[ BROOKLYN, N.Y. ]
The dog tags were cold against Florence's chest. It was the first thing she felt when she woke up the next morning, followed almost immediately by a fleeting sense of inexplicable disappointment.
He's not here, she realized as the crushing reality of loss sank onto her closed eyes and made Florence squeeze them tightly shut.
Taking a deep breath, she rolled over and opened her eyes, staring at the hardwood floor she'd slept on, nothing between her and the floorboards except a fluffy orange blanket. Florence sighed and sat up, drawing her legs to her knees and then stretching them out in front of her with a tired groan. Her head was just next to the side of her bed.
The sound of her heartbeat was too loud, too intrusive. The silence was stifling. Florence squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them and slowly stood up.
The clock on the nightstand behind her read 10:02 AM.
Reaching up, Florence fiddled with her dog tags, running her index finger over the engraved words. As she crossed the room to her dresser, she felt her eyes prick with tears at the sight of the photo there—a smiling little boy holding a toy truck and wearing a blue baseball cap.
Avoiding the boy's too-still eyes, Florence got dressed quickly, then crossed the hall to the kitchen and hoisted herself up onto the counter. Taking cereal out of the cabinet, she reached to her left to open the fridge. She poured milk into her bowl of Cheerios, then folded her socked feet under her legs and leaned against the window to finish her breakfast.
Slowly, she surveyed her apartment. It was clean—too clean, looking like nobody had lived inside for years. Florence felt her chest burn at the sight of the bare floor; no toys, no candy wrappers, no remote control cars and model trains strewn across the carpet.
Her eyes flicked up to look at the front door, then, and just as she was staring at the unused peephole, Florence's blood ran cold.
The front door was open.
Holding her breath, Florence set the half-empty bowl down on the counter, slipped down to the floor, and padded silently across the apartment. She slowed as she approached the door, leaning to look out of the crack shedding yellow light into her still-dim entrance.
The hallway was empty.
Biting her lip, Florence opened the door and leaned out into the hall, before shaking her head and reentering her apartment. Must've left the door open last night.
Her sneakers were still by the door; Florence slipped them on and grabbed her phone and wallet, stuffing them each into one pocket and cursing their small size.
She didn't know where she was going. Only that it had to be anywhere but here, where memories were like a thick, painful fog she had to wade through with only half her senses.
Since returning home—from the military, yes, but also from the six months of being institutionalized—Florence had no job. The military had granted her unemployment, so she was now left to drift aimlessly through her days, most of which were spent either with Yori or alone.
Swallowing, Florence drew her shoulder-length black hair into her usual tight bun—just another sense of normalcy and routine, something to keep her grounded. To keep her from sinking into the pit of her grief. To distract.
So simple, yet so grounding.
She blinked rapidly and left her apartment, closing the door behind her. Then, when Florence was sure no one was looking, she stretched out her hand, took a deep breath—and sank her hand through the door, letting her arm drift through the solid matter and reach sideways to lock the door.
Florence never used her keys anymore. This, no matter how much of a self-proclaimed curse it was, proved to be far easier.
Once she was sure the door was locked, Florence let her arm drift back together, the particles of matter returning to their original form and sinking out of the surface of the door.
Reflexively, she turned around just in case she was being watched, but no one was there. Florence shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket and speed-walked down the hallway to the staircase, where she jumped down two at a time and stopped in front of her apartment building. It was early in the morning by her standards, but the city was already bustling with life, so Florence started down the quiet way to the library.
She walked slowly, eyes down and shoulders hunched. The alley where she'd seen Yori and Unique fighting was just up ahead, but this time, it was empty—so Florence ducked into it and leaned against the brick wall. Just as she was about to pull out a cigarette from her pocket, however, a beefy hand grabbed her bicep, and Florence looked up to see a smiling man staring down at her, his breath smelling of alcohol.
"Let go of me," she growled, jerking away, but he tightened his grip.
Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Florence clenched her other fist and raised her arm to punch him—but the man pulled her towards him, still smirking deviously. Florence grunted and kicked upwards with her leg, aiming for his crotch, but he dodged her strike and pinned her against the wall, moving to grab her neck—
Florence felt a surge of panic as her airway was cut off. She fought the urge to cough, knowing it would only make things worse, and reached up to grab at her attacker's sweaty hand while gasping for breath. Come on, come on. . . Florence squeezed her eyes shut, hoping for the best as the attacker grabbed her shirt.
And then she felt herself start to dissolve. A sweeping sense of relief flooded her as Florence focused the power on her neck, making the particles of matter that made up her body start to willingly fragment. A soft swishing sound almost like a soft breeze surrounded her and as the attacker's grip loosened, Florence disintegrated, letting her ashes fly out of the man's grip and reorder themselves behind him.
Now, she stood facing his back, jaw tightened and both hands clenched into fists. Florence raised her left fist as the man slowly turned around, trembling in shock—but before she could land the punch, someone else did it for her.
A strangely familiar gloved hand grabbed the man's jacket collar, and he doubled over, coughing violently as the sound of more punches landing echoed through the alleyway.
"Hey!" someone snapped, pushing Florence's attacker into the street. "Pick on someone your own size."
Florence grimaced. Great, she thought. Another playground hero.
As her so-called rescuer turned to face Florence, she raised an eyebrow at him. "I can defend myself, you know," she told James, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "You didn't need to—"
James stepped forward, ushering her back into the alleyway and crossing his arms, staring Florence down. "What was that?" he hissed. "What did you just do?"
