Secretive - Bucky Barnes

2 || Extraordinary

[Nova]
There probably never has been a path in my life that was heavier. From the very beginning in Wembley Stadium, across its entrance that I kicked open without much effort, leaving a track of bloodstains on my way, along White Horse Bridge and finally, ending at Wembley Community Hospital.

This has different reasons. For one, my legs may not ache in the least although several cuts and bruises decorate them, but my entire body feels tired, exhausted. My psyche, with all the events happening after the discovery of Jonas's betrayal, tears down my energy level to the bottom of the sea. And with James, or should I say Bucky, lying to me all along, probably only to get me to stay with the Avengers and lure me in and whatever, there is nothing in this world that is going to go smooth and easy in the next days, or weeks.

For another, there are flashlights everywhere that I am not used to. Of course I am not; usually, I would play hide and seek with every human being after such a mess, after such happenings that raised my body count approximately at four-hundred and sixty-five. The maths has been easy, coming to me like thoughts when I glanced down at the railway below the bridge. With Steve's, Natasha's and the other's skills, inclusive the least number that could escape the collapsing hole – fifteen -, and the soldier that was half dead already, I killed highest eighty-four people, making Chloe my number four-hundred and sixty-five.

Anyways, what really is making my path a lot more difficult, literally, is the sudden amount of paparazzi that embraces me into their tight hug. Questions over questions, flashing lights and shouts and screams, hands reaching out for me, my suit, my hair. These advanced senses of mine did not subside, making the environment too much for me to take in, too hard to stand.

I do not start running, though. I never run.

Finally in the emergency centre of the hospital, nurses shoot at me like unlocked from a trigger. When they look at me, they seem horrified – not only my injuries, probably, but from the mirroring glass from the revolving door, I can see my eyes still – or again, who knows? It is not like I carry a mirror myself all the time – glowing in gold. Not the type you would overlook or not recognize, no. It is shining as brightly as the sun, trying to make my eyes explode in my skull. When the personnel frightenedly calls a doctor immediately, I wonder if it is a move of their heart or a move of their fear.

Thereby is everything that I want not my wounds to get infected.
I would not hurt a fly.

But how is this possible? How? I have never been her, and me. At the same time. The bloodlust subsided the moment I heard the truth, and has not returned yet in the least. Nonetheless, my senses are sharpened, and my sight organs seem like they are an exploding bomb themselves, only thing human the pupil. And these quite choirs that erupted back in Wembley Stadium. What is happening with me?

A doctor, a tall, slender man in a white long shirt, dark glasses around his widened eyes, blue neat trousers and bald with a dark brown beard is leading me into one of the offices. I never have been at one, I mean, I never got sick, but do they not usually ask what happened first before starting to work?

This one, obviously, not. As soon as I sit on the examination bed on the side of the clean, plain white room, he starts at my temple, at my arm, at my thigh. I do not even need to get undressed; he does not say a word while getting the wounds cleared up. The only thing I hear is him gulping, me intimidating a man in his middle forties, and the only thing I smell is the sweet mixture of noradrenalin and adrenalin, indicating his fear.

I do not interrupt him. The man works fast and well, and there is not much more that I could ask for. When he finally gets the stack of handkerchiefs into the dustbin, he hastily walks to the white wardrobe next to a sink on the door, unlocking it, starting to grab things I cannot make out by now.