The Collection- Bucky Barnes

Aposematic- ii

It's been a year. 354 days to be exact. Most days, he can forget her. Forget she exists. Forget that she ever existed in his world in the first place. But some days, some days the memory of her is brought so violently to the forefront of his mind, it takes his breath away. The smell of cinnamon and honey is what triggers it most often. It isn't a scent he comes across very often, but when he does, all he sees is her.

It happened once. He had been so overcome with the idea she was there that he had followed a woman two blocks before she had glanced back at him. Worry, fear, all presently clear and overrun in her features. She had never been scared before, not even when face to face with death.

But, for the most part, time passes the way it had before she had stolen back into his life. Anxious and a little terrified. A permanent knot in his throat. Thrown glances over his shoulder. The unkillable feeling that they'll be back for him. They'll never willingly let him go.

It all depended on what had happened after she left the warehouse that night. Which, of course, he had no idea.

When it came to her, there were two scenarios. One: she had gone back to HYDRA. It was a life she had lived in a state of content. She knew it well and she wrapped herself in it like silk. It was all she had ever known, fighting and killing. A stride not easily broken for people like her. Not when it came as first nature, more natural than breathing. Upon walking out of the warehouse that night, she could have gone back and reported his death. Either she'd had to put him down or he'd done it himself before she could stop him. If they ever found out (and they were bound to, there was no keeping a secret such as that from them), she was as good as dead. No one disobeyed orders and lived. Not even someone as valuable as her.

Or, there was scenario number two, which he liked better. It went as so: she was in the wind. A true ghost. On the run, struggling to survive. No, not struggling. She was the epitome of strength and if anyone could make evading HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D. easy, it would be her.

He honestly didn't know what to believe. His head, practical as ever, was stuck on the idea that she had returned to HYDRA, the Siren mantle placed perfectly on her. Claws dug deep in some other poor bastard. His heart, however, restless and slightly overdramatic, had to entertain the idea that she was changing for the better and therefore, in the wind.

He had no clear proof on either of these cases. A depressing fact for him, considering he had employed F.R.I.D.A.Y. to keep a constant search open for the Siren's kill card (deep cut throat, bullet between the eyes, kiss mark of blood). Nothing ever came up. If she was still doing what she did best, she had changed her routine to keep them away.

There was, however, a third scenario which he vehemently ignored. Death. She was dead, body decaying somewhere. Rotting away. It was too impossible a situation for him to believe. He would know, wouldn't he? Surely, some part of him would know if she were dead.

But as far as his team knew, she was. She was dead.

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There was a routine to his mornings. The same schedule kept every day. The same stop every morning before heading to the compound. His favorite coffee shop in the city. A small, quiet place. Not frequented by a lot of people. The coffee wasn't too strong, not to watery either. Perfectly blended.

It never failed. The drift of his eyes to the corner of the shop where she'd always sat. For the past year, it had been empty. Empty or otherwise occupied by someone he had no cares towards.

He's standing to the side of the counter, waiting for his order (plain black coffee, bagel with a side of cream cheese) when his heart quickens. The way it does when he senses he's being watched.