Warnings: Grief, depression, implications of self harm and suicide, discussions of death. We've got some dark stuff here folks. Take care if easily triggered!
…
CHAPTER TWENTY - Trust is a Funny Thing
...
Official Meeting - Peter Parker
...
I walk home slowly, my body aching so deeply, I'm tempting to just lie down on the sidewalk. I don't stop once, I just keep moving. Sometimes walking right into traffic accidentally, hopping out of the way of incoming vehicles that honk.
I get back to the garage and lock the door behind me.
I stare at the empty room for a minute. Longer than a minute, too long for this to be normal. I stare at the sink, the shelves, the hose that I jerry-rigged through a hook in the ceiling over the sloped corner in the garage so that the water runs for the drain.
That seems like a good idea - I'm covered in blood.
I should shower.
I don't really know if this is shock, like the grief kind. Not the medical kind. I guess if it was, that would explain why I can't stop shivering. Or why maybe taking an ice-cold shower isn't a good idea, but I do it anyway. There's no hot water in this building, so I have to get what I get.
After my shower I'm really cold, polar-bear-plunge-challenge cold. I change into clean jeans, t-shirt, hoodie, socks.
But I can't warm up.
I empty a can of tomato soup into a single-serve pot and stick it on the old hotplate I commandeered. While I wait for it to boil, I brush my teeth, shave.
I fold my small load from the laundromat last week. An extra pair of jeans, sweatpants, two more t-shirts, underwear, socks, and one more hoodie. One of the T-shirts smells gross and I can't figure out why. I washed it with soap and everything.
I'm sure Aunt May would know exactly what to tell me for how to fix it.
I finish folding and line them up in the empty shelf where Uncle Ben would have kept bottles of car oil, transmission fluid, and antifreeze. There's a pair of jumper cables sitting here, an empty cap from a bottle long thrown away.
I eat a bowl of hot soup and finally feel the chills start to leave. My chest stops trembling, and I hold the bowl to warm my fingers.
When I'm done, I put it in the sink, and look at the cupboard. I am getting low on the soup. I need get more of these if I am going to be stuck here.
And maybe things I could eat on the go… like… peanuts. Apples.
I never did get to go grocery shopping like I had told Schultz and Davis earlier.
Am I going to have money for this…? What if the money stops?
I don't know how payroll works for an Avenger. Cap just had me pull cash from the fake trust account for things like food. Toilet paper. Toothpaste.
But who was putting the money in the account to start with?
What if Deadpool thinks I killed Cap and erases my mission reports? I don't see why he wouldn't - Cap died, and I ran.
If he does, then I'm stuck with the Vulture. No rescue. Relying only on the one hundred bucks here, one hundred bucks there for bad jobs. Like collecting late supply payments, or standing guard while someone else on the crew does something awful.
Now I'm the one doing those awful things.
But I can't keep doing them?! Not if they're no longer Avengers-sanctioned. Then I'm just what I pretend to be… a criminal.
Why hasn't Wade called me yet?
Why hasn't he… why didn't he land… maybe he did. Maybe I didn't see him. Maybe I left too quickly, missed my shot. Or maybe he turned around and went the other way. Blames me and left me there because I thought I deserved it…
Maybe I do…
I have to get out of this, on my own, if I must. If I can find out where they hid Aunt May, it's not too late to find her. She and I can go hide in Italy just like she suggested from the beginning.
Some… great-grandmother with a hidden room?
I let out a surprised laugh. But then I can't catch my breath again.
I fall against my makeshift bed, slide to the floor, and hug my knees. My back hits the rubber tire behind me repetitively, I try to hold myself still, and I can't, I can't - I can't - I can't - I can't...
It takes me a long time to stop hyperventilating. When I do, I crawl up into the bed and fall asleep.
I sleep through most of the day. A sleep that always feels half awake, centuries long but still not restful at all.
...
When I wake up again, and check the time, it's early evening.
I leave the garage, like a dead man walking. My body is stiff, but the super-healing took care of whatever horrible brick-burns and dislocated fingers I gave myself from plunging my hands through the walls of the building to stop myself from dying right alongside Steve Rogers. Nothing had broken, though I feel ghost-pains from the arm that the Vulture broke. Weird.
