Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4
Summary: For most of your life you’d been able to keep your abilities a secret, that is until Hydra got wind of you. After years of being in their clutches, you break out when The Avengers expose SHIELD/Hydra. Since then, you’ve been on the run. Things are going as well as you could hope when you see a familiar face… Could the Winter Soldier really be in Bucharest too?
Warnings: PTSD, imprisonment, references to past physical violence.
A/N: Like I said last time. Getting into (aka only scratching the surface) of the Bucky feels that are coming. Tbh it’s Bucky/Reader feels because, this character… woo. I hope y’all love her/love reading yourself as her as much as I love her/love writing her.
Also 5 chapters in a week… who does that? I’m going to try to space them out more (1 or 2 a week prob) but… I’m just eager af because I’m having a blast writing this.
@l0kisbitch @disagreetoagree
You take a deep breath and pluck the Glock out of the air, the knives clatter to the floor released from your hold. Part of you suspects he’ll rush for them but he just sits there, hands up eyes shining and glued to the books on the bed. You de-cock the gun and tuck it in your waistband. Not wanting to take your eyes off him you lift the bag and its contents from behind you and dump them in his lap.
Immediately he begins to look through them, checking each, mouthing the title. “There was another boo-“ the spine of Silent Heroes slams into his temple, admittedly a little harder than you intended, he flinches but as soon as he sees it’s ok he visibly relaxes.
“Who the fuck are you,” your voice is low without an ounce of softness. Your gut may be telling you he’s not an immediate threat but that does not mean you trust this man.
His mouth opens to answer and snaps shut. His eyes look to the books, to the bed, the wall. Anywhere but at you. “I… I don’t really know.” He appears small to you suddenly. Like a kid that’s lost at night with no clue where to go.
The fight drains from you and you plop heavily onto the bed. He’s just staring at the book, at his photo from so long ago. Suddenly you feel guilty for going through his bag, a ridiculous emotion given the situation but it rankles all the same. “Do you really think Lombardi’s is shit?”
He lights up. A raspy chuckle escapes. “Yeah.” Your eyes meet and again he’s a different man. “Everyone thought because it was first it was best but man, Totonno’s, that was pizza.” His tongue flicks over his bottom lip and he looks ravenous, you can relate.
“The sauce,” you both longingly groan at the same time and laugh despite everything.
“Wait…” he sounds excited, like a kid on Christmas, “Is it still there?! I mean you’re not… I was… it was…” He takes a moment, “a long time ago…” with that a cloud befalls him again.
“As of 2007 it was still there slinging the best pies in Brooklyn.” You pull your phone from your pocket to check.
“Like me…” you stare confused and he says with a small dark laugh, “A relic.”
“I don’t know how alike we are but no, I’m not a relic. I’m…” honestly you hadn’t thought about it in a while, how old you were. “Fuck I guess I’m about 30.”
Your age was always an awkward subject. You’d ran away at 15 and landed in New Orleans, where you met Nix. He was a few years older but was just like you, a kid alone. He helped you get fake documents, a new birth certificate, social, everything. A new date of birth made you 18, a new last name made you someone else, and a high school diploma complete with transcripts made college an option. You can’t help but sigh, you had already killed one version of yourself before Hydra had even found you.
Google has graciously saved you from this line of thought and informed you that Totonno’s is in fact still in business. “Yup, Totonno’s is still there to this day. Thankfully all the aliens seem to be destroying is Manhattan. They’re smart enough to leave the best borough alone.”
His face breaks into a breathtaking smile that genuinely surprises you. “I guess that’s a bit of silver lining in this mess of a world.” His voice is rich and melodious. At this point you’re honestly wondering how there are so many different sides to one person.
The silence hangs for a moment. His hand runs over the cover of one of the composition books that has ‘Home’ scrawled in a shaky hand. “So…” he trails off. “Are, uh, you from there, Brooklyn I mean.”
You scoff, “No. I’m from nowhere.” That’s always been your answer. Ghost girl.
“Everyone’s from somewhere.”
You stare at him a moment, his face is open and, frustratingly kind… dammit. You slump a little, “Yeah well most people have a hometown, someplace they grew up, but I never really stayed anywhere long enough for that.” He remains quiet, giving you space to form your thoughts. “But,” your voice cracks and you clear your throat to reel in your emotions, “Brooklyn, was the first place I made a home.” The only place.
“It was.” And you could never go back. You stared at your phone. The little red dot marking a place that may as well have been on Mars. When the screen turned black you kept staring into it, your reflection warped in the shattered screen. When you looked up he was flipping through pages in that composition book looking so serene it almost made you want to throw something at him.
“Ferdinando’s?” he whispers. Then again, “Ferdinando’s,” as though he’s answered a question and scrambles for one of the pens on the floor. You watch him quickly jot something down.
“Oh!” It was like he had forgotten you were there. “I… just something I remembered. Sorry.”
You smile despite yourself. “You’re talking about that old Italian place in Cobble Hill?” His head shoots up. “Yes, that’s still there too last I knew. And they made a damn good cannoli.”
A small chuckle skips past his lips and he stares into the middle distance for a moment. “I,” another little laugh, “used to take dates there.” He runs a hand absently through his hair and writes something down.
His pen freezes, his eyes don’t leave the paper, “To make Him they had to kill me…” He’s so quiet you have to strain to hear, “this,” he gestures lazily to the books, “is my attempt at raising the dead.”
Mournful eyes, more grey than blue meet yours. “But I can’t pretend the bad didn’t happen too… that He, I, didn’t do horrible things.” He pulls a three subject spiral from the pile, thicker than all the others. There’s no title here. “I’m not sure what book you belong in… but if it’s this one,” he lays his palm flat on the cover, “and I think it is. I…” his voice breaks and you think he’s going to sob, “I’m truly sorry.” No tears fall but you swear you could drown in his eyes, in his grief.
A very strong part of you doesn’t want to give him anything, push him away, make him leave. Wants to shut him out. But if you’re being honest with yourself your loneliness is far stronger. And his loneliness… I mean for fuck’s sake he just opened up to a woman who he only thinks he knows, who knocked him unconscious and chained him, however ineffectively, to a wall a few hours ago.
“No…” You stare at your hands, unable, unwilling to hold his gaze any longer. “I don’t really think that’s where I belong in your story.” You hear him let out a breath. “How do you know me, or think you know me, Mr… Sargent-“
“Bucky,” that crooked smile again.
“Mr. Sargent Bucky, then.” It’s a shitty joke, hardly even a joke, but he gives you a little laugh all the same.
The slight humor isn’t enough to lighten his next words, “When I saw you nine days ago-“
“Nine?!” You can’t help but be alarmed. Nine days, nine fucking days he had been following you and you didn’t notice a goddamn thing.
It hits you, “You wanted me to see you today… You wanted to see how I’d react.” He just nods. Small again despite his size, shoulders slumping. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“If it’s any consolation you’re doing a great job laying low.” You snort. “No really,” he says insistent, “I mean you did pick the same city as The Winter Soldier, that says you know how to disappear.” There’s an awkward beat, “I don’t know that anyone else would notice you.” You don’t say someone already had, in Berlin.
“But… yeah…” He picks up again. “I saw you, your face, and I saw.” He stops suddenly his eyes staring at his hands, balled into fists sitting on his knees, “I thought I remembered…” He just can’t get it out and his eyes find yours begging you silently to tell him he’s wrong.
You feel for him, you do, but you won’t sugar coat this. “You remembered,” your hand wanders to your right cheekbone where a thin scar runs up from there up around your eye socket, “beating me.”
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