Bucharest, 2016
21st April
Bucharest, Romania
The scent of rotting fruit hung in the still air of the dark apartment, sickly sweet and sour. The bowl of old plums hadn’t attracted flies yet, but it was only a matter of time. No doubt if the papered-over windows were ever opened, then they’d come in force, but they remained shuttered and untouched. There was a layer of dust across everything, the kitchen appliances untouched, floorboards unswept, and the only thing that got any use was the fridge, mostly filled with half-eaten, cheap meals.
It looked as though nothing had stirred in the tiny flat for months, and it felt like loneliness was seeped into every screw and bolt, in every doorframe and peeling scrap of wallpaper.
Okay, perhaps he was projecting.
From his spot on the thin mattress, jammed right into the corner of the open plan living room, he could see the whole apartment. He preferred to have all the doors opened, so that he could look directly at the window in the bathroom and bedroom, the back door and the kitchen window all at once. It was security more than anything.
Again, his thoughts wandered to the empty spot beside him. Inside him.
Without a partner – his partner, the selfish, greedy part of him whispered – everything felt harder. He had forgotten the feeling of watching his own back, had forgotten what it was like to be without a second set of eyes, a second set of hands.
Old words came to him; Настроение. Слабость. Sentiment. Weakness.
They were hurled at him with vicious force once, branded into his cracked mind by his original handler, every time his eyes lingered so much as a beat too long, every time his hands were a touch gentler than they should have been.
She deserved gentle.
She deserved gentle and he had given her anything but. Part of him was already prepared for the possibility that she might not come at all, that she may have left for good, that he might never see her again. That was the part of him that had dragged the mattress out of the bedroom, and the part of him that couldn’t seem to do anything but count bullets and watch the hours slip past.
They had taken so much from him, and though it was coming back slowly, there were still bits missing. He still remembered the first time he had seen her. That hadn’t been taken.
She’d been a little shorter than she was now and had been far thinner. He hadn’t, at first, actually thought her to be anything but a prisoner. They had kept her emaciated and sickly looking, and her pallor had only reinforced the image. But once they’d gotten up close; once she’d pinned him to the mat and made him bleed, he’d seen it. It was in her eyes; a green so pale it was almost white, and the most alive thing about her. They sparked, they danced, they watched – he could remember thinking it was over, looking into those eyes. They were so sure and so dangerous. Her eyes were the one thing that never seemed touched: cold and clear and knowing.
He could also remember her eyes in Paris.
Fuck.
Wide and frightened and hurt. So fucking hurt. She deserved gentle, and he’d been about as subtle and soft as a butter-knife in surgery.
She was so untouchable. He knew that, he had known that. They grew together, bled together, killed together, and though he had fractured and splintered into confusion and terror, though he had to be put together and pulled apart time and time again, she remained a pillar. Once he had thought it was mercilessness, a cold nature, but now he knew it was just strength, a shield created and retained out of necessity. And now he knew how vulnerable she was.
He had peeled away the parts of her that were ice, and then he had driven a knife right in. She wasn’t coming back.
James…
His name in her voice. It felt more right than anything else did.
There was a little market near the apartment. She would have liked it; and maybe that was why he’d chosen the flat. It was all local greengrocers and farmers selling their goods out of hand-built stalls, and it bordered a main road. It meant a large amount of foot traffic, enough that he could slip in and out unnoticed and unbothered.
It was dark now, and when he arrived, all the stalls were empty and shut. His fault. He’d let the day go by, trying to occupy his own thoughts and now he’d missed the market. His fault. The burlap of the shopping bag in his grip scratched at his palm as his grip tightened reflexively.
Part of him was a little relieved. It meant he’d now have to spend some time finding somewhere else to shop. It meant being occupied for a little longer. It meant being out of that lonely apartment for a little longer.