The pedestrian side of the Pulaski is oddly crowded tonight. I don't think much of it until I hear whispers. People looking at their phones. Hushed conversations. Someone is crying.
I sneak a glance at a phone screen as I walk by.
BBC BREAKING NEWS… AMERICAN HERO…
The horizon still bears a small stripe of light, that pale greenish hue just before twilight. The rest of the sky is turning dark blue, the skyscrapers beginning to glitter with interior lights blinking through the windows.
Flags at half-mast in the distance.
They're at half-mast for Captain America. The world knows already. Shield didn't take long to blast the news everywhere. So much for secret agencies. Leeches.
I take the ferry instead of walking further north to the bridge. There's no hurry, but on the off chance that Michelle gets off work early, I want to be there. Apologize for not calling her right away. How awful I must seem… to… to… well.
Having a sort of sleepover with her and then giving her zero communication has to be one of the number one things on a list of horrible things I've done that deserves a break up.
She gets off at midnight from a partial night shift. She's been trying to get her teachers in school and the staff management at the hospital to work better together for scheduling. She's exhausted getting stuck with working nights just because other students snagged up the afternoon shifts first.
She crawls into bed at one or two AM every morning after studying, and then has a class Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at seven AM.
And yet she still found time for me. Without ever truly complaining, only joking about how much her studies are killing her.
We did a lot of talking that night. More talking than I'm sure most people do when they're making out with someone for the first time like that.
She really opened up. Talked about how school was really going, which wasn't good. There's a lot of pressure from her parents to do it perfectly. Their interpretation of perfection feels like a death sentence for her.
She told me she had wanted to go to school in Virginia and study classic literature. Maybe minor in studio art. But she did what her parents wanted instead - a far cry from the independent, fuck-you-world attitude she that worked so hard to build throughout high school.
When the time came to stick it to them, to tell them what she really wanted - at the last minute, she crumbled. She accepted the financial deal they offered of helping to pay if she did the major they wanted, at the school they picked.
She caved, and she feels like her soul has been slowly dying ever since.
"Although, when you popped back into my life… that was… unexpected..." she had whispered into my hair. While I showered her neck with gentle kisses. "If I had left New York… I probably would never have seen you again."
"I wouldn't want you to stay on account of me," I had said, pulling back and giving her a look. Squeezing her hand encouragingly. "If you want to transfer… change schools… you should do it. You should be happy."
"Fine," she had giggled. "Then you can tell my parents."
"Your dad might kill me."
"Fine, I'll tell them... " she said, but she didn't mean it. "One of these days."
"I'll go with you. If you want."
...
I sit on the bench outside the emergency room entrance and patiently clasp my hands in my lap. I lose track of the time when I bend my head down, hide my face in my hands, and weep.
No one stops to interrupt a weeping boy sitting outside of a hospital. They assume someone I knew died inside the emergency room just now. No one's the wiser.
I hear feet scuffle by every so often, the loud siren of the ambulance pulling into the drive.
When I stop, I brace my elbows on my knees, clasp my hands, tuck my forehead against my arms, and think. I don't fall asleep, but I feel like I am in that same state… the twilight zone of drifting off, confused by the emotions that would never let me relax enough.
I play the moment he fell over and over and over again.
The way his limbs fluttered and jerked up from the gravity, like flags snapping and tugging at their masts when a wind is too strong.
Stars and stripes… that was always his thing.
I feel Michelle's hand gently press into my scalp, her fingers sliding through my hair. Combing the wayward layers back from my forehead.
Then she kneels down in front of me, one slender hand curled over my knee.
"You saw the news," she whispers. Trying to confirm the state I'm in. She's not sure why I look like I'm about to die myself, but she suspects. She's always been so smart.
"I was there when it happened," I confess, the horror too… too unimaginable to be real. "I think it was my fault it happened."
"No, no, Peter, no - no, Peter, no. It wasn't your fault." MJ says as if she herself were witnessing his fall from the building in slow motion. "NO. Don't think like that. It wasn't your fault."
