Hot tea scalded Marie's tongue, pain pricking at her numb fingers as she gripped the mug between her hands. The café buzzed with life, people crowding around small tables in attempt to escape the cold. Despite the layers draped over her, the cold Romanian winter still seeped through and chilled her skin.
Marie swept her long, curly hair back over her shoulder. In her year of travel, she had visited close to twenty different countries. She did her best to change looks and stay out of the limelight; she used her powers to sneak onto flights and move between countries. Illegal, yes, but important to avoid being tracked by anyone.
She didn't want the Avengers to find her. She wanted to build a separate life, a separate identity. Marie didn't need them checking up on her and interfering if they believed they needed to—or recruit her for another mission. She wanted a break from that life, and that meant dropping off the radar.
Her hands tightened around her mug. Guilt gnawed at her stomach, growing with every month that passed. She tried not to think about the family she left behind; she had to fight the thoughts and memories that crept over her at night. Marie still had nightmares from New York and D.C. and HYDRA. There were some things that she couldn't leave behind, no matter how hard she tried.
Another group of people bustled into the café. Marie lowered her empty mug to the table and stood. Wrapping her scarf over her mouth and nose, she buried herself into her coat before stepping back outside.
The cool air nipped at her exposed skin. Sunlight and blue skies brightened the otherwise bleak day as people milled around the city. Marie walked aimlessly through the streets, glancing from shop to shop.
Water splashed. A man had dumped a bucket into the gutter.
But Marie was back in the HYDRA cell; she was gasping and sputtering and so so cold. It was running down her face and trickled into her lungs. She couldn't see and she couldn't breathe. The pressure. The water was weighing down on her and pulling her down to the bottom of the Potomac.
Sharp laughter and the trill of a bell made Marie's eyes snap open. She stood in the middle of the sidewalk, people giving her odd expressions as they passed.
Breathing deeply, Marie forced herself past the crowded shopping district and found herself in a open-air market. Space to breathe. Space to think. She swallowed thickly and shook the memories off her.
Five things you can see. Four things you can touch. Three things you can hear. Two things you can smell. One thing you can taste.
The market was the perfect place to be distracted. Colorful fruits and vegetables were enticingly displayed; Marie squandered her last few coins on some fresh oranges. She peeled one and stashed the rest as she strolled. Eyes roaming over the market and the people, she tried to come up with some ideas to get more money.
The half-eaten orange tumbled from her hand.
An older woman ran into her frozen body. She spat something rude in her face as she ambled past. Marie mumbled some sort of apology (maybe in French). Her eyes couldn't move from the figure in front of her.
He was tall and broad shouldered, the layers of winter clothing only making him more imposing. A winter cap covered his head, pulled low over his face and gloves on his hands. He didn't look much different from the other men in the market.
But Marie knew that hair: choppy brown locks, self-cut, brushing his shoulders. Dark stubble covered a jawline she recognized instantly. The stance, the body language. Everything.
The Winter Soldier—Bucky Barnes—was hiding in Bucharest.
His head tilted up and his eyes met hers.
Neither one moved. Her mind was blank. She didn't dare blink or break her stare; she almost didn't believe it. She wasn't trapped in a memory. Right?
A body bumped into hers. In that split second, he was gone.
Marie cursed and darted across the street. She dodged old women with little carts and wove through aimless strollers and couples. Her eyes caught a familiar head bobbing through the crowd dozens of feet in front of her. She couldn't run or cause alarm, but she hustled as fast as she could. She tried to keep her breathing steady and her pace even. She couldn't screw this up; she couldn't lose him.
He disappeared down a side street. Without thinking, Marie blindly swung around the corner.
An arm pinned her to the wall and pressed against her throat.
Wild blue eyes stared into hers. "Who are you? Why are you following me?"
Marie gasped and wriggled in his grip. Her scarf suffocated her. She tried to twist her head away, but he pressed harder against her throat. Before she could wheeze something out, he ripped the scarf away from her face.
He scanned her features, his mouth twitching as he tried to place her wide amber eyes and curly hair. He knew her. He couldn't remember when or why, if they had worked together or if he had hunted her down.
Either way, he released a fraction of the pressure off her throat.
Marie inhaled deeply, the air whistling past her vocal cords. She coughed and fisted her hands to ward off an asthma attack. She had gone a whole year without one, beating her bargain with Bruce, and wasn't about to have one now.