He wandered a little aimlessly, still keeping careful notice of his surroundings, but with no real destination in mind. It was chance he stumbled across a Lidl still open, and luck that they had fruit on display. The plums themselves weren’t as nice as the ones that they sold at the market; lacklustre and small, and some with bruises and scratches. Chain grocery quality, he thought, a little disparagingly. In his youth, all fruit and vegetables had been the same quality as the farmer’s markets of today. Hormones, demand and the push for lower prices had brought down that quality of fresh produce.
His mother had grown vegetables herself. It had been relatively common back then; if you could afford land enough for a garden, then growing your own produce was just common-sense. The sepia toned memories of dirt under his nails, and his mother’s pink gardening gloves were visceral in their grip, and he awkwardly dropped the plums into a bag. He could feel eyes on him; he’d been standing too still for too long, caught in his own thoughts again.
He’d have to write down the part about his mom’s gloves. He hadn’t remembered their colour before. Usually a revelation like that would please him. Usually he’d already be scribbling away. Usually he’d wrack his brains for more.
Now it didn’t really matter. Or at least, it didn’t feel like it did.
The streets were emptier the closer he got to the flat. He’d picked a residential area, and in doing so, had been able to avoid the inevitable late-night crowds of tourists or partygoers. Besides, she had always seemed to prefer safehouses in amongst civilians. There it was. He was surprised he had actually managed to go so long without thinking of her. Forty-two minutes was the new record.
His fault.
It was late enough that even the young couple two floors below him were asleep; they were students, and he’d often heard music or seen lights under their door till the early hours of the morning. It seemed they were having a relatively early night. It was technically a school-day, he reasoned, and continued his tramp up the winding staircase of the apartment block.
He let himself in unceremoniously, and he was so preoccupied with occupying himself, that it took him a beat too long to realise something was different. Slowly, he straightened from unbuckling his ankle holster and rose to face the faceless figure outlined in the dim light that came through the newspaper over the back door.
His fingers hovered over the light switch. He was suddenly unwilling to see her face. Because it was her. He knew the shape of her intimately, and she was here. She was here, but he was struck with sudden fear because he couldn’t be sure if she was here to stay, or if she was here to break it off permanently.
But it had been so long.
He turned on the light.
22nd April
Bucharest, Romania.
It was precisely midnight, precisely the first minute of the twenty-second day of the month, and she couldn’t contain herself anymore. She ghosted into the apartment, through the papered glass of the tiny backdoor, and stopped still.
He wasn’t there. He wasn’t there, and the place was empty and untouched and unlived in. There was fruit rotting on the counter, and he wasn’t there.
A slow, paralysing panic began to trickle through her. It was dulling and ice-cold. He wasn’t there. He had left without her, he hadn’t waited and hadn’t wanted her. She stared and breathed and tried to organize her thoughts. It was hopeless. She felt as if she was spinning out of control and yet her body could not, would not move.
She should wait.
For what? She should go.
But if he came-
He won’t.
He left.
She should follow. She should hunt him down.
He doesn’t want her. Clearly.
She could just-
He wasn’t there.
Disorganized and unrelenting. It was like waves breaking against cliffs; half-formed thoughts and emotions shattering into foam, against a single, stony realisation. He wasn’t there.
Footsteps sounded on the landing, and the parts of her still ruled by instinct alerted instantly. Her hand found her gun at her hip, and she waited. Was it HYDRA, come to take her back at last? Perhaps Natalia had found her again. Maybe it was-
The door opened, and he appeared.
The chaos of her conscious mind came to an abrupt, blank halt. It was like switching radio stations to static. He was here. He stooped, setting down a shopping bag beside himself, fingers working on his ankle holster, seemingly oblivious to her. That same part of her tutted and hissed reprimand at his inattention. She could have killed him twice by now.
She could see the second he realised he wasn’t alone, watched the way his whole body tensed and stilled, and then watched shock register across his ill-lit face. He switched on the light, and his face went blank, unreadable.
The silence stretched and yawned between them, a palpable chasm she didn’t know how to breach. She had done this. Her fault.
