CROSSFIRE | BUCKY BARNES

CHAP. TWO

CHAPTER TWO OF CROSSFIRE

[ stalker! ]

WASHINGTON DC WAS NOISEY. It seemed like it would never quiet down, and Lena wasn't sure if it comforted her or annoyed her. The crisp morning air blew from her open windows, and it smelled of asphalt and rain. Her finger gripped the warm mug of her coffee, her hip jutted against the kitchen counter. Her eyes scanned through the curtains, out towards the streets that were still dark, the street lights and headlights made it possible to see.
No matter how hard she tried to sleep last night, her mind had other plans. She rolled, and whined, her spine protesting as she flipped over once more, before she grabbed coffee and indulged in her minds curiosities. Her instincts kept screaming at her to not let her guard down, to keep her eyes on the street below, to keep one eye open. She tried to make herself understand that she was safe now, but even as she repeated it over and over in her head, her body knew that she would never be safe; and that was something she was going to have to live with forever.

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CROWDS. CROWDS MADE FOR EASIER ESCAPE, made for your identity to be passed up on easier. Everything was easier when you were in a crowd. All dark, mute clothing adorned his body as James Barnes weaved his way through a small group of woman. In the corner of his eye, he saw one turn towards him, and his hands flexed cautiously, reminding him that fight or flight was still well in affect. He moved behind a group of men, his feet never missing a beat as he stepped from side to side, head tipped down, eyes trained on legs and shoes. He shoved his clenched fists in his jacket pockets, trying to calm himself down.
Find somewhere safe. You're a wanted man, you've done horrible things, you don't deserve to walk amongst these civilized people.
The mans brain strained to fight against his words, trying to fill him with something else, something to distract him, something that would elicit particular emotions that James was not used to.

His memories recollection of Steve, of the 1940s, of the old him. Some details stood out against the rest, like how Bucky couldn't remember the color of Steve's shirt when they went to Coney Island, so it's a bland bright red, similar to a mans that he was passing by. Or how his memory could only recollect some of the words from war signs, it was like someone took whit-out and selected words at random, leaving a choppy sentence in its wake.

He remembered certain things though, like the color of his blood that stained the pretty soft, bright snow. He remembered the smell of the hydra institution in Sokovia. He tried his best not to think about those memories once he rounds a corner, a quick side step follows as he just misses the collision of a running child. Much to his dismay, he tilts his head over his shoulder, his blue eyes dancing over the retreating child's figure, and new memories pop up- ones he couldn't place as happy or sad.
He remembered his siblings. Their smiles, their hair color, eyes. Their voices were a little off, he believed some of them were mixed, or ones didn't belong to their rightful owner, but he couldn't blame himself. His brain had been fried so many times, it took him a while to even draw out what his old voice sounded like.
He quickly glanced away from the child, his eyes burning as he pushed his way forward, a new wave of people surfacing through the busy streets of Washington DC.
Leave soon, or you die.
That's what he had to remind himself. He couldn't consider this place a home, he couldn't stop and enjoy the new world. He needed to find somewhere safe, somewhere that he wouldn't be known, or at least somewhere he would be understood.
He just didn't know it was an apartment in downtown Washington, third floor up, number 246.

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IT WAS EVEN LOUDER ONCE YOU WALKED ON THE STREET. Lena figured this out almost instantly. It wasn't dark and secluded anymore. The streets were alive and buzzing, like the inner workings of a bee hive. She hugged her leather jacket closer to her frame, her eyes scanning over the tops of heads as music blared through her headphones.
Before she left her apartment, she had tried to tell herself it was okay to talk to people, that maybe she would make a friend today. In the end, her nerves curled up and instinctively grabbed the earplugs, knowing that she'd be sucked into her own world of music and beats- not a single human interaction.
She decided today would be as good as any to start looking for furniture.
She scanned through cute, trendy stores, waiting for something to scream out HOME. She'd never understood that feeling, that sense of comfort that cascaded over you. She'd never had that, but she wanted to. And even if it would take all day, she was determined to push through until she bought one thing that seemed to slightly comfort her.
Her dark hair was pulled back from her face as she entered another small shop, biting her bottom lip nervously as she eyed vintage furniture and wall hangings. Her fingers picked at the skin of her finger nails as she saw a worker walk towards her, a friendly smile stretching across her face, fake happiness seemed to ooze from every pore of this woman's body, and she stood in front of Lena, talking. She has asked a question; Can I help you look for anything? It was a common one, something they were paid to ask, but Lena couldn't come up with an answer.
"Hi-yes, something comforting? Home-y? Something that makes me forget all the sins I've done in my life and replaces it with warmth and coziness."
Instead, she opts for the silent treatment, and seeing as her headphones are still in, and she's giving this worker a blank stare, she can't help but feel annoyed when the lady repeats herself. Her finger digs a little too deep into her skin, and she feels a prick of pain. Lenas lips tug into a small, uncomfortable smile before she walks away from the worker, her eyes trailing across assorted chairs and such.
She can feel the judgmental eyes of the workers, but she didn't care enough. She didn't want to talk, she didn't want to be asked questions, and she didn't want anyone's help. She was going to do this alone, like she has for everything.
A nice soft song rises from the playlist and into her ears, and she throws her body against a large, red bean bag. Her body sinks into it, and she smiles longingly.
Cozy.
She had found the first piece of her new life, a new inanimate object to place under the cozy category.
And she was excited.

