I was going to say something but we all heard footsteps, and looked to the door. Sam came in, his elbow bandaged, followed by Harriet, and a reed-thin little old lady with a long grey braid coiled in a coronet and glasses so thick they magnified her eyes. She peered around at us and smiled, her hands in the pockets of her doctor's smock. "Oh dear, that coffee's going to kill you," she announced in a sweet little voice. "Morty makes it strong enough to dissolve concrete."
"It's ex-presso!" Morty sniped back. "Very big downtown."
"It's sludge," the doctor shot back, and laughed. "But it's your sludge and I'm not going to change you now. I'm Doctor Goldie."
"Let me guess-pediatrician?" Steve asked. I noticed that Sam had a lollipop stick hanging out of the corner of his grin.
"Yep, although I started as a nurse in Vietnam," she replied, coming to sit at the foot of the table. "Sam here had a few boo-boos but he's fine now."
I snickered, as did Steve. James didn't, though, and I could see him tense a little. "I will not let you examine me," he announced, low and firm. Everyone froze. I wanted to slip my hand in his, but had to settle for pressing up against his shoulder. His metal shoulder.
"Fair enough," Doctor Goldie nodded easily. She was completely relaxed, leaning back and comfortable. "If you're not hurting or in pain, then I don't need to. You've got a right to your privacy."
For a moment James held her gaze and I know I wasn't the only one holding my breath. He blinked, finally, and relaxed a little. Doctor Goldie gave a nod to show she was serious, and looked at me. "Okay then, good. We are approximately thirty feet under water in a pressurized atmosphere so you make have plugged ears for a while. If nobody needs patching up I'm going back to my office and see if I can finish quilting the bedspread I'm working on. Any questions?"
"How long?" James asked. "How long will we be here?"
Harriet cocked her head. Now that she had her sunglasses off, she looked less comical and more motherly. "Honey, that's a tough call. Right now there's a Hydra team scouring the lake and stomping all over that little island we passed, and another one going through the cabin, but they're short-handed and not exactly at the top of their game. You've led them on a damned good chase, and they can't afford to be seen publically looking for you, so by my conservative estimate, give it two days at the very least. I'd love to throw them a red herring, maybe some sort of MacGuffin to chase if we could pull it off."
"None of us have the physique of these three," Morty pointed out ruefully. "And I don't know about you, but I could use a nap."
"That . . . sounds good to me too," I admitted in a low voice. Nobody disagreed; although I could tell Steve and Sam didn't look like they'd be resting anytime soon.
"Relaxing is good," Doctor Goldie agreed. "You're on the down side of an adrenaline rush, folks, so give yourselves time to settle for a bit. The only people who know we're here are on a need to know basis." Saying that she got up and headed out again, humming to herself. I looked at everyone at the table and ended up looking at James, who was still as a statue.
"Okay then," I sighed, and let Harriet show me where I could rest.
But I couldn't, much. The room was sort of a standard motel-looking number with everything in sort of slate blue shades. The metal walls made me feel like I was in a submarine, and I was aware of tons of water all around me. I took off my shoes and stretched out on the bed, trying to ignore the musty scent as I crawled under the bedspread.
Too much to think about, you know? Everything from what had just happened to what was going to happen kept bouncing around in my brain like a loose marble in a sink, clattering my thoughts and leaving me feeling jarred. For the next two hours I shifted around, and finally rolled over on my side and curled up around one of the heavy pillows to smother my face, trying not to cry. I didn't—much. Just a few tears this time because feeling sorry for myself isn't really my thing. I know about delayed stress though, so I wasn't going to beat myself up for it either. Part of being human.
It didn't help though, that I also felt . . . superfluous. I mean come on—I wasn't in the military, I wasn't an agent, or a spy or anyone important in this situation. I was just . . . baggage. A chef without a kitchen or a even a job, someone who happened to be along for the ride. Not that I wanted to be important, oh hell no, not if it meant people around me got killed because of it. No, I guess what I wanted was for things to be normal again. Normal as in nobody hunting after me, or shooting around me or making me part of some Cold War scheme.
