fugue // stucky

4. New Information

I'm very hungry. My stomach grumbles. Walking the streets of New York, there are lots of food carts. I'm tempted to steal something. I do not.

I'm finally in my flat after a long day. I hang up my bookbag and take out the museum brochures. In them are pictures and paragraphs about Steve and I, The Howling Commandos, and World War II. I cut out what I think is most important and glue it into one of my books. There's a particular picture that makes me smile. It's of Steve and I. My face isn't showing, but Steve is looking at me. He's happy, but sad at the same time. I must have said something dumb. He's in uniform. I am too. This has to be before I fell.

I cut out the picture and put it under a magnet on my small fridge. The only other thing hanging there are my dog tags. I drag my fingers over the cool metal, hoping the information on them would go through my fingers and permanently resign in my brain. My stomach rumbles again, and I'm shaken out of my concentrated thinking. The fridge is tugged open by my metal arm and I take out some eggs, cheese, and tomatoes. I'll make an omelette. I used to eat them a lot back in the day.

My hand puts down the ingredients and picks up a pencil, 'omelettes.'

Gently, I tap the eggs against the edge of my small tin bowl and stir them up. The pan is already warm. The eggs sizzle at the touch. I add the cheese and tomatoes a little after, and fold it. The taste is okay, the presentation is horrible. Tomatoes spill out the sides, and some of the egg is still uncooked. I scoff it down anyway. I can't be picky.

Steve wants me to come to Stark Tower tomorrow just to 'hang out.' I trust him, but I don't trust Tony. I wish we could meet up elsewhere, but I don't want to upset him. After I'm done eating, I clean up my dishes and grab a close notebook. I open the page and the first thing I see is myself. My old self. His smile is bright. Was I really that happy? I guess then I had a reason to be. Trail my human fingers over the creases in the paper. I was so handsome.

I rip out the page in frustration and crumple it, tossing it at the wall. If it were anything heavier than paper, it would've left a hole. I look back at the worn leathered book. Now I'm face to face with a different man. Steve. His face is stern, his body covered safely by a vibranium shield. Gently, I close the book.

My feet carry me over to the discarded page. I pick it up and open it slowly. "I'm sorry," I whisper. With a small slip of tape, it's hung up on my mirror. I force myself to look in my reflection to compare the two men side by side. I use a rubber band to tie my hair back. That makes us look more similar.

With a grunt I grab my razor and cream, smothering the fluff onto my face and dragging the blade over my skin. With every scrape I look more like Bucky. Finally, my face is fresh and clean. I must say, I do look fine. I didn't even cut myself. I smile a little at my reflection and go to turn on the television.

There is nothing new on the 'news,' it's just the same people talking about the weather. The lady on the show, who I don't like very much, starts talking in her high pitched voice, "it's been months and there's still no new information on The Winter Soldier. Suspects say that he must have fled the city. Search parties will be going overseas to Europe to continue looking for the mass murderer. If anyone sees this man, please contact your local authorities."

"No new information," I scoff, "then why is it on the news?"

A clip of a man shooting down rows of soldiers plays over. He seems dangerous. I'll keep an eye out for him. With a click, the televisions light fades and I'm surrounded by darkness. My eyes adjust, the faint blanket of yellow tint from the street light outside comes through my one window. I sit, staring out. I want something to happen. I want action. Slowly, I walk to my window. The latch comes undone quickly under my fingertips and I climb out onto the fire escape.