"Buck-Bucky?" She rasped. "Wh-What are you—What are you doing here? Where have you been?"
His tongue was sharp and his voice was clipped. "I'm not Bucky."
Marie cleared her throat and tried to steady her heart. "Right. Sorry. I don't—I don't know what to-to-to—what to call you."
He didn't answer her, continuing to stare at her with narrowed eyes. The museum. After. That's where he knew her. And before. An image flashed in his mind: a body in a cell, blood dripping from their arms. Her arms.
In the blink of an eye, Bucky—or did he prefer James? —pulled away from Marie. He gripped her arms and forced the sleeves up. One arm was covered in tattoos, though the white scars were still visible on both. His gaze moved up to hers. She gave a weak smile.
"Like my, uh, my n-new ink?"
"What are you doing here? How did you find me?" He demanded. Her arms were still trapped in his hands, but Marie relaxed. At least he wasn't strangling her. She had to keep cool and not startle him; he was like a skittish dog, he needed to be handled with care and slow movements. If he felt more in control holding her, she would let him. He probably didn't remember she could disappear at any moment.
"I didn't come here for you." Marie kept her answers short; she didn't want him to think she was deflecting his questions or bluffing for time. "I left the-the-the Avengers, disappeared in the middle of the night. I wanted to—I wanted to get a break from that life. I've been gone for a year."
"But they're looking for you."
"Of course. They're my family."
Bucky dropped her arms and backed away. Marie raised her hands, palms facing him as she stepped forward. Nope, that made him jump. She froze and watched him glance around the alley and up at the surrounding buildings.
"I'm-I'm not trying to-to-to trick you or lie to you—"
"How can I trust you? Why would I? You can't prove anything."
Marie gnawed at her lip. He wasn't entirely wrong. "Well, I haven't been in the-in the—I haven't been in the news with them? They're still hunting down HYDRA thugs, but I haven't been in any press releases."
Bucky gave her a flat stare. "That's your defense?"
"Do you want me to delete their contacts from my phone or-or-or something? What else am I supposed to s-say?"
He shook his head and hustled down the alley with his hands shoved in his pockets.
Marie cursed and jogged after him. "Wait, Bucky—James—whatever you're calling yourself—just wait."
He didn't.
"Are you okay at least?" He paused and glanced back at her. "I just, after D.C. and the-and the mu-museum, I wondered where you went. Steve's been looking for you, unsuccessfully and I—I don't know. You're alone in Bucharest and it's freezing here. And you were just starting to remember things, right? And, well, it's hard. By yourself."
Marie swallowed tightly. His eyes stared straight into hers, unblinking and unwavering.
"I blocked out a lot of memories from New York and HYDRA and my—and my childhood. But they come back. I'll smell something or-or hear something, or it'll just come out of nowhere and hit me. It hurts. Every time. I know it's not the-the—it's not the same. I can't—I could never imagine what you experience, but sometimes it's nice to hear someone say it's okay. Even if you don't believe them."
Her voice trailed off. The only sound was that of the wind blowing hollowly through the street. They couldn't hear the market or nearby cars at all. It was just them and the white puffs of air curling from their mouths and disappearing into the sky.
"Also, I'm out of money and-and I—and I need a place to crash."
++++++++++
The apartment was small, musty, and old. What little light filtered through the newspaper-covered windows brightened the space, but also highlighted its bareness. One twin mattress, sitting on several wooden pallets, stood in the nearest corner by the bathroom. Beyond that, a sagging brown couch and a small kitchen table. A stack of clean plates and silverware sat next to the sink, with various wrappers and boxes scattered across the counter and on top of the small fridge.
Marie didn't know what convinced Bucky/James to let her come with him, but she wasn't going to question it. She kept her thoughts to herself and trailed silently after the man who now stood awkwardly in the middle of the room.
Now what?
"This, uh, this is a, um, nice place you've got yourself here... it's efficient."
Bucky/James's stoic expression broke long enough to raise an eyebrow at that. Marie wanted to swallow her own tongue and die. She desperately needed better small-talk skills.
"It's not much," he mumbled, hands disappearing deep into his pockets. His head turned to take in the space, trying to guess what she saw and what she thought. He kept her in his peripheral at all times.
A grin twitched on Marie's face. He caught the expression. Clearing her throat, she gestured at the apartment. "All this reminds me of my first few weeks at S.H.I.E.L.D. They housed me with Nat, erm, the Black Widow? I didn't know what to—what to do with myself in her room... I always watched her out of the-the—out of the-the—I always kept her in sight, and I know she did the same."
