Forgotten feelings

Part ~ 6

The city roads seemed endless, stretching the horizon to its very edge. The silence he imposed after the unexpected question weighed heavily, like an invisible burden that wouldn't let me forget his words. My hand rested on his waist, not squeezing too tightly to avoid causing discomfort—whether to him or myself, I could no longer understand. But every movement of my hands, like an invisible electric impulse, coursed through my entire body. I watched as the tension in my fingers spread out like invisible currents, and I tried again and again to hold that tension within myself.

You can't even imagine how deeply a person can be wounded until you begin to communicate with them personally. Now I understood why he was given the nickname "White Wolf" in Wakanda. Wolves usually keep away from humans, showing aggression only when threatened, but they never attack without a reason. It's rare, even for them.

The sun was already high above New York, and I squinted slightly, shielding my eyes from its blinding rays. James's back blocked most of the light, and I didn't mind that at all. He didn't use any cologne, but I could smell the fresh scent of shampoo lingering after his morning shower. It was a scent that evoked a sense of cleanliness and freshness, contrasting sharply with the surrounding urban chaos.

— "Oh, so it's you two!" — I heard Sam's voice as I got off the motorcycle. He greeted us with a suspicious smile that I didn't like at all. I couldn't help but notice that his eyes were filled with irony and some kind of distrust.

— "Hello to you too," — Bucky said from somewhere behind me. They shook hands warmly. I turned around, trying to read his face, but he didn't even glance at me. It was odd and unsettling. I felt that there had been a quick shift between us from hatred to misunderstanding, or was it only I who noticed?

— "What's the plan?" — I asked, glancing at the old building opposite. It looked like it had once been an abandoned warehouse but had since been converted into a modern mini-base for manufacturing super-soldier serums. While the former Winter Soldier pulled on his black gloves, I tried to prepare myself for potential difficulties.

— "The main thing is to stay alive, and then we'll see how it goes," — he replied. I nodded, and we slowly crossed the road, stepping into this unfriendly gray building. It looked like it was saturated with dampness and age, almost like an abandoned library where time had stood still. The interior was even worse: walls covered in graffiti, crumbling plaster, plastic sheets scattered everywhere, coated with dust, broken furniture, and shattered dishes.

I tried not to lag behind them, but their steps were quicker. We moved toward the source of light, making our way through piles of debris. I had a gun ready to go, tucked into my chest holster, and a few knives hidden in my waistband. I looked up and saw Bucky tense up, drawing his gun and holding it in his right hand, which was ungloved.

— "Better safe than sorry," — I thought, watching Falcon enter the room, intercepting our chemist. Bucky immediately pressed the gun against the chemist's head, pushing him back into the brightly lit room. The interior here was no different: a lot of empty test tubes. The chemist, grabbed by the collar of his jacket, was shoved onto a chair. Sam picked up one of the tubes and started examining the contents of a gray substance that caught his interest.

— "Who were you selling the serums to?" — I asked, crossing my arms over my chest. The chemist looked very strange: disheveled curly hair, a frightened look darting across all the objects in the room, as if trying to find a way out.

— "You've got the wrong person. What serums?" — the chemist tried to lie, but his confidence was as fragile as his nervous lip-licking.

— "You know who he is?" — I tilted my head, looking into his eyes and searching for an answer that was already clearly etched on his face. His eyes began to tremble with fear again. Bucky pressed the gun harder against his temple, and the chemist finally gave in.

— "Alright, alright, I'll tell you. It was..." — but he didn't have time to finish, as a precise shot rang out, hitting him right in the forehead. I recoiled in fear, looking around for a sniper. But the room went quiet, as if we were in a tomb.

— "Damn it!" — Sam shouted, rushing to the body. He placed three fingers on the pulse of the neck, then raised his head, realizing the chemist was already dead. The bullet hit right in the forehead—his chance of survival was one in a million.

— "Someone definitely doesn't want us to find out the truth," — Bucky said, disappointedly holstering his gun and shaking his head.

— "We're at a dead end," — I stated, starting to head for the exit, not listening anymore. I felt we were being pushed back, and we had nothing left but to fight for survival.

— "I'll contact Nick. He has more resources than we do. You two, head home," — Falcon waved goodbye and started to take out his phone.

— "Good luck," — I almost whispered, feeling Bucky's heavy footsteps behind me. Once outside, I began waiting for him, trying to calm down.

Soon, Bucky appeared in sight but didn't even stop, heading straight for the motorcycle.

— "Tell me you were joking about what you told me today!" — I called out to him, and he turned to face me, clenching his jaw.

— "Unfortunately, no," — he replied, and I shook my head, feeling sadness and guilt for people like him.

We silently reached home, and just as quietly, we parted into our neighboring apartments. I finally took a deep breath as I crossed the threshold of my own apartment, but I didn't change immediately. Instead, I lay down on the couch, closing my eyes, trying to rest from everything that had happened.

I don't know how much time had passed, but suddenly I heard a terrible sound, like someone hitting furniture. I startled and sat up on the couch, realizing the noise was coming from the neighboring apartment—from James's apartment. Without thinking about the danger, I ran out of my apartment.

The door to his place was open, and when I entered, everything froze around me. There was no sound. Quietly sneaking in, I started to go inside, forgetting even about the gun that was left at home. Sudden footsteps, noise, and then someone grabbed me by the arms and dragged me into the darkness, covering my mouth so I couldn't scream. I placed my hand over the attacker's, trying to pull it away from my mouth, but he firmly pressed it against me.

Fear and panic filled my head, but these feelings quickly turned into confusion and a rapid heartbeat when I heard a familiar voice.

— "Quiet! It's me. I'll take my hand away, but don't scream, or we'll be killed," — Bucky whispered. I recognized his voice—low, with a distinctive raspiness that was hard to mistake for anyone else's. It took the panic that was raging inside me away, and I tried to breathe more slowly so as not to give away our presence. Only dim light barely seeped through the cracks in the storeroom door. I tried to distinguish the silhouettes of my hands, which were still slightly trembling.

Barnes slowly removed his hand from my mouth and placed it on my shoulder. His touch was warm but firm. He remained standing behind me, holding me close, as if shielding me from potential danger behind the door. His breathing was steady and calm, unlike mine, which betrayed a rapid pace. I felt him lean down slightly, as if trying to become invisible to any possible threats.

In this darkness, in the small space of the storeroom, our bodies seemed to merge into one, and I felt every muscle of his. From him, there was a faint scent of metal and something else light, barely noticeable. His chest was so firm that I involuntarily imagined how much time he might spend at the gym. The back of my head almost touched his chest, but due to his height, it required him to lean down even more. I felt his breath in my hair, warm and calming, and it seemed unreal given the circumstances that surrounded us.

— "What the hell is taking so long?!" —flashed through my mind as I tried to understand why just his presence caused such a tremor that vibrated somewhere deep inside me. I understood that our situation was dangerous, and we could find ourselves trapped, but I was grateful for his presence, for him being near and ready to protect us both.

With each passing moment, when another step sounded behind the door, I felt his body tense, as if he were ready to jump into the fight at any second. But at the same time, his calmness and focus on keeping us unnoticed helped me to calm down and hold on tight. I tried to think about the way out of the situation, about how we could get out of here alive, but all thoughts drowned in the warmth of his presence.