Bucharest, 2016
June 23rd, 2016
Bucharest, Romania
There was a definite statement in the way he held her hand now.
It was as if he had something to prove, the way he’d take her hand in hers before they stepped out of the door, just as methodically as they checked their gear. She didn’t mind. Maybe she had something to prove too.
The first couple of days after her arrival had been an awkward dance of delicacy. He’d been careful with her, and her with him – neither of them wanting to touch on the disagreement that had split them apart in Paris. It had come to a head though.
She smiled to herself at the memory – or, well, memories – of the day and night they’d spent reacquainting themselves with each other intimately. The morning after had been the first time he’d done it; waited, palm out, expectant, for her hand at the door.
The day was slightly overcast, but still bright enough to give her partner an excuse for the baseball cap he’d shoved low on his brow. The warm fullness from breakfast was still sitting low in her belly, and the wind was soft enough that it didn’t bite at their exposed ears and noses. Bucharest was nice; relatively clean, a mash of business and tourism, neo-roman architecture and plain unassuming apartment blocks crowded together on curved streets that wound together and sprawled to form the city.
“Ce ai vrut să faci?” What did you want to do? She posed her partner the question as they crossed at the lights, in step with the other pedestrians, fingers still intertwined like another young couple she watched kiss out the front of a café opposite them.
He hummed thoughtfully, brow creasing a little. “Mai vrei să iei boluri?” Do you still want to get bowls?
The reminder made her scowl. “Nu-mi vine să cred că ai mâncat direct din oală.” I can't believe you've been eating straight out of the pot. She had gone to make Ciorbă de burtă for them, a relatively simple soup, and had found out he didn’t have a single bowl, and only one spoon. He chuckled, and she sniffed, turning her nose up at him slightly. “S-ar putea să fugim, dar nu suntem animale.” We may be on the run, but we aren't animals.
It made him bark a surprised sounding laugh, and the sound couldn’t help but make her smile too, though she tried hard to keep frowning. He squeezed her hand, and brought it briefly to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of her glove. His eyes were dancing and bright. “Apologies, milady…” he said a little mockingly. “I promise to use dishes.”
“And cutlery.” She added.
“And cutlery.” He agreed. “Maybe I’ll indulge in some metal forks.” She shook her head, thinking of the packet of plastic cutlery at home. “Just for you.”
She rolled her eyes, “Как ты меня балуешь, James.” How you spoil me, James. He smiled again, easy and bright.
It was so… domestic, shopping for bowls and spoons and forks, browsing the isles of the homeware store. Overhead some Romanian pop song was playing quietly enough to be inoffensive, and the greeter that had handed them a basket had done so with a smile. To her, they were just another young couple, buying and building a life together.
Her partner had stopped in the bowl isle, brow creased as he regarded the selections, and she felt comfortable enough to leave him there. She walked instead towards the backwall, at the array of baking goods, and ran her fingers over some silicone moulds, and tapped the wood of a chopping block. Domestic. She picked up a case of cupcake patty pans, and took them with her. They were pink and had little red hearts on them.
James was where she’d left him, but he’d apparently made some progress, holding two different bowls at eyelevel. She lobbed the case at their basket, smiling in satisfaction as it landed with a faint thud. He turned towards her, brandishing the bowls. “Care e mai buna?” Which one do you like?
One was eggshell blue porcelain, painted and glazed with little orange and yellow dots, and the other was white with black triangles forming a geometric pattern on the outside. She had no preference. “Orice faceți.” Whichever one you do.
He groaned. “I like them both!”
She shrugged. “So, get them both.”
He gaped at her. “Te plângi de tacâmurile din plastic, dar ești fericit că ai vesela nepotrivită?” You complain about plastic cutlery, but you're happy to have mismatched crockery? He shifted both the bowls to his metal grip in order to press his flesh hand dramatically to his forehead. “And you call me an animal.”
She laughed, unable to help herself, brought to it by his absurdity. “James! Just get them both!” she shook her head at him as he grumbled audibly, but placed them in their basket.
