Brooklyn felt the words, the confession of her sin, leave her mouth and drop into the room like a bomb. Both men froze still, Rogers sucking in a breath, Wilson letting one out. The darkness of her actions clung to her skin, almost like it was visible. As if she could look down and see it painted on her skin for the whole world to see.

She didn't want to say anything more. Not about that. She didn't like talking about Grant, barely let herself remember his name, his face, his voice. She had locked him up in her memory, behind as many locked doors and boxes as she could. She didn't want to force herself to remember how, why he died. Why she killed him. The choice she had made, that day, that led her to having to kill her own twin.

Instead she focused on her anger towards Rogers. It was safer, she figured, to focus on that, then try to unlock the door where Grant still existed, in her head.

The look on Rogers' face when he came into the kitchen, when she was bent over the table, Wilson trying to pry the bullet out of her had been furious. Furious with something else mixed in. It hadn't been the same face he had on when he found out she had siblings, back when he thought she was just someone who had worked with her father. That had been a thunderous face of anger. The face he had on when he saw the position that she was in with Wilson had been the face of a man who was ready to tear the world apart with his bare hands.

When he had started demanding answers, as if he had any right to them, as if she was answerable to him, had set her anger off. The pain helped her focus away from it. Getting shot was never fun, but the pain was pure in it's own way. Pain was the body telling you it was still alive, that you were still alive. Pain was the push to continue to fight for your next breath.

And the idiot dick cheese who had shot her was going to learn that lesson. She was going to personally give him a lesson in pain. Him and his dick jockey, Diamonde.

She was focusing her attention on all the ways that she was going to remove pieces of skin from the two ass dribbles who had put her in this position in the first place, when Wilson cleared his throat gently.

"Queenie, what do you mean, you killed him?"

She glared at him, refusing to answer. They couldn't make her, really. She could only ever give away information that she wanted to. What would they do to her? Past experience with the two of them told her that. They could threaten, they could bluster, Rogers could try to use his height and weight against her, but in the end, they were really incompetent when it came to interrogations. Neither one was inclined to actually use physical force or pain to get what they wanted. In the scheme of things, it meant she still held all the power over what information they gleaned from her.

"Did you know, that in chess, the most powerful piece on the board is the queen? And some players think that the white queen is the most powerful, if only because she can gain access to the board first? If she is freed, she can be used to take down the opponents defenses faster, gain control of the board. And her sole purpose in life, is to protect the king." She rubbed her wrist, focusing on the sensation of her skin beneath her fingers. "She mimics the moves of the bishop and the rook and is one with highest point value if captured, and gives the player control of the board if she is the first one out. If the white queen is put on the board first, she automatically makes the other player have to move defensively. When the queen moves, the other pieces around her move in response."

She shifted and began to pace along the kitchen. She was making an effort to not look at the men, to not meet their eyes.

"Are you the white queen, in question?" Wilson asked.

"I was supposed to be." she sighed. "I was supposed to rule the chess board. My goal was only ever to protect the king. The king who would rule the board, once I took the enemies off of it."

Wilson nodded. "But you aren't a chess piece. You are a human being. A person. A person with your own thoughts and feelings. Not something to be used, to be moved like a piece on a chess board."

She let her disgust be audible. "You don't think I know that now? I know that. I am not some piece on a board to be played with."

He nodded. "How did you kill Grant, Queenie."

"No one really knows where chess came from. It is suspected to be evolved from an Indian game, which originated in the six hundreds. In fact the queen wasn't the queen until the fifteenth century. Before that, she was known as the Counselor, and was limited to a one square diagonal move. But the rise of powerful female rulers encouraged the change, both of title and of moves." She began to crack her knuckles against her jaw, the popping a comforting feeling. "Chess was taught to mimic the rules of warfare. The idea of strategy and stealth being paramount. If you play the game right, your opponent never notices when they are in checkmate. Just like in a war, if you do it right, your opponent never notices when you have taken over the board completely."

"Brooklyn." Rogers' deep voice, firm in it's tone, broke her concentration. "How did you kill your brother?"

"I need to go. I need to get back to New York." She shook her head. "Juliana must be so worried. If the Marino's have been told I've been killed, then Juliana must be so upset."

Brooklyn started to go back to the table, to grab her gear, ready to leave, get away, avoid their questions. She didn't want to keep talking. She didn't want to open that door in her head, to let the memories out.

Rogers had other ideas. He stepped forward, and put his hands on her shoulders, stopping her. "Babydoll, I know you don't want to talk about it. I do. I get it, but please, let us help you. Tell us about Grant."

She pushed herself away from him, forcefully, glaring up at him. "You don't understand. We weren't supposed to run. We knew better. He knew better. But he took me, and he ran. He tried to get us away. And we left Grant behind."

"Who did, Queenie?" Wilson shifted, giving her space, while also pressing her for more information.

Damn them. They weren't going to let up. They were going to keep coming and coming...and she was so tired of it. So tired of their damn questions, their assumptions. Of Rogers trying to be so caring, of him trying to push his way into her life. Maybe if he knew, if they both knew, they would leave her alone to live, to raise her sister, to find her father.

"Papa." She couldn't find it in herself to stay still. She began to pace, cracking her knuckles against her jaw. "He grabbed me, and he ran."

