need 2
The naked body must’ve been beautiful.
That’s what Jaina thought, unsullied, at least.
Now, staring at herself in the long mirror in the bathroom, she barely saw underneath the purple and red welts that stained her skin. She had not been in a human form for a very long time, she knew. But this was something else. This was not godly, nor celestial.
It was heartbreaking.
Her hands, frail, bony, ghosted over the staccato ribs marred by yellow and indigo bruises, scarcely running up and down the valleys and mountains. And it hurt. It hurt to touch herself, her… form.
She ran her hands over her chest, her breasts, shoulders, until she extended her arms above her head. Her nails had grown so much that they gently prodded the popcorned ceiling. They were her claws, she knew. Her handlers never cut them, and perhaps it was the one thing that remained to herself after years in captivity.
Captivity.
Like an animal.
Jaina could be an animal, she knew. She was not of this world, of Midgard. But after nearly 400 years here, why would she be treated as such? She was not terrifying like this, no, she looked like a farmer's daughter, newly of age, ready to see what society offered.
Instead of dark, grasping shadows, her body had color, a splash of it. Besides the darkness that tainted her fingertips, there was nothing to get lost in, nothing to be afraid of. People would look at her eyes now, notice the bright green they held, the soft brown that came out under sunlight. They would see things that hadn’t been uncovered in a century.
Hydra took it all from her.
They took her from her love, from Logan.
Her fists clenched. Just at that thought.
Her sustained memory was such a curse. What she would give to have it all erased like the Soldier. But they knew. They knew.
She remembered her first escape, the desperation, the running, the warmth of his arms. The heaven tasted on his lips.
The heartbreak of his decision to get revenge when she thought that together, they were enough.
And then, the darkness once more, the tentacles that reappeared, slithering through the cracks she’d left between them.
Hydra wanted her to feel that loss, carry it in her heart wherever she went, whoever she killed. Murdered.
Wanted her to know that they had their sights on him, and that if she ever left again, what would happen to those mutants she cared for.
Creak
Jaina looked up to her reflection at the sound, not even aware that her palms had drawn crimson blood with the claws she’d grown.
Bucky stood wedged in the doorway, his face still a blank slate. Not even nerved by her skeletal, naked form. His steel blue eyes simply yielded to her own.
“Making sure you’re not dead.”
Because that’s where she’d rather be. Dead, with the souls in the Underworld, back in Hel.
She longed for that place, the one she distantly called home. How odd it was that faintly, she could still remember it, taste the bitter sulfur on her tongue. Yet only when she was far from it did it feel comforting.
Where was her mother now?
Where was Hela?
Her chest reeled, a tide of salt stinging her eyes. A broken sob cracked past her lips as she slumped against the sink, cold porcelain against her breasts.
400 years away from home.
Jaina craved her mother, craved the warmth she never received from her, yet still craved the concept of it. How could she know what that was like? Perhaps it was instinct, the half of her that was still human. The part that could still feel something.
Bucky still stood there. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe he was counting the vertebrae of her spine. But he didn’t leave.
And that part of her, the human one, basked in his presence.
Silently, he lay a bundle of fabric next to her.
“We need food,” Bucky said. “Come with me.”
It wasn’t a question. But it didn’t feel like a demand either. His voice wasn’t hardened like she’d heard so many times before. It was soft, and almost, almost piteous.
And like a drone, like the shackles were still bound around her neck, Jaina dressed herself in the dark green henley, the too large black pants. She still had her boots on, she would never be comfortable enough to ever take them off. Because this was a house, not a home, and the man with her was just as damaged and wethered down as her.
Jaina swallowed. “I should stay. In case they find us.”
There was no need to define who “they” were. The shrinking of the Soldier's pupils told her that he knew exactly what she meant.
Here they were, Soldier and Singer, strategizing again. Together they fell into the rhythm of negotiating tactics, so often done.
“We will be prepared if they decide to ambush us on the way back.” The Soldier said.
“It wouldn’t be an ambush if we knew they were coming.” The Singer whispered, as if anyone could hear them.
“We go out together.”
“We’d be exposed.”
“They can’t fight us both.”
“We’re unarmed.”
That was when he paused.
I am always armed. That was what it meant to be a living shadow.
Something like curiosity took over the blue in his eyes. His neck craned to the side, as if he couldn’t see her, as if there was something new to her. Similarly, she had seen him assess targets before. Never had it been used on her.
Jaina shivered.
He murmured, a drifting thought. “What are you?”
No longer naked, yet she had the instinct to cover her chest, hunch her shoulders inwards. Here she stood, smaller than him, frailer, weaker, yet burdened by the weight of ancient knowing. Of borderline immortality. The deity she had once been, the powerful witch, the necromancer, the living shadow- she did not feel like any of them anymore. Too much time had passed and too much had been done to her body. To be imprisoned in a jar for nearly one hundred years by mere humans… What did that make her now?
And the Winter Soldier had only ever watched her, as she did with him. They shared languages, silent and verbal, but what did they know about each other? Nothing.
Would it hurt to be honest with the man standing across from her, the one who, more than anyone else in the world, could possibly understand what she was going through? Share it with her, perhaps?
She had touched his hand once, the metal one. She saw the unnoticed fury that raced down its plates, manifesting into the clenched fist at its end. There was a spark of something in her chest at that moment. Again, her humanity. It reassured her to know it was still there, after everything.
Jaina could envision it through him. Because, even after everything, she could see it in Bucky.
Could he see it within her, right now? Was that why he studied her so peculiarly?
She swallowed, resting her arms beside her, resisting the sudden urge to reach for his palms, hold them in her own. “I don’t know what I am anymore.”
Ever so slightly, Bucky’s eyes softened. Jaina knew she couldn’t answer his question. Not yet. So something must’ve shifted inside of him. Did he hear the beating of her heart?
She heard his. The steadiness of it nailed her to the earth.
“I used to be someone though,” Jaina continued, “I was my mother’s pride.”
She could almost smile at that.
Could she still be that? Was she still that?
“You’re lucky.” Bucky turned away now, heading towards the door of their safehouse. Again, the dreadful monotone crept into his voice, the one that switched a gear in Jaina’s head. This time there was a sadness to it, and her heart cracked apart.
“I don’t ever think I was anyone at all.”