Hidden

I usually avoided crowded places. People had a nasty tendency of noticing me. I’d learned over the years, though countless painful experiences, that being noticed was not a good thing. I knew I didn’t help matters. Being quiet and unassuming went against my nature. More often than not I made bad situations a thousand times worse just by opening my mouth. I had a knack for pissing people off.

My stomach grumbled and cramped, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten anything for almost three days. I didn’t have a choice. If I wanted to survive I needed to interact with people. I needed to trade. And yet...I hesitated. It had been a long time since I last set foot in an actual town and I could feel a cold sweat break out across my forehead as I considered all the things that could go wrong. I hastily wiped a dirty cuff across my brow and wondered if the inhabitants would realise I was alone and unaffiliated. I wondered if they’d care.

I started when I heard a number of booming voices, resonating from inside the saloon. I stopped mid step, spooked like a goddamn rabbit. The place looked as rough as fuck. Was I really desperate enough to go in there?

Yup, I decided as my stomach cramped again, realising I really didn’t have a choice. I kept moving, pushing through the swinging doors and stepping into the shithole with all the bravo of a man twice my size. I resisted the urge to fiddle with the scarf covering the lower half of my face and quickly scanned the room. Predictably, everyone was staring at me. I wasn’t too worried yet. They would have stared at anyone, particularly a stranger. It was getting them to lose interest that was the trick.

“What can I get ya?” the barman asked, his single eye roaming speculatively over my face and slowly down my body. The guy had a ragged scar covering the left side of his face and virtually no hair on his pus covered scalp. Part of me wondered if he was diseased and if I’d be better off going elsewhere.

Except there wasn’t anywhere else in a twenty mile radius. 

“Yeah,” I said, leaning forward and trying to keep my voice pitched low. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t lose the inflection in my accent and it usually captured people's attention. Attention was bad. “I have some items that might be of interest.”

“Being?” the man asked, his expression bored.

“Knives. Good ones too. In mint condition.”

“What sort of knives?”

“Why does it matter,” I said, instantly regretting my tone when the man’s single eye narrowed irritably. “Not kitchen knives, if that’s what your asking. They’re still sharp. The sort of knives bad people use to stab one another with.”

“You looking to trade?”

Great, now we were getting somewhere.

“Yeah, for food,” I said immediately, aware I sounded a little desperate but unable to tamper down the need to get the food and get the hell out of dodge. “Canned goods, preferably.”

The barman’s eye flickered behind me and a few seconds later another man stepped up to the bar. The first thing I noticed was how clean he was. Like on another level tidy. It was fucking weird. He had light blonde hair and an unnervingly focused gaze. He was taller than me by several inches and looked like he ate and exercised regularly.

My hindbrain started screaming. The man was trouble.

“Uh, hi,” I said, leaning back a little. Jesus, he looked intense.

“You have something to trade?”

I looked at the barman, hoping for a little help. Fat fucking chance there. The man was already moving away nervously.

Trouble.

“You know what, on second thought I should probably be going. People to see, places to go. The whole spiel. See ya -”

I broke off, sputtering as the man grabbed my throat and dragged me to the back of the room. My fucking toes were dangling above the goddamn floor. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I grabbed his wrist with both hands and used the momentum to kick the asshole as hard as I could in the shin.

And it did absolutely fucking nothing.

“Whatcha doin’ Steve?” a dark haired man asked as he stepped lazily towards us. He had light blue eyes and a classically handsome square jaw. He was equally as clean as the douche currently strangling me, but not quite as well built. He stared impassively back at me when our eyes met.

So much fucking trouble.

The newcomer wasn’t going to help me. No one in the bar was going to fucking help me. Steve’s grip on my neck slackened, not letting go but no longer squeezing. I sucked in a desperate breath and tried to break free. The man squeezed in warning and then threw me into a booth. I scrambled to escape the other end and the brunet sat down, blocking my exit. I stared at him warily, waiting.

Steve sat down and I found myself sandwiched between the two men. The two very large, very healthy looking men. Trapped. “Can’t you smell it?” the blonde asked, leaning into my personal space and, jesus fuck, scenting me.

“Get away from me,” I snarled, shoving with all my strength. The man didn’t even have the good manners to so much as sway. Like, at all. “Seriously, let me out. I’m leaving.”

“I thought you wanted to trade?” Steve said, his face still disturbingly close.

“I did, with the douche at the bar. You guys, not so much. So if you’ll just get the hell out of my way -”

“Why do you wear the covering?” the dark haired one asked, trailing his fingers against the scarf like he had every right. I turned to snap at him when I realised the man had a metal arm. And it looked fully functional. It was actually kinda beautiful.

“Don’t like to scare the locals,” I answered, tearing my gaze from the man's arm and meeting his eyes with a raised eyebrow. “Seriously, there is some gruesome shit going on under here. It might even be contagious…”

“Bucky,” Steve said, settling his hand on the back of my nape and squeezing. “Do you smell it?”

Bucky didn’t just lean into my space. He actually pressed his face into the junction between my shoulder and neck and inhaled. I had this sudden, terrifying feeling that he was going to tear my throat out with his teeth.

“It’s faint, but yeah I can scent it. Damn, Steve.”

Damn didn’t quite cover it. Fuck, they knew. They knew.

“OK,” I said, my voice rising and garnering the attention of over a dozen pairs of eyes. “You need to get out of my way, now.”

Except they weren't going to. No one was going to help me. And they knew.

“Secure him,” Steve said, his face impassive as stood up and left the booth, approaching the barman.

I immediately tried to scramble out after him but Bucky grabbed me with the metal arm and I realised pretty quickly that I wasn’t going anywhere. “You don’t need to do this,” I said, allowing my eyes to widen as I fisted his shirt and pulled him close. “I’m not - I’m not what you think. You just need to let me go. Now.”

“Sorry, friend but that isn’t going to happen. Just chill out, OK? I don’t want to hurt you.”

He was pulling out cuffs. He had cuffs? Was he a slaver? Fuck!

It was pathetically simple for him to maneuver me into the cuffs and drag me outside. The barman and Steve shook hands and then he followed us outside. I fought with everything I had, kicking and screaming. Steve just threw me over one large shoulder and walked until we reached a beat up looking van. They opened the back and Steve placed me inside with surprising gentleness.

“Stay,” he said, in the manner someone might talk to their dog. He closed the door and moments later I felt the engine roar to life and we were moving.

All in all it had taken roughly fifteen minutes for my life to thoroughly and completely combust.