That made his eyes dart away from her, only for a brief second.
"What do you want m-m-me to call you?" Marie asked directly, bringing his gaze back to her. He shrugged in response.
"Whatever you want."
"That's not an-an answer." She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "It's up to you. Bucky? James? Sergio? John? George? Fred? Ronald? Donald? McDonald—"
"I don't know, alright? Just... Just call me James."
Marie nodded and stopped harassing him. He still hadn't moved from the middle of the room, his hat, gloves, and coat still on. She took the first step and unzipped her jacket and unwound her scarf from her neck.
"Oh." She swung her backpack around and tugged at the zippers. "I-I bought some oranges if you want—"
James jerked as she began rifling through her backpack. Marie froze and slowly pulled her hands out, showcasing her empty hands. His gaze was laser-sharp, jumping from her face to her hands to her backpack. She stood and smiled carefully.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I bought some-some oranges. They're in my backpack if you... if you want them."
"No, it's fine." His voice was gruff as he turned away, grinding his teeth and flexing his jaw. "I just—never mind."
"Thought I was pulling out a-a-a weapon?" Marie asked. "It's okay. It's hard to snap out of-of—out of it. Someone dumped a bucket of water down the—down the gutter earlier and suddenly I was drowning in the Potomac again."
James's eyes flickered back to hers again. Marie gave him a half-hearted shrug and gestured to the bag. "They're yours if you want."
"I don't like oranges."
The admission surprised him too. He blinked several times, as if he wasn't sure he was the one who spoke. Marie suppressed her smile. She neatly folded her scarf and jacket and set them on the floor. The apartment was warm—or, more accurately, she was flushed with a mix of embarrassment and awkwardness—and Marie pushed up the sleeves of her sweater.
"You don't mind if I-if I-if I—" Damn, words are hard—"is my stuff okay here?"
James only nodded. His mouth opened and closed, his eyes fixated on her tattooed arm. "You didn't have those. Last time."
"Oh, right." Marie stared down at her arm, running her fingers over the black ink and white scars. Flowers and vines wove over and around those pesky white lines, cleverly disguised by an understanding and unquestioning tattoo artist. "Do you want to-to-to see them?"
Before he could answer, Marie pulled her sweater over her head and stood in a simple tank top.
James blinked. He remembered this; he had seen this before. The wet tank top and the knife. A girl, dwarfed by men in bulky black tactical gear, soaking wet. Goosebumps covered her skin. And him. Touching and teasing with a knife.
"I spent, like, a week in a tattoo parlor in New York." Marie's voice snapped him back to reality. She stood in front of him, holding out her arm. "I wanted to cover up my-my scars, they attract too much attention and are an-an—are an obvious way to identify me. I could only afford one sleeve though."
His eyes trailed up her arm, following the jagged white lines and the flowers that twisted with them. A single star stood out. The more he stared, the more symbols he found.
"I got one for each of them," Marie said quietly. Her finger traced the hidden symbols. There was a star for Steve and a reactor for Tony; an arrow for Clint and a black widow mark for Natasha; Thor's hammer and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s logo; she dedicated a biohazard symbol to Bruce and a pair of wings for Sam; Wanda and Pietro received entwined red and blue circles; for Coulson, Marie tattooed the three little stars at the top of each Harry Potter chapter on her collarbone.
"They're nice." All he could think about was his own metal arm and the relentless ache in his shoulder.
"Thanks."
James ran his hand through his hair and looked around his apartment. He tried to guess what she thought about the dark space. His gaze flickered back to her. She didn't appear to be hiding any weapons on her, and he couldn't pick out any wires. When she met his eyes, he quickly turned his head.
"The couch is yours, if you want... it's not the most comfortable bed in the world." His voice was hoarse and cracked as he trailed off. When was the last time he had really spoken with someone?
"Trust me," Marie threw herself onto the couch with a sardonic grin, "I spent half my life sleeping on p-p—on park benches and concrete stairs. Anything is heaven compared to-to that."
Questions wrapped around his tongue, but James bit his cheek and shoved them back to the corner of his mind. He shouldn't get to know her. He shouldn't have spoken to her—why did he let her into his apartment? What was she doing here? He would grab his bag and disappear in the middle of the night, as soon as she was asleep.