verb. fail to remember
~
She was forgotten.
He forgot.
She didn't mean to. Neither did he.
They were both dragged in. They both fought out. Surviving is hard. Living is harder.
~
~Based on characters and events of the MCU, I only take credit for my...
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April 2014
As it turns out, getting out of a country is easy, and eighty percent of that has to do with Zola.
Thanks to Zola, I knew the right questions to ask and the best places to go to get believable birth certificates, visas, drivers licences, anything that will get both of us out of the U.S. and anywhere we want in Europe.
With just a little bit of pleading and the bare minimum of threatening, I was now 26-year-old Lily Harris, and the Winter Soldier, James, Bucky (my mind struggled to settle on a name for him) was 28-year-old James Bennett, an average American duo who just want to see the world.
Thanks to Zola, I hacked into Alexander's Pierce's bank account to transfer enough money to my own fake one to last us at least five years. I wanted to take more-- the guy had enough to last the two of us the rest of our lifetimes-- but I didn't want to raise attention to us.
We were untraceable.
Barnes (how did that work, hmm?) had remained silent and scowling the entire time, an intimidating force that both made me feel safe and made it extremely difficult to get anywhere unnoticed. People ran wherever we went, and even when we got Barnes layers of clothes that covered the arm, and a cap that would cover his ultra-intense stare, some would still risk their lives to cross the street just to not pass us. He didn't bat an eye to any of it, but I reckoned he was too deep in his head, drowning in only the fragments of memories he would have recovered.
Neither of us tried to speak to one another, but in the small silver car we had "borrowed," the silence was deafening, so I resorted to muttering random facts under my breath.
For that first night of being on the run, we stayed in an abandoned farmhouse, one that the library computer said still had running water and a bedroom and only one way in so we could tell if someone was approaching us. It failed to mention that there was no running electricity, so the shower was a few degrees off the Arctic ocean, and we both had to stay huddled in the kitchen under the light of his torch. As incredulous as I had been when he first purchased it when we took five minutes each to buy a few items, I was glad he did now.
He stood by the door, his arms crossed over his chest, the leather gloves and jacket we had found for him still covering the arm in case we had to run for it.
I was at the table, my shirt lifted up to reveal the ugly pink wound in the centre of my stomach. In my hand were a needle and thread. I don't think the cut was infected, but we didn't have time for any more medical equipment than a needle and thread from a sewing kit. I took my time, keeping my hands from shaking, holding in my small hiss of pain every time the needle pierced my skin. Barnes didn't need to know how susceptible to pain I was.
'I'm sorry about them,' Barnes suddenly whispered when I moved onto my arm, frightening me so much I almost dropped my needle. Almost. His voice was soft, not at all like the guttural yell I heard from him on the carriers. My insides twisted into knots, against my will.
