Steve mentioned something about laying low with a friend named Sam Wilson back in Washington DC, but to be honest, I've been trying to ward off my ridiculously splitting headache for the past couple hours, so I didn't catch much of it. This time Natasha drove, Steve giving her directions once we reached Washington.
Watching our backs, the three of us, grimy, beaten and exhausted, tread up to a fairly nice house in the white-picket fence kind of neighbourhood Steve directed us to. Natasha looks about ready to collapse, and I'm sure I don't look much better. Pity, I was really hoping to make that Victoria's Secret Model Runway show in the next hour.
The super soldier raps lightly on the glass sliding door, fleetingly peering at me in the corner of his eye. He's been doing that since we left Wheaton, as if he expects me to pass out into a coma at any given moment now. Wouldn't mind passing out into a coma right now actually, good way to avoid the world gone to shit and catch some sleep whilst I'm at it.
A dark skinned, average height man with a goatee in an indigo shirt opens the door to the three of us, expression far beyond the point of lost and perplexed. Not the kind of girl scouts selling cookies I bet he was expecting. "Hey, man."
"Your time is up, Samuel Wilson," I forebodingly inform him, the knot in the man's brow only furrowing further. "We have come to collect."
"What is she—?"
"Lilly," Steve sighs, shooting me a disapproving glance before turning back to Sam Wilson. "I'm sorry about this. We need a place to lay low."
Natasha's ever stoic expression pulls tighter as she talks. "Everyone we know is trying to kill us."
The new guy stares between the three of us sternly, deliberating and weighing his words by the look of it. Despite this, he doesn't take long to respond, and appears more decisive than ever in his choice. "Not everyone," he disagrees, stepping aside to let us in.
I amble in last after Nat and Steve, Sam Wilson closing the door behind me. Glancing at me as the other two settle in the kitchen for a short while, he speaks up. "I don't believe we've met, mysterious lady who has apparently come to collect something."
I snort. "My humour doesn't always shine in the most opportune moments. In fact, I have a habit of using sarcasm as a defence mechanism in nearly every inopportune moment." I stick my hand out wearily, a tired smile playing at my lips. "Lillian Nightshade. Thanks for being cool about this."
"No worries Lillian," he lightly grins, accepting my hand and firmly shaking it. "Sam Wilson. I'm cool about a lot of things."
"Mind if I call you Sammy? I already have one friend named Sam."
His laughter is heartier now, retrieving his hand back with renewed warmth behind his eyes. "Man, I don't think anyone has called me Sammy since the fifth grade."
"Well, I'm breaking that streak. Thanks Sammy."
"Sam," Steve calls, grasping the attention of Sammy and I. "You have somewhere we can get cleaned up?"
My new friend Sammy nods, jerking his head in the direction of a hallway. "Down the hall, my room. There are towels in the cupboard under the sink in my bathroom too – you guys look like you had a building dropped on you."
"Ha, accuracy hurts," I mumble under my breath, running my hands down my back and stretching forward, hearing a resounding crack. Huh, that feels better.
Steve smiles graciously, but still despondent behind that soldier facade. He's had that look since discovering that HYDRA really isn't gone, and has come back to haunt him once again. He and Nat start making their way down the hall, but when I make no move to follow, Steve pauses and glimpses at me expectantly. "You coming, Lilly?"
YOU ARE READING
Played by the Enemy || Captain America || Book 2
Fanfiction"My hands are stained with dirt. And they always will be." ~ Lillian Nightshade; assassin, Captain America's girlfriend, and number one magnet for bullsh*t and bad luck. For her entire life, she's been told what to, who to kill, who she is, and what...