She drops her bag, sits beside me on the bench, wraps her arms around me so tightly that it hurts every ache I possess. She pushes her face into mine, taking captive every sense. Pressing her lips to my ear. "Not your fault," she whispers. I feel the vibration of her voice in my skull, right down to my stomach.
"I don't know what to do," I whisper. "I'm stuck. I'm trapped. I don't know where to go. I can't sign the Accords where I'm… I told you about the… I don't… know… how…"
"I don't know what to do either," she admits, in her bright, unsure, but firm tone. "I won't lie to you. I don't know enough. I don't fucking know how to help you." She is nearly strangling me now, arms around my neck, pressing her lips to my forehead, cheek, and chin. "But I promise you this," she says. "I'm not letting you go through this alone."
"I am alone."
"No. You're not." I relax into her chest, hiding my face. She continues stroking my hair.
"I am alone," I repeat.
"I'm right here."
"I don't know how to get out."
"Peter…"
"MJ, I'm stuck."
"I'm not letting you go until you believe me, Peter Parker." She says. "You're not alone."
"Michelle," I whisper hoarsely, so quietly I don't even know if she can hear me. "The only way out of this is if they kill me."
"That's bullshit."
"I don't want to die," I sob into my hand, and she only holds me harder. As tightly as she can. It's not close enough. I wish she could absorb me… make me disappear. "I'm scared."
"I know," she whispers. "I'm scared too. Just take deep breaths with me. I'm not letting you go. Deep breaths, Parker. I've got you right now."
My cell rings.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
"What… what the..." I whisper.
"What?"
"It's… it's…" I don't know how much to tell her. How much would put her in danger. "This is my phone for contacting…" I pause. "Um. Cap - Captain." I add in a heated whisper. "...and Deadpool. But this isn't their number. I don't know who this is. They're the only ones who are supposed to call me on this phone."
Michelle blinks.
Opens her mouth, shuts it again.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
"Oh," she says. Then her eyes look like they're about to pop. "OH."
Still ringing.
"You should answer it," she urges. "Someone has to have your number. Maybe it's… another Avenger. Maybe it's your aunt."
I press answer.
Hold the phone up to my ear. My heart rate is skyrocketing. My chest hurts. Maybe this time I'm finally having that heart attack I keep imagining.
I don't say hello, and no one else does, either.
Silence - no, not silence. A breath in, and a breath out.
Too low-pitched to be Wade Wilson.
Someone else.
I end the call and look at Michelle with hopelessness.
"Who was it?"
"I don't know… they didn't say." I look around nervously. "Maybe we're… maybe I'm not safe here. Maybe I should go."
She stands up and holds out her hand. "Come with me," she says.
"Where?" I ask.
"Back to my dorm."
"Oh… but… I should probably…"
"I'm not leaving you on a cement bench outside of a hospital like this." She shakes her head firmly. "What you're saying - right now - Peter - it's not safe. You shouldn't be left alone like this. And you're crazy if you think I would."
I tilt my head and force myself to smile. "It's very logical when you put it that way."
"Don't be cute with me. This is serious. If a person says they think death is the only escape, they're in a dangerous place - mentally. Do you understand me?" She touches my face gently. "I need to know you are understanding what I am saying to you. I hear you. And I'm not going to leave you by yourself."
But I wasn't talking about suicide. I was talking about being hunted down and killed by Vulture. Scared that it'll happen, no matter where I turn.
Aside from the fact that I think I should have died in Captain America's place because I deserve it, I'm not going to do anything to make that happen. That's not me.
"I understand," I say softly. "But I'm not going to hurt myself. That's not what I meant - anyhow. You… you cheer me up." I try to smile. "See? All better."
She gives me the courtesy of a hum, a pretend laugh, but it fades quickly. "You don't need to try and put on a good face," she whispers, touching my face again with her hand. "Not with me. Not ever."
"Okay."
She holds out her hands. It takes some effort to place mine in her own, and she hoists me to my feet. I feel weak, hungry, sleepless. The shock still firmly pounding in my chest and in my veins.
"I've got you," she says, pulling me close.
"Okay."
"Not alone."