They moved at the same time, unconsciously mirroring each other as they both shifted to the right; him out of the doorway, her out from behind the kitchen bench. The heavy scent of putrid fruit hung over everything, and still they were silent.
Her partner was a sharpshooter, a sniper, an artist – he didn’t miss, he didn’t falter, and he had the record to prove it. He was patient. He had always been patient. She could still remember the way he had been when they first met; the quiet determination in his steel-grey eyes, the endless repetition of simple motion, turning new syllables over in his mouth until he learnt. He was the same, fundamentally. A good soldier. A good man. Better than she deserved.
“I can leave-”
“You came-”
Their words overlapped, their usual synchronicity undermined by their time apart and the discomfiture of the atmosphere. They stopped dead; her partner’s mouth snapping shut with an audible click. He was patient and she was not so restrained.
Her nervousness, her guilt, her longing made her awkward. She shifted, she looked around the empty room – looked at anything but him. “This is… nice.” The phrase was clumsy, her accent thick, and she didn’t want to know what he was thinking.
“No, it’s not.” His voice was quiet, calmer than she thought it would be, and so different from the last words he had spoken to her it was jarring. The Winter Soldier was not with her, the light in his eyes was his own. James eyed her with a wariness she knew.
She wasn’t sure what to do. “Well, the old fruit is-”
The bag next to his foot was kicked over in his sudden movement – she watched the contents of it clatter and scatter across the floor. More plums. He crossed the room to her in two, long, sure strides, and she had a second to take a breath, to take in his abrupt closeness before his hands were upon her. His hands, his lips-
He kissed her so hard it hurt.
Their teeth clacked messily, and the grip he had on her jaw and waist would bruise, and she was sure she was ruining his shirt and hurting his scalp with how tightly she was gripping him back. She lost herself in him, in the slick slide of their lips, in the desperate panting breaths he was gasping against her. Her back hit the fridge hard enough to rattle it, and something clattered from the top to the floor noisily, but she didn’t fucking care-
He withdrew just as suddenly, eyes wide and hands retracting as if he had been burnt. “I’m sorry. I just-”
“Я скучал по тебе.” I missed you. She finished for him, chest growing tight and warm at the palpable delight that spread across his face.
“Yeah?” He leant closer, touching his forehead to hers, so close all she could see was him. “Say it again…” He whispered.
“I missed you.” She said again, and laughed as he grinned. This time, she kissed him. It was soft, no more than a gentle press of her lips to his. It made his eyes flutter shut and his hands resettle on her hips, metal arm whirring faintly, comfortingly. God, it was like getting a limb back. The bits of her she hadn’t realised were missing were replaced. Sentiment. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” She murmured it against his mouth, and tugged at his hair lightly to get him to pull away. She needed him to know it. She held his gaze. “I am so sorry, моя дорогая.” My darling.
“I am too.” His eyes were serious, mouth downturned. “I should never have- I’m sorry for how I reacted.”
“I hurt you.” She said solemnly, ignoring the way he shook his head. “I did. It was my fault-” she brought her fingers to his lips as he opened his mouth to argue. It was her fault, and she wouldn’t allow him to shoulder blame that wasn’t his. “You know that I trust you?” Because she did. She trusted him with every single part of her, even the parts she didn’t know. That was what had hurt most: his lack of faith in her faith.
“I do. I know that. I just didn’t understand why.” He stroked his metal fingers over the lines of her jaw and neck, until they rested above her heart. She wondered if he could feel it, if he could feel the thundering race his very presence had kicked off. “I thought you knew that I couldn’t be without you.” She slowly raised a brow, unable to help the quirk of her lips. He got her meaning, and scoffed at himself. “I guess I sent some mixed signals.” He grimaced. “Sorry for that too.”
“Don’t apologize.” She shifted into him, and wound her arms around his neck. He relaxed into her, enough that she could feel herself supporting a little of his weight. It was right. He felt right in her arms, she felt right with him.
For a few moments they just held each other, still pressed against the fridge, with the rotten fruit still stinking, and the new plums still scattered around the floor.
It was perfect.