From Darkness

Forty-Five

I knew it wasn't going to last. I tried to avoid it for as long as I could. But I wouldn't be able to do that forever. I was dreaming more often. Of Darkness and stars and stolen things. I woke in the morning to the distant sound of church bells. But my chest felt heavy and hot. I felt like I couldn't breathe. And even though it had only happened once since I left Hydra, I recognized the tell-tale signs of the monster lurking inside me.

I got up and bolted into the bathroom. I hung my head over the sink and watched the blood dribble from my nose and onto the porcelain. Little droplets of blood so dark it looked more like ink. My arms were shaking, and my head felt hazy and dark. Like the shadows were creeping in from the edges of my vision. Trying to consume me. I heard Bucky shift in the other room, but I couldn't bring myself to move.

What if I killed him? What if it was no longer activated by threats? What if I had a bad dream and didn't remember, and now he was choking on his own blood?

"Jo?" he called. "You alright?" I sighed with relief. He was fine. But I wasn't. The blood was flowing freely now, spattering the bottom of the sink. I turned on the water to wash it away, watching it swirl and granulate like ink.

"I'm fine," I assured him. "Nose bleed." I heard him get up and approach the door.

"You sure you're okay? It's not...?"

"No." I cupped the water in my hand to wash the blood from my face. "The air is just dry, is all. It happens sometimes. I'm fine." I don't think he was convinced.

"You want some coffee?"

"Since when do you like coffee?"

"Feels like a good morning for coffee."

It did. The air was brisk and cold. The newspaper made the apartment dull and gray. The weather forecast called for rain. Therefore a perfect day for hot coffee and warm arms. Instead, I was sitting in the bathroom, trembling as I hastily scrubbed black blood from my face.

"Coffee sounds good. But we'll have to go out," I reminded him.

"Good. I wanted to get some training done today anyway."

"Good idea."

I cleaned off my face and looked back up at the mirror. There was no evidence of blood anymore. My nose had stopped dribbling, and I'd cleared it out of the sink. But I could still see the Darkness in my eyes. Like a shadow just on the other side, waiting to be unleashed. No more brown. No more sunlight.

I took some time to collect myself before leaving the bathroom. And when I did, I found him waiting for me. He looked concerned again.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked. I went to him and wrapped my arms around his waist. Then I lifted myself onto my toes to kiss him. I wanted to take his mind off of it, so he didn't notice.

"I'm fine," I promised. He still didn't seem convinced, and I was stupid to think I could distract him.

Elena sometimes said that Bucky and I got along too well. We did sometimes get irritated and frustrated with each other enough to separate and cool off. But she never caught us outright fighting. Disagreed and rolled our eyes, certainly. But never fought. And she stopped coming up to our apartment unexpectedly since we didn't really care what time of day it was when we went to bed.

She said it was unnatural. But I wasn't going to complain. I never thought that what we had was perfect or that we were soulmates or anything like that. But we fit together. The events of our lives that shaped us into who we were, threw us together like two comets stuck in the same trajectory. Whatever it was, unplanned and imperfect, it was spectacular. And everything else, the domesticity and the great sex, just kind of fell into place.

But it seemed that our trajectories hadn't actually collided yet. We were still meant to break apart and go in different directions. I could only hope that someday gravity pulled us back together again. I hoped that when it did, we'd stay together for good because I couldn't imagine being this happy with anyone else. I didn't think anyone would understand me the way he did.

So it only made sense that I'd have to lose him again. I wanted to curse my luck. We'd successfully stayed under the radar for so long. But I was decaying. I could feel it eating me alive. And I knew he wouldn't avoid it for much longer either. We stayed together out of selfishness. As much as I wanted to spend my life with him, I knew that if this thing took me out—I probably wouldn't go out alone.

"I love you," I told him. We didn't say it often. I didn't know if it was the fear of overusing it. But whenever I did get it out, I got the same reaction.

"I know," he'd say. Then he'd smile. "I love you too."

I slipped out of his arms and went to get ready for the day.

We'd grown sort of accustomed to living together. I'd take the shower in the morning, and he'd take it at night. The only time we ever broke that unspoken rule was when we invaded each other's timeslots for fun or when training got particularly sweaty. Neither of us ever complained when it happened. And I'd always fondly remember the image of him bathed in the dim light of the single bathroom window, dripping wet and smiling when I slid in beside him.

He went to the bathroom while I got my shoes and my jacket. Then we left the apartment, hand in hand, not knowing that by the time the sun rose the next morning—it would be over.