"Okay," I say again. She begins to lead me away from the hospital. Hand in hand, we walk down the darkening sidewalk together. Her fingers slide so effortlessly between my own. Puzzle pieces.
"Hold on," I say, tugging on her hand. "Before we… uh… go any further." I pull the phone back out. "I can't… I can't not check this out. I should call back. Just… in case."
She nods. "If you're sure."
"Yes. I'd be an idiot not to. It could be Tony Stark or something. I know… Steve trusted him. I can too."
I click on the unknown number in received calls.
RINGING.
...
Beyond the Grave - Bucky Barnes
...
I watch like a hawk until I see Rumlow's strike team enter the Tower. When I get to the medical floor, I stand outside the door that slides open and shut like a spaceship, a small window looking inside to the lab's entry.
With our tempers flying too high to be functional, everyone is still on time-out. People are hiding, crying, drinking, punching the daylights out of sandbags in the gyms.
They are waiting for news.
I am not waiting for news, but for things.
"What are you waiting for?" Kevin asks impatiently, sliding open the door briefly.
"His personal effects," I answer firmly. "I want them."
"Wade already looked for the burner phone," Kevin sighs.
I blink at him. "Okay? And…?"
"It's not here."
I feel a slow, curling pit of dread in my stomach. Of course Wade beat me here, one more thing that he screws up for me before he goes on furlough.
But then that fades away. So what if the burner phone isn't there? I don't want the undercover. Not right now.
I'm here for my friend. My best friend. And I want his bag of personal effects. I know I have to beat the rest of them to this - Steve was my friend first. Kevin doesn't know the difference. We're all his bosses.
"That's Wade's business," I respond coldly. "I'm here for whatever Steve had on him when he passed. I need to make sure of something."
"You're welcome to wait until I'm finished," Kevin answers. No wonder he is in such a bad mood and making me wait. Wade got to him first. "I have to… clean this stuff. It's a biohazard."
"I'll be right here," I growl.
It takes several hours. Vision and Wanda walk by me twice, doing laps. Asking me if I've heard anything yet.
I shake my head each time. Nothing yet.
Both of them are surprisingly neutral and sympathetic.
I text Natasha.
I'm guessing you heard the news.
Call me when you can.
I don't even consider the fact I haven't had anything to eat since this morning. Only a faint growl of my stomach tells me it's long past mealtimes. But I'm just a robot, aren't I? I'm programmed in a way that prevents me from suicide. Something in the trigger words protect Hydra's investment. I can hurt myself, certainly. My blood-red eyes and purple nose attest to that. Maybe I can starve myself out of the equation. Stop eating, waste away. Hydra can't work with a skeletal man too weak to walk. Maybe that's the manipulation to escape from this that I never realized - never tried, before.
It's not that I want… want death. If it came down to it. I wouldn't want that.
I just don't want to go to war with the Winter Soldier anymore. I don't want to lose against him. To lose is to forfeit. To win - or, essentially, kill myself - would be to protect others from him.
But maybe if I can weaken myself past the point of the Winter Soldier being any danger to them, then I can tell them everything. Come clean.
It's late, close to midnight, even, when Kevin hands me a bag of effects.
I accept the bag and I find a dark, unused office. Empty cupboards and drawers. A scratched out name on the door-plate says H. Cho. She moved her office upstairs to the labs, and she's not working today. Though it wouldn't surprise me if she came in anyway once she saw the news. Maybe some of those tissue-repair synthesized flesh will be used to fix up Steve for a funeral. I hope Kevin and Helen compare notes on this.
I can't imagine Steve looking this way - so shattered - for a funeral.
I shut and lock the door behind me, turn on the light, and sit in the chair coated in a thin layer of dust.
The bag has a small brown notebook, a cell phone, a wallet, and car keys. All in various forms of disrepair, whether by overuse, or the fall, I'm not sure.
I open the wallet and look through. His driver's license, fifty dollars in cash. His VA card. A coupon clipped out of a newspaper for shaving cream. Only Steve would still use cash and look for bargains on personal grooming.
I drag my thumb briefly over his ID photograph, my pain dripping so listlessly and hopelessly through my lungs, down my spine. Over my knuckles, which ache, as if I have arthritis. Despite my age, I don't.
