In the Arms of Justice

Chapter Twelve

Previously:

Arriving at the station, there was a heightened buzz of activity and an electric excitement in the air. Detective Rogers met you and Bucky in the doorway, holding a file in his hands which he slapped against his partner's chest.

"We got a match," he said with a huge grin on his face. "There was only one usable fingerprint on Y/N's locket and we got a match. The initials Y/N saw on the knife make sense now. His name is Brock Rumlow."

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Detective Rogers walked the full length of the bull pen with you and Bucky in tow. The blond had much too much pep in his step for this early in the morning. Down a hallway to the right was a small board room with an oval wooden table and several office chairs on wheels around it. At the far end of the room was a large white board with names, dates and notes scrawled all over it in color-coded markers. Several photos were attached to the board with magnets.

"Geez, Steve. Did you sleep at all last night?" Bucky asked his partner.

Steve shrugged, "Sharon took the kids to her parents for the week so I took the dogs on a run early this morning and then got the call about the fingerprints so I came in. I also may have had a cup of coffee or five. Shall we?"

The detective motioned for you to take a seat at the table. Bucky sat beside you while Steve occupied a chair opposite. He pulled a small, slightly outdated electronic voice recorder out of his pocket. Catching Bucky's eye with an amused smile, he mouthed to you, "He's old-fashioned."

Nodding with a grin, you removed your coat and draped it over the armrest and placed your purse on the floor. A thought then occurred to you.

"Oh! Could I charge my phone? It died overnight."

"Of course," Steve replied. "There's an outlet right behind you."

Once your phone was charging, you sat down and took in a deep breath, exhaling loudly.

"Good to go?" asked the blond detective, finger poised over the recorder.

"Yes," you answered, clasping your hands on the table.

With a click of the button he spoke, "This is Detective Rogers interviewing Ms. Y/N (Y/L/N) at approximately 9:07am."

You began describing the events of last night: arriving at your apartment and talking with Bucky, the drowsy walk upstairs, him grabbing you from behind and the threat to end your life if you spoke. You relayed the conversation you had with this Brock Rumlow and how you were to blame for his life being supposedly ruined.

Bucky was taking notes next to you, pausing at times to give you a reassuring smile or to calm himself when a flush of anger came over him, knuckles white as he gripped the pen.

Steve shook his head at how Rumlow snuck into the building and took note of the comment he made about his mother knocking some chivalry into him.

As you reached the point where your attacker mentioned taking your locket and his fingers grazing your skin, you retreated into yourself slightly, looking down with hands fidgeting in your lap under the table. Your voice broke as you spoke of Rumlow's threat about what would happen if you didn't share what you had told the police, and that your death would be quicker if you did.

A warm, tender touch grazed over your palm as Bucky intertwined his fingers with yours, giving your hand a squeeze. Looking up, you saw he was still writing notes with his right hand as his left rubbed soft circles on your skin with his thumb. Steve remained focused on you, unaware anything had happened.