Old Ghosts

Chapter 4

He stood beside the river, watching as the recovery crews cleared away the debris. HYDRA's warships had been destroyed. This should have been a victory. But people had a hard time seeing it that way when the wreckage fell in their own backyards. War he remembered, but now the war had come home. They'd brought him back and he had brought this with him.

He watched as they dredged the water, watched as they dragged their loads to shore. He knew what lay beneath the tarps lined up at the water's edge, knew why the workers kept their distance. He'd dredged up a body of his own not far from here, had left him gasping on his back in the mud. But they weren't the only ones who had fallen that day. No matter how long they worked, there would always be more ghosts.

Shrugging deeper into his jacket, he turned and headed back through the park. He didn't know this city – not really – but he knew what it represented. He'd spent the morning walking among the monuments, slipping unseen through the crowds, trying to remember what it had been like to believe, to have something worth protecting. It was easier when you didn't know the cost.

And then his feet had carried him here. It was a stupid idea. If anyone was looking for him this was where they'd start, the place where he'd slipped off the grid. But as his eyes scanned the park, he realized that he wasn't looking for HYDRA, for the authorities coming to bring him in. He was looking for a ghost, the first ghost that had tried to reach him, the ghost that had been too stubborn to let him die. Would the ghost be searching for him? Would anyone? He shut his eyes, but it wasn't fear that made him ball his fists in his pockets. It was disappointment.

"Hey! Get off!"

He turned, his heart thundering in his ears. The shouts were coming from up the path, where a girl struggled against a much larger man, both of them tugging at a battered backpack. As he watched, the girl kicked at the man's shin, swinging wildly at his face.

"Let go, asshole! That's mine!"

He didn't remember running, didn't remember pulling the man off of her. But then the man was laying at his feet, staring up at him in horror, scrambling away as he tried to stem the blood pouring from his nose.

"Yeah, that's right!" the girl called after him. "You'd better freakin' run!" She hugged the backpack to her chest, scowling down at its broken strap. But when she looked up at him, she smiled. "Thanks, dude. That was pretty badass."

He blinked down at her. She was just a skinny thing, a teenager. Her coat was frayed and much too big for her, her pale hair falling limply into her eyes. They narrowed as she stared up at him, her head tilting in concern.

"Hey, hero. You okay?"

He shook his head, struggling to focus. He didn't know her, but the ghosts were there, whispering in his ear, reflected in her crooked smile. Bullies, he remembered. Bullies and little guys who never knew when to back down from a fight.

He cleared his throat. "Are you alright?"

Pushing up her sleeve, she showed him the scratch on her arm. "I've had worse."

"What were you thinking? He could have hurt you."

She shrugged. "He was trying to take my stuff. If I didn't stop him, who would?" Laughing, she poked him in the chest. "Except you. And they say chivalry's dead."

It was an effort not to flinch away. The girl noticed.

"So... I've gotta sew this up." She gestured with her broken strap. "You staying at the mission?"

"What?"

"The shelter? There's one a few blocks from here." She squinted at him. "Unless you dress that way on purpose."