"When was this, Brooklyn." Rogers followed her with his eyes, she could feel it, but thankfully he didn't put his hands on her again. She didn't know if she could handle that, right now.

It was a fact that Brooklyn had led her life with, not knowing certain dates. The way they were kept in HYDRA made time a mutable thing. Days and weeks could pass with barely a notice. Years spent, sleeping away, the only thing that marked the change when they woke up being the tech and the people. Too often she had gone to sleep with one handler, only to wake up and find a new one waiting. New facilities, new places, new people. The only constant being Papa. Papa and the mission.

But that date. That date she remembered. It was burned into her memory. Burned by blood, and horror, and hate, and love, and capture, and pain. And freedom. The only taste of freedom she had ever had, until Marcus and she left HYDRA in DC. Six months ago, she had tasted it again, and yet it was poisoned by the blood on her hands, the sins on her soul, and the betrayal she lived with every day.

"The twenty second of November, in nineteen sixty three." She exhaled the date, feeling the words leave her like lead drops.

Wilson sucked in a sharp breath, exhaling it with a, "Damn."

Rogers looked at Wilson with a question on his face. Wilson shook his head.

"That's the day that President Kennedy was assassinated." He told his friend.

"Dallas, Texas." Brooklyn kept pacing. "It was my first mission outside of HYDRA. I was supposed to prove that I could work with the Soldier in the field. I was handed off to Oswald, to be in the Depository. I had the vantage point. Papa was behind a fence, a bit away. Two pronged attack, muddy the trajectories. Oswald was just there to oversee my work."

As she turned, she saw Wilson had buried his head in his hands, and Rogers had folded his arms, looking down at the floor.

"It was such a nice day." She smiled at that memory. "We were allowed a few minutes outside, before they moved us from the facility we were staying at. Papa was pointing out the clouds, showing me the shapes, and what they meant. It was so warm. Warmer then any other place I had ever been. The world felt so big. So big. I felt so insignificant, standing there. Like I was a small speck of dirt."

She moved her hands, clutching at her upper arms.

"When they moved us into position, I was told that Oswald was my point. I was to take orders from him. Papa wasn't pleased, tried to argue that I would work better if he was there to guide me. I told him, it would be okay. I was ready. I was ready to do my part, to make the world free. Free like I had always been told I was supposed to." She sniffed, rubbing at her nose. "I didn't know who Kennedy was. Not then. It didn't matter. He was just my mark. He was an obstacle in the grand plan of world freedom. Oswald was... nice, I guess. He wasn't touchy the way some of the guards and handlers could be. He told me he had a wife. Kids. He showed me pictures. He had just had a baby about a month before, he told me. He told me that my dress was pretty. I had never had been dressed up, before. They had done my hair, my makeup, put me in a dress, and told me to do my mission."

She remembered that day, how it had started off gray and drizzly. She had watched it through the small window in their cell, high up on the wall. She remembered how Papa had paced, the sound of his metal hand as he put it into a fist, then relaxed it, over and over. How Papa had watched her as they did her hair, her makeup. Let her choose a dress. He had been the one to do the zipper up the back, when she couldn't reach. She remembered the white handbag. It's wallet, filled with money and coins and fake identifications, and proofs of purchases from stores in the area. In case they were stopped and searched. It was proof that she was a resident. He worked with her, over and over, the information about her fake identity, her fake address, her fake school, with it's fake teachers and fake students. What was her favorite subject. Things that she might be asked, if they were stopped.

She remembered the tightness of the black shiny shoes. How the strap didn't feel right, crossing the top of her feet. The sharp sound the shoes made on the concrete floor as they moved through the halls to the front of the facility.

How Papa, dressed in suit, his hair slicked back, gloves on his hand, had taken one of hers when she stopped at the doorway, the openness of the outside before her, and led her into the sun. The heat and humidity pressing down on her, Papa had rubbed her arms, and distracted her with the clouds.

The car trip to the street, the handler disappearing into the building crowds, with instructions to drive the car back to the facility when they were done. Papa placing the keys into her handbag, telling her to go back, if they got separated. That he would find her, when they were done.

Meeting Oswald at the door to the depository, being led up to the window that over looked the street. Checking over the rifle that had been brought for her. Oswald, his voice low and soothing, talking her through taking her position, and waiting. Breathing the way Papa had taught her, looking through the scope, lining up the shot position. Waiting as the crowd thickened. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Finally the target had driven into sight. Lining up the cross hairs, making adjustments for the wind and the movement of the vehicle. Leading the shot, hearing her Papa's voice in her head as she took a deep breath, then exhaled as she pulled the trigger. The jerk of the targets body. Ejecting the shell casing, and taking the next shot. Watching as the blood and brain matter splattered all over the woman in pink, the target himself, the car.

Feeling Oswald pull her back, away from the window, taking the rifle from her suddenly cold hands, feeling like she wasn't in her body, as he ushered her down the steps, and out into the sun again.

She had stood there, as the screams and cries of the crowd, which were in muted, suddenly became loud and real. Like someone had taken ear plugs out of her ears.

Papa, looming large and dark, suddenly filled her vision, taking her arm, and running with her back to the car, not waiting for Oswald. Opening the door and shoving her into the passenger seat.

Grabbing the handbag off her arm, where it had never left, pulling out the keys, and pulling away from where they had been parked. Trying to avoid all of the traffic, which had come to an almost standstill. Avoiding the police which were running up and down the street.

