Blood of My Blood
"You know you don't have to come every day, Brock." Christina assures the double agent from her spot the hardwood floor of her new home, dressed in a honey yellow zipper-front cowlneck sweater, a cream colored v-neck, worn jeans, and orange loafers. The pair of them are unpacking boxes in her open concept living/dining room and kitchen. Most of the unmarked totes turn out to be clothing, so Christina sits cross legged on the area rug, folding clothes as Rumlow puts away silverware and kitchen appliances across the room.
For a numerous months Christina has been moving out of her apartment in Foggy Bottom and into the place she'd purchased off of Prospect Street in Georgetown. Her new home is a detached, three storey, brick colonial on a quaint street. The lot it's on is isolated from the rest of the block, with it's mature trees, generous greenery, and two and a half car garage; all of which make for a very private piece of property.
The traditional brick colonial home is roomy with it's four bedrooms and three and a half bathrooms. The interior is open concept from the entry, through the living room space to the casual dining area, all the way to the open air kitchen with it's top of the line appliances. There are two other rooms on the main floor, a half bathroom and a mudroom/laundry room, next to the door to the back deck. On the second floor are the three rooms; the baby's room, a master bathroom (which is shared), and the master suite, with an attached multipurpose room which currently serves as a nursery (in the future it will become Christina's massive walk-in closet). On the third story are another three rooms, a full bathroom and two bedrooms; one of which is acting as her office, the other being a guest room.
Christina loves her new home. It's much more than she and little James will need, especially with his father currently out of the picture, but she'd chosen it all on her own. Rumlow is often there, even staying over on a few occasions while he helps her unpack. He and the moving crew her father had hired moved in all the furniture and unloaded all the boxes, leaving the new home owner to unpack them. But, the agent knows better than to leave her alone with them too long, the boxes are too heavy for her to lift and some of the appliances are better left for him or Aarav to move. Even carrying laundry up or down the stairs can be challenging for the heavily pregnant mother.
By now Christina is twenty-six weeks along with a significant baby bump which prevents her from doing a great deal of things, including carry any kind of weighted object. It frustrates her to no end, not being able to do simple tasks, but being this far along also has it's more rewarding perks. As it's her first pregnancy, she hadn't feel much movement, which she'd worried to be abnormal, but as Dr. Brown said as week 25 grew closer she began to feel what's called quickening, i.e. little James moving and kicking about.
If her protruding belly hadn't made this all feel real, the first kick— which is particularly hard— both startles her and grounds her. This is happening. Christina only wishes Winte--James Barnes-- Bucky-- his father— could be there with them. She wonders what it must be like for him, all alone in Russia. Does he miss her? Does he even remember her?
Christina sighs, rising unsteadily to her feet with folded clothes in hand. Thinking about Winter-- Bucky-- James— what the hell should she call him now?— makes her upset. Her hormones are all over the place and when she's depressed it feels multiplied tenfold. So she resolves it's better not to think about it, at least for the time being, and plops the folded pile into the laundry basket. Rumlow makes his way across the room, snatching up the basket of clothing before she makes her ascent up the stairs.
"You're helicoptering again," she chides, following Brock up the steps. The latter scoffs, casting her a raised brow over his shoulder. "I'm friend-ing. Sue me." Christina laughs, making her way around him at the top of the stairs and leading the way into her room. As the blonde puts away her laundry, Rumlow takes a seat on the truck at the foot of her bed. "At least the upstairs is all put away." He comments, admiring the set up of her bedroom. She nods along.
The white walls and oak floor, the cherry furnishings, the king sized bed. The nursery is all white furniture and gender-neutral pastels. The bathroom is modern with cool toned tiles and the second bedroom has the same oak floor and white walls, it empty of furniture at the moment, but in the future she'll furnish it with playroom furniture and a kid's bed for little James. The guest room upstairs and her office are fully set up though. Her office is roomy and modern, decorated with more cherry wood furnishing and a neutral palette concept with turquoise accents. The guest room too has a neutral palette, though with a slightly more masculine touch than the rest of the house, thanks to the dark wood finishings and the hulking queen-sized bed frame. This may have something to do with Rumlow rooming there from time to time. But, even with all the space it feels empty in Winter's absence.
The months fly by quicker than Christina expects them to, eventually she goes on maternity leave from the firm and takes to walking the treadmill while Brock boxes, instead of doing their usual routine. The expecting mother is often bored out of her mind having nothing to do every day. Needless to say she spends a lot of time at the Triskelion, so much in fact that she foregoes the security checkpoint at this point. Whether it's because she's pregnant and waiting in line is inconvenient for her or because her father (or maybe Brock) put the clearance though for her to use bypass gate, she doesn't know, but she's grateful for it.
Filing into the elevator, she sets a course for the mezzanine. She's going to meet Rumlow for lunch before going up to hang out with her father in his office ,which is how she's been occupying herself for the last couple weeks. Christina is busy fiddling with her cell phone, texting Deja, when the elevator stops on a different floor. Agent Jack Rollins and a group of S.T.R.I.K.E. team members stand before her, waiting to get on the lift, and at the back of the group stands Mr. Stars and Stripes himself, Captain Rogers. The Rollins and the group file inside, some setting the course for the docking bay, others for the mezzanine like her.