For a moment, Florence didn't answer. She swallowed nervously and started to back away, only to stop when her back hit the brick wall again. "Thanks for the rescue," she whispered. "James."
She ducked past him, pressing her lips together and shoving her hands in her pockets. James followed her. "Bucky," he corrected. "It's Bucky. And—what was that? How did you do it? It looked like—"
"Like the Snap," Florence finished, feeling a strange sort of déjà vu at the way he'd told her his name. "Yeah. I know." She stopped walking, standing across from Bucky under the awning of a convenience store. "You can't tell anyone."
Bucky blinked. "Wait," he said quietly. "Was the Snap. . . was it you?"
"No, idiot!" Florence exclaimed, then lowered her voice when a passing elderly woman gave her a puzzled look. "I—I don't know how it happened. But something from the Snap stayed with me."
"So you can—" Bucky gestured vaguely in Florence's direction "—do that? Control it?"
"Sort of," Florence whispered. "I can't talk about it here. And you're not. . . I barely know you."
"I was there when it happened," Bucky protested, and Florence gave him a deadpan look.
"We all were, dumbass," she retorted before turning around and starting to walk away agin. Still, Bucky followed her, and Florence sighed in frustration as he sped up to match her pace.
"No, I mean—" he paused, as if trying to decide whether or not to tell her something, then fidgeted with the leather glove on his left hand uncertainly. "I was there when—when Thanos snapped his fingers."
Florence stopped walking and stared at Bucky. "If you were there, why'd you ask if I was the one who did it?" she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest. Bucky stayed silent; his only answer was a sheepish expression Florence took to mean I had to. She shook her head. "You were there, huh? Where was it?"
"Wakanda," Bucky answered shortly, and the pieces suddenly clicked into place.
"You're," Florence mustered, a strangled stutter through her shock, "you're that Bucky?"
If she was being honest, Florence had suspected something, and she knew enough to realize now who she was talking to. James Buchanan Barnes. . . she knew the paragraph written about him in the Smithsonian almost by heart.
(She knew pretty much everything in Smithsonian's Captain America exhibit by heart, but that was just an aftereffect of having a superhero-obsessed child.)
A short nod confirmed her suspicions; Bucky looked away, his startlingly intense gaze now fixed on the ground passing below his half-tied boots. The two of them kept walking, but Florence's pace was now uncertain. Hesitant, if nothing else.
She drew in a deep breath. "Wow."
"Could say the same about you," Bucky mused, and Florence gritted her teeth in frustration, rounding on Bucky in a short-fused outrage.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she snapped, hands now clenched at her sides. "You think I'm some sort of hero?"
"No. . ." Bucky said slowly, tilting his head in unconcerned thought, "but you could be." He held up his gloved hands quickly in an attempt to backtrack. "I mean, I'm definitely not a hero, so I'm in no position to say you're one, but. . ." he trailed off with a shrug. "You could be," Bucky repeated.
"Really?" Florence asked incredulously. "You're suggesting this to me?" She shook her head again. "Bullshit."
"Language," Bucky muttered under his breath, then flushed slightly. "I mean—"
"I know what you meant," Florence retorted, smirking. "Old man."
To this, Bucky gave no answer, only an unimpressed scoff that implied he'd heard that epithet far too many times before. They walked in silence for some time, until Florence spotted the grey and brown apartment building she'd called home for the past year and sighed.
"Um, I hate to. . . cut things short," she began awkwardly, gesturing to the tall structure, "but that's me." Florence glanced at Bucky. "Bye. Thanks for the—uh, save." She smirked at him and started to walk away, but Bucky followed her.
"What?" Florence asked incredulously. "Do you need something?"
"No." Bucky crossed his arms, and as the left sleeve of his jacket shifted upwards slightly, Florence caught a quick flash of gleaming silver. Her stomach jumped as she remembered the news article after the U.N. bombing, and what it had said about Bucky. "I live here, too."
Oh, God. Florence swallowed, then, hoping that luck was at least somewhat on her side, asked, "What floor?"
"Second."
Florence's rapidly beating heart slowed in relief. At least they weren't direct neighbors, she thought as she matched Bucky's pace with her own, entering the small lobby of the apartment building they unfortunately shared.
The ride in the elevator was silent, as was Bucky's small wave of goodbye—using his right hand, Florence noticed—as he stepped out of the elevator and turned left down the second floor hallway.
When she reached her own apartment on the seventh floor and stepped inside, Florence felt a sudden sting of melancholy now that she was alone with her thoughts. She leaned against the closed door and sighed, staying still in an effort to gather her frantic thoughts, but startled when her phone pinged loudly.
Slowly, Florence stepped away from the door and pulled her phone from her jacket pocket to see a single text from Daphne lighting up the screen.
Did you see the news?
&.
anyways,, fuck john walker all my homies hate john walker bUT DONT HATE ON WYATT RUSSEL HE'S AN AMAZING ACTOR WHO DESERVES RESPECT!!
also he's just an adorable bean. i love wyatt. pls do not be mean to him, there are fans who gave him a lot of unnecessary hate!! actors are not their characters!!!
on an entirely different note; what do you guys think of florence's wack ass powers? i know you're all probably wondering how that happened, but don't worry there's an explanation. it will be explained soon ;)