There was a soothing quality about seeing the different shades of brown paint and the throngs of people walking by from my position at the counter as the day passed by and the strong smell of coffee became slightly weakened by the sweet notes of vanilla, perpetuating a balance between the contrasting smells.
Although, even if the aroma was something I could never get tired of, it wasn't a job I was overly fond of. I was well aware that I could be doing something else with my time instead of faking a smile and preparing coffee with ridiculous names to try to make a difference with the traditional and simple names that other coffee chains had even if he used the same ingredients and coffee beans that the others. But, this was what it all came down to: a broke girl trying to make a life in New York and failing, giving her no chance but to take the first job at hand that required no experience.
Rain was pouring outside, providing an almost inaudible and rhythmical sound that made a perfect harmony with the soft classical music that played from the speakers placed at the corners of the coffee shop, and a remarkable image as droplets cascaded down the windows and pooled momentarily on the window frame before continuing on their way below.
I sighed slightly as I brought my warm cup of coffee to my lips and took a long sip, savoring the sweet taste of Irish cream and the unhealthy amount of sugar I had stirred in there. Rain always seemed to make days longer.
The little bell above the door rang as a customer stepped into the coffee shop, successfully capturing my attention and the attention of the young man with headphones in one of the tables at the northeast corner of the shop, who merely glanced up for scarce seconds before continuing typing on his laptop.
The man was soaking wet, and as he looked around his footsteps left a mood mark on the white floors, almost making me cringe when I thought about how difficult it was going to be to clear that up later on once it dried. I didn't know if it was the rain that made his clothes have a certain look of dirtiness to them that made the man look unkempt or perhaps it was the baseball cap and the stubble of a beard on his face.
The way his eyes darted back and forth from the photographs on the walls to the tables and menu made me feel slightly uneasy, customers usually came to the counter and stare at the menu and murmured over their breath the state of the place. This man didn't. He was assessing the place from the moment he walked in, from the door behind me to the big paneled windows at the front and side.
"Good afternoon." I greeted and forced a smile that I wanted to believe was pleasant.
"This used to be a bar." The man said as he walked towards the counter, his gaze darted around for a last time before he focused on me. There was something about it that made me feel small, perhaps it was the harshness of his eyes or the serious expression plastered on his face.
"The original owner passed away around fifteen years ago and left the business to his younger son; he didn't know how to manage the business, the quality went downhill and the bar decayed until he decided to sell the place three years ago." I made a pause, before adding. "Such a shame, really."
He didn't agree nor disagree.
"We have pending coffee in case you're interested." I stated after a small period of silence.
"What?"
I pointed to the small chalkboard resting against the cash register with several crappy drawings of cups and watched his eyes shift towards it. "People pay for coffee they don't consume so when someone in need comes they can get free coffee. So if you want something warm right now feel free to cross it with that piece of chalk over there." I motioned with my hand to the small yellow box containing different colors of cheap chalk.
He returned his gaze back at me before looking up to the menu above my head. If anything, he seemed displeased by it. "I want regular coffee." He reached over his pants pocket and pulled out a 50 dollar bill on the counter with a little more force than necessary.
"All-American." I mumbled the silly name and turned towards the coffee pot. "Small?" The annoying sound of one of the wooden chairs being dragged across the floor was the reply he gave me. I took it as a yes.
He was there for two, sipping on already cold coffee and staring out the window. He'd frowned when I commented that we had Wi-Fi available and had the password at hand. Maybe he was an old-fashioned kind of guy. You never knew, especially in New York; I've seen way too much people on the last few months I've been here to still be surprised every once a while.
But he had something that made me want to ask questions even if I could tell by his attitude that he probably didn't want to hear me talk.
Noticing the lack of work and using my willpower to keep my mouth shut, I opted for a simpler solution to satisfy my aching curiosity by looking up online a trustworthy newspaper. It wasn't what I wanted to know at the time, but it was something that would keep my mind busy.
It appeared that reporters still couldn't get enough of what happened two weeks ago with SHIELD and some organization called HYDRA and all their dirty little secrets leaked for the world to see with a judging eye. I saw the conclusion of the court's trial against Black Widow on television and boy, that woman had guts.
Harassing Captain America became a sort of hobby around, but chasing the poor man while he was simply going out for a run seemed tasteless; although more than one was secretly pleased with all his photographs, myself included.
With a small smile on lips I clicked another link on the recommended news at the bottom on the page and frowned as I stared at the slightly familiar face on the main picture.
'Captain America's attacker was identified as The Winter Soldier.' The title read, and bellow was a clear picture of a man dressed all in black with a glistening metal arm carrying an assault rifle. Fear invaded my body as I read the article and realized that I might have served coffee to the damn Winter Soldier, an assassin that tried to kill Captain America -and, by the pictures the media was able to get from Captain America at the hospital, almost succeeded-.
My mind immediately thought about calling the cops – the few ones that might still be active after the whole mess-, but did I really want to get into that mess? Something told me that they wouldn't believe me and would just take my words as some sort of treason or just a sick joke. Not to mention the Winter Soldier wouldn't be pleased by my actions and probably would put a bullseye on my head.