One feels grief in the strangest places.
I open the notebook and read through a list he was keeping.
I Love Lucy (Television)
Moon Landing
Berlin Wall (Up + Down)
Steve Jobs (Apple)
Disco
Thai Food
Star Wars/Trek
Nirvana (Band)
Rocky (Rocky II?)
Troubleman (Soundtrack)
I swallow a sob and turn the page, skimming through notes. Sketches. He was always a talented sketch artist, and I don't know that anyone except me knew this. He kept some of his drawings from wartime framed by his desk… the monkey riding the unicycle was my favorite.
There's more recent sketches, ones I haven't seen before. A column on a nearby building, a streetlamp. A design for a new shield, one shaped more like a surfer's board than a perfect circle.
Wasted creativity.
Never having the right chances or the right time to explore other talents.
I nearly close the book, but one more note catches my eye.
VULTURE. CIA INFORMANT = PROTECTED FOR INTEL
EVERETT ROSS
I need a physical movement to keep myself from unleashing the Winter Soldier right then and there. I close the notebook. I set it down on the dark desk. I grip the edges of the desk with both hands, knuckles turning white.
I count to ten. Slowly.
So the Vulture's playing both sides. Selling weapons to Hydra and information to the CIA. I guess I should not have been surprised, but I am.
I wonder if Everett Ross knows that I am the Winter Soldier. Knew, or did nothing. Or was never told - and my double life is still safe.
Does the Vulture know I'm the Winter Soldier?
I don't think he does.
He never mentioned it. Pierce never brought it up. Neither did I.
I have to believe that if the CIA knew who I was, they would have arranged to have me assassinated long ago. I've taken out too many high-ranking US officials for them to not take immediate action. Even if it were JFK alone, I think Everett Ross himself would pull the trigger.
So that means Vulture might be feeding a lot of information to Ross, but not enough about me to make it dangerous. Not yet, anyway.
I open the phone. The screen is a spider-web of shattered glass, chunks missing from the outer edges. Dark, dried flecks that could be blood. I look at the last numbers dialed.
Wade
Sharon
Bucky
Bucky
Tony
Wade
Sharon
It's weird seeing my own name as a frequently dialed contact. Especially because no one calls me Bucky here. Everyone calls me Barnes. Even Nat calls me Barnes.
I scroll to received calls instead.
Sharon (missed)
Sharon (missed)
Sharon (missed)
Sharon (missed)
A 002 V (answered)
Wade (answered)
Bucky (answered)
Wade (answered)
Wade (missed)
Tony (missed)
A 002 V (answered)
A 002 V (answered)
I search through his contacts briefly, and see that he has several nondescript numbers saved like this: A 001 V, A 003 V. The last time 003 was called was over two and a half years ago. 001 was three months ago.
002 was received less than an hour before he died.
Holy shit. That could be the undercover.
That's why there's no outgoing calls to the undercover on this thing, but received calls - it doesn't matter that Wade can't find the damn burner phone. Steve was probably having calls that went to the burner rerouted to his personal cell. That way if Wade was on duty and missed it, it would go right back to Steve.
Hell, maybe Steve destroyed the burner phone before he died to protect the informant, assuming it was his last day, and made sure the line was still forwarding.
That means Wade has shit.
And I could have everything.
I press the call button and hold the phone up slowly to my ear. After several rings, I consider giving up. It's not like I want to leave a message.
There's a click.
The call goes through, but there's no answer.
I listen for breathing on the other line. I can hear it, unrhythmically layered - no, that's two people. Listening and breathing over each other. Background sounds of a cityscape - wind, and cars from a busy road not too far away.
Interesting.
I'm sure they can hear me too. I'm heavier built, and I didn't think to not say anything - but when faced with the choice, suddenly, I have nothing to say. Nothing to ask.
Grief has a disquieting way of taking away words.
The call ends.
I set the phone down on the desk as if it burns my hand. I start placing the items one by one back into the bag, determined to give it back to the medical examiner. There's nothing here I can use. The rest of the team would find a way to be angry with me for keeping Steve's phone. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe it has nothing to do with the informant…
A 002 V CALLING
I grab the phone again, nearly missing the button. I answer the call, hold it to my ear.