“We don’t have an oven,” He picked up the cupcake casings curiously, and she felt her cheeks heat. Domestic. She would have been lying if she said she hadn’t pictured a place for them. A better place. A place with an oven, where she could bake cupcakes, a place with light and space and-
She stopped her train of thought. Maybe something about this place was contagious. “Sunt draguti.” They’re cute. She said, instead of blurting out her silly fantasy.
It was his turn to shrug, and he put them back in the basket, and balanced in the crook of his metal arm. “Gata de plecare?” Ready to go? Her neck prickled, and she took a quick look around, at the large images of smiling people and happy families on the walls. She nodded. He waited for her to get close enough to put his arm around her, leaning into her as they approached the register.
The angle he adopted shielded both of their faces from the small security camera affixed above the cash register, and she played it up for the woman ringing their items up. She curled around him, and pressed her face into his neck and giggled like he had said something funny. It made the woman smile warmly at them.
The bowls clinked together lightly with every step he took and that was the only reason she realised he had stopped behind her. She turned, question alighting and dying on her lips as she followed his eyes to the display front of the electronics store opposite. On several of the television screens, footage of smoking rubble and fiery explosions was playing on various news stations. It took her a moment to place the building.
“Это UN...” That’s the UN… She said quietly. Her partner was frowning again. Unease roiled in her gut, and she stepped towards him, taking his hand. She tugged at him slightly. “Мы должны вернуться.” We should get back. The footage wasn’t live, which meant that whatever had happened had happened in the last couple of days. Shit. She should have been watching the news.
Her partner nodded. “Нам нужно добыть еду для ...” We need to get food for… He trailed off, expression growing stony. He was clearly as unsettled as she was. She trusted her instincts, and with evidence of his own unease, she knew something must have been seriously wrong. “Мы сделаем это быстро.” We’ll make it quick. He said finally, decisively.
“Магазин.” The market. She agreed.
The mood was broken, and the sky seemed to darken with it. It was an effort for her to restrain her steps, trying to keep a sedate pace. From the tight grip he had on her hand, she thought he must have been similarly frustrated. They were exposed out here, exposed by their lack of knowledge. Vienna wasn’t far away.
They separated when they made it to the market, but she made sure she could see him, from where she was buying bread. It was a task to pull a smile on her face for the baker, who knew her well enough to call hello.
She looked up and met his eyes through the swinging flaps of the stall’s tent. In and out, in and out, in and out. The corner of his lips turned up a little, just on the edge of encouragement and reassurance. She tried to do the same and failed. She was getting anxious. It was turning her to ice, it was hardening her expression, bunching her muscles. The baker’s smile slipped as she handed him the money. She wanted to slip into the Grey, out of sight and out of mind, just until she could figure out-
Sirens from the street made her hand fly to her belt, to the knife she had stowed, grip tightening so much on the bread that it crumbled and compressed. She met his gaze again, and he was frowning. His quick nod was relief. She hurried back towards him, rounding the stalls a little too quickly, but unwilling to be separated for any longer. His mouth thinned, but his touch was gentle as he extracted the mangled bread from her grip. He put it in their bag, atop the bowls and cutlery and plums. Get a hold of yourself.
This time, he didn’t take her hand. They fell into step in unison, strides matched, heads down. They were about to cross the road towards the flat, when another siren began to wail towards them. Instinct made her stop again, and she tracked the path of the orange emergency vehicle down the street and out of sight.
Her partner had turned and stilled.
He was looking at something out of the corner of his eye, and under the guise of reaching for the bag in his grip, she followed his eyes. The man that ran the newsstand in the centre of the square was staring at them. The way his eyes widened further with something like fear made her heart pick up. “Солдат.” Soldier. Her voice came out cold and quiet.
“Я знаю.” I know.
The man stood, and as her partner took a step towards him, began to scramble backwards. She moved with him, wrapping her fingers around his wrist as they crossed the road towards the newsstand. The man stumbled from the stand, leaving the door wide open behind him, and the paper he’d been reading open on the counter.
Her skin thrummed with energy and warning, prickling in her fingers. She wanted to disappear and run, and take him with her. They needed to go, they needed to get out-
Her partner flipped the paper over and her heart stopped.
They needed to go.
“Я не понимаю.” I don’t understand.
