Author's note: It's been quite a while, hasn't it? It's been just over a year since I first published Strike Out, and I never got around to writing the Jack Rollins spinoff. That being said, I've been itching to write *something* in the Marvel Universe, so I finally settled on this. It's a spinoff/sequel of sorts, set after the events of CATWS and my last fic, Strike Out (so you'll have to read that to understand the references and characters). A lot of you commented on the chemistry that Elise & Bucky had in that fic, so I wanted to explore that a bit in this… experiment, of sorts. It's a little bit friendship, a little bit of romance, and a little bit of hurt/comfort, but it's also a work in progress. It likely won't be as long as Strike Out, and I can't promise it will even be completed. It all depends on what you guys think. Let me know! Also, I now have a tumblr for writing-related things, find me at 'strikewrites' on tumblr. - strike
The first time I hear the knocking, I assume it's just a figment of my imagination—a by-product of the vicious wind gusts howling through the trees outside. When I realize there's someone at the door, the situation starts to resemble the beginning of a cliché horror movie.
Suffice it to say, I decide to let the knocking pass. After all, I'm not expecting any guests, and I'm also not eager to become a serial killer's next victim.
The knocking stops abruptly, and a long silence passes. Then there's a different knocking, one coming from the door that connects my basement apartment suite to my roommate's, upstairs.
I cross the floor and open the door slightly, and Sena's concerned face comes into view. Her long black hair is done up in a bun, and her scowl signifies that she's interrupted her valuable studying time for this.
"Elise, there's some guy here to see you. He says you're not answering the door. Didn't you hear the knocking?"
"What does he look like? I wasn't expecting anyone." I feel the tendrils of dread tugging at my heart.
"Um… Unshaven, kind of scary looking. It looks like he has a metal hand—"
I don't hear the rest of her observations. My brain has already tuned out completely.
It couldn't be him. It's been months since I last dropped him off at the Smithsonian, and I doubted I'd ever see him again. How did he find me?
"I didn't let him in. Do you want me to tell him that you're sleeping and to come back tomorrow? It's kind of late." Sena glances at her watch.
Maybe she's right. I don't know what he's been up to this whole time… maybe he went back to Hydra and he's here to eliminate me for them.
Still, if he's here to assassinate me, I doubt he'd knock on my door to do it, or—even worse—let someone else know he's looking for me. This is still The Winter Soldier that we're talking about. No, if he's here at 11:30 on a Sunday night, he has nowhere else to go and it's important.
"It's okay. I know who you're talking about now, and I'm sure it's an emergency if he's here. Tell him to come back around to my door." I reply, but she doesn't seem so certain. She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose and stares at me critically.
"You sure, Elise?"
"I'm sure, Sena. Thanks." I flash my most convincing smile at her as I close the door and lock it.
Her footsteps retreat down the hall, and I head down the stairs to wait by the entrance to my basement suite.
After a few minutes, there's a light rap on the door.
I open it just wide enough to peer out into the darkness and, sure enough, find the former "asset" standing on my doorstep, carrying a duffle bag in one hand, his other clutching his left abdomen.
It's only then that I realize he's bleeding profusely, the stain visible even on his dark shirt, and I wonder how on earth Sena could have neglected to mention such a serious thing to me.
"Oh god, what happened to you?" I throw the door open, ushering him in.
He takes a step inside, dropping the bag as he winces. I look around on the porch, praying that he hasn't left a trail of blood along the garden path, and then close the door, locking it behind me.
"I got attacked." He replies, gritting his teeth in pain.
"Sit down," I lead him by the arm to the living room, concern furrowing my brow, "I'll try to take a look at it, but I'm not a doctor."
Not a medical one, anyway.
"I have things in my bag." He points towards the duffle bag still sitting in the foyer, and I pray there's at least one roll of suture thread in there.
Luck is on my side. Not only is there a first-aid kit, but it includes needles and suture thread.
When I'm satisfied that he's seated comfortably on the couch, I hurry into the kitchen to gather supplies: two rolls of paper towels, a new dish cloth, a tub of water, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the bathroom.
Once all the supplies have been gathered and I'm seated on the coffee table before him, he removes his sweater, then his t-shirt. Thankfully it's a fairly even stab wound, and it doesn't look like it'll need cauterizing. Great, because I sure as hell know nothing about how to do that.
As I move his bloody shirt to the floor beside the couch, it hits me that I should be wearing gloves. I don't have any—not even a pair of rubber gloves for dishwashing, and the last thing I want to do is ask Sena for some. 'Hi Sena, I just let a scary looking metal-armed dude who I apparently "know" into my house on a Sunday night, do you have any gloves I could borrow?' How suspicious would that look?
He must have noticed the concern on my face.
