He stood in the apartment several minutes, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He knew the apartment was monitored and, in the very likely event there were still eyes and ears surveilling this location, he wouldn't alert them to his presence by turning on a lamp or even a flashlight.
A sense of apprehension filled him, standing in the darkness. He'd been in apartments before, but this was different. He'd been in apartments, homes, offices, garages, planes, ships, tunnels, sewers, caves - but those had always been when his mission was to kill someone.
Now his mission seemed to be to resurrect someone.
Himself.
When the opaque blackness had dissipated to dim gray, he took a read on his surroundings. He was in the front room. The hallway just ahead would lead to the bedroom, bathroom and kitchen. He'd find food and clothes there that would help him remain undetected out in the world.
He moved forward slowly, stepping on the outsides of his feet and rolling them soundlessly down to the floor. The sharp pain in his right arm was dulling to an unremarkable ache and would soon be gone entirely but he kept it flexed and still, close to his side but not touching. Any sound of the fabric rustling or even brushing against itself could be picked up on the bugging devices in these rooms.
The hallway led to the kitchen first but he kept going to the bedroom. Clothes were more important than food, especially if his position was compromised and he had to leave the apartment sooner than he was anticipating.
He stood still again for a minute in the doorway of the bedroom, getting his bearings. Neatly made bed. Functional bureau with a mirror attached to the back but nothing across the top of it, no photographs or trinkets. A small table next to the bed that held a lamp and a book. A door between the bed and bureau that was probably the closet. A straight back chair next to the bureau that had some clothes laid over it. A wastebasket.
Nothing else.
No big screen TV. No computer. No dirty dishes or dirty ash trays. No paraphernalia of opulence or decadence or violence.
Just a bed, a bureau, a lamp and a chair.
You're my friend, you've known me your whole life…
Had he been in this room before? He had no memory - and no memory of a memory - of it in his head. He'd gone into bedrooms before to kill people, but they'd been all straight lines and wide spaces. This room was curved lines and compact space and felt - living. As though someone actually lived here instead of just spending time here. He had no memory of being in this room before but still there was a hint, a trace, an echo of familiarity. When he took a quiet step farther into the room he realized what it was - the smell. There was some familiar smell in this room.
It wasn't a recently familiar smell. The only smells he remembered being familiar with were alcohol and antiseptics, the bitter smells of cryofreeze and the blunt smells of death. The mask he always wore on missions had been specially made to filter out smells because smells were triggers to memories and memories weren't allowed. Anything that started in a memory ended in pain. Memories were bad.
And yet - I'm not going to fight you, you're my friend - the man on the helicarrier had wanted him to remember. He'd wanted him to live outside of mask and mission and confinement, where memories were allowed. Where they were encouraged. Where they were good.
He took another step into the room and deliberately smelled that smell.
~ Old Spice ~ the words or thought or memory rushed so forcefully into his memory he thought he could actually feel it erupt out of his brain. He didn't know what the words meant other than that he remembered something - he remembered that smell.
Unexpectedly, moisture filled his eyes. He didn't know why - the smell wasn't noxious, there was no evidence of other airborne contaminant or irritants - but his eyes watered and an odd pain flared behind his rib cage. Nothing else happened, his pulse didn't speed up or slow down, his air passages didn't burn or swell, so he thought it had to be some kind of aberration, but still one that he didn't want to ignore.
He pushed aside that smell and what the memory of it might mean and continued his mission of finding some clothes so he could retreat to the outside world and the relative safety of silence and concealment.
The clothes on the chair were easiest to take since it didn't involve opening a drawer or closet. He picked them up with is robotic arm - there was a jacket, a pair of pants, and a hat with a bill. They all seemed like they'd fit. That familiar smell was stronger here though, and his eyes watered more, so he made the decision to exit the apartment immediately. He rolled the clothes together and walked soundlessly out of the bedroom, through the kitchen and back to window in the front room that led him back outside.
Once safe in shadows and back alleys, he retraced his steps to the woods at the edge of the river. He stripped out of his uniform jacket and pants and pulled the ones he'd taken on over his black t-shirt. He took the few remaining weapons out of his uniform pockets and put them in the pockets of the new clothes and he felt a piece of paper folded up and tucked away in the pants pocket. He pulled it out and walked into a shaft of moonlight to read it.
Captain America Exhibit, National Air and Space Museum, Open every day except December 25.
10:00 am – 5:30 pm. Admission is free.
And there, next to a picture of the man from the helicarrier, there was a picture of him.
Who the hell is Bucky?
Maybe he'd be able to find out.
tbc.