Author's Note: Hello again my readers, and welcome to the new and improved version of Saving the Soldier. After exploring the site some more, I realized that I can just replace the current chapters instead of posting a new version of the story. I would have loved to continue the story straight away, but just rereading the first chapter to familiarize myself with it again was a cringe fest, so here's an edited version (How did I get away with changing the tense from present to past mid chapter? I'm just going to leave the very beginning in past to set the setting). If you're still reading this author's note, and you've read the chapters of the old story, you'll be pleased to know that although it's easier to read now, nothing important was changed, so you don't have to read this chapter to continue once I've caught up. Have fun!
I do not own anything from any published works.
Captain America Exhibit, The Smithsonian
A tall, well-built man wearing dark clothes stood alone facing the James Buchanan Barnes display in the Captain America exhibit. His long hair, reaching the base of his neck, was tucked behind his ears under a plain dark green baseball cap, which shadowed his unshaven face and haunted eyes.
He was so absorbed in the exhibit that, in spite of years of conditioning, a young teenager came to stand next to him without his notice.
The young girl, of almost fourteen years, wore a navy blue and white striped sweater, black jeans, navy blue converse with a skull design on each side, and an orange, grey, black, and white scarf. A black messenger bag with green designs was slung across her chest. Her dark brown hair, which reflected several shades of red and brown in the soft lighting of the exhibit, hung loose around her shoulders and framed her heart-shaped face and dark eyes. She bore a striking resemblance to Loki in her facial structure, but the colors were all wrong, making the similarities difficult to notice.
They stood there side by side, a foot apart, one reading and rereading the information on the glass panel, the other contemplating how to approach the private and dangerous-looking man, in quiet companionable silence for several minutes until the youth had gathered enough courage to speak. She took a deep, shuddering breath and exhaled, knowing that a wrong move could scare away her prey, but that the quiet sound of her breath and the shift in the air would alert him to her presence. She relaxes her body to make herself seem as harmless and nonthreatening as she can.
The dark man's eyes, which had been slowly moving over the text, speed up fractionally to be able to see the newcomer put of the corner of his eye. He shifts his gaze to appear to stare at a photograph, and carefully, he catalogs every detail about her that he knew, from the colors and pattern of her bright scarf to the introverted and shy personality that her stance suggested.
Suddenly, she turns her head to look at him as if for the first time, and then she shifts her stance to fully face him. He turns to look at her, seeing that she intends to make a comment about something. However, instead of a comment about the display, the young woman respectfully bows her head and gives a quiet, but friendly little "Hi."
Hiding his surprise, he nods back, returning the small greeting, but in an emotionless voice. The girl, seeing and hearing his response, surreptitiously looks around to make sure that no one is watching them, then tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, making a gesture for him to follow her as she raises and lowers her hand. She then turns to the picture of J. Barnes, gives a salute with a little smile, then turns and quickly walks in a casual way to a dark corner of the exhibit. Curious, the dark man follows.
The girl leads him out of the exhibit, and into the crowded main halls of the Smithsonian. He catches up with her, and she puts her arm in his, leaning towards his ear and whispering "We are friends because my parents met you at work, and I have been out of town for a week. I just came back, and I have told you about a funny little story that I will finish later, so chuckle and nod."
The girl leans away from his ear, smiling, and the man decides to play along. He chuckles as believably as he can, and then nods as if in understanding of a private joke. Trying to tell the man to follow her while also informing him more about their cover story, she says: "Come on, Jamie, let's come back to my place for lunch so that I can tell you about my trip to London!" The man hides his surprise and sudden suspicion caused by the use of a shortened version of his name, and then replies.
"Sounds great, your place or mine?"
"Mine, I've been baking again."
Jamie vaguely remembers sharing a cookie with a scrawny blond boy. The treat was sweet, and the last bites had still been warm from the bakery.
"Mmm, sounds great. Lead the way."
Then, the girl begins leading him outside, and hails a taxicab. "7720 N. Carson Street." After a half hour's drive to the suburbs of Washington, D.C., they arrive at a light blue, two story house. The girl pays for the taxi, and they get out.
Walking up the tiled pathway through the front yard, the girl glances around again and slips the key into the lock. She opens the door, and leads the man inside. The foyer is plain, with cream colored walls, a dark blue rug.
After the man steps inside, the girl sits on the bench and takes off her shoes, tucking them under the bench next to a few other pairs of shoes. Standing up and digging her toes into the soft rug, she hangs both her jacket and messenger bag on the wooden hooks above the bench. Then, she looks at her guest expectantly. The man, deciding to follow her example, toed off his shoes, but puts them next to the bench due to the lack of room beneath it. He leaves his jacket on, and a glint that could be assumed to be a metal bracelet can be seen at the edge of his write sleeve. Silently, the girl leads him to what appears to be a living room/dining room, sits down in an armchair, and signals for him to take a seat in either the couch or the other armchair.
Choosing the armchair, the man looks around the room and memorizes all of the important details and exit strategies. A quiet clearing of the throat, which sounds loud in the silent house, brought his attention back to the teenager that had brought him here. In a polite voice that had an edge to it, the dark man spoke for the first time. His voice was rough from disuse.
"Who are you?"
The girl gives him a strange look. Now that he really looks at her, without having to appear as if he isn't, he notices the dark green highlights in her hair, which stand out in the bright daylight compared to the rest of her hair, which flows like a river with a copper riverbed, reflecting dark browns, deep crimson, with little streaks of auburn.
But what stand out are her eyes. Her right eye is midnight blue with dark green edging around the pupil, and the left eye is a bright gold, with a milk chocolate brown ring around the edge of the pupil. They give her a sophisticated, distant look that make her seem to see through him. They stare straight into his eyes for a moment, before the girl tilts her head left. "You don't know anything about anyone, do you? Nothing but names and memories that don't even feel like they're yours."
The perfect description make the girl's guest tense up. It seems that the girl notices this, because she quickly continues. "Your eyes give you away. Mine have always let me know who I can and cannot trust. Yours show a man lost in a labyrinth, led farther astray by hints and unfinished maps."
He doesn't know why, but the way the girl looks at him, the emotions in her mismatched eyes give him the impression that she speaks from experience. He shifts slightly in his seat, unnerved. If the girl notices this, she doesn't comment.
"To answer your questions, James Buchanan Barnes," she continues, using his full name and making him start, "Yes, I know your name and who you are, Winter Soldier, but that didn't matter to me when I saw you in the Smithsonian. As I said before, your eyes and mine led me to you."
"My name is Jacqueline Hela Jackson, but call me Hela." Hela sits forward, fingers laced together, elbows resting on her knees. "The question of who I am, though, is a very good question, one which I have tried to answer for more than two years now."
James sits forward, wondering where this was going. He looks at her with an unspoken request for her to finish her story.
"I woke up twenty years ago in the scene of a car crash with no memory, floating 4 feet off the ground. No one saw. It was in the middle of nowhere. Apparently, the couple in the car wreck were incredibly wealthy and had no will, no other family, and so it was assumed that I was their child. Every possession and dollar they owned went to me, a girl who knew nothing of the world."
Hela heaved a sigh that spoke of a thousand years' pressure on her shoulders, strong but tired. The shadows under her eyes seemed to darken. "A girl who has spent everyday since researching, teaching myself, doing anything I can to figure out who I am."