It wasn't until she seemed to wake up from her fugue state, that she realized they were going in the wrong direction. That they were not heading in the direction of the facility. Papa was taking them away from where they were supposed to go.

She had asked him then, "Where are we going?"

Papa's hand grasping the steering wheel, the car part groaning under his grasp. "We are getting you away from them."

She hadn't understood. She hadn't thought about anything outside of her life in HYDRA. "But Papa-"

"You cant live there, anymore, Baby Girl. You can't be that. What they want you to be. I can't allow that." He had turned and pierced her with his blue eyes. "As your Papa, I can't allow that to happen to you, anymore."

When had Papa returned? When had he pushed the Soldier down? Had he ever been the Soldier, during this mission? She thought she had been able to tell.

"But we are supposed to go back." She had objected.

"We aren't going back. We aren't going to go back, and keep doing that, anymore, Brooklyn." He drove with singular determination. "We are going to go west. To California."

"What's in California?" She couldn't understand. Papa always did what they told him to do. Even if it meant hurting her. That was what they were supposed to do.

"Someone I used to know." He nodded. "Howard Stark has factories, houses, in California. If we get there, and we tell him who we are, he will help us."

"Papa, we have to go back! We can't leave Grant!" She had tried to plead with him, pulling on his arm, trying to make him see reason.

"I'll go back for him." He nodded. "But I have to get you out, now. While I still have the chance."

She shook her head at him. "Papa, it's okay! We are going good work. We are making the world a better place!"

He snarled at her. Snarled! Through gritted teeth, he pushed her back into her seat, and ground out, "I am your father. And I refuse to see you continue to live in that place, with those people! I will not see my daughter twisted into some sort of mythical figure for them to use! I will not let them turn you into a weapon! I have to protect you! If it is the only good thing I do on this earth, I will make sure you are free!"

She sat back, compliant, until he removed his arm from her. Sitting forward , she had looked out the window, at the streets and the businesses, and the people on the sidewalk go by. "What makes you think they are going to let us go, Papa? We are important to them! They care for us!"

"They torture us!" He barked. "I know you don't know the difference. And that is my fault. It is my fault that you don't know what life is like on the outside. I should have grabbed you, years ago! If I thought I could have, I should have! Instead, I let them do this to you! Make you a killer! You are only a child!"

Brooklyn remembered how she pleaded with him, for a long time, her pleas falling on his deaf ears. It wasn't until they were out of Dallas, that he pulled over into a parking lot. A gas station stood on one side, and a building on the other. The neon sign, dimmed for the daylight, proudly called it 'DINER'. He had turned in the seat, resting his left arm on the steering wheel, leaning his right elbow on the bench seat, looking down at her.

"I'm hungry. I know you are, too." He nodded his head at the diner. "If we go in there, are you going to behave, and cooperate with me? Are you going to be my good girl? Or are you going to cause a ruckus?"

She had frowned at him. "Papa?" She hadn't understood. She always tried to be a good girl. Good girls got rewards, according to Zola. Bad girls got punished, and pain, and blood.

"If I take you in with me, to get something to eat, will you behave?" He had asked, reaching out to brush his fingers down her cheek. "Because I know you barely ate this morning."

Brooklyn had blushed. Because he had been right. She had not finished her breakfast that morning, too excited to be going out on a mission with her father. She had broken one of the first rules, living in HYDRA. Never leave food on your tray. Because you never knew when the next meal would be.

She had nodded her head, reaching out to take her father's hand. "I'll be good, Papa."

"That's my Baby Girl." He had smiled, that soft, tender, loving smile, that Brooklyn always believed he reserved for her, and her alone.

He had led her out of the car, and into the diner, the bell tinkling merrily over their head as the door opened. A waitress, who had red eyes and a leaking nose, waved them over to a booth, slapping down menus, holding a pad and a pen, waiting for them to order. A radio, in the background, turned all the way up, announced that the President of the United States had been killed, and a manhunt was on the way for the man responsible. The waitress kept sniffing, wiping at her face, as Papa had ordered coffee for himself, and a glass of milk for Brooklyn. Telling the waitress that they needed a minute to go over the menu, he had sent her on her way.

Brooklyn had looked at her father, noticing the strain on his face.

"Papa?" She had asked, wanting to ask about it.

"Not here, Baby Girl." He had shook his head, looking at the menu. "When we get back in the car."

She had complied, looking down at the menu in front of her. She didn't know that there could be so many options. "I don't know..."

Papa had looked at her, then at the menu. "I'll order for you, Brooklyn. Don't worry."

The waitress had come back, with the coffee and milk, asking if they were ready to order. Papa did. He ordered food she had never heard of. She had sat there, across from him, watching his easy smile, his flirtatious way, the way the waitress had returned with a watery smile, before her face collapsed.

"It's jus' awful, wha' they done to President Kennedy! An' poor Jackie! Firs' losin' her baby, now her husban'?" Between her thick voice, and her accent, it had taken Brooklyn a bit to realize what the waitress was saying.

"I know!" Papa had commiserated, lying. "My daughter and I were just passing through Dallas, on our way to my late wife's family for Thanksgiving. When it came on the radio, I just about had to pull over, I was so shocked!"

"I hope they catch tha' man, wha' did this! I hope they string him up!" The waitress had nodded. "I'll go put your order in. Won' be but a min-nit."

