Outings
It only took twice the usual amount of coffee to make you feel like a functioning human being again after staying up half the night, something you’d last done during your final finals week at MIT. So, after making sure your guest was good on his own you headed off to work. You had just gotten through the last of your mail, the day’s newspapers (still filled with stories about the fall of SHIELD, the HYDRA affair, and the mysterious assassin they now called the ‘Winter Soldier’) and three more cups of coffee when your secretary Pam poked her head in through the door.
“Hey boss, I’ve got Madam Over-Boss for you on three. And after that Doctor Laing wants to talk to you about the neural links, something about nerve relays. Hey, why are you researching amnesia?”
“Don’t call her that. She owns us.” You shot back at the slightly younger woman, a hint of reproach in your voice as you quickly changed to another window on your computer.
“Did she say what she wanted? The telephone conference isn’t until two.” Pam just shrugged her shoulders. You sighed and told her to put the call through to you. A hint of nervousness pulsed through you, but you pushed it down. It was entirely your own private business who you took into your home, even if they happened to be amnesiac fugitives from a recently exposed fascist cult. Besides, no one knew he was with you anyway (at least as far as you knew). In any case you hoped the phone call as well as the talk with the good and brilliant, if sometimes somewhat skittish doctor would leave you with enough time for your usual mid-day stint in the gym. You quickly fixed your hair before accepting the call via the video interface, upon which you were greeted by the holographic transmission of a sharply dressed woman with strawberry blonde hair.
“Good morning Miss Potts, how may I help you?”
---
Steve ran a hand through his hair in agitation. He knew this wouldn’t be an easy undertaking, but he’d hoped for some kind of clue, a tiny subtle trace of breadcrumbs at least. But so far they’d only run into dead ends. Even Natasha’s file didn’t help with their search. It was like Bucky had dropped off the face of the earth, and he half feared that still existing HYDRA elements had gotten their hands on him and put him back on ice (or out of commission permanently, but that was a train of thought he did not particularly want to pursue). Yet after searching underground HYDRA facilities in the greater DC area, then the state, then the neighboring states, all he and Sam had found was the bank vault where Bucky had last been kept. Bucky hadn’t been there, and no HYDRA agent was to be found either. Just an empty cryostasis chamber (with telling scratch marks on the inside) and the machine they had apparently used to erase his memories. It had taken Sam all his powers of persuasion and reasoning to stop Steve from smashing the damn thing with his bare hands, and with Maria Hill’s help it had been delivered to Stark’s place in New York, in the hope that taking it apart may help them understand what exactly HYDRA had done to Bucky and thus how they might help him regain his memories, should they ever find him that is. But there was still no trace of Bucky himself; he appeared to have vanished into thin air after laying him down on that river bank.
“It’s a dead end.” Sam declared with finality. Steve grunted obstinately, making the other man sigh.
“We wasted too much time. The trace has gone cold by now.” The Captain said caustically. Sam rolled his eyes.
“Patching you back up after you almost died is not wasting time.” He observed patiently, though not for the first time. Steve didn’t answer, just stared doggedly at the empty file cabinets in front of him as if they would reveal their secrets if he only stared hard enough.
“We’re at the end of our rope here, man.” Sam tried to reason. “This is the kind of spy, secret government agency stuff we’re no good for. We’re out of our depth here, Steve. Let’s call in for some help.” Now it was Steve’s turn to sigh. He tore his eyes away from the cabinets and locked them on Sam unwillingly. Sam held out a phone for him, the number at the ready. “Just one little call.”
Steve gulped and took the phone, pressing the dial button.
---
The Winter Soldier – loathed referring to himself by that description, but he presently lacked a better one. At least ‘Winter Soldier’ held a smidgeon more identity than ‘the asset’. The man in the blue, red and white suit had given him a name, but through the muddle of his tattered brain he couldn’t make it out anymore. Whenever he tried recalling their fight on the Helicarrier the usual and constant dull pain in his skull flared up, drowning out the words. He spent three hours trying to pierce through the haze, scribbling away on the notepad you’d given him with cramping fingers – to no avail. It only ended with him throwing up in the bathroom again, head feeling like it would split open down the middle any minute. He needed something else to occupy his mind, a tool that would help him focus and pull through the confusing flashes of disjointed images flooding through his brain. Washing the dishes had proved unexpectedly useful in this, but he’d already done that. So, after wiping down the kitchen counter and dusting off every shelf in your apartment he found himself at a bit of an impasse. This was the exact moment Becky the cat chose to knock over the laundry basket, sending sheets and towels spilling everywhere. Becky looked up at her newly adopted human with big, pleading kitten eyes from within her inadvertent towel nest and meowed softly.