But I didn't see how things would ever be normal again. Not with my status as a donor—unwitting or not—for James. I thought back to my childhood, and suddenly all the visits to Doctor Z took on a nasty significance, along with my parents' monitoring of my health and safety. I'd been groomed all along, and from somewhere deep inside me a hard flare of hate scorched through my emotions. Hate for my family and what they never had the courage to tell me, hate for an organization that never cared for me as a person, and even stab of it for the one-armed head-case who'd opened my eyes to all of this. It wasn't fair to turn what life I had upside down like this, you know?
I rolled over and nearly jumped because James had pulled up a chair and was sitting next to the bed, stock-still, watching me. "Fucking Jesus on water-skis, what did I tell you about sneaking UP on me!"
He turned those hound dog eyes of his on me now. "Not to do it," James murmured. "But it's not my fault you had a pillow over your head."
Eh, he had me there, and irritated, I threw it at him; James batted the pillow away without taking his gaze from me. I stared back, glared back at him. "What are you doing here?"
He broke our stare-down and looked at the floor. "I can't sleep."
I was about to say something like it wasn't my problem, or he could go get something for it from Doctor Goldie when he looked up again. "Last night, with you . . . That was the first time I've slept in years. When they used to put me in storage, they didn't let me go to sleep before they did it. I was told to close my eyes, but I was awake each time the frost seared through me."
I slowly sat up. "When was the last time you slept, before last night?"
He shook his head, and it hit me that it wasn't a matter of lost memory, but no memory. I patted the mattress next to me.
"So tell me about it," I said quietly.
James looked up to the ceiling and gave a low sigh, then moved to lie down next to me, pulling me into his arms. I moved close as I could, draping over him and didn't say anything more, just waiting to hear him out. He felt good; solid and strong under me and I can't deny that just being held was making me relax. I kept waiting, knowing that he'd probably start talking once he was comfortable.
He talked, slowly at first, with a lot of hesitation and sentences that trailed off, his voice husky sometimes and hard at other times. I heard about the fall, and his arm, God! And about being in and out of all sorts of operations. James kind of glossed over his training, but from the way his voice got tight I could tell Hydra was big on the negative reinforcement style, the bastards. The pattern was always the same, James said: shocked into consciousness, physical therapy and arm upgrades for a day or two, then briefing for the mission. Dropped near the target, eliminating the target, collected and taken to safe house for de-briefing, then fed and frozen again.
"How many . . . ." I whispered, and he lifted his metal hand, waggling the fingers.
"How many times can you count these?" he replied tiredly. "Men mostly, women once in a while, and once . . . ."
"James," I murmured, wanting to spare him anymore stress.
He shuddered a little and rushed on, "once . . . You need to know this-I blew up a school bus, Melvin. I . . . !" James shook with a sob and I wasn't any too steady myself trying to tamp down the horror and sorrow that was overwhelming both of us. I clung to him, pressing my mouth close to his ear, tasting the tears rolling down the sides of his face.
"You didn't do that. THEY did that. THEY used you as their weapon and judgment will be on THEIR heads for what they've done to you and their victims! You listen to me, James Barnes—none of those acts came from you! When the nail is driven in, nobody blames the hammer!"
For a long time we just hung onto each other.
I felt so . . . needed. That sensation just washed through me, taking with it a lot of the doubt and unhappiness, so I let it, and kept James close. I didn't have to say anything, so I didn't. I just touched him, stroked him soothingly and I can't tell you how wonderful it was when he finally fell asleep. Seriously, to know that he was able to do that in my arms . . . wow. I closed my eyes too, because deep emotion is just flat-out exhausting, and yeah, I drifted off too, into la-la land, feeling a glimmer of hope.