"Take your time." Her papa waved his hand. "We'll understand."

The waitress toddled off, sniffing again, when Papa turned his attention back to her. "Brooklyn."

"Papa." She had waited, and he sighed before stretching his hand out on the table for her to take.

He had held her hand, running his thumb over the back of hers. "We have to be careful. We have to pass for normal, Baby Girl."

"Normal?" She had cocked her head. "But aren't we normal, Papa?"

"We can try to be." He had nodded his head. "One day, we might even believe it."

She had sat there, across from him, holding his hand, until the waitress, still sniffing, brought them their food. The plates were lined up along her arm, and Brooklyn was amazed at the amount of food.

She left them alone then, and Brooklyn didn't know what to do, or where to start.

Her Papa had smiled, and pushed a plate towards her. It had potatoes, cubed up and fried, with what looked like different types of meat, and toast. But on top of the potatoes...

"What's this?" She had pointed at the white and yellow things on top of the potatoes.

"Fried eggs. Over easy." Papa had nodded towards the brown circles, piled on top of each other, on the other plate he pushed towards her. What smelt like butter was melting on top of them. "And those are pancakes. Here's the syrup."

She had watched as Papa poured the thick brown liquid on top of the pancakes. Then he cut into them, forking a bite to his mouth, smiling at her. She poked at the eggs, watching as the yellow stuff leaked out into the potatoes. The hollow feeling her her stomach, the one she had learned early to ignore, gnawed at her. And she began to eat.

It all tasted different. There was a lack of a chemical taste to it all. The toast was actually warm, not cold like she was used to. The potatoes were crisp, not soggy. The meat...

Papa pointed his fork at the meat, when she poked at it. "Ham, sausage, and bacon. Try it. And the pancakes, try the pancakes."

She did. The flavor of the buttermilk and maple sweetness busting on her taste buds...

"Pancakes?" Rogers asked.

She blinked her eyes, the memory breaking, bringing her back to reality.

Brooklyn sniffed, wiping at her nose. "Sorry?"

"You were saying that Bucky was telling you about pancakes?" He tilted his head. His eyes were watery and red. A quick glance towards Wilson also indicated that he was feeling emotional.

"Was I speaking?" She questioned, surprised. She looked around, but she was back in Wilson's kitchen. Not that roadside diner, outside of Dallas. It was twenty fourteen, not nineteen sixty three. She was dressed in a borrowed shirt of Wilson's and her tactical pants, not the flow y green patterned dress that smelt of old books, with the stiff petticoat underneath.

"You were telling us about eating at the diner. You trailed off when you mentioned pancakes." Wilson smiled sadly. "What about the pancakes?"

"I had never had them before." She began pacing again, clutching at her upper arms. "I actually had never really had anything that we ate at the diner before. The eggs... they were fresh. The meat was something utterly new. Papa looked so happy... being able to give me that... And for a moment, it was like the tale he told the waitress was true. We were just passing through, on our way to some where else..." She rubbed at the tears coming down her face. "We finished our meal. Cleaned our plates." She laughed lightly, through her tears. "And then Papa put me in the car, and kept driving."
Rogers, shifting, still having his arms folded tightly, nodded. "What happened after?"

"We made a few stops. Gas, food. We slept in the car. He kept changing direction. He didn't want to make it easy for them to find us, he said. He kept insisting that he had to get me out. That I couldn't be there anymore. Days, it took. Anytime something caught my eye, he would try to stop, to show it to me. To see the outside world. At the side of the road, so I could see the cows, in a field. At one point it rained. And he pulled the car over, turned it off, so I could hear it. Even took me out in it. We got soaked! But I had never felt so free! We were in Nevada. In the desert. He pulled over, and took off my shoes and socks, and had me stand in the sand. The sky was so big. I could see everything, for miles, it was so empty. The sky was bursting with stars. Papa pointed out the North Star. He wrapped me up in his jacket, and held me, as we listened to the wind. It was beautiful."

She shook her head, wiping at her face again. "But they caught us, outside of Las Vegas. We never even made it to California. Apparently we had never really made it far, before they picked up our trail. The car, you see. Papa forgot to change cars. Somewhere, before they grabbed us, they had put out a BOLO, and we were spotted at a gas station. The cops that pulled us over, had been told that Papa was wanted for kidnapping. I wasn't really his daughter. That he had snatched me up, and was carrying me across state lines. So they had to wait for the Feds. I tried to plead with them, to try to explain the truth. But they put me in a room, and locked Papa up in a cell. While I was in that room, I found out that Oswald had been captured, and then killed by Jack Ruby."

"And HYDRA came, and took you back." Rogers sighed.

"Yeah." She nodded. "They took us back, to a new facility. Locked me in a dark room. Took Papa off somewhere. I could hear him screaming from where I was. I don't know how long I was there, alone, but eventually, the guards came, and took me to another room. Papa was on the floor, sweating and bleeding. They shoved me into a chair, tied me down, and made me watch as they began to beat Papa. That went on for quite a while."
"What did they do to you, Queenie?" Wilson asked, when she stalled.

Brooklyn looked at him, blinking. "They never laid a hand on me. They just had me sit there, and watch. Watch as they beat my father."

