Chapter 11
Voices disturb my slumber. I groan as I come to, noticing the strain on my muscles as I stretch my limbs one by one, each feeling heavier than the last. It’s a similar feeling to the ache I feel after an intense workout, except that particular ache is somewhat enjoyable.
Finally opening my eyes, I sit myself up slowly, and as I do, the voices that woke me seem to get louder. The walls and doors in my apartment are pretty solid, and whilst my senses are still heavy and hazy with sleep, the words are being distorted to a point where I can’t understand them. I rub my eyes in an attempt to wake myself up, so I can hone in on the sound, but I don’t get a chance. My front door slams abruptly, suggesting someone left in a hurry.
I frown, pulling myself out of bed. With the current state of my body, I’m impressed that I’m still standing after a few seconds. My legs wobble as I walk towards my bedroom door, leaning on the frame for support after opening it. Sharon’s still here after last night's ordeal, but her eyes are closed, her head tilted back, and her lips part to let out a sigh. She’s standing at the end of the hallway, as if she was making her way to the front door. Where’s Bucky?
“Gone. Sorry.” Sharon’s arms fall to her sides, hitting her thighs with a slap.
Did I ask that out loud?
“You hear any of that?” Sharon asks, to which I instantly shake my head no. I feel the pull from my shoulders as I move my head.
“I heard noise, but that’s all.”
The soreness of my throat makes me wince. My voice is gravelly, and my throat feels rough and gritty to match. I’m not surprised, I thought my trachea was going to cave in last night, it did well to withstand the power of a solid, vibranium limb.
“Do you know where he’s going?”
“Afraid not. It’d be best for him to go to campus, but I imagine that’s the last place he’ll want to be right now.”
I nod. It’s logical, all things considered, but I wish I knew. I could bolt to the door, swing it open and attempt to catch up to Bucky. I know it’d be pointless, given my current state. Exhausted, moderately injured, and only wearing my pyjamas, my feet bare.
“I made a call last night. There’s a safe house you can stay in until this all blows over. They won’t risk you at campus just yet, in case Bucky turns up.”
“I don’t need a safe house, Sharon. I’ll be fine here.”
“Not a good idea. We don’t know if Zemo needs any more intel.”
I close my eyes, exhaling. Zemo knows who I am now, and we can’t say for certain if that's where the familiarity will end. Sharon’s right, what if he’s not done? What if he comes back for me if he can’t force any more information out of Bucky? He seems to think we’re well acquainted, he might think that I know something.
I fold my arms to keep them warm, only wearing a camisole, so my skin is exposed to the warm climate.
“Is he alright?” I croak, swallowing thickly.
“He’s mortified.”
I sigh, bowing my head towards my folded arms.
“He wanted to see you.” Sharon adds, my head creeping upwards. “But I said no.”
“What? Why?”
“He wanted to see what damage he’d done. Told him he’d be better off not knowing.” She raises her eyebrows, gesturing at my throat.
I haven’t looked at my appearance since last night, and I don’t plan on doing so, either. I can feel the pain more than enough, there’s no need to assess it. My trachea feels like it’s on fire, like a hot branding iron was forced down my throat, destroying the delicate tissue. My arms and legs burn similarly,
“Shit, Sharon, he didn’t mean to do it.” I say, hoarsely, almost a whisper. The dryness in my throat compels me to the kitchen to get some water.
I reach for a glass to fill under the tap, but I stop my arm mid-action, catching a glimpse of the bruised, swollen skin, moments after not wanting to focus on my injuries. I recall blocking a punch with this arm, and I’m still shocked that the damage isn’t extensive.
“In his mind, intent doesn’t matter.” Sharon mumbles.
I grab the glass, also reaching to the shelf above for some painkillers.
I swallow both the water and the pills quickly, but the pain in my throat is difficult to ignore. I wince and I strain, neither of which help alleviate the symptoms.
God, Bucky must feel terrible. Just the thought of him being a victim to his own mind, clawing his way out of the clutches of Hydra, only to succumb once more, is a lot to bear. In addition to that, his fate fell into the hands of a desperate man, yearning for someone to compensate for his loss. Unfortunately for Bucky, Zemo thinks of him as the perfect solution, so much so, he’s used him before.