-oo00oo-
I woke up several hours later to discover that being used as a security blanket was nice, but not when I had full bladder. Carefully I untangled James' grip and slipped out to the bathroom, taking care of business and noting that my hair needed a good brushing. Luckily there were supplies in the cabinet so I tidied up, feeling better for it. By my estimation it was probably about four in the afternoon and my stomach was growling enough to incline me towards the kitchen. When I stepped out though, James was sitting at the edge of the bed, looking in my direction uncertainly.
I walked over and stood between his knees, letting him slip his metal arm around my waist so he could nuzzle my stomach. "Feel better?"
He looked up and smiled that quirky smile of his, the one that showed his dimples and softened his expression. "And how. Thank you."
It was easy to kiss the top of his head. "Me too. So. I'm hungry, I'm sure you're hungry and there's a good-sized kitchen I want to take a look at."
My stomach growled at that moment, and his grin flashed out again. "Let's go then."
We stepped out into the empty hall and James took the lead, heading through the maze until we were back at the kitchen within a few minutes. I shot him a quick look, aware that he'd memorized the route out of habit, and he gave a shrug, and then went to lean against one wall, watching me.
I explored. I just want to say that I'm not a snob, and that I've been in a lot of kitchens, both personal and industrial, so I've had experience with the variety of layouts available. That being said, the kitchen at the Grotto was in sorry, sorry shape. I found dust everywhere, mildew in too many places, and a storage plan that didn't make sense. Whoever had last organized the place had done a piss-poor job, and I winced every time I opened a cabinet or drawer. James kept watching me and grew more alarmed at each muttered curse I uttered.
"Are you going to be okay?" he asked when I stifled a growl over a rack of rusty knives.
"I'm fine, but this place . . . it's as if mudaks put this stuff here!" I snapped. "Why are the measuring cups and bowls so far from the workstation island here? Where is the sense in having the pots and pans across the kitchen in a cupboard instead of in the cabinets right next to the damned stove?"
He said nothing, and I was aware that he was trying hard not to smile, so I threw a dishtowel at him. "Stop! If you want to eat, you're going to help. Bring me the two packages of chicken from the refrigerator while I see what seasonings are here."
James slunk off, but I knew he was shaking his head in amusement as I began my quest for salt. I found it, eventually, along with some ancient pepper and some mixed seasonings. Through my professional pain, I began to put together a meal, moving as best I could despite the horrible layout, feeling better as I started some rice simmering and did a quick marinade for the leg joints my assistant found.
He pulled up a stool and leaned his elbows on the workstation, watching me. "So you're a cook," he murmured.
"Bite your tongue," I corrected, pointing a wooden spoon at him. "I am a chef de partie certified to work the rôtisseur, boucher and poissonier stations at any restaurant." At his confused expression I clarified. "I can cut any meat and fish as well as roast and braise it. Sort of . . . specialized work."
"Okay then," James nodded, his bangs swinging a little. "So you're a chef."
"And don't you forget it. Would you prefer tarts or a cobbler?" I stared at the canned peaches, wondering if there was any cinnamon around.
"Cobbler, if I get a vote," came a reply. This was from Steve, who had wandered in and was watching as well. It made me a little self-conscious, but I took a breath and got on with things. That's how it is with cooking—you don't have time to spare for nervousness.
James nodded too, glancing at Steve.
"All right. One of you open these cans for me please, and I need someone else to get the big tub of flour down from the cabinet by the coffeemaker," I ordered. It felt good to boss people around again and I grinned as the two of them did what I asked. I made Steve watch the rice, and had James help me roll out a quick dough, all the time directing them and keeping them moving. "Nice . . . I need to get the oven pre-heated, and Steve, if you can find any sugar that would be wonderful. James, a little thinner here on the edge. The dough needs to be uniform . . ."
"I haven't been on the receiving end of this many orders since Colonel Phillips was in charge," Steve muttered, and I caught James' grin.
"I heard that," I shot back. "And anyone who has a problem helping doesn't have to eat any of this meal."
"So-is that communism or democracy?" James asked Steve, who gave a shrug.
"I think that's the universal law of cooking. Sort of a benevolent dictatorship."