She saw Rogers wince, out of the corner of her eye, but didn't give him any attention. She moved from grabbing her arms to rubbing her wrist.

"Is that all they did?" Wilson encouraged.

Brooklyn shook her head. "No. They... they beat him for a while, and then... then they brought in Grant. I don't know where they had brought him from. I hadn't seen him since I was... twelve? I think. They had separated us, early. When they gave me to Papa, they kept him away. I only saw him in passing, really. It took me a while to recognize him. He just stood there, grinning. Like I was this... THING.. .he was going to step on. He took a chair, and sat in it, just...grinning. Grinning... like it was all a damn game. Like his own father wasn't on the ground next to him, bleeding and in pain. But he was my brother, my twin."

It was like she didn't know what to do with her hands. She kept grabbing at her wrist, rubbing her arm, grabbing at her upper arm, clutching at her neck. Nothing felt right. She felt so tight in her chest. It felt like it was caving in.

"One of the guards took a gun out, and put it on the floor in front of me, then untied me. He told me, they weren't allowed to put a finger on me. But I had to make a choice. There were too many males, it seemed, in HYDRA." She felt that choking feeling in her throat, wanting to claw at her skin. "I had to choose. Which male would be staying with HYDRA. My brother... or my father."

Brooklyn covered her face.

"Oh, god." Wilson whispered.

"I had to choose." She whispered. "I had to choose between my father, who had been my only comfort, in that entire place, or my brother, the person I spent nine months in the womb with. My father, or my other half."

"That doesn't mean you killed your brother, Brooklyn." Rogers soothed. "Just because they made you choose, doesn't mean that you are responsible for his death."

"No." She moaned, raising her head, barely able to see him through her tears. "It wasn't just choosing. Papa lay there, begging me to choose him. To make him be the one. So that both his children could survive. It was the original plan, you see. The King and Queen. The rulers that HYDRA wanted. But I didn't know him, not any more. I didn't know Grant. I didn't know if I could ever trust him. They didn't drag him into that room. He walked in willingly. He was apart of the game. It was a game, that he wanted to play. I didn't want to play anymore. I didn't want to play that game, ever again. And they were making me chose, between him, and my father."

"I know, it's an impossible choice, Babydoll." Rogers whispered, reaching out to her. He was going to try to comfort her. To make her feel better about her sins. That's what he wanted to do. But he didn't understand. He didn't understand the stain on her soul. The blood indelibly etched into her skin.

"But I made it!" She screamed, before pulling back. "I made it. I stood there, while that guard picked up the gun, put it in my hands, and pointed at them. And he told me to pull the trigger."

She stopped pacing, leaning back against the counter, letting it carry her weight. "I held that gun, and I pointed it at them. Papa kept telling me it was okay, that he loved me, that he would always forgive me. That he understood. To shoot him. To do it. To save myself, and Grant. But..." She was gasping for breath, the pressure on her chest, the tightness in her throat. "I couldn't do it... Do you understand? I couldn't shoot him. I couldn't kill Papa."

"I know, Babydoll. I know you couldn't." Rogers soothed. "It's okay. I know. You feel responsible."

"I shot Grant." She gasped. "I shot my own brother. I killed him! I had to. I couldn't kill my Papa."

She fell to her knees, the pressure finally getting the better of her.

"I killed him. And Papa still forgave me." She pressed her forehead to the floor. "He still forgave me, even after I killed his only son. I killed my twin, and he forgave me." She couldn't breathe. "He lay there, covered in his own son's blood and he forgave me. And the guards laughed. They laughed as they took the gun out of my hand, and pulled me from the room. They laughed, and pulled me down the halls. Laughed as they had the doctors prep me. They laughed as they shoved me in to that fucking tube, and turned on the gas. I heard them laughing, even as I froze, for the first time. I heard their laughing as I went to sleep. And it was their laughter I heard when I woke up, years later."

She felt like she was choking. The pressure around her throat was tightening. Any moment, it would seal off her breathing, all together. Tighter and tighter. Her breath started leaving her with wheezing sounds.

"Hey! Hey, Babydoll, ease up!" Rogers' hands were closing around her wrists, trying to pull them. He was kneeling down beside her, when did he get there? She clawed at her throat, Rogers trying to pull her hands away.

"I can't breathe." She gasped.

Wilson was there, as well, helping Rogers pull her hands away. "Get her up, she's having a panic attack, she cant fully breathe bent over like that."

Rogers forced her to kneel up, tilting her head over his shoulder. She gasped, slamming her eyes shut, trying to get her hands free, trying to claw at her throat.

"Babydoll, you are fine, you just need to try to breathe. You can breathe." Rogers pressed his mouth against her ear. "In and out, Babydoll. Breathe with me. In and out."

She could feel his chest against her back. She felt the movement as he breathed deep, in and out.

"C'mon, Babydoll. I need you to breathe with me." He pressed his hand at the center of her chest. "I feel it, Brooklyn. Remember? I feel it. Now, breathe with me."

She tried to match his breathing. But her chest kept feeling like it was caving in. She focused, instead, on his hand on her chest. Like he was keeping her heart from flying from her chest. His warm hand, which covered her heart. Eventually, she was able to match his breathing. And he slowed it down, until the bands around her neck loosened. Pain began to radiate from her side, again.

