The sunflower had lasted all summer.
But by the time Autumn turned to Winter the vibrant yellow had faded and the lively green had begun to brown and weaken as the plant reached the end of its life. By the time the first snow fell it was long gone.
And Iris couldn't handle being in that house anymore. When it had just been memories of her Aunt Lynne tied to the skinny townhouse it had felt good to stay, like she was staying close to her aunt's memory by staying in her home. But then James came into her life...and then he left. It became too much. It wasn't long before the feeling of missing was overwhelming. The feeling of loss that she'd felt over losing her aunt had begun to ease by the time James appeared in her doorway. And then he became a fixture in her life far quicker than Iris could have ever anticipated.
Then he'd left. The weight of missing him on top of still missing her aunt tipped the balance. It was too much to stay in that house. She justified it with practical reasons; she couldn't find reliable tenants, the payments were too much, she was just one person in a house meant for many. She could keep finding reasons if she wanted.
But the truth of the matter was that everywhere she looked all she saw was what she'd lost:
...Her aunt humming off-key as she paid bills and organized her bookkeeping at the chipped formica kitchen table...
...Her mom bickering lightly with her aunt over take-out as a very young Iris sat near the window, fighting the temptation to reach out to fiddle with her aunt's collection of sunflower-etched glasses...
...Moving in with her aunt after her mom died and Lynne somehow making her feel like she always belonged there...
...Sneaking in in the middle of the night and thinking she'd gotten away with it until her aunt called out 'goodnight' from behind her closed and dark bedroom door...
...Watching bad reality TV with her aunt as they sat on the couch with their nachos and tried to out-do each other with disparaging commentary...
...Hugging her aunt before running out the door because she was late for work...
...James appearing, holding out that sad piece of newspaper...
...James smiling each time she agreed to join him on the roof for dinner or just to sit and watch the world go by...
...The bewildered look on his face melting into one of tentative delight the first time she'd leaned over the back of the couch to wrap her arms around him in a hug...
...The indignant look he'd given her when she'd teased him about how adorable the cleft in his chin was only for him to pay her back in kind with an impish glint in his eyes as he teased her about how adorable she was when she was frustrated...
...His eyes twinkling and lip tugging when he caught her grumbling loudly about the bookkeeping that her aunt always seemed to have so little trouble managing...
...Him showing up outside the fire-escape door right as she was getting in after a shift as though knowing she'd had a rough day...
...Pulling her into his arms in a spontaneous attempt to teach her to dance, his lips tugging at her clumsy attempts to follow along even as he managed to twirl her around...
...The faint, pleased sound of a sigh easing out of his chest as she curled up next to him on the couch...
...That last night...
By the time spring rolled around the house was up for sale. Fixing it up and scouring it clean with fervent vigor had gotten her through the winter; well, that and the regular texts and phone calls she exchanged with Sam Wilson, begging for updates on his search for James. Even though he never had anything new to tell her, it was still comforting, not only that he was still answering her, but that he was still looking, that he was still working to find James.
But selling her aunt's old house was still one of the hardest decisions Iris had ever made, but the hurt that came from staying had long since begun to outweigh the memories. By some miracle when it managed to sell over the summer it went for just enough that the debt she was left with after dealing with the mortgage and outstanding bills and the like was far less than she had feared. It eased the worries the practical side of her had. But the sentimental side...
She'd been a wreck the last night she'd spent in the skinny townhouse. Most of it she'd spent curled up on the couch, the TV on in the background though it might as well been off for all she paid it any attention. Around her everything had already been packed up into boxes she'd scrounged from work and grocery stores, ready to either be moved to the small apartment she'd found a couple blocks away or donated. Not that there'd been all that much to pack anyway; neither she nor her aunt had been much into 'stuff.' After a while she'd tried falling asleep in her own bed. That had been an abject failure. It was only when she'd circled back to the couch, wrapped tight in a navy plaid button-up with a ragged left sleeve that she'd finally been able to drift into even a restless sleep. It had been faint, but it had still smelled like him.
She couldn't help but wonder sometimes if there was something wrong with her...like she should have gotten over him by now...