The blonde offers a wave to Rollins the S.T.R.I.K.E. members, each of them nodding in return, most are faces she knows from The Vault, others know her as the Secretary's daughter. Captain America comes to stand beside her, headed for the docking bay. "Good afternoon, ma'am." Greets the Super Soldier, offering a kind smile. "Afternoon, Captain." Christina nods anxiously, grinning awkwardly in return and fiddling with the water bottle in her hand.
Ever since learning about Winter's true identity, seeing the superhero makes her guilt run rampant. She should tell him— that his best friend is still alive, that he isn't alone in this world, that Sergeant Barnes needs his old war buddy to come save him. But, Christina does none of those things. After all Winter's been sent off, she knows not where. Though the Russian sector is in charge of him at the moment he's often lent out to other sectors for high priority missions, he could literally he anywhere. Besides, she has much more to worry about now that simply Winter and herself.
Touching a palm to her protruding belly, Christina heaves out a sigh, drawing attention from the Super Soldier. "You're quite far along." Captain America comments, gesturing to her baby bump. The woman nods, running her hand over the stripped pattern of her navy and white shift dress stretched over her belly, "37 weeks," grins the expecting mother. Captain Rogers nods, smiling almost fondly. "To full term then." She nods, sipping at her water. "Agent Rumlow must be excited then." the Avenger concludes, making Christina choke on her drink.
Coughing and sputtering, Christina can hear Rollins laughing as he comes up behind her, clapping her on the back to dislodge the water from her system. Poor Steve Rogers looks terribly concerned, if not confused as he awaits an explanation. When she finally manages to clear her throat, the blonde shoots him a weary look, shaking her head. "Brock's a good friend," assures Christina, quietly turning to thank Jack. "But, that's all."
Realization blooms on the Super Soldier's face and he quickly apologizes, the slightest hint of pink dusting his cheeks. A wistful smile greets her mouth, sad but almost reminiscent. "His father is nothing like Rumlow. Or anyone really." And, before Captain America has an opportunity to reply the elevator arrives and she files out with the others who are getting off for the mezzanine.
Three weeks later Christina is being driven to the emergency room by Deja and Aarav, who'd been staying at her house in the days leading up to her due date. The blonde is sucking in breathes almost like hyperventilating. Deja sits in the back seat beside her, petting her hair and reassuring her everything would be fine. It'd been a few days since her visit to Dr. Brown and she hadn't expected to dilate so quickly in such a short period. When her contractions begin she's so sure they're merely irregular uterine muscle spasms, she knows they're not uncommon after reaching full term. It isn't until the contractions begin coming in intervals of less than 10 minutes, that Christina realizes she's already gone into labor.
Labor at this phase is the longest and least intense, her discomfort still minimal, but she knows she should be at the hospital. So Deja helps her into the car and Aarav makes sure they arrive safely at the emergency room. She's ushered into a private room rather urgently and spends the next half hour settling in, someone coming in to check the progress of her dilation every so often. Moving into the active phase, the cervix dilates more rapidly and Christina begins feeling pain in her back and a pressure on her abdomen, growing more intense with each contraction. That's when they start coming every three to four minutes, lasting approximately thirty or forty seconds each time and she knows it's really crunch time.
Labor is a grueling eight hours before James Kennedy Pierce is delivered at seventeen minutes to midnight on April 20th of 2013. Although she curses and cries, wishing Winter were there with her. That he even had some kind of clue that was occurring, instead he's on another continent entirely oblivious to what's going on, has been going on for ten months. Writing her last name on her son's birth certificate puts Christina through the wringer. Her hand twitches, pen hovering over the line where a surname awaits. She longs to write Barnes, getting all choked up again when she ultimately scribbles Pierce in the blank.
Cradling her newborn is makes Christina feel small, like they're both fragile, like everything could fracture to pieces should she make any wrong moves. Deja is by her side and Aarav, Rumlow, and her father are in the waiting room, but Christina feels terribly alone. Winter is a world away, having no idea of the life he fathered, and to the new mother it feels like she and her son are all alone in this. Who would protect them, look after them, hold them at arm's length from the clutches of Hydra?
Christina holds little James in her arms, the slight, seven pound infant quietly cooing as he glances around with wide, curious eyes. Seeing nothing and everything, hearing all too much, and clinging close to the warmth of his mother. Her son is the tiniest little thing; his complexion only a shade darker than her own fair tone— like his father, a thin layer of dark brown hair on his little head, and his big, inquisitive eyes are blue-grey, cold steel, like his fathers. The blonde tucks the child closer, reaches out a finger for his tiny hand, giggling with bliss and relief as the itty hand grips her fingertip. James Jr. is a mirror image of his father; Winter's warm complexion, his brunette hair, his ice irises.
It makes her ache with the yearning, the craving, hankering, burning, longing to have the Winter Soldier— no, James Buchanan Barnes— come home. To be with his family and be a person with them; not Winter, not the Asset, or the Soldier, just James Barnes with his lopsided grin and his blazing steel gaze. Little Jamie whines, ripping his mother away from the delirious longing and back to the present. She looks down at the tiny bundle in her arms and is grateful. At least she'll keep his eyes in her life.