But in her head, she began to pick up all those memories, and pack them away in their boxes. Sliding them away, like Juliana's toys on the floor. Back in the boxes, and those boxes shoved onto shelves. As soon as many of them were put away, she shut the door on them, locking them back up. She let them fade, back into the dark part of her mind, the part she didn't like to think about.

Her breathing fully even again, she sniffed, and tried to raise her head.

Rogers had it pressed against his neck, his chin laying on it. His hand was still on her chest, his other arm was wrapped around her.
"....Just saying, this was deeper then I think either one of us expected." Wilson was somewhere above her. "Maybe we should lay off for a bit."

"Can't." Rogers' voice rumbled against her back. "If she doesn't work through it, there is the possibility she'll slip back into that 'queen' mode Marino described. Or worse, just walk away. And we could lose her and Bucky."

"I didn't suggest we give up completely. I just think that we should ease up."Wilson was clearly uncomfortable.

"I won't lose her." Rogers was growling. "I will do what it takes, to make sure she's safe. Even from her own memories. But I will not lose her. Not again."

Why was the vibration against her so comforting?

"So, it's like that, is it?" Wilson had a pleased sound in his voice.

"Yeah. It's like that." Rogers sounded...resigned? "It's over and done, for me. She's just a little behind me, at this point. But I can wait for her to catch up."

She didn't know what the hell they were talking about. She didn't care. But she was exhausted. Too much had happened, today, this week, this month, this year. She was tired.

She let the dark, that had been creeping at the edges of her, claim her.

************************************************

Brooklyn rolled her head, her eyes opening. She was staring at an unfamiliar ceiling, the afternoon light from the window shaded by the blinds. She felt sweaty and yucky. But at the same time, she was the most comfortable she had been in a while.

Turning her head, she shifted, feeling Rogers' arm tighten around her. His head was resting on the pillow, next to hers, his breaths deep and even. Even in the dimmed room, she could see the light dusting of hair on his jaw and cheek. His eyelashes, too fucking thick for a man, goddammit, lay pillowed along his cheek. His nose, too straight for a man who got into physical altercations as often as he did, was perfectly proportioned to his face, his cheekbones high and deep. The dusky pink of his lips, plumped out from his breathing were, as she well knew, satiny to the touch.

Even his hair, which was a bit darker at the roots, blonde though it was, fit him.

The picture perfect American Icon. The formula had done him good.

She tried to see the skinny little scrapper from her Papa's stories in the man who lay next to her now. To be fair, she had nothing to compare him to. All she had ever known him, really, was as he was now.

Brooklyn reached up, and pressed her finger tips against the underside of his jaw, feeling the prickly hairs there. Then she let her fingers slip down the column of his neck, over his Adam's apple, into the hollow where his neck met his chest, and into his shirt, so she could press her palm to the center of his chest. She left her hand there, feeling the beating against her palm.

As she held it there, she let her breathing match his. She imagined she could also pace her heartbeat to his.

She realized she should be very, very angry at him. Furious. Reaching for her gun, angry. But she didn't care. She was back in his arms, and she had not known how much she had truly missed him. Missed this. This completed feeling of being next to him, wrapped up in him. As if he filled her so completely, that all the darkness was pushed away.

How had that happened? She wondered. How had he managed to slip in, when no one else she had ever met could? From the moment she had first laid eyes on him, in the club, when she had gotten the random urge to tease him, to this morning when he had kissed her, he got under her skin.

Maybe Kitty was right. Maybe she should just grab onto him, and never let him go. Odds were, considering their extra enhancements, they would have a long life. Long enough for her to figure out what it was about him that made her crazy. She would rise up, claim him, and bring him to his knees. She would own him. Take dominion over him.

"You are mine." she whispered, trying the words out. "You belong to me."

She frowned. It sounded right, but something was still off about it. Like it wasn't enough. As if there was more that she needed to say, to make it true.

He cleared his throat, and she looked up.

Rogers had a soft smile on his face, and his eyes were bright, so bright.

"I am yours, huh?" he asked, his voice gravely. "Does that mean that you are mine?"

Brooklyn considered this. "Is that how it works?"

"Usually." He nodded, slowly. "its usually an equal exchange. So, if I am yours, that must mean that you are mine."

She thought about that some more. Would that mean he wasn't giving her back her power? Would that mean that he would not fall to his knees?

"Does this mean you wont be on your knees?" She asked, since it seemed the simplest way to get an answer.

He choked, cheeks turning pink. "Do you want me on my knees?"

"Kitty says I should. I think I would rather like you on your knees." She nodded.

He pressed his lips to her forehead. "Oh, Babydoll. I know we are talking about two different things, and someday, soon I hope, I will show you just how much I like to be on my knees. I will spend hours on my knees, worshiping you, if it pleases you. But for now, yes, figuratively, I am on my knees for you. I have been on my knees. I will remain on my knees, until you tell me otherwise."

She closed her eyes, letting a happy sound leave her. "Good."

"But," he continued, his voice turning serious. "This does mean that you stay with me, and work through things with me. No more tossing me out, with a gun pointed at me. No more deciding, on your own, that we are through. We deal with the issues, together. All of them. And you are not removing either you, or Juliana from my life again. Understood?"

Brooklyn nodded. "I hide things. Because I don't want to deal with them. Or I don't feel that they are relevant to how my life is now, as opposed to how it was then. I choose not to share things, because I think that maybe, they are too much for someone else to share with. It's not because I am lying, or insane."

