#tokillabarton

★— BAD BLOOD RUNS DEEP --- Baron Zemo and Steve had an ongoing feud, and Steve had always considered Zemo’s grudge to be something HE had to deal with. But for it to lead to THIS--- to drag his team-mates and their FAMILY into this was something that made his blood boil. Had Zemo manipulated the man, or was this part of a larger plan?

Yet, there he was, stood just behind the table that separated him and Trickshot. Gloved hands pressed on the cold surface, trying to prevent himself from balling his hands up into fists. 

The interrogation room in the mansion was on the sub-basement level, considering they had others ESCAPE before, this time, with the threat level posed, they could take no risks.

DEBRA MORGAN.  a name from his past, for sure, someone he didn’t expect to see in new york, let alone anywhere else from miami. he’s guessing the current him is a big variation from the fbi agent he used to be, and no wonder she is shocked. they didn’t get along, but at least they had to respect each other for official reasons, but goddamn did he look like someone who could definitely not be respected. still, he turns around to meet her gaze, a hint of a smirk, definitely tired but still ready for a long, endless speech filled with fuck’s.

    “ got shot — paralysis. didn’t expect t’see ya here, detective morgan.  ”

          “ yeah  --  no fucking shit, sherlock. ”

to debra it had seemed obvious that she’d wanted just a few more details.  there’s plenty other changes to notice, wheelchair aside ;  between the hobo look and the grumpy, old man expression,  it’s clear to deb that she has no fucking clue what happened to him once they went their own separate ways.  the only bit of satisfaction here,  is that she’s changed just as much.

The index finger of one hand traces over the individual digits of the number she’d finally found while the thumb of her other hand presses the buttons to dial. Edith has done this little routine a few times now. Enough that she could probably punch the number in by memory, but she wants to read it off the paper. Wants to make sure she has every digit right. Not that she’s managed to actually press the button to dial yet.

Every time she gets to that last digit, she panics and clears the phone number from the display. It’s been so long since she saw him. What if he doesn’t want to hear from her? She can’t say she’d blame him if he just hung up on her, but at the same time, she’s not sure she’s ready for that possibility. 

This time, it takes a minute, but she manages to work up her nerve to press that last button and call. It starts to ring, and she lifts the phone to her ear to wait. One ring. Two. The third cut short as the other end is picked up.

A paper to-go cup full of coffee is held out towards him, a few packets of sugar and a container of half & half balanced precariously on top of the plastic lid. 

     “hey, asshole, you owe me five dollars!”

          “    Bartholomew, why is it that whenever you die, you come back in that damn chair ? Wouldn’t you think that you’d be able to walk ?    ” 

          NOT THAT SHE GIVES TWO FUCKS about him, but if he’s going to show up here unannounced she might as well make him pay for it.

         “    & here I thought my building wasn’t wheelchair accessible.     ”