adamo393:Thank you for reviewing so often! You are definitely right, she is rather nice and happy despite everything that's happened to her. I've considered making her more glum and such, but I really like how her personality is turning out so far, and I figured that she was wiped so often back with Hydra, and then left alone, so she really doesn't knowhow to be glum. Who knows, though, maybe she'll develop more of her own personality as I go on...
Alright everyone, I know for certain that No One gets her name in the next chapter, so make sure to tell me what you'd like it to be, otherwise May has the most votes. Remember that you can also say what you'd like her original name to be as well.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything other than No One and my plot.
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Chapter 9
A Safe House
(And Amazing Omelets)
I remember very little of my father, since he died when I was young, but I'd heard enough stories about him that in my mind I could paint a hazy picture of who he was and what he was like. Apparently both of his children took after him more than mother in appearance – she was blonde and very pale, short and delicate, while father was half Italian, so he had dark hair and olive skin. Both me and Little Tommy took after his Italian features, neither of us taking mother's delicate look.
"It's because Italians are strong," people told me that he'd say, but I didn't see how he would know, since he hadn't ever been to Italy himself.
He was always itching in his shoes, wanting to travel and get away from the lie called the Great U.S., so it's no wonder he was out as soon as the war began. Mom was happy at home, though, sitting in her rocking chair taking care of Little Tommy, or spending the afternoon making bread when we had flour. I took after mother in this one thing – always more of a homebody – while Little Tommy yearned for the adventures in the books read to him at night.
Life's unfair and cruel, I've found; I was forced into the adventure I never wanted and would never escape, while Little Tommy was forced to stay at home, six feet under.
…
Light was just coloring the horizon when we made it to D.C., and by the time the sun was just peeking its yellow head up we stopped the car a few streets away from where we were going, in case we picked up any unwanted attention. As I followed after Steve I looked around at the houses surrounding us while working out the cricks in my neck from the awkward position I fell asleep in.
Finally determining that there weren't any obvious threats around us at the moment I turned my focus to the house we were now approaching. It was simple and rather inconspicuous, which immediately raised my suspicions. In my experience, no one Steve knew was normal, as far as I was concerned, and I doubted he would break the streak.
I have to say, when a normal looking guy came to the door of the normal looking house I was rather disappointed, but easily perked up when he let us into his house.
He walked up to the glass door before sliding it open with a rather confused look on his face.
"Hey man," he said, the confusion never leaving his face as he took in our rugged appearances, his eyes lingering on me for a second longer than it had on Natasha, so I figured he had already met her before.
"I'm sorry about this," Steve said before letting out a breath rather loudly. "We need a place to lay low."
"Everyone we know is trying to kill us." He looked at Natasha again, and I was slightly surprised that he didn't show any shock or other similar emotions at the statement.
"Not everyone." And that was it. One of the simplest conversations I've heard in days. He stepped aside and we immediately went in, not risking another second outside with the chance of being spotted and recognized in the increasing sunlight.
I turned slightly as I passed him, watching as he scoped out the area like I had earlier, before shutting the doors and letting the blinds fall. Perhaps he wasn't as normal as I had first thought.
We gathered in the front room which was surprisingly larger than I would have guessed judging by the outward appearance of the house, especially since it seemed this man lived alone.
"Care to explain?" he asked. He said it as a question, but I knew he wanted answers. Steve and Natasha exchanged a look before turning back to the man hesitantly. He caught it, and nicely backed off for a bit.
"Why don't you guys clean up a bit and then we'll talk about it?" Again, it was only voiced as a question. I gave the guy a look. I think I was starting to like this guy; he knows what he's doing. I scanned him again, looking at the way he held himself. Straight, confident, and having already learned not to fall under the weight people dumped on his shoulders. Definitely not normal. We eagerly took him up on his offer and scurried to the little bathroom attached to the bedroom he lead us to, showing us where the towels and the like were. Opting not to take full on showers, in case we had to leave without notice, we each grabbed rags and wet them to clean the blood and dust off of our skin before Natasha and I left the cramped confines of the bathroom, Steve staying behind. I left in favor of a comfortable armchair in the corner while Natasha followed my lead and took a seat on the bed. The two removed their shirts so they were covered only by their undershirts, and while I saw the logic in that decision I decided not to follow – I sported an impressive collection of scars that I wasn't in the habit of showing off.
Only after I had finished washing my exposed skin and massage the dried blood from my hair did I notice that Natasha had stopped washing herself, though she was not done, and apparently Steve noticed as well.
