraction. And that's fine, I suppose, for there are more pressing issues in this world that require attention—underground experiments, lost memories, and uncovered abilities not the least of them.

Snip.

He's at the collar now, eyes jumping to my face. Once. "You okay?"

I should be alarmed by his attunement to my changing mood. I'm not. "I don't think so."

He nods. "I'm almost done."

I want to clarify that it's not him nor this proximity that's bothering me, but I don't, for it requires me to admit to a level of vulnerability I'm not yet comfortable sharing.

So, I simply wait, feel the snip that breaks open the dress into two separate panels like a long shirt, and then the following one as he angles his hand ninety-degrees, cutting along the seams at my shoulder. The warmth of his wrist as it rests against my collar bone is enough incentive to pull my eyes to his face again.

James continues diligently, though I'm sure he senses my stare.

Snip.

Long, gray sheath of fabric falls over our bare feet, hiding the little distance that had been visible between our toes. I watch as the bloodstains on it start darkening, drinking up the water that still floods the floor.

Light fingers press against my chin, and I'm unnecessarily startled.

"Lift your head," James says softly, whispers of breath fanning over my cheek, "I still need to cut the other side."

I'm complying, lifting my head, turning it to the right so that he can get to my left.

It takes only a scant few seconds before the final meeting of blades sends the remaining shreds of cloth sliding and pooling around our feet. I shakily arch off my back from the wall so that the covers can drop from behind me as well. The uncalculated movement sets me brushing against James for the briefest of touches and I feel something spark.

Everywhere.

"Fuck," he curses low, immediately steps back, breathing hard, eyes even darker than I recall. "Sorry, I—"

But I watch the words die inside him, never taking their intended place in the sentence. Instead, for the first time throughout this whole thing, his gaze slides onto me, onto the whole of me. It is distinctly not directed at my face.

I'm unable to look away from him, from the way his lips separate for the most silent of breaths to pass through, from the color that rises over neck and blooms on cheeks to match his ears. And then my eyes travel lower, lower still, notice the prominent outline straining in his pants.

The response is immediate on my part: clenching thighs. Air has perished inside my lungs.

Apparently, my brain remembers how this works.

I don't know if he's caught my reaction to him because James has swiftly turned around by the time I look up again. The back of his neck is even redder. For reasons beyond just my body's incapability to hold itself up, I'm leaning against the wall again, chest expanding greedily.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay," he cuts me off, voice strained, "not your fault."

Focusing my eyes on myself is suddenly a much better alternative to contemplating what's just happened, what's still happening. And so I look away, taking in the only two swathes of cloth that remain wrapped around my body: one over chest and the other between legs. The set was, once upon a time, white in appearance, but has degraded to some dirtier, bloodied, spoiled version of the color now.

But past the smudges and the blemishes, I'm choking back something like horror when I look down at my body. I now understand why my legs have refused to support me, why my arms shake at the slightest pressure, why everything hurts everywhere hurts; I am weak, beyond just soul and mind. I am weak physically.

It's hard to explain what transpires inside my head at that moment, but the closest comparison I can draw is: they've sucked the life out of me.

I see bones where I should see flesh, my stomach is an empty cave that skin has stretched over like a blanket, hip bones jut out frighteningly, bra hanging loose over chest and I'm staggering at the anger—sharp and dizzying—as it crushes any sorrow to climb up to my eyes.

"Turn around," I say before the directive can be pulled back by shame, "James."

The muscles under his tee have tensed, but he does as I ask, turns around. Hazel eyes remain trained on my face this time, brows pinched. "Yeah?"

"I want to see myself."

Something like confusion or surprise flits over his features before understanding takes its place. I don't know if he thinks me vain. "I'm sorry, Evans. This house doesn't have any mirrors—it's not been lived in for several years. I just brought whatever essentials I could grab with Sirius."

I'm pushing down the distraught cry that wants to escape: this is essential to me!

But James is not the rightful receiver of my rage, and so I swallow it down, feel it lodge somewhere uncomfortably in my throat. Curiosity, however, refuses to be satiated. "Tell me how I look."

He seems to know what I need, and rises to give it to me, takes one step forward. "You have red hair, darker than any shade of the color I've ever known. Your eyes are green, and I have nothing else to compare them to except for lush rainforests and leaves sprinkled with dew. Your nose—" he stops, smiles slowly, "it's small and easily teased red. There's a light smattering of freckles over your cheeks, but I know how fast they can multiply in the sun. Your lips—" here, he stumbles, inhales a shaky breath, "I never want to remember them as lifeless and blue as I saw them all those days ago."

I'm gone, unbound from my own existence. "I—"

"In short, Evans, you're beautiful."

He will destroy me. "I'm not. How can you say that? How can you stand there and say that when I'm—I'm like this? I feel hollowed out, James. My body is barely holding me together."

"And you should be proud that it's managing to do so after everything you've been through!" he says. I'm shocked into silence, but he persists, "Fucking hell, I can't even imagine how you're functioning at all; I know I wouldn't be able to in your position. We can and we will get you back on your feet. All you need is proper food and water. But Evans, this, you, now, it's not a weakness—it's your strength. You've pushed through the horror, don't let it break you in the aftermath."

Everything crumbles.

Everything crumbles and I have disintegrated into a thousand different parts, all of them shrieking under the emotions his words have detonated inside me. There's a long drawn, gut-wrenching cry that finally breaks from my lips, tears that finally kiss their way down my cheeks, but—where is the relief? Where is the lessening of pain?

As if in answer, James's arms have wrapped around me, pulling me away from the wall and into him, warm, strong, consoling. I clutch on, fastening any remaining pieces of myself to him and cry and cry and cry.

It hurts, it bleeds, it helps.

"I need to be clean," I sob against fabric, "please. Now."

The sigh that rushes out of him sends his chest deflating against me. And that's the only sign allowed to my senses before James bends, locks one arm under my knees while the other grips a little tighter around my shoulders, and lifts me up. Droplets of water trickle down the edges of my feet before joining the floor.

In the handful of hours that I possess memories of, this is the second time he's held me like this. 'Thankful' is a frail imitation of a word for what I feel.

"I'm going to place you inside now," he informs. I slacken my grip on his tee-shirt slightly, nod my head.

And then, water laps over my skin, under those scraps of cloth, splash out in huge waves over the sides of the tub. It's colder than I'd expected, the temperature having dropped while we'd…conversed over several minutes. But I don't mind it, don't mind the initial gasp it steals from my throat, don't mind the flickers of pain as it flows over—into—broken, half-healed wounds. Because beyond the itch of discomfort is the welcome sensation of being alive.

This is what I need.

This jarring surge of cold water licking away the grime and tension that remain hidden from my eyes.

James's fingers press lightly on my bare shoulder. I look up, silent tears streaming down. He's half-drenched himself. "You alright?"

This time, I give him the truth: "No, but I think I'll get there."

His thumb, warm, brushes over my skin. "Good."

"Can I—" I'm blinking against a sob, "I want to be alone for a while."

"Of course."

He throws me a reassuring smile, no trace of hesitation in sight as he strides to the door. At the last second, he's turned around. "You know you can call me if you need anything, Evans."

I know. I nod.

Once the door has shut again, I close my eyes and slide down further into the water, letting it soak every inch of me, numbing the hurt somewhat. With my hands resting over the sides, yellow light fighting to penetrate my eyelids, I succumb.

I feel everything.

A/N - I felt so much while writing this chapter. Hope you did so while reading it, too. Please leave some reviews and come talk to me on Tumblr at maraudersftw