Somewhere behind her, she registered the sound of the door opening, but she was too tired to really understand.

Not even the footsteps rouse her from her half-sleep, once again not feeling completely in control of her body.

The hands that pull her off the ground are slightly more alarming, but she still can only muster a look of slight annoyance as she turned to face the Russian.

"How are you feeling this morning, ptichka?"

She tried to open her mouth to speak, to send him a snippy retort, but for some reason her mouth refused to form words.

A firm slap to the cheek sent a little life into her, and as her head lulled to rest on the shoulder of whoever held her, she was able to muster a glare.

"Teechkah better not mean bitch," she mumbled, earning a hearty laugh from the Russian.

"No, but that would be another fitting name for you, uh? Now, are you going to cooperate today?"

"Probably not," she huffed, barely above the whisper.

"I guess we will have to see. The Soldat will not be joining us for a while, so if you want to avoid dealing with him you will answer me today."

With that, who ever held her sent a hard punch to the base of her spine, forcing her legs to give out before she could even blink.

As her knees hit the ground, a hand was wrapped around her neck, the pressure not enough to cut off her air flow, but enough to keep her still.

"Where did you learn that the Soldat assassinated Kennedy?"

She swallowed, the hand around her neck constricting the longer she didn't answer.

They can't know.

So, she didn't respond. To any of the questions.

She kept her mouth shut, even when their hits got harder. Even as she felt her arm snap beneath the weight of a heavy boot. Even as they decided to bring out a pocket knife, seeing how much red they could add to her cell floor. Even as she was forced into unconsciousness then ripped back to reality, seeing the sneering face of the Russian, she said nothing.

That became their routine. He would come in, question her, get nothing, then leave in a blaze of anger. She wasn't sure how long passed, but she knew days and sometimes even weeks had gone by between visits, because her bruises would all but disappear before he returned.

Why he bothered to keep her alive, she wasn't sure. It's not like she was helpful; she had given him no more than what he believed to be facetious answers, and he was obviously close to snapping.

There had been more than once that she'd wished he'd squeezed a little longer, or cut a little deeper, that he would snap, but it didn't come.

Long past the point of her arm healing, and then her finger—which she agonizingly had to adjust so it didn't bend at an awkward angle—and even after the deepest cuts had healed—no thanks to the vodka they'd so graciously poured onto the wounds 'to avoid infection'—she was still alive.

Because they couldn't know.

She wouldn't be the reason Hydra started jumping through time and fucking up the sacred timeline as the Ancient One had told her it was called.

At least, Marlow thought she had told her that. Maybe it was Bruce. Or maybe she was imagining it ever happened.

It was hard to tell between the dream-like states she sat in in-between visits from the Russian and her actual dreams.

She read once—or she thinks she read—that if someone sat in darkness and silence for long enough, they would start hallucinating. She hoped she'd read that because that is what's been happening to her.

Most times between visits now, her lights were turned off, leaving her to sit in darkness for however long until he came back in.

She never knew if the figure in the corner is the Russian trying to taunt her, or part of her imagination. Or whether she was actually hearing someone hum one of Steve's favorite songs. Maybe she was the one humming it, she didn't know.

She misses him. And Sam. And God, she missed Natasha. She never had a chance to say goodbye. The last time she'd seen her was when she was trapped beneath a cropping of rocks Thanos had materialized, trying to block his way to Wanda, who's sobs echoed through the forest.

She could hear those sobs now, loud as if Wanda were beside her. She could hear the absolute gut wrenching heartbreak within them that Marlow had wished to take away, but knew she couldn't. Sobs that erupted again when the dust settled and Wanda had to come to terms with what she'd done. That despite what she'd done Thanos only had to reverse time so he could rip the stone from Vision's head himself.

That almost everyone else got to come back, but he didn't.

It was if the battle—technically two, separated by five years—was happening around her then, in that dark, cold cell. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the dirt beneath her nails, hearing the clank of weapons and the surges of cold energy. She'd had nightmares about it, but this was something else. She was awake, and she couldn't escape it. Even as she tried to knock herself unconscious using the cinderblock wall, she couldn't escape it.

She didn't know though, that it wasn't a surreal flashback; the clank she was hearing was of her cell door opening, and the energy she felt was only a draft of air.

She didn't know that the footsteps approaching weren't of the Mad Titan, but of the man she'd known once in the past. Or the future.

When she finally opened her eyes, she was so convinced she was back in that fight that the room itself was invisible to her. All she saw was the familiar face of her friend.

"Bucky," she gasped, pushing herself to stand and wrapping her arms around the blue eyed man as if to commiserate in the horrors of battle. "We need—we need to get out of here, they're coming, they're going to—"

Suddenly she was pushed back, a metal hand squeezing her neck that she scratched to get off, mind scrambling to understand.

"B-bucky, stop," she gasped.

And just like that she realized. Rememberd.

She might not be in the midst of a battle, but she was still fighting for her life.

"Soldat!" that familiar voice barked, and even without a command, Bucky dropped his hand, stepping aside.

She found the Russian, his face a mixture of confusion and anger, barging towards her.

"How do you know that name?!"

"W-what?" She shook her head, trying to make it catch up.

"Ne zastavlyay menya povtoryatʹeto snova," he bit, apparently forgetting that the girl in front of him spoke only English.

"I don't know what you're saying," she panted.

"Chert voz'mi—how do you know his name?!"

"I—I," she stumbled unable to think clearly.

"Was it Stark? That man knew him—that is who gave you the suit, is it not?" the man said, realization overcoming him. "That is the only possible answer; you are protecting Stark."

"No," Marlow shook her head. "No, I've never even spoken to him before."

She knew Bruce said that once the stones were back, their timeline would be okay, but that didn't mean she wanted to start getting people killed. She had no idea what that might do.

"Then how do you know his name?" he asked, grabbing her shoulders and slamming her into the wall for emphasis.

"I read about him!"

"Where?"

"History class," she blurted airily. "He was in the books. I—I didn't recognize him before, but I do now. He's James Barnes, from the war. He was friends with Steve Rogers, part of the—"

Suddenly she was cut off by a punch to the mouth.

"Never say those names again, suchka. If you do, I will gladly pull your tongue from your mouth."

She wasn't sure if it was the way he said those words, or whether it was her earlier flashback, or maybe the blood that was dripping from her lips, but all she could manage was a meek nod. She was scared. Terrified, really. More than she had been before this point—which was probably stupid on her part, but that was the naivety. Now though, she couldn't help the shake of her hands as the Russian ordered the Soldier from the room, eyes not leaving hers as if to dare her to call that name again.

Then, they were alone.

"We have looked into the name you gave us, but there is no Marlow Hendrix born in Sandusky, Ohio, on January 14, 1948… In fact, we could not find any Marlow in all of Ohio. Special name, uh?" he asked, before a left hook caught her in the cheek bone. "My patience, ptichka, is gone. This is your last chance. Who are you, and how do you know what you know?"

"I am Marlow Hendrix," she said, before shutting her mouth and looking past the Russian.

The terror within her didn't wane.

She didn't want to die. That's why she'd fought so hard against Thanos' armies; not just to protect the world, but because she wanted to live. But this, she'd realized, is part of her fight. Dying. She was sure that either way, they would have killed her. Even if she told them everything they needed to know about the suit, about time travel, about the future—they would probably kill her. Or torture her until she wished she were dead.

But as the Russian's hand wrapped around her throat, she wished she could live.

Then again, so did a lot of people who've lost their lives over the last six years. She just wished the people back home would have gotten some type of closure. That they knew that her last thoughts were of them.