"Whose eyes?" I say, trying to ignore the knock and bring Barnes back to where we are. But he just sits there staring ahead, completely lost in whatever moment has him in it's grip.
"James," I plead, the timbre of my voice distorting into something desperate as I try to catch his attention. It's no use, though. There's another knock and I push myself back from the table and out of my chair.
"Son of a-" I swear under my breath as I storm over to the door and throw it open to find Steve poised to knock again, his face startled by my sudden appearance and obvious fury at being interrupted.
"What do you want?" I almost hiss at him as I back him away from the door so I can shut it.
"How is he?" he stammers, thrown off by my reaction. I'm taken aback, and for a moment I just stare at him. I have to remind myself that this is the other half of the equation. While I may be treating Barnes, it's Steve who will need to be reassured that everything is going to work out and that I know what I'm doing. He is the family half of the mathematics and I would do well to remember that. But then, he could also be a source of information if I just ask the questions.
"Steve," I begin. "It's going to be a long process, but you need to have patience. And it's not going to do you any good to be lurking behind that glass all the time waiting for him to say something or just snap out of it. Just give it time and give me some space to work. This is what I do. Have faith in that."
He nods at me and steps away and puts his hands on his hips, like he's steadying himself.
"I have to ask you," I say gently, "Do you know what he's talking about, someone on a carrier?"
"Yeah," he answers, turning my way again. "It's me."
"And the eyes? Who is he talking about?"
"I don't know," he shakes his head. "It's not me, I never had any children. I don't know what he's seen or who he's talking about." I can tell he's just as confused as I am. Well, at least he isn't filled with the sense of hitting a dead end like a brick wall. Or maybe he is.
"Ok," I say into the quiet of the hallway. "Leave it for the day, find something else to do, and let me do my thing." When he finally agrees to leave, I take a minute in the hall to collect myself. I lean against the wall and let myself slide down to the floor, letting myself absorb what has happened in the last twenty-four hours. I think about every minute of it, relive it all quickly. It's been years since I cried over a patient or their circumstances, and I struggle against the balloon of emotion that is swelling in my belly and pushing it's way up my throat. If I open my mouth, I'm surely going to sob. Because I'm trying to help someone but don't really know what I'm doing. Because I was kidnapped and told I have to try. Because I don't know how long I've really been here, just the one day since I woke up in my interrogation room. And really, because I still don't know why I'm here.
Which is the worst part of it. I'm not threatened to tears because of someone else's situation, I'm almost crying because of mine. And that's not fair.
When I go back in the room, I lock on to Barnes and go back to the table where he's gingerly touching the dents his metal fingers made. I take the recorder and with a final gesture that he can see I press the stop button and then set it back down.
"You and I have to talk," I state.
"I thought we were," Barnes says.
"You owe me something," I press him. "You owe me an explanation. I need to know why I'm here. This can't work if we aren't honest with each other and I need to know why you wanted me. Why you tried to kidnap me."
A long silence stretches between us while he takes his time watching me.
"I know that you know," I get angry at him, thinking that maybe that will stir something in him. "And you owe it to me because you dragged me into this and this is the last place that I want to be and I want to know why I'm here." When I finish with a little huff he's finally looking at me, and he's finally smiling.
"You really don't know," he says.
"How the fuck would I know?" I yell at him. He puts his hands up in a gesture of defeat. His face scrunches up and he leans down to put his head in his hands, rubbing them over his face and tangling them in his long hair. I instantly regret my anger at him, and that's when I start to cry. Big, silent tears spill down my face and I make no effort to wipe them away. I want him to see it, and when he looks up at me I force him to make eye contact with me.
"Tell me why I'm here," My voice is flat and I think that jarrs him more than anything.
"The things I see," he almost whispers, "the things that I remember most, come in flashes. A train, bright lights, the quiet snow with red. Then I'm lying on a table, men standing around me, a small man with an evil smile and thin voice. Everything was pain and harshness and a cold that I couldn't explain, but there was one tiny source of warmth. I hear his voice when I sleep, speaking in a soothing tone but I don't know what he's saying. I know his name though."
He looks down at the table and I think for a second that he's going to disappear again, but he stays with me.
"Eli Buchman." When he says it his voice is barely audible but it hits my ears as if he was screaming it at me.
"That's impossible," I say matter-of-factly. "I've read your file, and I know when you were taken. Eli Buchman has nothing to do with you."
"Yes, he does," this time it's Barnes whose voice is meant to be soothing.
"No," I state. "He was killed early in the war, there's no way he has anything to do with this." But my ears are starting to ring from what he's said.
"Forget what you know," he tells me. "And consider the possibility that what you thought you knew is not the truth."
"The truth," I say through gritted teeth, "is that he sent his wife and baby to the US from Austria in 1940 with promises that he would follow them. But he never got the chance because he was taken to a camp in 1941 and died in 1943. It's all on record."
"Records that were manipulated," he says and he actually smirks this time. Like I'm just slow on the uptake. "I know this is personal for you but you have to open yourself to this."
"You're god damn right this is personal," I spit. "That baby? That was my mother. And this man you're talking about, my grandfather, he was murdered by Nazis. He was a brilliant psychiatrist and cared for people. He didn't hurt anybody. He only helped them."
"He told me what happened," Barnes says but I start to shake my head when he tells me the story.
"He told me about sending away your mother and grandmother, that he didn't want to but had to. He could sense what was coming. When he was taken he gave up any hope of seeing his family again. He was brought in by HYDRA after being in the work camp for two years. They gave him the chance to live, but at the expense of being classified as having died in the work camp. He chose to live, and was assigned to work on me."
I put my forehead down on the table and take a long breath. I think I might throw up. This is to impossible, but then there's a man with a metal arm sitting across a table from me in a covert superhero tower facility and I'm calling him a liar and accusing him of telling impossible stories. It's all too much.
"Let's say you're telling the truth," I say slowly, not picking up my head mostly because I don't want to look at Barnes. "Let's say that my grandfather was part of the group responsible for why you are the way you are, that still doesn't answer why I'm here."
"His was the only name and connection that I had to maybe finding someone who might be able to help me." He sounds tired and resigned, probably sensing the fact that I'm already thinking about how to get out of this place and as far away from him as I can.
"I have to go," I say and make a mad grab for the things on the table. I manage to grab hold of the file and the paperwork but leave the recorder behind. I'm rushing to the door and don't see Barnes' face as I go but I can feel his pleas and when I get outside and collapse against the closed door I hear a cry from inside the room that sends chills through me. It's one of frustration, sadness, and defeat.
I hate it.