Sharon walks toward my front door, a sense of urgency in her steps. My eyes follow her.
“I’m gonna do a quick sweep. Get your things together and we’ll head off.”
“Thanks, Sharon.” I say, and she smiles, slipping out of the door quietly, shutting it behind her. I let out a sigh as she leaves, not letting myself have a moment to think before going to get my stuff together, it’s easier that way. I quickly freshen before changing, hoping to have a proper shower at the safe house. I painfully pull on a pair of jeans, and a cashmere high-neck, tucking the front behind my belt buckle and let the rest hang loose. A long duster jacket drapes over my shoulders, and I crouch down to slip on my boots, my legs aching some more as I stretch the muscle. The rest of my body pretty much feels the same way.
I reach under my bed to grab my duffel bag, setting it on top to pack some of my belongings, a few basics already sitting in there, in case of emergencies. Like now, I guess. Taking a sweater off the hook behind my door to toss into the bag, I pause, realising that it’s Bucky’s. It still smells of him.
I actually think it could’ve belonged to Steve Rogers, before Bucky, which is a funny old thought. He mentioned once that Steve left a lot of clothes behind, and he picked a couple of things that he liked. He doesn’t seem to buy many clothes for himself, so there’s a chance that this was a hand-me-down. It’s a simple, black pullover, much unlike the checked shirts and beige chinos in Steve’s wardrobe that Bucky dodged. I remember the sound of his laughter when he told me that last part.
I bring the soft fabric up to my nose, inhaling softly. I smile, smelling the aftershave that he uses to mask the smell of tobacco underneath. I told him the first time that I caught him smoking that it’s a terrible habit, but his reply was simple;
“Doesn’t affect me the same.”
“You don’t know that.” I replied, to which he shrugged, and brought the cigarette to his lips to inhale the smoke. My mouth turned down, realising he doesn’t really care.
“Meh. I’ve lived long enough, anyway.” He said, like it was obvious, blowing the smoke in the opposite direction, flicking the ash onto the floor. I remember thinking to myself at the time about how he’s lived for such a long time, but hasn’t really lived, yet. There’s still so much he hasn’t done.
As I fold the hoodie into the bag. I hear the click and turn of the door knob, Sharon announcing her presence shortly after, and I call back, trying to shake away my thoughts, quickly finishing packing my last necessities before I go to meet her in the hallway. I grab a scarf, flinging it around my neck for extra coverage, and extra warmth.
“We’re clear.” She announces with a curt nod, crossing the room to pick up a couple of things she left on the couch whilst investigating the building. “You ready?”
I reply with a small “Okay.”, the sensation of speech scratching my throat. I hold my bag in the air as a ‘go’ sign, placing it on my shoulder. Once satisfied, Sharon passes me, and I follow her out the door.
After a short journey to Canal Street, not filled with much chatter, Sharon steps on the brake, stopping the car.
“Take the Q line, choose a busy car, and I’ll text over the address.” She puts her hand in her pocket, rummaging around for something, pulling out a small burner phone. I hold out my hand instinctively, and she plops the phone into my hand. “You remember how to lose a tail, right?”
I nod quickly, wincing at the pain in my throat, dropping the phone into my pocket.
“Act like it, just in case, and you’ll be fine. Any issues…” She looks over her shoulder quickly, most likely a habit, turning back to be shortly after. “Call me.”
“Thank you.” I say quickly, grabbing the handle on the door, then my bag, but before I can slip out of the vehicle, Sharon grabs my arm.
“One last thing.” She says abruptly, letting go of my arm once she’s sure I won’t leave the car prematurely. “There are some pictures of you and Barnes circling social media, from the restaurant.”
“What?!” I hiss, unable to loudly voice my concern. My eyes widen as my cheeks grow hot.