Nothing.
"Yes?" I say quietly.
"You called first," says a male voice. The same from the construction lot that I fought. Definitely the undercover. "Who are you?"
"It's you," I exclaim, pretending not to hear. "You're all right. Thank God." I wasn't sure if I was answering the phone as Bucky Barnes, or the Winter Soldier, until I opened my mouth. I'm somewhere in between.
Affecting my voice to sound more concerned, more ignorant. Though my curiosity and fear does not need to be faked.
"When Wade couldn't find you, we feared the worst," I say, trying this lie on for size. "We were all very worried something had happened to you. We thought we had lost you for sure."
A pause.
"Who are you?" he asks again. I really don't have the capacities for lies right now.
"My name is James Buchanan Barnes. They call me Bucky. I'm… a friend. A friend of the Captain."
"Oh..." His voice is confused. "I've - I've heard of you. Mr. Barnes. Like. Historically? In books? But…"
"It's a long story," I respond. "I'll tell you all about it sometime."
"How do you have my number?" he asks. "Only Deadpool should have it, since Captain..."
His voice cracks, speaking to both his youth and his own sorrow.
He's young. Really young. The kid…?
This narrows it down on the Vulture's crew to less than four people. No, three. Marcus, Quinn, and Peter.
I'd stake my life on only one of them.
"I was Steve's - Captain Roger's closest friend, I joined the Avengers not long ago," I say kindly. "I will likely be handling his operations now."
There is a slight murmur in the background.
It sounds like a girl saying fuck this dude, he's lying.
I couldn't possibly guess who that is.
"Let me talk to Wade Wilson to confirm this," he's pleading with me. As if I already have received undeniable orders from Pierce and have a gun pointed to his forehead. He sounds terrified.
"He went home for the night," I answer cryptically.
I hear him suck in a breath of hurt, confusion, that Wade isn't trying to call him right now.
"We're all very - he's very… you know," I say. "I don't know if he will be in tomorrow. If he is, I'll tell him you'd like to speak with him." I pause. "I understand that today was to be your last day."
"Yes."
"The best thing for you to do then would be to come in."
"Cap had some elaborate pick up plan…"
"And it didn't go well, did it?" I cut him off.
"No…"
I don't blame this person, not really. I'm sure Steve had his reasons in order to give the kid the best chance at rebooting his life. And now that I know the Vulture is a CIA informant, it all makes sense. He probably knew the Vulture could walk - again - even if finally arrested and brought to trial. If he did, he would find his old crew-member-turn-Avenger and make his life a living hell. His very own arch nemesis. Maybe you can't be a hero without one, but Steve would go the extra length to stage a better exit. Fake the kid's death, put him in the clear.
It makes tactical sense.
Which is why I suggest the opposite. Or at least, the words that come out of my mouth do. There are times where I'm unable to tell if I am purposefully trying to put someone in harms way, or if I just have bad ideas. Where do I begin, and when do I end? A broken nose can only distract for so long, the Winter Soldier comes and goes as he pleases.
I guess now I understand Dr. Banner better than I ever did.
"Where are you?" I ask.
"I'm not going to tell you that."
I can ping your phone, you little rat, I think.
"That's fine. I understand, I really do," I say. "You don't have to reveal your location to me - you can come here. Get here in whatever way you deem best."
"You want me to just up and leave and take a train to Avengers tower," he repeats doubtfully. "That sounds like…"
"Too simple?"
"A bad idea," he responds firmly. "What if I'm followed?"
"That's your decision," I say kindly. "I won't force you into anything that makes you feel unsafe. Okay?"
A pause. "Um. Okay."
"Listen. With everything going on… it isn't safe for you to call this number anymore. This is Steve's personal phone, and it's got to go back into evidence. There will be an investigation."
"But Wade should have a phone. How is my number on Cap's phone?"
"The phone you used before - it's missing. Anyone could have it. Someone in the Vulture's crew or Shield might have stolen it, and Wade doesn't have it. I'm sure Steve was just doing what he thought was best - rerouting calls to his personal cell unless the other one ever went missing. To keep you safe."