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RED. LIKE STEVES SHIRT FROM CONEY ISLAND, or his blood on the whitish-blue snow. Red like the star on his shoulder. Red, like the giant object this woman was carrying. Red, the color of warning.
He stopped abruptly, his hands forming tight fists in his jacket pockets as he looked from left to right quickly, trying to find an exit.

You're standing in one place for too long- move.

But his feet seemed planted, like roots sprouted from his shoes and dug deep in the earths crust.
He watched in bewilderment of himself, and of her. Her dark skin contrasted with the bright color, and she seemed to be wearing an oddly placed smile on her face. She almost looks uncomfortable. She shuffled the large item around in her arms, trying to figure out the best way to handle it. James noticed the headphones shoved in her ears, and could faintly hear the sound of music. He wondered what she was like, or what made her want to buy such an excessive piece of furniture.
He turned quickly, just before she had, and walked swiftly back the way he came. He scolded himself quietly, wondering why he couldn't just walk around her. Why he had to retrace steps, why he had to cost himself everything for this woman and her bright ass red ball of something.
He couldn't remember what they're called, but he knew you sat on them. He tilted his head over his shoulder, and a familiar feeling of shocks ran through him. She was behind him, walking swiftly, her movements quick and precise, even with the large object still juggled in her arms. His eyebrows knitted, and he tried to dig his way deeper into the crowd, trying to let it swallow him up.

You're retracing your steps, and now you're being followed by a woman with a big red ball.
Hide yourself, find somewhere to hide. Anyone could be after you, including her.

His breathing was steady, his heart rushing into his ears as he tried to blend in, kept his head down even more, kept his fists clenched in his pockets. He could hear the familiar 'whirl and click' sounds of his metal arm, and it brought him a new wave of memories. He knew now is an inappropriate time, that he should be on full alert, but he couldn't help himself. He dug through them, shifting until he found newly discovered ones. Ones that seemed the hardest to remember.

Focus. Lose that, and you'll be dead in two seconds.

He snapped his attention back to his current situation. His hair brushed over his cheekbones as he tilted his head back once more over his shoulder, looking for the bright, obnoxious color. He moved around a man and his child, watching quickly as she did the same. Her movements looked like a dance routine. Something she had done so often that it looked graceful, thy she didn't even have to think about it.
That was all the evidence he needed to know that she was like him. She has some training, that she was of use in some ways, and that she could be a threat.
Against his first instinct- attack and kill-he decided to duck into an entryway, the crowd seeming the thin out considerably. He moved quickly up the stairs, his ears picking up the same sound of light scrapes of shoes, and was met with that damn color again. His senses heightened, his eyes narrowing, calculating every possible move he can make. He was a chess piece, waiting to take down the opposing team. He bounded up the next flight of stairs, and then the next. She followed diligently, the sound of the bean bag scrunching around in her arms seemed to echo off the walls.

The roof. You'll have a vantage point, and room to fight. Her reflexes seem to be good with walking, maybe she uses her legs mostly during combat-

His thoughts are disrupted as he goes to make his way up the next flight of stairs, surly waiting for her to follow close behind, but she trails up towards a door instead. She jams a key into the lock, and looks up. The red ball furniture is now on the concrete floor of what he seemed to realize was an apartment building. They met each other's gaze, his bright blue eyes battling her brown ones. She squinted, her lips forming a snarl as she spits the next remark towards the man perched, staring with a baseball cap on.
"What are you, fucking stalking me?"
And with that, Lena opens the door, collects her beanbag quickly, and slams it- all within a second.

Bucky Barnes stands still, his hands dangling at his sides as he adjusts himself in the balls of his feet. The numbers 2-4-6 burn his eyes as he stares down the closed grey door.
He replays her words, her movements, her face, her eyes.
And the only words he can come up with are
"What the fuck?"
They echo meaninglessly across the deserted hall, bouncing off door ways and down the stairs. He's met with silence once more, and he's reminded that he's alone. Again.