Then it was the middle of August.
"Jay, would you please lift this box up to the attic please."
Bucky complied and collected the box. The old man gave him the keys and walked back to his desk, shoving the day's newspaper and his leftover sandwich in his briefcase.
"You won't be coming with me to the attic?"
Lionel looked at him and shook his head. Bucky looked at the dark oak steps and the brass door that was locked above it.
"I don't need to Jay. You know what you're doing."
Actually, he doesn't. In his two something months of work there, he has never been up the attic. Each time a box of whatever had to be hauled up, he did not open the box, did not try to guess what was in it, lifted the box up the stairs, and waited for Lionel to open the door and bring the box himself in the room. From the one time he dared peek inside, no light shed in it.
"Okay."
"Good night, Jay! I will see you in two days."
"Enjoy your time at the wedding. Wish Marcus all the best for me."
Lionel tipped his hat as he walked out the room. With a light clang, the bookshop door was closed, and he was off in the streets.
Bucky was primarily hired for this. Marcus would take leave to enjoy his honeymoon, and so nobody would govern his media section for a while, and Lionel wanted another man in the team anyway. He has been alone in the shop, a couple evenings, and mostly he caught up in pop culture things Marcus and Lionel recommended him. He slept the morning after.
But to be alone in the bookshop, totally alone, for about 60 hours... Bucky was nervous for the first time in months.
It was a great responsibility. Lionel trusted him as a good man. Bucky wanted to prove he was.
Granted, it was a Monday evening, and by Wednesday noon everything would be back to normal. He took out his thermos full of coffee and took off his boots. Lionel's chair is very comfortable.
Hours passed, people came and go, and suddenly it was Tuesday, 1 AM. Bucky prepared to "close up shop" and settle into sleep. He slept light, it was something Lionel really liked about him. Sometimes a random stranger popped in at the most bizarre hour of the early morning. But Bucky wakes up at the sound of footsteps metres away from the door. Somehow. He hates it sometimes.
The clocked cuckood three AM when the wind chimes clattered. Bucky stirred and woke.
A figure, cloaked in a blank trench coat and a wide brimmed hat, walked in the room. Bucky listened at the clap of muffled boots, the shuffle of her clothing, and suddenly -
Her weight on the floor.
Startled, he rushed to where she laid, in the doorway between Marcus and Lionel's areas. The hat fell and revealed brilliant red hair, shimmering bronze under the moonlight and tungsten filling the room. Her pale skin had etches of bruise and blood all over it. Slowly Bucky saw the blood in her hands and a wet stain in her coat.
Foreigner-spy?-assassin?-help-need help-dying-medical attention
The words ran through his head.
He lifted her head off the ground and rested her torso against the door frame. Quickly he retrieved the first aid box, strangely brand new in contrast with all the antiques in the room.
"Miss? Miss? Are you alright?"
She looked at him and opened her coat. Three large cuts ran below her rib cage. Bucky pressed it with his hand and warm blood stuck to his hand.
Immediacy and panic made his body move in a swift sureness he never thought he had. His fingers moved gently and without tremor as he cleaned her wounds. It was as if this was all routine, he's been doing this all his life, by God was his past life a paramedic?! Bucky felt as if he was distant from his own body, and watched it move as he covered the deep gashes with bandage, ointment and wrapping.
As he finished cutting up the gauze he went quickly to the bathroom and cleaned his own hands of blood. Images floated in his mind - images he's never seen before.
A young ballerina, cuts, calluses, bloodied feet.
A trained assassin, lashing his whip against her when she made a mistake.
Two friends under the moonlit sky, the older cleaning wounds, just as he did now.
The younger, a beautiful face shadowed by red hair.
Bucky went back out with a cup of water.
She was preparing to leave, gathering various medicines in the first aid box. She got up.
And coughed blood.
"Miss. You stay where you are. Stop fidgeting."
Noticing his command she stepped back, coughed again, and heaved breath. Bucky reached out for the telephone.
"Don't call anybody, please."
He fell to his knees.
That voice. Unmistaken. I know that voice.
A redhead, stalking an army. Killing out the lieutenant.
A redhead, delivering poison to an entire royal family.
A redhead, shot in the stomach as he assassinated his mission.
Bucky let out a muffled scream.
She straightened him up and bore her eyes to his.
"Natalia?"
"James."
