He stood beside the river, watching as the recovery crews cleared away the debris. HYDRA's warships had been destroyed. This should have been a victory. But people had a hard time seeing it that way when the wreckage fell in their own backyards. War he remembered, but now the war had come home. They'd brought him back and he had brought this with him.
He watched as they dredged the water, watched as they dragged their loads to shore. He knew what lay beneath the tarps lined up at the water's edge, knew why the workers kept their distance. He'd dredged up a body of his own not far from here, had left him gasping on his back in the mud. But they weren't the only ones who had fallen that day. No matter how long they worked, there would always be more ghosts.
Shrugging deeper into his jacket, he turned and headed back through the park. He didn't know this city – not really – but he knew what it represented. He'd spent the morning walking among the monuments, slipping unseen through the crowds, trying to remember what it had been like to believe, to have something worth protecting. It was easier when you didn't know the cost.
And then his feet had carried him here. It was a stupid idea. If anyone was looking for him this was where they'd start, the place where he'd slipped off the grid. But as his eyes scanned the park, he realized that he wasn't looking for HYDRA, for the authorities coming to bring him in. He was looking for a ghost, the first ghost that had tried to reach him, the ghost that had been too stubborn to let him die. Would the ghost be searching for him? Would anyone? He shut his eyes, but it wasn't fear that made him ball his fists in his pockets. It was disappointment.
"Hey! Get off!"
He turned, his heart thundering in his ears. The shouts were coming from up the path, where a girl struggled against a much larger man, both of them tugging at a battered backpack. As he watched, the girl kicked at the man's shin, swinging wildly at his face.
"Let go, asshole! That's mine!"
He didn't remember running, didn't remember pulling the man off of her. But then the man was laying at his feet, staring up at him in horror, scrambling away as he tried to stem the blood pouring from his nose.
"Yeah, that's right!" the girl called after him. "You'd better freakin' run!" She hugged the backpack to her chest, scowling down at its broken strap. But when she looked up at him, she smiled. "Thanks, dude. That was pretty badass."
He blinked down at her. She was just a skinny thing, a teenager. Her coat was frayed and much too big for her, her pale hair falling limply into her eyes. They narrowed as she stared up at him, her head tilting in concern.
"Hey, hero. You okay?"
He shook his head, struggling to focus. He didn't know her, but the ghosts were there, whispering in his ear, reflected in her crooked smile. Bullies, he remembered. Bullies and little guys who never knew when to back down from a fight.
He cleared his throat. "Are you alright?"
Pushing up her sleeve, she showed him the scratch on her arm. "I've had worse."
"What were you thinking? He could have hurt you."
She shrugged. "He was trying to take my stuff. If I didn't stop him, who would?" Laughing, she poked him in the chest. "Except you. And they say chivalry's dead."
It was an effort not to flinch away. The girl noticed.
"So… I've gotta sew this up." She gestured with her broken strap. "You staying at the mission?"
"What?"
"The shelter? There's one a few blocks from here." She squinted at him. "Unless you dress that way on purpose."
"You think I'm homeless."
"Are you?"
It was a simple question. He could remember rooms, addresses, safe houses. But even the earliest memories seemed wrong. Home wasn't a place. Home was camps and foxholes and stupid jokes. Home was secret rendezvous and soft red hair.
The girl was staring at him. "Well?"
"…Yeah."
"Yeah? Me, too. Well, more like 'temporarily displaced.' Got myself into a bit of a situation." She shrugged, nodding up the path. "When's the last time you had a hot meal,…?"
She was waiting for him to give her a name. Could he tell her that he didn't have one? That he never had? She would think he was crazy. She would know. But she was talking to him – really talking to him – and he couldn't let that go.
She studied his face. "Geez, sorry I asked."
"No. Sorry. I…" The ghosts had tried to give him a name. The museum had written it boldly across their walls for all the world to see. But it still felt like a lie. His head spun, dizzy and desperate, grasping at the first thing that came to mind. "Steve." He winced, but it was too late.
