Safe with me

Chapter 1: Winter Fucking Soldier at your service

[...] and while Stern is the last of the accused Senators to be indicted, there appears no end in sight to the ensuing media circus. Political players and pundits from around the globe will be watching carefully, analysing evidence and public sentiment surrounding the trial, eager for the opportunity to scrutinise the US government's handling of –

Article cont'd on Page A10; "Former Pennsylvania Senator Stern to stand trial for Hydra crimes"

*****

Bright morning sunlight splashes across the streets of Manhattan, a clear sunrise illuminating the press of early morning traffic. The paper rustles as Riz flips from the front page of his New York Times, searching for the rest of the article. When he finds the headline, he folds the paper in a careful rectangle and leans from the front of his kiosk, taking a deep breath of cool air. Letting the comforting scents of roasting coffee and fresh bagels flood his lungs, he sinks into the story.

"These. I want them."

The man appears from nowhere, his voice quietly rasping, words bleeding together in a subtle slur. Riz jerks back in surprise when a massive stack of newspapers land on the counter. The man peers up at him from under a mop of sandy brown hair, his shoulders hunched under a threadbare black jacket. Riz takes stock of the paper pile, comprised of every copy of the New York Times in his stand.

"Big fan of the Times, huh? You write an article in there or something?" He attempts the obligatory small talk as he counts the papers, fingers tapping an old calculator to tally the price.

The man either doesn't hear the question or chooses not to answer – he simply stares at the stack of paper, eyes fixed hungrily on the front page. His tongue darts out to swipe over dry, chapped lips that move ceaselessly, a silent conversation with himself. When he glances up, he bares his teeth in a mocking impression of a smile and slaps a fistful of crumpled bills on the counter. The strange smile remains frozen on his face, as Riz picks up the cash, smoothing the bills flat and offering a handful of change in return.

"Uh, here you go man. Enjoy." Riz pushes the bundle forward, and the man gathers them quickly, hugging the precious cargo to his chest. Spinning on his heel, his getaway comes to an abrupt halt when he slams face first into the wall of muscle and metal waiting patiently behind him.

"Hey, sorry, you okay?" The deep voice is friendly, the apology colored with the faintest hint of an old-school Brooklyn accent. Stumbling back, the man twitches his head irritably and then visibly flinches when he recognizes the face shaded under a vintage Dodgers baseball cap. Without a word he backpedals, tripping over his feet and throwing a look of panic over his shoulder as he scurries away.

The man in the hat watches in bemusement; it's not the first time someone's run after recognizing him. A predictable consequence of his history and current profession. He turns to the kiosk.

"Morning Riz. Got any copies of the Times left?"

The cashier shakes his head, but offers up the folded copy he was reading. "I'll give you this one, my friend. Half price, and I left the crossword blank. Even though I know how much you need the help."

Bucky Barnes laughs. "Your confidence in me is heartwarming. Gonna frame the damn thing when I finally finish one."

"If it ever happens, I'll buy you a frame myself. Pretty sure my money's safe though."

Bucky snorts and drops his change on the counter. "You're goddamn hilarious buddy."

The sound of laughter follows him when he tucks the paper under his arm, turning to stroll home and tipping his face to the bright sunshine with a grin. His step falters for the briefest moment, as something vaguely familiar scratches at the edge of his brain, just out of reach. It's strange, the feel of saliva wetting his mouth, because a second ago he could have sworn he smelled the bitter tang of lemons.