Words On My Skin

Chapter 13

Splashing some water on your face, you sighed in relief – the major feelings coming from Bucky through the bond starting to fade. You could still feel guilt, self-loathing, and hurt... but the feelings were starting to dull into an ache, versus a sharp pain.

As if he'd accepted the feelings.

That was almost worse than the heightened emotions.

"Friday?" You called out hoarsely, after drying your face, "Is Bucky out of his meeting, yet?"

"Yes, Ms. L/n." The AI replied, "He is in the gym. Would you like to inform him you are seeking him out?"

"No thanks, FRIDAY." You sighed, shoulders sagging. He must be beating his frustrations out on a punching bag, again. You could go see him in the gym... but it was kind of a little too public. You wanted to have a real talk with him, not something that should be talked about in the presence of other people. You didn't want that, and you were pretty sure Bucky wouldn't appreciate it. "Just... let me know when he's in his room."

"Of course, Ms. L/n."

You leaned against the counter, staring at your reflection. Your face was blotchy from crying, nostrils raw from wiping your nose so much, and your eyes dull. God, you looked like absolute shit. You grabbed the towel off the rack, patting your face dry. You had taken a shower already, before Bucky had arrived back at the compound, but you felt dirty, again.

It's your damn emotions. You just feel like shit, you don't need another shower.

Ugh, maybe you should take a bath and relax.

Looking away from your reflection, you ripped open the cabinet under the sink, so you could procure your handy first aid kit. You needed to take care of your hand before it got infected, or something. Unzipping it, you looted around until you found the liquid bandage. You ran your injured hand under some water, cleaning the cut and the area around the wound. Luckily, it wasn't that large, but it was going to be a bitch to try and hold closed while applying the liquid.

Somehow, you managed to apply it – wincing as the stupid liquid burned against your open wound. You held the skin together, waiting for it to dry.

Okay. What to do, now?

You could get some work done, clean your room, look at random Buzzfeed articles online, scroll through social media...

You should probably look up 'traumatic childhood memories', or something, and get to the bottom of your weird aversion to guns... and that weird dream... or memory... whatever the hell that was.

You had the time. Why not?

Because you probably wouldn't like what you found.

With a slow exhale, you poked at the adhesive to make sure it was dry. Once it was, you left all your belongings on the bathroom counter, making a mental note to have the handkerchief that Tony gave you dry cleaned, and exited the bathroom to flop onto your bed with your laptop.

Could one just Google 'why did I see a memory of my father's face after shooting a gun'?

Probably not.

You stared at the little Google sign, wondering what the hell to type in the search bar. Traumatic childhood memories? Random memories resurfacing as an adult? Were they even memories? What would be so bad that you'd forget seeing your father's face and a bunch of blood? What was so awful that it took you years to even understand that something happened?

What happened?

You started with the first one, googling 'traumatic childhood memories'. A bunch of random articles popped up, but most of them had to do with childhood sexual abuse and dissociation. One of the articles about sleep paralysis and childhood memories talked about how, when a child is sexually abused, they could dissociate and block out the memories in order to protect themselves from pain, but the memory still could affect them. The article talked about 'recovering' your memory of the original experience to help with the current problem...