“Why?” I ask, although I probably already know the answer. I forget just how well known Bucky is sometimes. Although he’s been cleared of the shit he did in the past, he’s still infamous to a portion of the public, some still holding a grudge against him for his actions, even if they weren’t his own. Our… relationship… has always been private. Last night was one of the few times we’ve ventured out in public together, and although there was no obvious public affection, there must be something to be said for the two of us sharing dinner together. I hadn’t thought about what could happen if rumours began to spread. Not just what it could mean for him, but for me, too.
“The public wants to know our business. It’s just something you get used to.” Sharon says. It doesn’t come as a surprise that she’s been through this before. “Just be extra careful, okay?”
“Yeah okay.” I sigh, opening the door, preparing to disappear. “Thanks, Sharon.” I shut the door, taking a few steps before descending to the subway.
I race down the stairs, slaloming between slow walkers with their heads down, not a care in the world. I unzip my bag slightly, tugging on the baseball cap at the top. I pull the cap out as I turn a corner, pulling it onto my head, using the camouflage of the crowd to blend in. My phone vibrates, but I ignore it, knowing that it will be Sharon sending the address of the safe house. I keep my head down as much as possible, only enough to keep myself from crashing into other people, and also to navigate towards the correct subway line.
In the thick of it all, it’s easy to forget the root cause of my issue. I’m running away from a terrorist because of a damn office fling, with a super soldier, no less. My taste in lovers is hilariously tragic, but at least this time, he’s not the one I’m running from.
For a couple of minutes, I waited at the platform, as a suspicious woman dressed in all black, and a matching cap on my head. I jump into one of the cars, the busiest one, much to my disgust, as the train screeches to a halt. My eyes dart around the car quickly, trying to spot any familiar faces, but none spring out at me. I take a seat at the end of the aisle, setting my bag between my feet, squeezing tightly enough that nobody could grab it and run. My hand dives into my pocket, fumbling with the phone gifted to me by Sharon, and a notification pops up on the screen.
1 New Message
I tap a few buttons, bringing up the messages screen so I can read the text.
Text Message
Carter, Sharon:
“Stop at Avenue U.
2120 E 1st Street, Brooklyn.
Chinese Restaurant on your right.
Loose brick in wall at back for key.
Don’t stop. Don’t talk to ANYONE.
S.”
Brooklyn? I roll my eyes. Surely shipping me an hour away is a little bit unnecessary. If I was a civilian, sure, I could understand it, but I’m a damn SHIELD agent, I should be trusted to protect myself. Either way, I’m not in a position to question authority, since there’s an Avenger’s safety at stake, as well as my own. I’d be stupid to argue with that.
After forty minutes, my stop is called, and I sigh with relief, as it becomes increasingly difficult not to fall asleep in my seat. I stand, grateful that everyone in the car decided to mind their own business, and throw my bag over my shoulder once more, making my way towards the exit.
Once stepping off the metro, I climb down the stairs, inhaling the cool air, turning to my right to seek out the Chinese restaurant. I use it to find my way to the safe house as Sharon instructed, coming to the correct street after a brisk walk. E 1st Street, Brooklyn. Taking a last look over my shoulder, satisfied that nobody has followed me, I turn down the street.
A house with a number reading ‘2120’ now stands in front of me, and surprisingly, it’s pretty well kept. A simple, red brick building with a white door, empty plant pots scattering the front yard. I don’t dwell on its appearance for much longer, instead, heading around the back to find the key.
Loose brick, loose brick, loose…
“Got it.” I mumble, shimmying the brick away from the wall, revealing a small plastic bag, with a key inside it. I grab the bag and replace the brick, walking up the small set of stairs to the back door, internally cheering as the door unlocks.
Setting my bag down on the kitchen table, I take a quick look around. It’s a normal looking house, really, nothing looks to be out of the ordinary. The back door brought me into a small ‘L’ shaped kitchen. To my left, the sink sits underneath the small window that looks out to the back yard. Dark, wooden cupboards and units run along the left wall, yellowing tiles sitting in between them. Rooting through a couple of cupboards, I can see a handful of tins, packets of pasta, stuff that would last a good amount of time, but not enough to keep me going, depending on how long I need to stay. Sharon didn’t get around to discussing that part with me.