"Gina." She held out her hand, pulling it back with a shrug when he failed to take it. "Come on, Stevie. Let's go get you cleaned up."
She led him through the park and he fell into step beside her, his stomach rumbling. He hadn't thought of it until she mentioned it, but he couldn't remember the last time that he'd eaten. A shower wouldn't hurt either. They must have made an odd pair – her with her oversized clothes and stringy hair, him with his cap pulled low and eyes fixed on the ground. But as they made their way onto the bustling afternoon street, she held her head high, shooting a defiant glare at any who looked their way. She might be little, but it wasn't size that made you tough.
She seemed content to walk in silence and he was grateful for that. But as they stopped before the shelter entrance, he could feel her eyes on him again.
"You gonna be okay with this, dude? You look a little jumpy."
She had no idea. But he had nowhere else to be. He nodded.
Inside the walls were cramped and peeling, the makeshift cafeteria little more than a low-ceilinged room. But someone had put flowers on the tables and music played faintly overhead. No one asked for more than their names and the faces that spooned food onto his tray were smiling. These people really were doing their best, trying only to be kind. He'd forgotten what that was like.
He tried not to think about the fact that there was only one exit, tried not to wonder what might be waiting down the other halls. No one here looked like a threat, but he found a table near the wall, putting his back to it as Gina sat down across from him.
"If you need to bolt, I'll cover you." She grinned, shoveling a spoonful of mashed potatoes into her mouth. Her eyes flitted to the wall above him, checking the clock. "Create a distraction or something. I'm good at that."
He kept his eyes on his plate, watching her beneath the brim of his hat as they lapsed into silence. At least the food was warm, warm enough to ease the tension in his shoulders, warm enough to remind him of just how tired he was. But sleep brought the ghosts. If he could help it, he might never sleep again.
When she checked the time again, he followed her gaze, nodding at the clock. "You have somewhere to be?"
"Got a hot date later." She smirked. "What's with the arm?"
"What?"
She pointed with her fork. "The arm. The one you're not using. You hurt or something?"
He shook his head. He'd lost his glove in the bar, had been keeping his hand in his pocket to hide it. She was observant, but she just a kid, a kid who had helped him, a kid who had fed him. It wasn't trust, but he didn't have a lie to give her. "It's… a prosthetic."
"Yeah? Can I see?"
"No."
She pursed her lips into an exaggerated pout. "You got a prosthetic head, too? You can take the hat off, you know. The whole man-of-mystery thing is kinda weirding me out."
He scanned the room. No one was watching them. There were no cameras, no waiting eyes, no one who could recognize him for what he was. And what was he? Just another huddled, faceless shell, just like all the rest of them. Not too bad, as covers go. Sliding off his hat, he sat it on the table and ran his fingers through his hair.
"Holy crap. You actually might be kinda cute under there." Gina laughed at his expression. "Don't worry, dude, you're not my type. But I can help you with your hair. I mean, if you want. I used to cut my brother's."
He scratched at his chin, considering. "You have a brother?"
"Look at you, making conversation." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Had a brother. But he was always running off, getting himself into trouble. Felt like I was bailing him out of shit all the time, y'know?"
The ghosts were whispering again but, for once, he didn't try to shut them out. "Yeah… I do."
Pushing her empty plate away, she looked up at him. "Now you've gone and made me sad. So make it up to me, let me fix you up."
"Why?"
"Because you're weird and you smell. And I'm bored." She stood, grinning down at him as she gathered up their plates. "I'm gonna go see about a shower and find some scissors. Just… don't freak out and break any more noses while I'm gone, okay?"
"Okay." He watched her go, a tiny blonde figure navigating between the tables. He could still make the exit, could still get away. But instead he simply sat, staring at his hands. He wasn't safe, but safe was never an option. At least here it was warm. Besides, what else did he have to lose?