Rogers pursed his lips. "I want you to feel free, safe, to share those dark things with me. I don't want you to feel like you have to hide things. Not from me. There are dark parts in me, too. I saw things... in the war... Things people did to other people, that I never would have thought possible. And it's stained me, too. I did things, that I am not proud of. I still do things I am not proud of. Things I don't want to share with you. But if it means that you understand, and know that I want to share my burden, the way I want you to share yours, I would gladly lay my soul out for you to inspect."

She stroked her fingers along his stubbly jawline. "Does this mean that you are mine? That you belong to me?"

"I am as much yours, as you are mine, Babydoll." He assured. "Although, there are a few more recent things we do need to go over."

She pulled away, frowning. "Like what?"

He gave her a stern look. "Like getting shot. And coming to Sam to have him remove the bullet, trying to do it so I didn't know. I am not alright with that, at all. Getting involved in the Marino family business. That is another thing I am not alright with."

Brooklyn sighed. "The getting shot thing... Like I said, it was a freak thing, because of the new blood being lied to about me. And assuring the Marino family is protected, continues the protection that they give me, and Juliana. I wont apologize for that."

"Are you done?" He asked.

"Done?" She questioned back, unclear what he was asking.

"Are you done trying to make excuses for your behaviour?" He intoned, serious.

"Excuse me?" She flinched back. "My behaviour?"

"Because where I am standing? I think you need to back away, and let me take care of it, from here." He raised an eyebrow. "I will deal with the Marinos. I like that they have taken you in, and afforded you their protection, treat you like a member of their family, but they never should have let you get involved in their business. And I will make that clear to Mr. Marino, the next time he and I talk."

"What the shit, Rogers?" She spat, getting angry. "You don't get to-"

"Yes, I do." He nodded. "If you are going to be my girl, be my woman, than that means you come to ME, when you need help. You come to ME, when you need anything. I don't care if it's money for a cup of coffee, or buying Juliana something for school, or even dealing with a customer at the club. I will deal with it."

She stared at him, her mouth hanging open, shocked.

"It has been made clear to me, in the past twenty four hours, at least, that since you have left HYDRA, you have been allowed to run wild. That no one has thought to correct you, or keep you in check. I thought that going easy on you, letting you ease into a relationship with me, was the right choice. I will not be making that mistake, any longer." He sat up. "Starting right now."
"What the fuck?" She sputtered.

"Stand up." He pulled on her arm, until she was climbing off the bed, onto her feet. "Now. Brooklyn Barnes, I have a question to ask you."

She glared up at him. "Go ahead."

Rogers nodded, then dropped to his knees in front of her. "Will you be my girl? Go steady with me? Let me take you out? Treat you like the queen you are? Share the responsibility of raising your sister with you?"

Blinking, she looked down at him, caught off guard. From what he had been saying, before this, this was not where she had expected the conversation to go. "What?"

"Will you allow me to call you mine? And will you continue to call me yours. If you want to own me, say I belong to you, will you allow me to do the same?" He clarified.

Brooklyn bit her lip, then nodded.

"I need verbal confirmation, Babydoll." He remained on his knees, his eyes narrowing a bit. "Cause I am not going to let you wiggle out of it, this time."

"I will allow you to do all of that." She nodded. "If you want to."

"I want to." He grinned, then stood up, picking her up as he did so. "Just so we are clear, I was serious, before. You come to me, from here on out. Got it?"

"Got it." She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Does this mean you will be there, on Juliana's first day of school? She's been kinda asking about it."

He grinned even wider. "You just try to keep me away from my Sweetheart's first day. I'm going to be there, cheering her on. And after she's done, we can all go out for burgers and shakes, or something."

"OH, COME ON!" Wilson groaned from the doorway. "Why the hell do I always catch the two of you like this?"

******************************************************

Brooklyn was chewing on the pizza, watching as Rogers and Wilson argued. They were in the hallway, trying to keep their voice down. She didn't know what was being said, didn't really care, but It was interesting to watch as Wilson apparently dressed Rogers down. It was amusing, to watch as Rogers hung his head in shame, shaking it occasionally, looking defensive. Whatever he had done, Wilson was not pleased with him.

She drained the glass of milk that Rogers had insisted she have with her food, putting the glass down gently, before returning her watchful gaze on the men. She had been a little shocked by Rogers' actions, when she woke up. He was still trying to be considerate and sweet, but at the same time, he was also taking charge. When she hadn't wanted to eat, he had just looked at her, set the food down in front of her, and raised an eyebrow, as if asking her if she was going to challenge him. The same thing had happened with the milk.

His demands that, from here on out, he be the one to deal with the issues that came up in her life rubbed her the wrong way, in a 'how dare he' sort of feeling. But at the same time, it was nice to know that he cared enough to step in, even if she didn't feel he needed to. He was right though. If what she had been reading in that Kindle was how people viewed relationships, then asking him to shoulder some of the burden's in her life was the right thing to do. It was what was expected. Kinda how she shouldered Papa's burdens, back in HYDRA. The only difference was that Papa and she did NOT have the same relationship that Rogers wanted to have with her.

She shuddered at the thought. She understood some people might go for that sort of thing, but... ew.

