I woke up a little before we arrived in Lisbon. I looked down and remembered this duffle bag isn't actually my go-bag. Guess it's time to go through it, see what's in here.
Opening it, I find an envelope—fake identities for two men, both look to be in their fifties. Russian, I'd guess, from their facial structure. These are U.S. passports, though. This biplane wasn't going to get them all the way there, which means they were going somewhere else.
Sucks for them, they're not getting there, I guess.
I find a roll of cash in varying currencies: U.S. dollars, Euros, Rubles, and Canadian dollars.
Huh. Nice. More money never hurts.
A few changes of clothes—my finger clinks against something bundled up in a shirt. I unroll it and find a gun. Honestly, I'm not surprised. I'm actually a little glad. I've been running around with just Bucky's knife and my pocketknife. The serial number's already been filed off, and there's a box of bullets in here too.
I feel like I found a hidden treasure box in a video game—bonus items galore. Who knew I'd be so happy to find a criminal's go-bag?
The rest of the stuff is just food—MREs and such. I leave whatever I don't need or what's too heavy to carry on the bus, slid under the seat.
I take the two fake passports with me and ditch them into a sewer drain after I get off the bus. By then, it's already the middle of the night. I find myself a cheap hostel, only 18 euros a night. I book a few nights until I find a place to stay. Shower off and pass out in my bunk until noon the next day.
It took me a few days to get settled. First, I went to the bank I had set up an account with a small little bank, essentially untraceable. I took out some money enough to cover a deposit on a place and a little extra to avoid any kind of background or history checks.
I kept an eye on the news in Romania, but something in me said to check globally for anything odd. Considering he was with Steve, anything that would happen could potentially involve all the Avengers, meaning weird, unexplained messes were where he was.
I ended up finding videos of people complaining their flights out of Halle Airport were all canceled due to an evacuation. Germany, huh? Looking deeper into it, I found pictures of widespread, unexplained damage to the airport. It was out of commission for an unknown amount of time until repairs were finished.
There weren't many pictures, but from the look of it, it wasn't a bomb or fire. Cars shot out of a parking structure, destroyed—but oddly, the actual structure was fine.
He was there.
The report was from a few days prior, around the time I was making my way here.
Where could he have gone from Germany?
Why there?
He's moving around a lot—and fast. Something is going on.
Something I'm probably better off staying clear of.
He'll find me when he's done.
I told myself that repeatedly over the next few weeks.
I got myself an apartment. Settled in. Stayed low.
The new place kind of reminded me of the old one, a studio, terrible electrical work, gross plumbing, no heat or AC, way too many stairs, and of course, the lovely vermin who got to share the apartment rent-free.
I had enough money to get by for a while without worry. I kept my mind busy going through that puzzle book Bucky left me, while sifting through global news channels looking for anything related to him or the Avengers.
Come to find out, there was a breakup of some kind, most of them, including Steve, were on the run and wanted criminals. A few had been imprisoned for a time, but apparently, they escaped.
Damn it, Bucky! You better be okay.
You're fine.
You remember me.
You're going to find me.
These thoughts looped so often in my mind, I wrote it into the crossword a few times by accident.
I had unpacked what little things I had, Bucky's notebook hidden safely with my valuables. I never read it. I don't think he ever wanted me to. I think he'd rather tell me himself when he's ready.
He did sometimes tell me things, when he had a nightmare he couldn't shake. It would stop him from sleeping. He'd come over and lay his head on my stomach, arms loosely wrapped around my waist, his body resting between my open legs.
We would just sit until he was ready to talk.
He didn't have the heart to look me in the eye when he told me the things he had done. He would just rest there, trembling, a quiver in his voice as he told his story.
I would gently stroke him, my fingers combing through his hair. Every now and again, he'd recoil from my touch, remembering the touch of others over the present. I'd stop… until I felt him settle again, relaxing himself back into me, when he felt he was safe.
I never spoke when this happened. I wanted him to know his voice mattered. It was the only one in the room I wanted to hear. He spent enough years silenced—I didn't want him to ever feel that when he was with me.
Sometimes I would trace my fingers down his metal arm. I knew he couldn't feel it—Hydra didn't care to install nerves into it for sensation. Only enough so he could move it. But I wanted him to know I wasn't scared of it. That arm was part of him. And I wasn't scared of any part of this man.
This innocent man—forced to endure things he never should've been made to do.
I know he was a soldier before Hydra, but still… the Bucky I saw was a scared, damaged man. Constantly afraid—of himself and of the world around him that had hurt him so much. Taken everything from him—his family, his friends, his fellow soldiers, his arm, his hope, joy, voice, freedom… his very life.
He didn't deserve any of it.
I found myself reliving these memories, overtaken by the feeling of loss.
Plums.
I want plums. His favorite thing.
When he kissed me, I could always taste that quiet sweetness on his lips—like the echo of every bite he took. At some point, I came to crave that taste.
It's late, I thought.
Still, I couldn't resist. Throwing on a baggy sweatshirt, I tucked the gun I had found into the back of my waistband. My pocketknife slid into the side jean pocket.
I headed out the door.
The night air was cold here—it was, after all, that time of year. I could see the fog of my breath. I'll need to get a coat soon. I left mine behind. It was too heavy to take with me.
Slipping into a nearby market, I grabbed a few plums, some chips, and a few other essentials. I headed to the register.
I waited patiently as I was rung out, my eyes exploring the counter while I waited. I saw a few nail polish bottles off to the corner. They looked a little dusty—the colors inside red, green, purple, blue—but the outside of the bottles were smeared with white.
"You want one?" the cashier asked.
"No, I'm okay."
"Go ahead, take any color you like. My wife says a lady should always keep her nails painted. I can't sell them anyway. One broke—spilled on the whole box. Here, take this." he said, grabbing a blue one to tuck into my bag.
"Actually… could I have the red one?" I stammered out.
He greeted me with a smile, switching it out for the red one and finishing the transaction.
"Be safe," he called as I walked out of the store.
Walking back, I reached into the bag, pulling out the polish. I had never painted my nails before. This color reminded me of him.
I wonder what he'll think.
Heading up the final staircase to my new apartment, I looked up to see the door ajar.
I locked it. I know I did.
I'm not running. I'm ready now.
If someone wants a fight—damn it—they're going to get it.
I quietly placed the bag right outside the door.
Pulling the gun from my waistband, I clicked the safety off.
I slowly crept into the apartment, holding the gun just as Bucky taught me. Trigger ready.
I didn't see anyone in the room.
Nothing seemed disturbed. Even the locks weren't broken.
Maybe I really did just forget.
I picked my bag back up, entered the apartment, and placed both the bag and the gun on the kitchen counter.
Creak.
A chill ran down my spine as I heard the sound from behind.
I'm not alone.
SHIT!
The bathroom.
I didn't check it. I couldn't see it—it's off to the side.
"Hello?"
I grabbed the gun, swinging without thought, I turned and pulled the trigger.
BANG.