The bottom floor is open plan, so the living area is attached to the kitchen. A beige sofa faces the front window, separating the space into what feels like two rooms. To the left of that, a bookshelf that matches the kitchen units, neatly stacked with an assortment of entertainment. There’s a large coffee table in front of the sofa, decorated with a small vase of faux flowers, the dark wood theme continuing to run through the ground floor. To the right are the stairs, which lead up to three comfortable sized rooms, the bathroom straight ahead, the first bedroom next to that, and a second bedroom at the front of the house.
There’s nothing notable about the three rooms, except that they’re all painted with the same shade of beige. The bathroom is simple, only large enough to house the toilet, sink, and a standard looking bathtub, with a shower head plumbed over the top. The first bedroom has a double bed, double dresser and a floor standing mirror, not to my surprise, edged in dark wood. The second bedroom is almost identical, but slightly smaller, so the double bed is replaced with a single instead.
After the brief tour, I walk into the larger bedroom, perching on the end of the bed, my bag falling off my shoulder next to me. The mattress feels comfy at first pass, thankfully. I pull the cap from my head, push my coat off my shoulders, and take the phone from my pocket. Right now, the only person I know I can trust is Sharon, so subsequently, I open our message thread. Quickly contemplating whether to call, I settle for a text instead.
New Message:
To Carter, Sharon:
‘Safe house secure.
Keep me updated.’
I sign the text with my initials and hit send, starting to fill my spare time by returning downstairs, throwing my coat and hat over the bannister. I quickly check the front door is locked, turning the doorknob, satisfied that the door doesn't budge when I pull at it, before heading back to the bedroom, although not particularly necessary, I start to unpack my bag. Mainly to pass the time, but also to have a look at what’s in there. Apart from the belongings I packed this morning, It’s been a while since I checked the rest of the contents.
After the Ward situation, I was paranoid for a long time. I always had a bag ready to grab and go, just in case he sent someone to find me, or worst case scenario, he came back for me himself. When Grant’s death was revealed to the public, I was glad for the closure, finally able to stop looking over my shoulder, avoiding specific areas, reducing my time in public… I could start again. Working for SHIELD, I was able to learn the circumstances of his death, and to no avail, he died exactly how he lived; in vain.
Until now, I pushed myself away from the field, to wrap myself in bubble wrap, settling for a desk job at HQ.
The running, hiding, and pulling the grab bag from under my bed brings back a lot of memories. The one thing I didn’t give up was the money he left behind. He had nobody else, nobody but me, so legally, that’s where it was left. The money was dirty, tainted, but I told myself to use it for good. I bought my apartment, Grant’s money providing me more security than he ever had.
I dig at the clothes in my bag, pulling them out and stacking into a pile on the bed, looking for something underneath. I move another dark piece of clothing, seeing a small, metal case underneath, the one I was looking for. I pull the case out, placing it down on the bed, my fingers running over the keypad next to the handle. I input the memorised pattern, unlocking the case.
Two weapons - firstly, my old combat knife, a sawtooth blade concealed by a sheath, one I could attach to a belt. Secondly, a SHIELD issued handgun, which was a P229 at the time. Both haven’t been used for some time, but surprisingly, nobody ever asked me to return them when I left the field. Right now, I’m glad I kept hold of them. I check the magazine in the gun, placing it back on the bed after confirming it was fully loaded. I pick up the sheath, which I slot into my boot for safekeeping. There are most likely weapons stored in this house, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.
The phone vibrates on the bed, and on the assumption that it’s Sharon, I go to grab it, but the number isn’t saved. I frown, looking closer at the screen.
Incoming Call:
Unknown
I swallow. I know I shouldn’t answer it. Sharon’s text message replays in my head; ‘Don’t talk to anyone’, but my curiosity gets the better of me, so I press to answer it.
I pull the phone to my ear, waiting to hear what’s on the other end. I take a quick peek out of the bedroom window, not seeing anything suspicious, grabbing the gun and heading to the stairs.
I don’t hear anything for a few seconds, before I speak up.