“Good idea, B.” He murmured, his voice tinged with a sense of triumph, as he gathered up the laundry and headed for the washing machine that was thankfully inside your apartment. It didn’t take him long to figure out how to work the machine, and he dialed in the appropriate settings after shoving the first load inside.
“Hey champ, I’m twenty minutes away, but I gotta go grocery shopping. You wanna come hit the shops with me? If you feel up to it, that is. Might be more fun than burrowing inside all day every day.” You said by way of greeting after he had picked up the receiver, which frankly you hadn’t been sure he would. At least you thought he picked up. The click had been there, but all that answered you was the already characteristic silence, which was fine and dandy in face-to-face interaction, but over the phone – really not ideal. (though you thought you heard a soft meow in the background.)
“Hello? Roommate?” you prompted again, feeling vaguely hopeful. Well, more vaguely than hopeful, though you felt the two of you had made some progress already. You were just about to bribe him with the promise of cookies or gummy bears or something like that (blueberries perhaps, he had seemed to like those; perhaps you’d bake some blueberry muffins on the weekend, you hadn’t made any in ages – if your piled up household chores left you with enough time that is; the place needed some dusting and you hadn’t done laundry in ages) when you were answered with a soft ‘Okay.’
True enough, he sat at the dinner table expectantly and fully dressed when you arrived. It smelled faintly of laundry detergent, which was odd, but you decided it was probably just your psyche playing tricks on you; perhaps it was an underlying sense of guilt for neglecting your chores for so long. You called out to him that you only needed a minute to go through the apartment and complete your shopping list which you had already started during the day. You quickly swept through various drawers and cupboards, noting which containers were nearing their end and needed to be replaced. When you made your way into the bathroom, you were astonished to find your sheets and towels no longer dirty and crumpled, but clean, fresh and neatly folded, ready to be put away. You poked your head back out with an incredulous expression, staring for a moment at the man who was still sitting innocuously in your living room.
“Either you did the laundry or the cat is a household fairy in disguise.” He looked down in what you were tempted to describe as bashfulness. “I don’t know what to say.” You admitted sheepishly. He didn’t answer, of course, but by now you were almost used to it. It would have stunned you more to receive a reply at this point. You folded your completed list and snatched your purse and keys.
“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that, but thank you.” You said sincerely. This time you received a little nod in acknowledgement. You smiled and held open the door.
“Onward to more household chores!”
He strode through the supermarket with you, trailing you closely with hunched shoulders and hands thrust deep into his jacket pockets, meek and uncertain and not unlike an overgrown duckling. After crossing almost everything off your list and filling up your cart quite generously, you almost lost each other after rounding into the cereal aisle. You hadn’t noticed until you turned around to ask his opinion on Cinnamon Crunch vs Cheerios and the space behind your right shoulder was curiously empty. You found him with his back pressed closely to the spine of the shelves, eyes scanning frantically over the people in the hallways, none of which were you. A small child regarded the scene with their head tilted and their eyebrows furrowed.
“Your boyfriend looks scared, Miss.” It observed thoughtfully.
“Go find your parents.” You told the child flatly, taking your broody little duckling by the sleeve and gently guiding him back to your trolley.
“You okay there, champ?” you asked him levelly, keeping your voice deliberately calm and reassuring. He didn’t react, just stared straight ahead looking haggard and hunted. You very, very, exceedingly gently took his hands in yours. They were trembling.
“Let’s go home.” You decided and headed off in the direction of the check-outs.
The drive back to your apartment was spent in tense silence. You could actually feel the tension rolling off of your inadvertent house guest in waves, though as per usual he didn’t say anything. Not until prompted, anyway.
“You look like hell, soldier.” You observed after parking the car. He winced and instinctively cradled his left arm closer to him.
“How do you know I am… was a soldier?” he rasped morosely. You bit back any and all snarky, sarcastic and otherwise unhelpful comments.
“Well, between the thousand yard stares, obvious combat training and constant nightmares it’s not really hard to tell.” You answered, trying to sound diplomatic. “I don’t suppose it makes much sense asking you where you served, since you probably don’t remember…”
“I…no – there were mountains… high mountains…it was winter…I think I remember snow…” he started shivering then, as if the memory itself chilled him, vague as it apparently was. The constant dull ache in his skull spiked again, and he pressed his palms to his temples to alleviate it. You had no idea what to do, so you decided it was probably best not to crowd or pressure him, instead musing on his answer. Snowy mountains didn’t exactly fit in with Iraq or Afghanistan, so where could he have served? For a moment you lost him to his hazy memories. He came back with a heavy shudder and a vehement shake of his head.