Her partner looked at her, face stiff and blurred by the Grey. She readjusted her grip on him as they rounded the corner to the street. “Как они...?” How did they…? She waved a hand at his face. The blurry image looked too much like him to be anything but deliberate.
“Это не трудно.” It’s not hard. His voice was tight. “Я видел это раньше.” I’ve seen it done before.
They took the back entrance to the flat, still invisible. In the distance, she could hear the whirring of helicopter blades, and wondered if they would send police or special forces. She was cold, chilled to her core, but clear headed for it. If they were quick and quiet, they could make it out. They had to make it out. “Пять минут.” Five minutes. She told him, and he nodded once. When they made it into the stairwell, she released the Grey, trying to save her energy. She’d need it for their escape.
They were whisper quiet on the stairs, and free from the dulling of the Grey, she could hear vehicles pulling up in the street below. She turned to look over the railing as he pulled out their keys, running quick calculations. It would take an average man longer to climb to their level than it took them. add in heavy gear and artillery-
“Кто-то внутри.” Someone is inside.
Her partner’s voice was low, and she turned back to him. A muscle was jumping in his jaw, but his eyes were a familiar hardened steel. Her instincts screamed, her body wanted to flee- But there were things he needed in there. His books, his bags, their weapons.
She curled her fingers over his shoulder, and they phased through the door together.
The man with the shield stood with his back to them, unaware and distracted.
Steven Grant Rogers, born July 4th 1918 to Sarah and Joseph Rogers. Brooklyn born and raised. Allergic to peppers. Orphaned at 18. Ex-asthmatic. Fond of ketchup and mustard on hot-dogs. Talented artist. A righteous man.
“Understood.” His voice was sudden and loud in the silence of the room. Beside her, her partner shifted in place. It made Rogers’ head snap up and around. He was holding her partner’s book.
For a moment, they were all still. She watched his eyes jump between them, watched the surprise and uncertainty play in his clear eyes. She had forgotten just how blue they were.
“Do you know me?” His voice was tremulous.
Her partner swayed, and swallowed. He nodded slightly. “You’re Steve. I've read about you in a museum.” He sounded…dazed. Neither of them had expected to see Rogers again – not so soon, and not like this.
Movement from outside caught her attention. They were running out of time. She twitched, eyes going to the hidden gun on top of the fridge, and when she tried to take a step Rogers threw up his hand. “I know you’re nervous, and you have plenty of reason to be.” He was addressing her, eyes round and serious and a little placating. He edged towards them, and her partner shifted towards her. She couldn’t help but be thankful for it.
“We weren’t in Vienna.” Her partner’s voice was stronger this time, maybe with defensiveness, maybe with the adrenaline she knew had to have been pumping through him. Outside, more flickers of action, and something flittered past their papered windows. “We don’t do that anymore.”
At the edge of her hearing, she caught the bang of the stairwell door opening, and heavy tread echoing up the brick. They were in the building.
“Well, the people who think you did are coming here now.” Rogers responded in kind, stepping towards him. Her partner took a step away, and she looked to the fridge again. “And they’re not planning on taking you alive.”
“That’s smart.” Her partner shifted again, and Rogers mirrored him, seemingly unconsciously. It left her way to the fridge clear, and slowly she moved. “Good strategy.”
Footsteps sounded above them, and she looked back at her partner. “Будет драка.” It will be a fight. She told him. The sound of her voice seemed to remind Rogers of her existence – she could see the way he registered her shift in position, the way he angled himself so that he could keep his eyes on both of them. His face had grown wary.
“This doesn’t have to end in a fight, Buck.” Rogers’ voice wasn’t convincing. Feet sounded on the landing outside the door, and she met her partner’s eyes.
“It always ends in a fight.” He set down their bags, and the clink of porcelain and his weary tone made something crack in her chest. Had he not suffered enough? He pulled off his gloves, and his metal fingers shone in the lowlight. Rogers attention went to the window, and she stepped towards the fridge. “Ты должен идти.” You should go. He wasn’t looking at her, but his words were deliberate. Ice gripped her heart.
“Я не оставлю тебя.” I’m not leaving you. She reached for the gun and Rogers looked between them, brow furrowed.
His voice was tired; “Я знаю.” I know.
“Buck-”
The window cracked, and the door shuddered, and the fight began.