“Who is this?” I balance the phone between my shoulder and ear, swapping the gun to my dominant hand, picking the phone up with the other. My throat burns at the movement, so I make it quick.
“Me.” The voice is gruff, but even one word that comes through a bad line, it’s distinguished enough to me. I sigh, taking a seat on the bottom step, my thighs aching terribly on the way down.
“How the hell did you get this number?” I whisper down the phone, still being cautious.
“I need to see you.” Bucky mumbles, and I can tell he’s trying to be quiet. “Just once.” I can hear muffled chatter, car horns, etcetera. Nothing to decipher his location, just general New York City noise.
“You’re avoiding my question.”
“Please…”
“I can’t.”
He laughs with irony, but you can tell that my words hurt. “Probably safer that way, right?”
“You know it’s not my fault.” I say with my voice raised, sighing as I realise my own aggression. “I can’t tell anyone, not until this blows over.” I speak softly this time.
“So, what? You’re just being kept hidden away?” He huffs, and the line cracks, like he’s adjusting his grip. “What happened to them making use of your skills?”
“I was compromised. It's procedure.”
“Fuck procedure.”
“You wouldn’t be saying that if it was someone else.”
“Damn right. I don’t give a shit about anyone else.” He speaks bluntly, but is not absent of emotion. I can hear his sadness as he speaks.
“If you give a shit about me, Barnes, you should understand the situation that I’m in.”
“Of course I fucking understand.” Bucky snaps, followed by a bout of silence, whilst he presumably calms himself down.
“It’s not that I don't want to see you, but I shouldn’t be talking to anyone right now, especially you.” I mutter into the silence, and I hear a low chuckle, but he definitely isn’t finding this funny. Nor am I.
“I know. I just wanted to hear your voice one last time, selfishly.”
My stomach drops, and I straighten my posture. What does he mean?
“Don’t say things like that.”
“I was kinda’ testing you, to see if you’d invite me over, just for today, but you were smart not to. I don’t know what I expected.” Bucky chuckles, but it trails off, and I can almost hear the frown. “I’d have liked to tell you this in person, but… but I can’t see you anymore. Not after this.”
My heart sinks.
“Don’t play games with me.”
“I’m not.”
“Barnes, I swear I’ll-”
“You’ll what?” He questions. I stay quiet, correctly assuming he’s speaking rhetorically. “I can practically hear the damage I’ve done.” He huffs, referring to my slightly gruff voice.
“It’s not your-”
“I don’t wanna hear it. Have you looked in the mirror today?” He asks, cutting me off. The way he asks the question makes me think he already knows my answer. He can read me like a damn book.
“Yes.” I lie, swallowing
“No, you haven’t.”
“What does it matter?” I’m exasperated, frustrated with everything. “It doesn’t change anything.”
“It changes everything. I could’ve killed you, that’s not something you can ignore.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Yeah, and I’m making sure it stays that way.”
“Wait-”
The line goes dead.
“Motherfucker!” I shout, instantly regretting it with the state that my throat is in. I wince, holding back a cry of pain, which hurts even more. It’s like shards of glass are scratching at my flesh, cutting me up from the inside.
My hands hold the burner phone and the pistol, shaking at my sides, not knowing what to do. After taking a moment to gain my composure, I carefully blow out a breath, heading to the kitchen to get some water, tucking the gun into my waistband. Still holding the phone, it vibrates in my hand, and I quickly bring it into eyesight. This time it’s Sharon, confirming she received my message. I sigh, but laugh afterwards, catching myself upset that the text isn’t from Bucky.
The bastard hung up on me. He didn’t want to hear what I had to say. He’s taking the blame, beating himself up about it, and I can’t even call him back.
I wipe the spilled tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand, as I pace around downstairs, trying to keep myself occupied. I check each door and window to make sure they’re locked, again, and have another root around the cupboards, but I can’t stop thinking about him. I squeeze my eyes shut, swallowing, the pain just another reminder of the shitstorm that’s still blowing over.
I take myself back upstairs, setting the gun on the bedside cabinet, not bothering to undress as I tuck myself under the covers. There isn’t much else to do than sleep, so I might as well try.