From Darkness

Twelve

The house was dark and quiet when I reached the bottom floor. When I pushed the bedroom door open, Russell wasn't alone. Dana had fallen asleep on the chair by the window. I didn't want to bother her, and I knew she wouldn't want to talk to me, so I tried to stay as silent as possible. I approached the bed and took a seat beside him. He still had his back to me and didn't seem to have moved since the last time I saw him. I reached over to touch his forehead and make sure he wasn't too hot. His eyes fluttered open, and he turned to give me a lazy smile.

"Hey, Kid," he said. It was always how he greeted me now. I'd grown so used to just being called "Hayes" that it startled me when he first did it. Whenever they allowed us to interact, he'd say it almost as often as he said my name. As if he had to keep reminding me who I was and who he was to me.

"How are you feeling?" I whispered.

"Me? I'm great. Been better, but I'll be fine." I took a deep breath and let it go. The heaviness had settled in my chest again, but I didn't want him to see me break.

"I'm so sorry. For everything."

"Me too. I know you're still angry with me. I don't blame you." He lifted his hand and squeezed his fingers like he wanted me to hold it. So I finally got up and moved around to his other side so he could take my hand. He gave me a squeeze but didn't speak. There was so much more I wanted to say to him, but not with Dana in the room. And I didn't know how much longer he'd be awake.

"How are you doing?" he asked. I shook my head and looked down at the floor. I could see Dana shift from the corner of my eye.

"I don't really know. Feels like I've been locked in a hole for the past few months. Doesn't feel like it's even been that long. Feels like it's been forever, all at the same time. I just don't really want to sit still long enough to deal with it." He nodded and shut his eyes.

"You were always like that," he said. "When you were a kid, my sister said she could always tell when you were sad because you'd never stop moving. Do anything you could to avoid having to deal with things. But you know all the things they made you see—it wasn't real. You know he won't hurt you. Not if he can help it. And he can think for himself now. So can you. Don't let them win."

"He's been far kinder to me than I deserve. After what I did to him. I beat him over the head with a stick."

"She always knew there was still good in him. I'm glad she was right. And I think she'd be happy to know it was you who got through to him." He kept his eyes shut, and his expression didn't betray his thoughts. He just looked tired.

"I don't think I got through to him," I remarked. "It was Steve."

"Steve made him remember who he was. You made him figure out who he wanted to be. You can both have a place in his heart. Doesn't need to be one or the other. Steve cares about you too." He sighed heavily and looked like he was about to go unconscious again.

"There's a lot more we need to talk about, you know."

"Hmm. Don't I know it," he mumbled into his pillow.

"But it doesn't look like you'll be awake much longer."

"Probably not. Whatever she gave me—never been so high in my whole life."

"What was it?"

"Didn't ask. But I think I saw a manticore."

"I'm sorry, a what?"

"A manticore. Mythological creature? Got a scorpion tail?" I smiled and nodded.

"I know what a manticore is. Probably not good that you were seeing things, though." I pulled my hand out of his since it had gone limp. I gave him a pat on the shoulder. "I'll be here when you wake up."

"I know you will."

"Please tell me if you see any more mythological creatures, though."

"Mm."

I leaned over and pressed a kiss to his forehead. I'd spent so long just believing he was my commanding officer. I wasn't given enough time to deal with the truth. We'd been through a lot together, and there was no time for anger now. I'd deal with it when he was better, and I could chew him out without feeling guilty. He smiled, but his eyes didn't open again. So I sat back and tried to bury the guilt that was washing over me again.

"Would you like some tea?" Dana asked from the chair. I didn't even realize she was awake. She looked sleepy but stood up anyway. I nodded. Tea reminded me of Clara. She always thought it helped make people feel better. It didn't. But the memory of her might.

"That sounds nice," I told her.

She walked to the door and disappeared into the kitchen, but she'd left it open so I could follow. Russell didn't even seem to notice when I got up. He snoozed on. I found Dana in the kitchen getting a kettle on the stove. I sat down at the table and fiddled with my fingers as I waited for her to finish. I thought about asking if she needed any help, but it seemed to be a one-person job, and I didn't think she'd want to spend more time with me than she had to.

When she finished, she brought me a mug and set it down on the table in front of me. Then she slid over a jar of sugar, and neither of us spoke. It was dark but early enough that we could probably call it morning.

"He was awake earlier," she told me, blowing into her mug as if it would help cool it down. "We spoke briefly."

"What did he say?"

"I asked him what you knew of Beata. He said you hardly knew anything at all. He told me what they showed you in that place. That your only memory of her is from her autopsy photos. Given what I know of her death—I can't imagine it was easy for you." I bit my lip and nodded. The images flashed in my mind, lurking out of the dark. Blood. Bone. Flesh. Not much else. "He said he regretted not showing you pictures before. How terrible is it that your first memory of your birth mother will always be so—painful."

I couldn't say anything to that. She was very blunt. Much more than Bucky or Russell had been. Straight to the point. Not glossing over the particularly painful parts. All I could do was nod and hope that she didn't ask what they looked like. I didn't want to think about the photos anymore, let alone describe them to someone who actually knew and loved the person.

"I have something for you," she said instead. She reached into the pocket of her long cardigan and slid something across the table to me. It looked like an old cigarette case. Like the one my grandma kept on her bedside table in her nursing home. She'd stuffed it full of pictures. My grandpa. My mom. Clara. Me. And Russell, I suppose too, but I hadn't even realized it was him until I was older. "When you're ready," she said. "You can change those memories." I took it but didn't open it.

"Thank you," is all I managed to say. She nodded and sipped at her tea. Then she stood up.

"You should return to your husband." I got the feeling she knew damn well he wasn't my husband. I could hear it in her voice. "I could hear him pacing when I was waiting for the kettle." She went back to Russell's room and shut the door.

I slid the silver case into the pocket of my sweatpants and stood up. She made a whole kettle of water, and it was still steaming on the stove. So I made another mug for Bucky and then carried it up the stairs to him.

He was standing by the window gazing out through the curtains. I shut the door with my foot and brought both mugs to his side. I handed the fresh one out and leaned against the wall on the other side of the window.

"You know, I don't even know how you like your tea," I said. It felt so odd that we'd been through so much together, and I hardly knew anything about him at all. He never really spoke up about the things he didn't like. I just knew he didn't like olives because I read it in his journal. I knew he didn't like whipped cream because he made a face when I put it on his waffles and usually tried to (discretely) scrape it off.

"You know—I don't either," he replied with one of those forced smiles. Then he took a sip, despite how hot it still was. "Tastes better than I remember, though. Even though I think I just burned my tongue."

"Probably because I dumped a ton of sugar into it." He smiled again, but this one was real and not forced. Mine formed to match his.

"I guess I like it how you make it then." I nodded and turned to look out the window and the quiet homestead. I could just barely make out a few goats huddled together for warmth under a shelter.

"I remember that sweet tooth. I'll keep that in mind."

"How is he?" he asked. I took a deep breath and sipped my tea.

"Better, I think. I think—he's gonna be okay."

"I'm glad."

"Me too."