He doesn't reply.
"Let me give you my number, okay? That way if you need to reach someone in Avengers Tower… day or night… you have support. Just like Steve would have wanted."
There's a pause.
"Text me from the number," he says.
Then he hangs up on me.
I sit back in the chair, heaving a deep breath. I save his number in my phone just like Steve did. A 002 V. Then I send him a text, of my name. Just my name.
JAMES BARNES
After a pause, the tiny letters pop up that simply change the status to read.
I delete his contact information from Steve's phone. I double check all the voicemails, every text. Every received call from him.
Now it looks like Steve never spoke with him on this phone. It's contained with the burner, just how it should be. Wade will never know.
Then I slide Steve's phone back into the plastic bag.
It took me weeks and weeks of trying to needle my way into the privileged operations of Steve and Wade running this guy, and the only way I get to speak with him directly is because my best friend has been killed.
One can never truly have what they want. There is no such thing as perfect results. One small thing can be checked off a list, but the cost is more than I can bear.
"Jesus Christ," I whisper angrily, folding my hands together and pressing my forehead into them. "Jesus… Steve… I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry. Please forgive me. If you can hear me. Please forgive me."
When I've calmed down, I give the bag back to Kevin, much to his confusion.
"There's no clues about his killer in his possessions as I hoped," I say lightly.
He accepts this explanation without a second thought.
…
...
Dear readers,
Guys, there's so much dark shit coming up and I don't want you to hate me because I've grown very attached to you. just remember this book has a happy ending and unlike Deadpool I definitely would not lie to you. Haha. It's just gonna get worse before it gets better...
ALSO DID YOU SEE THE SPIDER-MAN FAR FROM HOME TRAILER?!
Did you notice that big ass check that Happy brought in was signed by Pepper Potts?!
Isn't Jake Gyllenhaal like, super amazing?!
Go watch it if you haven't seen it yet and LET'S DISCUSS.
Also I have to shout out my amazing beta Crystal, the QueenofCrystallopia, who for REAL has been keeping me in the zone and encouraging me non stop and is just all around one of the best and most talented person I know. Go show her stories some love if you haven't read her "Paint it Black" series yet - or as we call it, the CMFU, which stands for Crystal's Marvel Fanfiction Universe :)
Happy Taco Tuesday,
Pip
REVIEW REPLIES
cargumentluv - Ah thank you! I only just realized that Tony had a thing with that arm when I watched one of those Easter egg videos that showed a bunch of little reoccurring facts. Hope you enjoyed this chapter! (hugs!)
DaWriter06 - Your wish is my command my friend! haha! Stay tuned. It'll happen eventually ;) ;)
RedBarchetta - OMG THANK YOU SO MUCH. I love writing Deadpool so much. Deadpool is literally how my inner monologue works. It's unfortunate how often I grinning awkwardly because I canNOT say what is really going on in my head haha. Thank you SO much for reading and your thoughtful review. There's plenty more Deadpool in the future!
Sakura-Fiction - AW THANK YOU. I hope the quotes stay with you a long time lol XD This is just one small meeting between Bucky and Peter, and there will be plenty of mind blowing moments in the future!
Up-In-the-Clouds1285 - Thank you SO much for reading and reviewing! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!
Starnight5 - I have to give credit where credit is due for that "especially when I'm lying" line! That's directly from the movie courtesy of Mark Wahlberg lol. It's a fantastic scene, Mark Wahlberg totally loses his shit with Matt Damon's character (the undercover rat for the mob) and it's hilarious and amazing. I am so glad you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks for reviewing! (I'm sorry I'm putting your emotions through so much lol, hang in there!)
curry-llama - Oh my goodness thank you SO much. I'm so glad you're enjoying Deadpool as much as I am. He's so much fun to write. I also love that you hate Bucky so much, I feel like I've done my job correctly lol because he's such a lovable and beloved character everywhere else, but in my story he's very hated and everyone wants him to die lol. It's terrible yet I love it. YOU SHOULD TOTALLY WRITE A SPIDER-MAN FIC. I will be your first reviewer. GO TEAM SPIDEY GO!