The man's empty cup was placed on the counter; frightening me and making me jump slightly. I let out a nervous laugh as I placed my phone on my side and took the cup. Our eyes met, and my fear intensified when his eyes moved from mine to the screen on my cellphone that still had his face plastered in it.
If he believed my first act, I'm sure the dilation of my pupils didn't go unnoticed. Not with a man like him.
He said nothing and walked away.
I wasn't followed home by the end of my shift, a bullet didn't strike me in the head while I was asleep and no mysterious car tried to kidnap me in broad daylight the next day. I thought I was being paranoid and perhaps the coffee guy was just a random guy.
I saw him for the second time four days later.
I forced a smile and a cheerful greeting when I saw him walk through the door.
This time, his eyes didn't dart across the room and I could notice the black circles underneath them indicating a lack of sleep.
He asked for regular coffee and drank it black as he read a newspaper he brought. The thing looked old and flimsy and he turned down my offer of something a little more up to date.
And, even if the day was significantly busy, I caught myself several times staring at the lone man sitting alone in one of the tables of the corner, sipping coffee with a frown on his face.
He didn't look like a killer; he looked confused. Broken.
"What's your name?" I asked him one evening when we were the only ones at the café; more and more I found him wandering inside and ordering the same kind of coffee while sitting at the same place with a newspaper or an old book. For a moment, I feared he would ignore my question, but he lowered his newspaper to face me completely.
"James." It took him a moment to say it. The way the name rolled off his tongue sounded foreign both to him and me as far as I could tell.
"I'm Madison. Want a refill on that?"
James wasn't an avid talker, or at least not with me. He spent most of his time reading, and guessing by the headlines of the newspapers, old magazines and other reading material he bought with him, he was a sort of avid fan of history, especially regarding World War II.
As time passed, I made a theory that he took a personal endearment to the location and just didn't care too much about coffee.
James never really talked much but sometimes, when he did and if I was lucky, he'd mention tidbits of information about himself.
"A jukebox used to be there," James motioned to his left and I nodded, indicating that I was paying attention as I took a sip of my latte. "I remember they used to play Glen Miller's records all day."
I remember was the keyword he always used.
He remembered an apartment complex in Brooklyn that was destroyed recently.
He remembered a Stark. Not Tony Stark, Howard, the one that was in a car accident. James frowned for a moment and then said that no, it was no accident, it was staged.
He remembered he used to be in the Army.
He remembered thick needles on his arm.
It all came to him slowly in a painful realization in the course of the following months. It took time for me to realize that James wasn't like the others and not in a corny sense; he had ghosts that pestered him restlessly and demons that whispered far too many things on his ears.
Slowly but surely, his internal walls were starting to collapse. James once said he did things he wasn't proud of, and having to bear with the burden of remembering the exact details about them was something he was desperately striving for yet wanted them to be imaginary.
Every now and then James visited me in the mornings in my apartment. He never stayed for too long for reasons he never spoke about, and I found myself cherishing the odd man's company even more as time passed.
There was something about him that I just could put my finger on.
That, until I accidentally discovered what it was. I never asked why he wore long sleeved shirts and gloves even the weather was warm, thinking that he probably had some sort of skin condition he didn't want to talk about, but the truth was far more gruesome than that.
It had been a simple movement he'd made as his hands reached to rest on his knees and the sleeve of his jacket pulled back slightly from his arm for me to catch a glimpse of the metal replacing where flesh should be.
I felt my pulse quicken when I realized the foolish mistake I made by even letting him in on the first place. I was right the first time I saw him.
Arm prosthesis just weren't supposed to look like that.
"I know who I am now."
His words caught me off guard and I took a deep breath to listen carefully to his words. "What do you mean?" My voice came out surprisingly calm even if I was ready to flee at the slightest change I got.
"My name is James Buchanan Barnes." He said. His voice no longer had the uncertainty that appeared when he first told me his name and there was a certain determination on his face that I haven't seen on him before. "I was a tool they didn't bother to name."
"You are the Winter Soldier."
James glanced at me and followed my gaze to his arm. He didn't bother to cover it up. "Was."
I didn't hear from him in a while, but I saw his face was all over the local newspapers. After all, seeing Captain America cheerfully hanging out with the man that tried to kill him was an oddity that reporters were not going to ignore.
James looked different. Maybe it was because of his now short hair and clean-shaven face or because this was the first time in almost a year that I saw him at ease, and I dared to say content. Those pictures showed far more than he had ever said to me and, in all honesty, I couldn't complain about it.
The little bell above the café's door jingled and I looked up in reflex, feeling a soft smile form on my lips.
"Good afternoon." This time the words didn't leave my mouth in fake politeness. "You look good, James."
The ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. "Thanks."
Even the way he walked seemed different, the stiffness disappeared from his gaze and I realized that, finally, the man standing in front of me was the James that was hidden beneath the Winter Soldier's carefully molded façade.
Change suited him well.
This was originally meant to be a one shot, but I've decided to add another chapter. I'll try to upload it shortly.
Disclaimer: Captain American and its characters belong to Marvel.