And of course she'd dreamed about him. She dreamt about him most nights, reliving the time she'd had with him. Or they'd be of sad, sweet little moments that lasted for an eternity where he was simply there with her. Others still were heart-pounding, terrifying nightmares where the enigmatic them were hunting him with ominous glittering weapons that threw spotlights on them even as they ran and hid, his body pressing hard against hers as he crushed her behind him, shielding her so she couldn't see, couldn't breath, his body going slick and warm and sticky as blood began to soak her dreams. She woke from those ones hoarse and aching, her mind still spinning and sick with terror. And most of the time, whether in nightmares or otherwise, they'd end the same way; him leaning in, breath ghosting across her skin, his lips just a hair's breadth from hers...and she would wake up. Even in dreams she wasn't allowed to simply kiss him.
But arguably the worst ones were the ones where he was simply gone; the street empty and silent with the air pressing down on her like a weight; the day he left only worse...
And she always woke desperately wishing he was there. Even now, in her new place, well over a year since he'd left, the feeling hadn't eased.
It was funny; she had now spent many, many more nights without falling asleep next to him since he'd left than she ever had with him. And yet, all these months later, she still found herself missing the reassurance of his presence or the quiet, comforting sound of his breathing as she drifted off.
A part of her even missed being woken by his nightmares. More than once in the short time she'd spent sleeping next to him she'd woken to find him caught in the grip of tormented dreams, his skin damp and clammy beneath her cheek as a sheen of cold sweat accompanied his ragged breaths. His murmuring voice hoarse with more than just sleep, reciting numbers—the sequence 32557038 was now branded in her memory thanks to him—or muttering in what sounded like Russian. More than once she'd been pulled from her own dreams as his muscles twitched, his heart pounding loudly enough she could swear she heard it in the deep silence of the dark, early morning hours. His whole body would tense with remembered agony as his face crumpled with despair and fear, his eyes roaming and frenzied beneath his lids.
The first time it had happened she'd been frozen with uncertainty, transfixed and beset with a feeling of helplessness as he shuddered in the grip of his dreams...or were they memories... She'd been jolted from her alarmed vigil when a pained moan deep in his throat had his brows furrowing deeper and his mouth twisting into a grimace. Almost at once the desire to smooth the expression away had come over her. Before she'd even been able to consciously react, her fingers were smoothing over his forehead, his lips, his eyes, brushing his tangled hair back from his face as she pressed herself more securely into his side.
At first he'd lurched at the contact, nearly jerking awake as his arm tightened from where it had been loosely draped around her. His flesh fingers had dug painfully into her hip, his grip hard enough that there'd been a deep and distinct pattern of bruising the next morning because of it. His metal arm had tensed, the mechanisms squealing as it went rigid. But as she had nestled herself into the crook of his shoulder, forehead pressed against his neck and fingers still tracing his tormented features, he'd calmed. After a long while, a ragged breath had shuddered through him as his body began to relax again, his grip on her hip easing as he nuzzled her curls, falling deeper into a far more peaceful sleep. It was a long while after that before Iris had been able to drift off again herself.
It hadn't been the last time either. Whenever his nightmares woke her it was often only her fingers brushing back his hair and the feel of her beside him that seemed to calm him.
It ached to think that he had to endure his nightmares alone again.
She dreamed about that too.
It was beginning to feel like she hadn't had a proper night's sleep since he left.
And it certainly wasn't happening now. Even though it was the middle of the night Iris was wide awake. Usually her nighttime thoughts were dominated by thoughts of him; her time with him, wondering what he was doing, why he left, what she could have done to stop him...why she was even still letting herself think about him...why she couldn't bring herself to hate him... Tonight, while admittedly still about him, her thoughts were on a completely different track.
The instant the breaking news headline had flashed across the TV screen at the restaurant, somehow Iris had known it was different. Her heart always thudded a little faster in dread every time the bold, yelling letters interrupted the regular news cycle, especially after the story broke around four months ago that the Winter Soldier had a real name and a face to go with the ominous alias: James Buchanan Barnes.
But bad news had become a reality of the world they lived in. That had been the case just a few weeks ago when news of a deadly explosion in Lagos, Nigeria linked to the actions of the Avengers dominated the TV screen. Before that the most notable one was the disaster in Sokovia. But there were still dozens more. But this time Iris couldn't help but feel that it was different. Her gut clenched at how right she was.