She watched as Rogers pointed at her, then at himself, his face making that snarling, lip curled look, and felt a quick flash of heat spike through her. She frowned lightly, confused. It was similar to the one she had felt when Rogers kissed her this morning. The one that had made her breasts tingle slightly, and made her respond the way she had. It was very confusing. She didn't know what that was about, so she filed it away to ask Kitty about, when she got back to New York.

Speaking of, that had been the plan, but Rogers had pointed out that there was blood on the front seat. She simply didn't see an issue with it, but Rogers shook his head.

The men finished their conversation, and returned to the table.

"Sam and I are going to go clean that SUV. I would like you to go take a nap while we are gone, and maybe take a shower. When we get back, I will change your dressing, and then you and I can go back to New York." Rogers said, picking up her plate and glass. "Would you like some water?"

Brooklyn frowned. "I don't mind driving the car the way it is. And why are we going back together? What about your vehicle?"

"I took the train down." Rogers explained. "And you cant drive it with the seat full of blood. It's not sanitary."
Wilson shook his head. "Steve, maybe-"

"I said no, Sam." Rogers glared at Wilson. "We are going back, together, because I am not sure how I feel about you driving after being shot, and after how you broke down, earlier."

"I can take care of myself." She protested.

"Babydoll, remember what we talked about?" He raised an eyebrow.

Brooklyn shook her head. "I don't understand."

"This is me, taking care of you." He leaned down and kissed her. Not one of those open mouth ones he was so fond of, but one of the quick ones that he used to do. Not that it was quick, or gentle. Firm and lingering, she figured, were good descriptors. "Please, go take a nap. Relax. Take a shower."

And that was how, four hours later, she found herself buckled into the passenger seat of her borrowed SUV, going north, with Steve Rogers in the driver's seat. He had on his sunglasses and his baseball cap, his right hand holding her left, occasionally bringing it up to kiss the back of. His shield, in its leather case, was buckled (BUCKLED! FOR GOD'S SAKE) in the backseat, and her gear stowed in the back. He had fiddled with the radio, before sighing and leaving it on a classical music station.

They were just outside of DC when he pulled off the freeway, muttering something about needing something to drink, and that they were going to need gas before they got too far. He pulled into a Shell station, parking next to a pump, and turning to her.

"Do you want to go in, get something to drink, maybe something to eat, while we are here? I was thinking we could grab something, a little closer to home, but that's a while yet." He nodded towards the mini-mart. "It's over four hours, just to get home. And depending on the traffic, and the toll booths, even that's iffy."

Brooklyn thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "Sure. That sounds like a good idea. Do you want me to go in, and get you something?"

"I can go in with you." He smiled, kissing the back of her hand.

They ended up wandering the aisles a bit, Brooklyn still confused about some of the things sold. Who wanted chips that tasted like avocados? But Rogers followed her, pointing out things, even putting things in the basket he carried. The man was odd. He liked salted chips, but didn't like the nacho flavored ones. He liked chocolate, but only if it had nuts in it. When she put a bag of gummy bears in the basket, he raised an eyebrow, but wisely didn't say anything. Then again, she kept her silence when he tossed a bag of beef jerky in the basket. The beverage section was just another slice on how they had different taste. Rogers immediately grabbed a coke, while she got a strange look from him when she pulled out a grapefruit flavored soda.

Then she got distracted by the shiny tourist souvenirs. The section of the store was bursting with Washington DC memorabilia. She giggled when she found a water globe of the White House, which played 'Hail to the Chief'. It was too cute, so she decided to buy it. She held it in her hand, shaking it, watching the little glitter cascade down on the wax model, over and over, while they waited in line.

Rogers began unloading the basket, and without thinking, Brooklyn began separating her purchases from his. He stopped her, and pushed her stuff back in with his, reaching for the water globe. Brooklyn pulled it away, confused.

"I can buy my stuff." She objected.

"Brooklyn." He intoned, that bossy tone back. "Give me the globe."

"I can buy my own stuff." She reiterated.

"Brooklyn." He held out his hand. "Give me the water globe."

They stared at each other, both refusing to back down, until the person behind them cleared their throat. Brooklyn blinked, and flushing, handed the globe over.

"Thank you, Babydoll." Rogers smiled, leaning down to kiss her quickly, pulling out his wallet. "And forty on pump five, please."

He handed over a credit card, handing the bags to Brooklyn, before signing the touch pad. Then he placed his hand in the small of Brooklyn's back, and escorted her out of the store.

"I could have paid for my things." She pointed out.

"I told you." He looked down at her. "It's my job to take care of you now. If it's a chocolate bar, or a water globe, I can take care of it."

She huffed, but let him lead her back to the SUV, waiting as he opened the door, and helped her in. Brooklyn pulled out their drinks, putting the bottles in to the cup holders, while also pulling out the small bag of nacho chips she had had a sudden craving for. Opening the bag, she popped one in her mouth, while Rogers pumped the gas into the SUV.

When he got back into the driver's seat, he was grumbling about the gas prices. "I remember when gas was twenty cents a gallon." He grumped, as he buckled himself in.

"Didn't you also have to wait for the dinosaurs to die first, though, to harvest the oil?" She asked, popping another chip in her mouth.

He chuffed out a laugh, shaking his head. "I'm not that old."

"Huh. Must have mistaken you for some other ancient artifact thawed from the ice." She grinned.

Rogers snorted and pulled out of the station.