James is silent for a long moment. He doesn't know if admitting it has really done anything. He doesn't feel better in some way. All of the tension has set in again, and there's a sick, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. He doesn't need to see Steve to know that he's upset. He's thinking over everything James has said and blaming himself for not being there to stop it. He'd thought he could protect Steve from that, if nothing else.

There's no way to pretend that the things that were done to him, the things he did, didn't happen -- but he'd thought he could bury the effect they have on him now, like the scars his body no longer carries.

It's not just Steve he's been trying to protect. There's a certain kind of shame in admitting that he isn't anywhere near fine, even in a moment of thoughtlessness and spite. It's been months. He answers to his name and caries on whole conversations. He's smiled, he's laughed, he's joked around. He's felt okay, even good sometimes. But he still wakes up screaming in the middle of the night. He still spends whole days in bed, wishing his nonexistence had been more complete. He still knows the particular cold, wishful press of a gun barrel under his chin.

At least he's admitting it, Steve says. So really, he isn't fooling anyone but himself.

He cards his fingers into his hair like he's going to rake it out of his face, but instead his hand stops short, and he pulls at it, a habit borne of frustration. Acknowledge how bad it is. Reclaim his body. He laughs, a short, bitter, slightly hysterical sound.

"How? I could carve my name and serial number into the arm I've got left and it would be gone in a day. I didn't ask for this, I didn't want this... I can't..."