Haven [Marvel | Bucky Barnes]

Chapter 9

"I can't stay, Iris," he said softly, "I've been here too long already." Iris was barely able to fight back the tremors at the blunt and resigned way he said it. The quavering in her chest intensified. She shook her head again, or at least, she tried to as best she could given that his metal fingers still held her chin so that she was forced to meet his wretched gaze.

"Yes you can. You can stay," she whispered, a plea that she knew was pointless even as the words slipped past her lips, "I want you to stay." His eyes closed, hiding the flicker of sorrow that appeared in their steel-blue depths. His hand fell back to his lap as he turned, his jaw clenching as though fighting to keep something in.

"No, I can't," he ground out, "there are people searching for me, Iris. And they have good reason to be." Iris was taken aback, feeling a little like she had been slapped at the self-loathing in his voice. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as his face fell to his hands, another loaded, pained sigh growling out of his chest. Iris was so shocked that she couldn't move, though a single word wormed its way out of her thoughts and out into the quiet of the apartment.

"Why?" His hands fell slowly away from his face as her impulsive question hung in the air, his eyes hard and distant as his jaw tensed again, the muscle in his cheek working angrily. But he didn't answer, not right away. After a moment he stood, ignoring the blood-stained tee and snatching up the plaid shirt instead, worrying it in his hands for a moment before donning it in quick, angry movements, though he stopped short of buttoning it. Iris could only watch him as he scrubbed his real hand over his face, pacing out his agitation. Iris quickly regretted letting the word out, hating how conflicted and agitated it made him. She nearly began hoping he wouldn't answer, suddenly afraid of what he'd say. For him to look the way he did right now? Deep down, her gut told her it had to be bad to haunt him like this.

But that thought was cut short as he abruptly stopped pacing, his voice quiet but rushed at first before he forced himself to slow down.

"I don't remember huge chunks of my past," he confessed in a rush, pointedly not looking directly at her as the words tumbled out, "I wasn't even sure of my own name the first day you met me." He sounded almost detached and he sounded resigned, drawing a frown at first from Iris, distracting her from her apprehension at hearing the answer to her question.

It sounded outlandish as he said it. But as she processed the way he said it, it almost immediately didn't. More than that, he sounded like he had little hope that she'd believe him. If he noticed her incredulity at first he didn't let on. He just kept talking and soon it seemed like he barely even realized he was speaking anymore, like she wasn't there at all. He seemed almost lost inside his own head, yet there was no mistaking how oddly relieved he seemed to be letting it out.

"There are some things I just know, some things I think I remember and others that flash through my head like a film reel. I know I'm from Brooklyn, but I can't keep my memories about it straight. I think I remember joining the army, but I can't remember when or where or why. I remember flashes of growing up, of my brothers, my sister, of my best friend, of school and fighting and missions. I see faces I should know and know names I should be able to put faces to. I think I remember doing...horrible things...monstrous things...there are things I wish I didn't remember." She'd never heard him say so much about the not-so-secret darker aspects his past and, if she was being truthful with herself, a shiver of unease went through her at the blank, awful expression forming in his steel-blue eyes as he paused, his breathing ragged. He'd never even willfully brought it up before, always deflecting or avoiding.

But then it was as though something in him cracked, an equally horrible despondency taking over from the dead look, leaving him looking deflated and exhausted. Iris could only watch, transfixed at the constantly shifting shadows, real and metaphoric, passing over his face, her chest growing tight at how utterly wretched he sounded. She'd thought of him as tortured when she'd first met him, but until this moment she hadn't realized how heartbreakingly appropriate the term had been.