“I almost snapped out there.” He admitted quietly, his voice heartbreakingly small. “It was so bright and so many people I almost couldn’t…I might have hurt someone. I might have hurt you.” He said remorsefully. Your heart sank as you considered for a moment that you had put him under stress, even unwittingly, and placed others in potential danger.
“But you didn’t.” you concluded eventually, causing him to fix you in a disbelieving stare. You replied levelly, extending your hands again, palms upward.
“You say you almost lost it, but you didn’t. You didn’t, and nobody got hurt; that’s all that matters. I wouldn’t have put you in that position of I’d guessed that it might trigger something, and really, I’m sorry, but at the end of the day everyone is okay. You handled it. You managed it; that’s what counts.” He considered this, but seemed unconvinced, looking down at his clenched fists miserably. You hated how he bottled everything up inside.
“Look, you don’t have to talk to me about it if you don’t want. Tell Becky, tell the TV set, hell, tell the damn wall, just don’t hold it all in.”
“You don’t know what I am capable of.” He ground out between clenched teeth, seemingly ignoring your previous statement. You sighed irritably. Why couldn’t he at least have waited until you were inside and your groceries put away for this dash down Angst Avenue? Sighing more, you unbuckled your seat belt and reached for your purse, reminding yourself to be patient with him and his various traumas that you had no real clue how to deal with.
“Well, I’m capable of splitting a man’s skull with a frying pan without feeling too bad about it, so…” you waved your hands vaguely, earning a frown. In fact, you were capable of a lot more than that if people you cared about (read: Skye) were in danger, but your exploits with other means of inflicting harm were a confession for another time. When you received no further reply, you got out of the car and went to grab the grocery bags from the trunk. You heard the passenger door click open and shut, but you didn’t hear his steps coming up behind you and started a little when his hand shot out to take an obscene number of the heavily laden plastic bags as if they weighed nothing at all. You pursed your lips, grabbed the remaining bags, and hurried after him after locking up your car. It seemed like he was done talking for the moment (and possibly the rest of the day, too), so you passed the short elevator ride in silence. You tried to ignore the gloominess coming off him while finally putting away your groceries, but it was grating at you nonetheless. Not wanting to cook dinner with anger in your stomach, you turned to him after the last item had been stowed into its proper place, hands set on your hips confrontationally. You were only able to get out an aggravated ‘Now listen he…’ before being interrupted.
“You don’t know what you are getting yourself into.” He said, voice thin with adjuration. You frowned up at him darkly. He dropped his gaze to the floor, suddenly very interested in the pattern of the kitchen tiles.
“Now that is just offensively patronizing.” You informed him sourly. “It’s my decision what I do or do not ‘get myself into’ and it’s been made.”
He balked, perturbed at your lack of fear or even just vexation. Facing HYDRA should probably scare you a lot more than it currently did (though even if it had you would not abandon a friend to people like them). You shrugged vaguely, maintaining your scowl for good measure. Let them come; you had already caved in the skull of one of theirs with your frying pan. You still had your trusty baseball bat, which you were pretty handy with, having played for most of your life. Let those HYDRA bastards come, you thought.
“Two years ago, aliens descended upon New York and tried to take over the world. A hammer-swinging hunk from the realm of myths has fought some weird elf-dudes in London this spring while some sort of space dimension portal was happening. One of the richest people on the planet flies around fighting crime in a self-made tin can. Before all that Harlem was all but levelled by two giant creatures, and as it turns out now the world’s espionage apparatus has been infiltrated by some fascist cult all along. The world is a much stranger place than we were made to believe when we were kids. Really, at this point a talking raccoon and a walking tree dropping out of the sky wouldn’t surprise me. I’ve decided to just accept the weirdness and carry on with my life; it’s not like I can do anything about it.”
“…A talking raccoon?” he questioned after just staring at you dumbfounded for a moment.
“Oh yeah, you’re right, already have that – well, at least since you’ve actually started talking.” The look you got in response was completely worth it.
“You are very odd.” He declared eventually, raising a skeptic eyebrow.
“Oh, the metal-armed amnesiac calls me odd, that’s quite rich.” You quipped cheekily, your previous ire having thankfully dissipated in the meantime.
“I thought you just accept the weirdness.” He shot back. You thought you heard a trace of sarcasm in his tone, indicating that he might actually be trying to make a joke. You smirked.
“Acknowledging that something is out of the ordinary and deciding not to be fazed by it are two different things.”