1| Silver & Gold [Pietro M.] ✔

05. Drama Queen

Now it's time for me to find my Bucky.

Jersey. Not a place I'd assume to find him, but it's a damn good place to hide I guess. Cold. Unpredictable weather. Lots of traffic. Just what a broody, overdramatic drama queenTM would love.

I ended up spending the rest of yesterday mapping out likely areas for my dear ghost to be haunting. I last spotted that crazy mop of curls that belonged to none other than my second half 12 hours ago on a traffic cam. He's either getting sloppy, or I'm being baited. My attempts to locate the irksome brunette haven't been the most subtle, I'll admit. But I've gotten desperate.

Maybe I should get him microchipped.

The thought brings me back to a time long past. The middle of one of our many Russian summers with Carter. A pair of kittens had been born and somehow the two of us managed to plead with Carter to let us keep them around. We told him they could be trained to hunt the mice around the small village. After a long discussion about responsibility, the two of us were proud owners of our very own little squeaky balls of fur. I remember rummaging through Alissa's sewing box for a ribbon and bell for mine. I told the brunette that kittens were so small, they could get lost too easily. It would be much easier to find them if they had little bells. He didn't believe me, no, but what boy does? He believed the cat would bond with him and they'd be inseparable, as like dogs. I knew better, Alissa knew better, but some things you must learn the hard way. Weeks later his little kitten had wandered away, or maybe ran away, but it was the last time we saw the little thing. I remember waking up the next morning, my homemade collar and bell sitting on the floor. I was in a child's panic, only to find my partner with the small kitten in his arms - fur painted to look like the kitten which had disappeared. The fool tried to tell me it was his kitten even as the vials of paint sat at his feet.
It was such a long time ago that all we could think about was what adventure we'd set off on the following day after chores. A long time ago since our innocence was stolen. Since we were stolen.

As I walk down the busy sidewalk, I peer down the grimy alleys. I'm nearly positive that it's the place he'd find himself holed up in. Surrounded by rats he's trained to attack if someone so much as looks at him the wrong way. God, what an actual lunatic he is.

My lunatic.

I walk for blocks with no luck before I huff angrily. How can someone as stupid as him, who doesn't even know how to boil water on a stove, be so good at hiding anyways? I step aside and pull out my phone to rewatch the footage again. I'm in the right area, I must be. The clinking of an empty can rolling across the concrete makes me peer over my shoulder at the delirious, dilated eyes watching me carefully. As my eyes flutter across the people watching, I lift my sunglasses onto the top of my head. I can't say I see what's coming next.

"Oh- OH- OH EVERYBODY RUN IT'S A DAMN WEREWOLF! LOOK AT HER EYES!" I'd recognize that voice from beyond the grave. Even buried beneath 67 layers of muck and 3 feet of beard, I'd know who belongs to that mop of curls. However, what I don't expect is for all the crackheads to go ape-shit crazy — but I should've. Now Curls is making a run for it at the back of the alley and the inhibited backwood crack dealers are screaming bloody murder and hurdling any piece of trash within a 2-foot radius at me. I swear on the only thing good and holy, waffles, that the little shit won't get away from me that easily. I throw myself into the trash-heap madness and make it halfway down the alley before a damn SHOPPING CART is thrown into me. Crackhead strength at it's finest, people.
As I'm knocked to the ground by the force of impact, the lot of frothing creatures surround me. Since I'm dealing with the inhibited, might as well play on their fear, huh? God, he's never going to let me live this down. I turn on those who have tightly packed a semi-circle around me and bear my teeth with as ferocious a snarl I can muster. I could piss my pants laughing at their panicked shrieks of horror as they trample each other to escape had the circumstances allowed. No, I just get to my feet as quickly as I can and run. The blood roars through my ears while my boots thunder against the concrete. I'm desperate to close the distance as I vault over trash, dumpsters, and anything else thrown in my way in an attempt to slow me down. But I've always been lighter on my feet than he has. I'm quick to close the distance, I even grasp a handful of his coat before he allows it to slip into my grasp.