Everything is black, then a ray of light breaks the gloom. Slowly the light filters into my vision and the room comes into focus.

I blink, my brain lagging behind. I could be anywhere, an old motel, an abandoned basement, a S.H.I.E.L.D. hideout, but I'm not. It comes back to me. The robbery with the man I didn't see, the one with the gun, the former World War II soldier, ex Hydra assassin, friend of Captain America who for some reason saved me, the outburst that made me question his purpose, the flashback that made me question his sanity, and bullet wounds that constantly remind me of my mistakes.

I groan and force myself to breathe, trying to fight the overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia that takes ahold of me. For the last eight months I've been free from rules, the restraints of working with someone. I've been able to keep moving, to avoid certain places, certain thoughts, certain conversations. I've been bouncing from place to place whenever I wanted, struggling to outrun the crushing guilt and failure that will find me if I let it, if I stay and that scares me.

I slowly ease myself up to a sitting position. The medication Bucky gave me last night help to numb the pain, but moving causes sharp pain to shoot through my body under the bandages. I sit in the rickety twin bed my, back against the headrest. My suit has been unzipped and pulled down to my waist leaving me in a black tank top.

I pull it up to examine Bucky's work on my wounds. The one on my stomach is oozing almost through the bandage he applied. When I peel it back I find that he has cleaned it and stitched it up. To the best of my knowledge he has also removed the bullet. From what I can feel with my hands the shot in my shoulder has been handled the same way.

The house is quiet. From my place I can see through the door into the living room and a sliver of the kitchen past that. I pull off the covers and swing my feet carefully off the bed. My shoes are by the side of the bed. Bucky left a glass of water on the bed side table. I slowly push myself to my feet, bracing myself for the wave of dizziness that hits me. My body feels weak and heavy as I shuffle my way to the bathroom inside the bedroom. I flick on the lights, blinking away the black spots that dance in my eyes. There is a thick pair of sweatpants and a black t shirt.

I begin to wobble on my feet and decide that a shower is out of the question. Instead, I ease my aching body out of my suit. It sticks to my skin with old sweat and dried blood. I have to peel it in places where it has sunken into open cuts and scrapes. I let the suit fall to the ground and lean against the sink to catch my breath. I look into the mirror at the face covered in scrapes, bruises, and dirt, the sunken cheeks and hollow empty eyes. She doesn't look like me, the girl in the mirror. She looks sad and broken as if her burden is too great to carry.

I use water from the sink and towels I found in the cupboard to clean up. When my skin is clean, I use tweezers from a drawer to pull out splinters and pieces of gravel from my arms and knees. I put ointment that Bucky had left out on open cuts and scrapes, and use most of his bandaids on top. I wash my hair as best I can in the sink and dry it with a fresh towel.

My whole body is trembling by the time I am done. I wear the same underclothes but gratefully slide on Bucky's oversized t shirt and sweatpants. I feel the smile creeping on my face as I see that he also left me a pair of fluffy socks. When I'm dressed I slowly stoop and scoop up my dirty suit and bring it back into the bedroom. I fold it and leave it on a chair by the bed.

The exhaustion hits me hard. My vision gets blurry and pain rips through my shaking body. My knees give out and I sink to the ground, my back to the bed. I try to breath as the world spins, slowly fading away from me. I have pushed so far, I shouldn't have, but I have taught myself to keep going because I deserve pain.

My body goes limp. My brain can barely compute that the door to the front door is opening and someone is walking toward me. I can vaguely feel the hands on my arms, the fingers checking my pulse, the hand on my forehead. Someone speaking but the words bounce off my brain as though it is the pillow. I barely notice the strong arms that scoop me up and lay me gently on the bed. Everything fades out to black.

The first thing I realize when light comes back to my vision is that someone is talking. The voice is soft and gentle, soothing the fear and tension in my body. I let myself be calm. My fingers are tingling and numb, my skin feels sensitive as if any touch might bruise it, and my whole body is sore, with deep aches in my bones. My head pounds as I force my eyes open. The voice stops as the world spins into focus.

"For the record," says the voice which sounds less kind and more annoyed. "That was exactly what I meant by making it worse. You don't listen to anyone, do you?"

I ignore him.

"So how do you feel?"

"What am I supposed to call you?" I change the subject.

He leans forward and I can see the contemplation on his face from my place on the pillows. He scrunches his nose.

"Not Bucky, or Buck, or Barnes," he says.

"Okay," I say. "How about James?"

"Good," he replies.

"How about Jimm-" I start.

"No," he cuts me off. "Absolutely not."

The smile creeps on my face.

Talking is hard work, sweat is beginning to form on my hairline and my body temperature is rapidly changing from too hot to too cold as chills begin to rack my already weak body. For the first time I see concern flicker on his face. He reaches over and feels my forehead with the back of his hand to check my temperature. By how cold his hand feels on my skin I assume I have a fever, but I don't care anymore. I am drifting away again to the easy world of sleep where there is no pain or responsibility or guilt to hunt me down. James pulls the blankets up around my chin. The last thing I see is his back as he leaves the room before the darkness pulls me away.