He came out of the bathroom and Natasha took up cleaning her hair again, curls showing now that her hair was wet.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah." He obviously didn't buy that, as he tossed away the towel he was drying his hands on and walked her way. My jaw went slack as he entered my field of vision.
He has muscles. A lot of muscles. I quickly shut my mouth before either noticed, and my eyes got a bit wider. I'm pretty sure people aren't supposed to have that much muscle. I quickly snapped my head in the other direction.
His muscleshad muscles.
He sat down and looked into her eyes, and I had the feeling that I was interrupting a moment.
"What's going on?" Time to leave. I stood up silently, trying to attract as little attention as possible as I just as quietly left the room, though Natasha's eyes flickered to me briefly before turning to Steve again. Once I had slipped out of the open door I was faced with the option of eavesdropping on the two or going and facing a stranger, and I honestly didn't know which was the better of the two. I was spared that choice when the stranger walked near the opening of the small hall leading to the room, spotting me, and I knew I had been caught by the look he sent me.
I reluctantly peeled myself off the wall and followed as he began walking again.
It's not so bad, I thought to myself. He seems like a pretty cool guy, so far. Then I reminded myself that bad guys are good at pretending to be people they're not, and the confidence I had mustered shattered again.
I found him in the kitchen facing the stove, where he was flipping an omelet filled to the brim with the works, but despite not having eaten in far too long I couldn't find it in myself to be hungry – the dread was taking up all available room in my stomach.
"I haven't seen you around before," he said, still facing the omelet.
"I'm not surprised." He paused his motions and turned to shoot me a brief look before turning away again.
"So how'd you meet Steve?" I blinked at the terrible length of the answer to that question, knowing that I wouldn't ever make it through an explanation like that and still sound sane, even with my surprisingly good conversational skills.
"That's a very long story." He finally scooped the omelet onto a plate, making a total of four finished omelets, before turning to me, leaning against the counter.
"So make it shorter." Despite the slight twinge of fear and anxiety I felt over his commanding voice I couldn't help but feel myself begin to like him even more. I was tempted to tell him once more that it was a long story, making sure this time to emphasize the word long, but instead took his words as a challenge. My conversational skills were better than I had thought they were, so let's see how good I am at condensing.
"You know who Steve is, right?" I just had to clarify.
"If you mean Captain America, then yes." Good, that would make things easier.
"Then you know that he was born a long time ago." One more nod.
"Well I was, too." I gave him some time to process that before continuing. "I was captured by HYDRA, who Steve had been working to destroy at the time." As I said that I felt something lift off of my chest. For years – so many years – I didn't know the name of the people who took everything from me, and now that I knew who they were, I found that I'm also with a person who once worked to destroy them. In other words, I have an ally.
"They preserved me, and that's why I'm still alive, but I escaped and was living on my own until Steve and Natasha brought me to S.H.I.E.L.D., who we're now trying to hide from." Best summary ever. I took a look at Sam's completely lost look and took that thought back. Maybe it wasn't as clear as I thought.
"Did that make sense?" His gaze jumped up from where it had been drilling holes into his table and met my eyes.
"Yeah, that made sense. But I don't understand something." I was silent as he formed his question, glad that for once it wasn't me who was struggling for words.
"So I understand that these people – HYDRA – captured you, then preserved you – I don't even want to know – but what I don't understand is why they took you. Why you, out of everyone they could have taken?" Ooh, the guy's sharp. I couldn't decide whether to admire him or despise him for this at the moment, though, and I opted not to answer.
"So you made food?" Breakfast is what it's called at this time of day, but it's always food. He suspiciously let the topic drop before nodding.
"You hungry?" I was surprised to find that I was in fact hungry. The knot of dread that had taken residence in my stomach seemed to have vacated, leaving the gnawing pain of hunger in its wake. I nodded, feeling saliva fill my mouth in anticipation.
"You think they're hungry too? Do they even eat this kind of thing?" That question took me off guard, making me pause to think. Do they eat normal food? Natasha did, I'm sure, but what about Steve? Do super-humans need super-food, or something?
"I haven't really seen them eat before, so I don't know." Judging by the look on his face he hadn't actually expected me to answer – whoops – but I watched as uncertainty slowly filled his expression as well.
"I guess it won't hurt to tell them." And with that he left me alone in the kitchen as he went to tell the other two that there was food, and my eyes were immediately drawn to a plate with an omelet and a fork on it.