"I'm sorry. I didn't want to bother you." His voice is reduced to a low volume, presumably to avoid exacerbating the pain caused by excess movement. Still, I'm impressed by his pain threshold. The cut may not be overly deep-thank God-but it's at least 3 and a half inches, and that's not a walk in the park.
I soak a paper towel and gently wipe away the wet blood first, feeling his muscles tense beneath my fingers.
"Don't be sorry. You could have gotten an infection and died. How did you find out where I'm staying?" I attempt to distract him from the procedure by filling the silence, but I'm not sure he's in any state to answer my questions. His eyes are closed, his jaw clenched tightly as I remove the last of the blood.
"I was keeping Hydra's people away." He replies. My hands involuntarily freeze at these words.
"Fr-from me?"
He nods.
Shit. Hydra's looking for me, still? Why?
I clean the last of the blood off and wipe the area with the dishtowel soaked in rubbing alcohol. He inhales sharply, and I sympathize. How strange it is that the last time we found ourselves in this situation was when he'd just finished sparring with the STRIKE team. Feels like a century ago, now.
Remembering the STRIKE team dregs up other unpleasant memories I'd rather not entertain. Memories about a particular man. I bite the inside of my cheek and force myself to think of other things.
"Why are they looking for me?"
So much for thinking of other things. I need to know, though. I mean, last I saw of Rumlow, he was a write-off. He couldn't be behind this manhunt, could he?
He shrugs, and the frown on his lips is new, not caused by the pain of his wound. The way his eyes avoid my gaze, his shoulders slumped, makes me feel like he's carrying some kind of guilt.
"They were probably looking for me. It's my fault for asking you for help with the tracking chip." He replies finally.
"That's not your fault." I blurt it out without thinking, even though he could easily be right.
The way his eyes momentarily fill with relief is worth it.
There's so much I want to ask him. Where did he go after the downfall of Shield? What has he been doing? Did he run into Captain America?
At the same time, I don't want to overwhelm him, at least until his wound is properly bandaged up and I can get him to eat a proper meal.
Goddamn if it doesn't feel like a lost puppy just landed on my doorstep.
"How did Sena not realize you were bleeding to death on her porch?" I mumble to myself, feeding the suture thread through the eye of a needle.
"It's better that she didn't. I can't go to the hospital." He braces himself as I begin to stitch the wound closed, his hands clenching the couch cushions tightly.
For a fleeting moment, I remember all the warnings I'd received at Shield about his tendency to lash out when he's in pain. I brush them off almost immediately, assuring myself that he won't hurt me. He didn't hurt me back then, when I took the tracking chip out of his arm. He wouldn't come to me now only to risk hurting me.
It makes me wonder how many of those warnings were real and how many of them were just meant to scare me into staying away from him.
I snap out of my thoughts long enough to remember his recent words. As much as I understand why he can't go to the hospital, it's concerning that he could have died if I hadn't been here. Had I not answered the door.
"Stay here until your wound heals, okay? I'll take care of you. I don't want you passing out somewhere."
"But—"
"Bucky, please." I hold my breath after the words leave my lips.
Hearing his name surprises him a little, and his eyes are filled with a mixture of emotions before they quickly flicker away. He doesn't respond for a long time.
"I don't want to burden you. You've done enough." He finally says.
"Oh, stop. You're not a burden. You're not my subject, or an asset, or even an assassin. You're my friend." I return his gaze with a steady smile. Like hell would I turn down someone I know when they're in need, not after the death and destruction I witnessed at Hydra's hands, not when he's been keeping Hydra scum away from me this whole time. I owe him.
The phrase "you're my friend" seems to stir something in him. He doesn't speak again.
I tie off the stitches, feeling secretly proud of my fairly neat execution despite my limited experience. Dr. Jones would be proud, wherever she is now. If she didn't turn out to be a Hydra agent too, that is.
I disinfect the wound one more time with the rubbing alcohol, just to be safe, then set about gathering the bloodied material to dispose of it all.
"I don't know if you've eaten, but I'll cook you something anyway. You don't have to eat it, but it would make me feel better to know you're looked after at least. Help yourself to whatever's in the kitchen and the bathroom is down the hall on your left if you need it."
I make a mental note to put the bloodied clothing in the wash and to see whether I have any gently used, men's size shirts lying about.
"And Bucky," I pause, watching his gaze fixate on me, "don't thank me. I'm the one who should thank you, for keeping those Hydra agents away, and for coming to check on me that time at the hospital."
He doesn't reply, but I hope he understands. When he feels bad about asking me for help, it makes me feel bad. Maybe Hydra conditioned him not to rely on others for kindness.
I frown, gazing down at the blood stains beginning to dry on my hands.
If I can undo just one of Hydra's evil actions, I'd be happy.