"Breaking news from Vienna, Austria" the anchor declared soberly as soon as he was on-air, "where a devastating bombing was carried out in front of the Vienna International Centre. As we reported earlier today, the International Centre was chosen by the United Nations as the site of the summit held for the ceremony and final signing of the divisive Sokovia Accords, an act which has been both highly praised and strongly opposed." The ensuing story and the subsequent footage was shocking enough that most of the restaurant had ground to a standstill, each face troubled and transfixed by the story, especially given the draw anything connected to the Avengers tended to have. But soon enough, everyone seemed to lose interest; stories like this one were becoming rather commonplace, and it had happened a long way from a small restaurant in one of the poorer parts of DC.
And as the newscaster elaborated on the shocking headline, Iris had lost interest just like everyone else. She'd had work to do and customers to attend. At least until the newscaster had switched tracks, moving on from cataloguing the breadth of the devastation and the ensuing emergency response efforts to what officials in charge of the investigation had to say on who was behind the attack.
"Officials have released video of a suspect who they have identified as James Buchanan Barnes, also known as the Winter Soldier, the infamous HYDRA agent linked to numerous acts of Terrorism and political assassinations."
The plates she'd been clearing away shattered when they hit the floor.
She'd barely noticed the cries of surprise at the crash or the milling voices as her coworkers and even a few customers asked what was wrong. She couldn't remember what she'd said in response, if she'd answered any of them at all. Vaguely she remembered helping to clean up the scattered shards of ceramic. After that her mind had been a muddle of disbelief, fear and shock with barely a coherent thought to string together. At least until her phone hummed in her pocket several hours later, one succinct little message emblazoned on the screen when she pulled it out.
We found him –S
It was then she had left. She hadn't even finished her shift. Looking back, now that her mind had recovered from its shock, she wasn't sure she'd clocked out or even told anyone she was leaving. She'd just grabbed her things and left. She just went back to her new apartment—nearly getting herself lost in her daze as her feet automatically tried to take her back to her aunt's skinny townhouse—and sunk onto the couch as the TV flickered to life, her phone clenched so tightly in her white-knuckled hands it had creaked in protest. She hadn't believed he could have done it. She determinedly hadn't let herself.
Unless...
Fear had tremored through her at the thought that perhaps they had found him.
Even now she still couldn't wrap her head around any other explanation. James would not have done it of his own volition. He already struggled under the weight of a lifetime of monstrous sins that he's had no choice but to commit. He'd never willingly perpetrate another. She knew it in her gut and in her heart. They had to have found him and used him again, forced him to do it. Fury bubbled up inside her at the idea and she had to clench her teeth together to keep in a scream of helpless frustration.
She fidgeted again in her seat to let out the anxious tension in her muscles, drawing an irritated glance from the older woman beside her trying to sleep. Iris bit back a scowl as she tried—again—to get comfortable in the stiff seat, silently cursing the flight attendant's instance that she keep her seatbelt securely fastened.
She had waited for hours for any sort of update from Sam, sometimes falling into a fitful sleep, barely even registering the shadows that grew as evening fell or the dim, growing light as morning came. Her mind was far too distracted and worked up, struggling to process what she was feeling and trying to wrap her head around any and every scrap of information the tv and her phone had provided...
...and dreading what was potentially happening thousands of miles away.
But when her update had come, it hadn't been from Sam. She'd very nearly dozed off again where she'd curled in on herself in the centre of the couch, her head full of grim imaginings of men in black combat gear swarming James, of bullets and screaming and blood. Her fingers were so tangled in her necklace that she nearly yanked it off her neck when her attention had snapped to the TV, still broadcasting quietly in the background. Her heart jumping to her throat, she had cranked the volume. Almost before the top story had finished playing she was digging for the passport she'd gotten for just such an occasion.
"We have a confirmed report that the former HYDRA agent James Buchanan Barnes, also known as the Winter Soldier, has been apprehended in Bucharest after an intent and dangerous pursuit by German Special Forces and Avenger Colonel James Rhodes. Among those also apprehended in this daring raid were former Avengers Captain Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson. They are to be taken to the Joint Counter Terrorist Centre in Berlin, Germany; Barnes for further questioning into his involvement in the Vienna Bombing; Rogers, Wilson and an additional unidentified individual for contravening the terms of the Sokovia Accords. No word yet on extradition plans or possible criminal charges."
Within moments she was out the door.
Within hours she was on her way to Berlin.
She was going to see James again.
She didn't know how, but she was going to.
She had to.
A/N: Thanks for reading!
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