I've never had an omelet before. Was there a special way to eat it? Quickly deciding that there wasn't a special way to eat it – as there was a fork on the plate – I began to wonder if I was supposed to wait for the others to come in before I began eating. Now thinking about it, I don't think I'd ever really eaten in another's presence, or at least from what I remember, and if I had it was a very long time ago. I frowned slightly as I tried to remember the original me, but what little I did remember of food was that it was all too rare, and that whenever there was enough for me to eat after I fed Little Tommy I made sure to do it quickly, as if it might disappear if I looked at it too long. Looking up at the omelet I decided to do just that.
Quickly swooping in and taking a plate as my victim I just as swiftly sat down in the chair, bringing my shoulders around the plate after I set it down – as a type of protective shield – and dug in. For all I knew the other three people would want my food, too, and I sure wasn't letting that happen.
By the time Sam came back into the room I was nearly half way done with it and he eyed my protective form with slight amusement, making me feel slightly ashamed.
"I was born during the Great Depression, alright?" I mumbled in explanation, but he didn't say anything and instead poured an orange colored drink into a cup with some ice and set it down in front of me. Once his back was turned, grabbing the other plates to set on the table, I eyed the liquid. It was orange. Indignation rose inside of me, and I felt myself get slightly offended: if he was trying to poison me he should at least try to do it in a less conspicuous way.
I turned to look at him just in time to see him pouring more glasses of the orange stuff that might be poison, before blinking as I watched him take a drink out of one of the cups himself. My eyes slid back to the cup as I took it into my hands. Perhaps it wasn't poison? I slowly brought it up to my lips and braced myself for a painful death as I took a small sip.
Definitely not poison. Omelet all but forgotten, I took another sip of the drink and just held it in my mouth, relishing the taste. I was sitting like that when the other two walked in and took chairs around the table.
"Thank you, Sam," Steve said as he picked up his fork, and I knew he wasn't only referring to the food. It was then that I realized that I hadn't even gotten the stranger's name yet.
"Nah, it's my pleasure. It gets boring with just me around here, so being a host is fine." Though the conversation was light, I knew it was simply small talk and was waiting for the real conversation to begin. We all took a few more bites of the delicious wonder called an omelet before Steve put his fork down and cleared his throat. Here it goes.
"I guess you've probably heard by now that Fury died?" Sam nodded. "Well what the news hasn't said is that he was killed by a man called the Winter Soldier. You heard of him?" Sam brought his elbows up onto the table and clasped them together.
"A bit." None of us had expected more than that, considering he was thought to be a ghost story.
Natasha took over the explanation. "When Fury died he gave Steve a flash drive containing information that he had me retrieve earlier, and we were brought to New Jersey trying to figure it out when S.H.I.E.L.D. tried to kill us." At this she lost Sam.
"Yeah, so why's S.H.I.E.L.D. trying to get rid of you anyway? I thought you were all the good guys." Steve looked down briefly before looking into Sam's eyes again.
"Before Fury died he informed me that S.H.I.E.L.D. had been compromised, and while in New Jersey we found out that over the years it's slowly become infested with the rogue Nazi division that I thought was destroyed back during World War Two."
"So what're you going to do about it?" This question had been on my mind as well. Steve and Natasha shared a brief look.
"We're still trying to figure that out."
We continued our meal as we let Sam think over the things they'd told him. Halfway through my omelet, though, I found I couldn't eat anymore as the omelet was way bigger than anything I'd eaten in, well, ever, so I finally slid the rest of it over to the super human with super metabolism and asked him to finish it for me, as he still looked just as hungry as when he started. He was skeptical at first, and I reasoned in my mind that this wasn't very socially appropriate, but his hunger seemed to have won in the end and he inhaled it just as fast as he had the last one.
Finally, Natasha and I cleared off the table while Steve opted to clean the dishes, Sam walking out of the room without doing anything. I would've been slightly annoyed that he was leaving us to the cleaning, but figured that he had been the one to make the food in the first place, so I guess it was fine for him to leave. He wasn't slacking, as it turned out, and he came back in with a folder once we'd finished.
"What's this?" Steve asked, who was now sitting at the table with Natasha.
"Consider it my resume." What's a resume? I wasn't able to voice my question because Steve was talking again, but from the words said I could pretty much guess what it is that Sam wanted.
"I can't ask you to do this."
"Dude, Captain America needs my help. There's no better reason to start up again." Steve reluctantly opened the file, his eyes immediately going wide in shock.
"You told me you were a pilot." Sam's face showed clear amusement and I couldn't help but wonder what was in the file.
"I never said pilot." Finally, curiosity getting the better of me, I wandered over from my spot at the counter and peered into the file from behind Steve's back, and even though I didn't understand a lot of the words written, I got the gist.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
