Secretive - Bucky Barnes

58 || Stabs and Slaps

[Nova]
»Where're we going?« Sam asks when I drive into the most familiar road this planet inhabits. The sky has turned into an ash-grey blanket, darker than before, the lowered sunlight then and now lightening them as the last tries of a fire would to keep living.

To our left and right, there are several rather huge and modern one-family-houses; the Kurz's, the Reiner's, the Schneider's. Nobody on the street, though. Not even old Misses Brandt's peeking through her window; the observation skills of this grandma have been better than the FBI's at times I still lived here. 

»Hey, by the way, Wolf?« Tony starts, his usually mocking-arrogant vibes shining through his voice, »Why would you take my money if you've got enough? That's basically stealing, you know, or at least, taking advantage of me.«

I know he is not serious, everyone does, but this does not keep me from eye-rolling, glance still stuck on the road. If the days continue like this, my pupils really will stick to my skull due to all the circles my eyes draw. »I hadn't had much time for heritage-business, testaments and all that. And before you ask: No, I will not drain myself. It's kinda, you know, unpleasant.« I give back, wrinkling my nose in remembrance of the one time I did. Next to the discomfort, the process takes hours and this is mich more than I am willing to spend.

Then, only fifty metres away from the entry, I apply the brakes harshly. Suddenly. So surprisingly, Steve, sitting next to me and being quiet for the most part of the drive, is catapulted forwards and knocks his head onto the black, hard plastic dashboard; his belt only then reacting. The others, all four squeezed on the back seats – and Lord, how I prayed no police will stop us, internally -, also fall forward, and if it was not for Natasha's fast reflex, Bruce surely would have broken the windshield and landed on the asphalt right before us.

But I could not help it. My breath hitches, goes hard and superficial and fast, and immediately, both my hands clamping in front of the side of my belly, head lowered to watch upon the piercing, stinging spot. It came out of nowhere; it cannot be. I secured the street, carefully, watchfully – I never miss something. Never missed, at least, until now. 

Whatever the others say, it is nothing more than indistinct chatter to me. Trembling out of the car, the fresh air feels like a frying pan hitting me. Hands still on my body, the biting, nasty pain intensifies another time, but I have no interest in assuring me I am not bleeding. Instead, I am soon on top of the car, earning a short cry of surprise from the unexpecting passengers. I could not care less. 

Eyes everywhere, I try to find the source. Try to find the attackers who did this to me, although there is no reasonable purpose for them hurting me. Like, actually hurting, not injuring. The fact that this does not make any sense, because James is the only one with the might to get me physically into agony, combines just perfectly with the total calmness of the street. No eyes, no guns or knives or any other kind of weapons.

All families remained inside the houses; one couple hears some classical music, and the footsteps can only mean they are dancing. Another family has dinner, the sound of children slurping noodles and the faint scent of tomato and minced beef indicating at them eating Spaghetti Bolognese. It continues alike: no one recognizing I am here or if, caring, and no threats or harms in sight, in hearing distance, in feeling. 

I drop both my hands, this time ignoring the next awfully painful stab, breathing one time deeply before jumping down, and hitting Steve's door close as he just opened to get out. I sit back in, totally aware of the question marks on each of the other's foreheads, and ignoring them mostly. »Sorry, thought I'd seen something.« I mumble underneath my breath, running my totally clean, bloodfree hands along the leather of the steering-wheel.