The Seventh Avenger: Memories Never Die// Bucky Barnes

TWENTY-TWO: THE TWINS

          Despite knowing all the doom and gloom that my schedule for the day would undoubtedly bring, there's a skip in my step the following morning as I move down the hall, towards the cafeteria, and a ghost of a smile hovering at the corners of my lips. For the first time in what seems like a very long time, a true sense of hope surges through me, and not even the harsh glares that I receive from the numerous guards as I pass them is enough to dampen my surprising, yet welcome, cheerful mood.

          The cause for my chipper spirit? A newfound ally in the shape of one Bucky Barnes.

          If I were to be honest, I initially had no intention of asking for his help again so soon after being rejected by him the first few times. But, falling through the roof of his cell last night (which, at the time, had been nothing but a panic-inducing accident) had been a blessing in disguise. I was given a glimpse of just how much Bucky hates being in this place. Upon seeing just how much he is like the rest of us captives in here, I managed to convince myself to try and ask for his help once more.

          What was more surprising, however, is that he had agreed to do it.

          He had been so stubborn when I had first approached him for his help. He had been blunt, and even cold. But now? Now he seems eager to help. There had been a glimmer of hope in his ocean-blue eyes when I had mentioned helping him build a life for himself, outside of these four walls, and it had been enough to spur him on in his decision. If I had offered him a few weeks back, I very much doubt he would have taken me up on the offer.

          Perhaps he had been right. Maybe things really were starting to change in here.

          Upon entering the cafeteria, my eyes immediately scan the many faces of the dejected crowd, looking for both Riley and Adam. The excitement bubbling away within me practically electrifies my veins, and for the first time in weeks, I feel a little like my old self. I want nothing more than to share the good news with my two friends, but I am ultimately left feeling disappointed when I can't spot them in the crowd. They're not even sitting up at our usual table.

          Frowning, I weave through the multiple tables and chairs, murmuring apologies to people I almost bump into. Finally, I come to stand at the end of the line of other teens that are waiting to be served breakfast, picking up a red tray and trying to ignore the rumbling of my empty stomach.

          A quick peak down the line informs me that a small serving – barely a cup – of lumpy-looking porridge and a small apple is on the menu for breakfast this morning. My happy mood is slightly soured at the sight, and I try my best to not think of what I would be eating right now if I was home instead of here. Luxuries I would kill to taste right now. Bacon, juice, eggs – oh, I would kill for some scrambled eggs right now...

           There's a shuffle of feet and movement behind me, and suddenly a warm breath blows on the back of my neck, as gentle as a summer breeze. It's enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I realise that whoever it is that has joined the line is standing far too close for comfort. I stiffen and move to turn my head –

          "Don't turn around," Bucky breathes, his voice barely above a whisper and tickling the back of my neck. It takes everything within me to suppress the shiver that threatens to run down my spine at the sensation.

          Every instinct in my body tells me to turn around to face him, but I allow the small, quiet and logical voice whispering from the back of my mind to listen to him. If he's telling me not to turn around, then it must be for a reason.

           "Why?" I finally manage to breathe out.

          "The guards."

           My eyes immediately dart towards the guards standing in the corner of the cafeteria, as they always do. A few of them barely pay attention to us captives, and instead converse in quiet tones with one another, though the odd one or two sweep their eyes across the room, hands hovering just above the batons strapped to their thighs, looking for any chance to use it.