[complete!]
"𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔."
𝐌ace Wilcox had a heart full of revenge. For almost her whole life. Because when the person she loved most was killed, her life was turned upside down. She was turned into a killer.
Sh...
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Their makeout session lasted only fifteen minutes — there were other matters at hand.
"So what now?" she asked, leaning against Bucky's shoulder.
"About what?"
"How do I fix things? If they can't forgive me... what do I do?"
"Normally I think I'd tell you you'd just have to learn to forgive yourself without that. But that's not even something I can do. So maybe they can't forgive you... but if you can do something for them, something that's worth a life, then maybe it'll help you to forgive yourself. And for them to be happy."
"And what's that?"
"That's something only you can figure out. With some research, at least."
"That's something I can try," she said. Still a little unsure.
What if it didn't work? She'd just be stuck in her misery? Her memory? What then? She'd go through life with regret?
But she didn't tell him this. Any of it.
"Okay," she said, standing. "I should go."
"It was nice," he said. He stood up as well and walked with her to the door.
Mace smiled. "It was."
"We'll do it again sometime?" He was half-smirking.
"Definitely."
She waved, and turned to walk away. Bucky began closing the door.
"And James?" she said, turning back around. He opened the door again.
"Ye —"
She cut him off with a deep kiss to the lips. She wrapped her arms around him, and he put his hands on her face and kissed her even harder.
This is what they had been searching for. The both of them.
"Thank you," she whispered, her forehead still touching his.
"Thank you," he said. "And I hope you find what your looking for."
"In some ways, I already have," she said. And with one last short kiss, she was gone.
— —
What was I doing?
The night brought thoughts from all over Mace's mind. Somewhere in the mix, there was her widow side. Telling her what she had done was crazy. Wrong. Telling her she wasn't allowed to have relationships like that. She didn't deserve it. She almost began to believe it.
But if it wasn't for him, I'd never be doing what mami wanted.
He doesn't care about you. You don't care about him.
But I do.
Too much for your own good. Leave him. Do it on your own.
I won't. He cares about me. He's helped me.
Why did you forgive him? He doesn't deserve it.
I said what I felt. That's how I feel.
You're wrong.
It used to be so easy. The better half of herself had always been the easiest to ignore. The easiest to push away. It never had a determination to it, or smarts, or a real goal. But now it did. It was witty, it knew what it wanted. And now that it had a real goal, nothing was going to stop it. But now her head was full she was fighting with herself. Truly, truly trying to let the good side in.
But there was pressure. Her efforts might not work. She might be stuck, scolding herself over and over again. It didn't work, Mace. You couldn't do it. Why would they forgive you? Get them back for it. Get your revenge.
She got headaches often. Nightmares. She woke up in the middle of the night, screaming for her mother.
She went to the bathroom and splashed her face with water, then filled a glass from the faucet and drank. She was afraid to go back to bed. Mace looked at her clock — the red light told her it was 4:37 a.m. Almost none of Brooklyn was awake at this time. Maybe it was just her.
— —
There was a town at night. Few streetlights, no people. No witnesses he'd have to get rid of. He walked down the road, gun in hand, ready to shoot. It was a quiet place. Very apparently, little went on there. That's why it was where the bad people lived. It was unassuming.
But winter always came. Whether you wanted it to or not.
4370. That was the house number. And he finally found it, near the end of the street. He broke through the door and marched in, ready for a fight.
It came. A man came down the hallway to the left. The man kicked him in the gut, but he was unfazed. Instead, he shot toward the man, the bullet going through a window. But the man was strong, and knocked the big gun out of his hand.
But he was too fast for the man, who thought he had no other weapons but his fists. The man took out a knife, and ducked under his punch with it, stabbing him in the leg quickly. He grunted, then took out a smaller gun from a side holster and began shooting, these bullets more agile than the last.
Никогда не берите с собой на перестрелку нож.
Never bring a knife to a gunfight.
He killed the man easily, this time. He fell to the floor with a loud thud, and he went to collect what the man had been guarding. From a table just ahead, covered with broken glass, he picked up a small hard drive. He put it in his pocket, then limped back to the door, and with one last look at the man, slammed it closed.
Bucky Barnes then woke up with a start, sweating. His leg hurt.
He sighed and got up, taking his shirt from the couch and slipping it over his head. As he went to the kitchen, he looked out the window. Only streetlights and outdoor lamps were on. He filled a glass with water from the tap and took a long sip, drinking it all. He could still feel he was breathing heavily. Quickly.
He didn't plan on going back to sleep.
He looked at the clock — 4:37 a.m. Most of Brooklyn was probably asleep. Maybe all of it. He wondered if he was the only person awake.
