"So," Elektra said, glancing at Cara, as the room began to slowly dim and the sun set. "What was that it about?"
Bucky had been gone for a few hours. No one had noticed, and Cara had a feeling the other three wouldn't say anything. Wade was fast asleep, snoring. Jessica was on her phone, not really paying attention to either of them.
"That was my friend," she said, careful to control her tone.
"I've known some interesting people," Elektra said. "Heard some ghost stories about a man with a metal arm. Tall, dark, mysterious. Dangerous too. Involved with some very bad people. You wouldn't know anyone about that?"
"Your friends have interesting imaginations," Cara said, almost sharply. Who exactly had Elektra been talking to, to get that information?
"You have no idea," Elektra murmured, lips twitching into a sardonic smile. "I know who he is, Cara."
"He's my friend," she repeated.
"Looked like a little more than friends," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Staring into each other's eyes, whispering to each other..." She smirked, and Cara could hear the teasing edge in her voice. "You know, I'm very good at reading body language, is he your boyf-"
"No," Cara said. "You're acting like we're thirteen at a sleepover."
Something flashed over Elektra's face, and for a moment, she didn't look like the woman Cara was used to. She looked vulnerable and tired. Cara had a feeling she had never really been a thirteen at a sleepover.
"The point is," Elektra said, and all trace of emotion was gone. "I knowwho he is. He's dangerous."
"Not to me," Cara said.
Elektra studied her moment, eyes flashing, before she shrugged.
"Whatever you say, Cara," she said, turning her attention to the television. A report was playing on the news, discussing the financial future of New York. The two news anchors were debating on how this would affect the lower class citizens. The debate in particular seemed to be focused on places such as Hell's Kitchen. One of the anchors was describing the corruption that ran rampant through the system. She explained that large companies were buying up apartments, raising rent, expelling tenants. The other was shaking her head, denying it.
"But do you have any proof of that this is happening?" the second anchor said.
"Look around you!" the first said, voice rising. "There are children whose parents can't afford to feed them! People in their seventies and eighties kicked out onto the streets? And you know what? Where are the so-called heroes? The Stark Foundation gave a generous sum of money, but where did it go? If the people they're supposed to save die on the streets, it all seems a bit useless-"
The screen flickered slightly, cutting off the reply of the other anchor. Static filled the screen, and the volume raised. Cara could feel her heart begin to beat faster. That shouldn't be happening. That was strange. If there was one thing she learned, it was that anything out of the ordinary lead to bad things.
Elektra tilted her head. "Interesting," she said, almost to herself.
The newscaster's voice was lost completely in the white noise, her face gone too. Then, a new picture flicked back on. It was a stage, the back ground a forest. Cara gasped, feeling like she'd been punched. Her hands tighten on the blankets. Elektra glanced at her.
"No," she said. The chords of the strings descended, falling. The figure danced lightheartedly around stage. "No, no, no. No, please. No!"
She knew what this was.
She was vaguely aware of Elektra asking her something. But the only thing she could focus on was the screen. She swung her legs out of bed, the hard floor cold against her feet, but she could barely feel it. She was shaking, swaying from side to side. Taking a few steps forward, she stood beneath it.
The dancer wore a red dress, like flames, her makeup done to resemble feathers. She spun across the stage, bright and delicate against the dark that surrounded her. The spotlight focused on her, but Cara could see other shadowy figures in the scenery. Watching her. Waiting. Following her. The step seemed to changed, any bright energy gone. She danced as if she was running. Cara couldn't mistake the absolute terror on her face.
She knew exactly what this was. This was a taunt.
The lights flickered, going out completely, and Cara flinched violently. It left the television as the only source of light, a pale blue and red.
"Leave me alone," she said quietly, voice trembling slightly. Whether it was with rage or fear or hatred she couldn't tell. Her muscle in her body was tense. "I'm not going back. I'm never going back. You'll have to kill me before that happens. Leave me alone!"
"Come home, Cara," he said. The voice was doubled over, echoing in the static, bodiless against the dance. But there was no mistaking it. For the first time in twenty years, he was talking to her. She felt like she was five years old. She felt sick, stomach dropping to her feet, room spinning. All she could do was stand there, frozen, shaking. "We've been waiting you."
"Leave me alone," she said, voice cracked.
"We're coming to get you. You're coming home."
"No," she said. "No, no, no. Stay away from me!"
"We're coming to get you."
Every emotion she felt was building up in her chest and throat. All the fear, and the anger, and the helplessness rose to the surface, and she screamed. She screamed. Her fists hit the screen, once, twice, and it cracked beneath them. She didn't even feel it. She couldn't feel anything. Everything was numb.
The video froze, and flickered out. The lights shuddered back on. The screen returned to the news report, as if nothing had ever happened.
"Cara," Elektra said. "What just happened?" Wade and Jessica were both staring at her.
She shook her head mutely, backing away from the television, unable to shop the tremors in her hands. The backs of her knees hit her bed, and the room spun around her. She distantly felt her legs give out as she collapsed, covering her mouth, staring at some distant point on the wall. She brought her legs to her chest, trying to make herself as small as possible.
This wasn't real. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real.
The door swung open. Agent Masters stood there, glowering down at her. It was clear that whatever had happened wasn't isolated to just this room.
"You," he snapped. She didn't miss the wild look of desperation in his eyes. This was bad. This was bad. This was bad. "You're being transferred. Be ready to leave in ten minutes."
She didn't move. She couldn't move. He clapped his hands. She flinched, jumping slightly.
"Now!" he said, turning around, and slamming the door shut. She rose shakily to her feet, and the effort nearly drained everything out of her. pain stabbing through her gut. She felt sick, and numb. A part of seemed to take control, closing the curtain around her bed as if on autopilot.
There was a bag of generic, cheap clothes at the end of her bed, bought by the CIA. There were no weapons in the room. She felt defenseless. The panic on the face of Agent Masters added to everything. This was bad.
She turned back to the bedside table, and stared at the dog tags. She saw Bucky's name. He wasn't going to know where she was. She wasn't going to be here when he came back. What if they caught him? What if she never saw him again? She held them tightly, the cold metal biting into her hand. She could barely feel it. She breathed out, once twice, three times, counting to ten, second by second.
She had told Bucky that she wanted to be safe. She had told him she didn't want to be afraid anymore. But the universe,i t seemed, had a personal vendetta against. She wondered what she did to deserve this much shit.
The numbness evaporated, and was replaced by an explosion of fury. She kicked the table, and it clanged loudly against the wall. Sitting down, she buried her face in her hands. She didn't care that she wasn't alone in the room, not know who knew she breaking down. Every time she got out of something alive, every time she escaped, it just got worse. Every chance she had at happiness was snatched from her. And it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair, and she was angry.
She was tired of feeling like this. She didn't deserve it. She was so angry, chest filled with a burning rage that burned and pulsed with her blood.She raised her head slowly, eyes bright with tears. This was bad. But not just for her.
No, she pitied anyone who ever tried to hurt her again.
He could still feel her blood on his hands.
Bucky stood in the abandoned apartment. It still looked the same. Their stuff hadn't been moved out yet. The beds, their clothes, their food, it was all still here. The window had been unlocked, just as he had left it. Nothing was touched.
It was stupid to come back here, and he knew it, but he hadn't been able to help it. The moment he had left the hospital, he had felt a pang of almost crushing homesickness in his chest. And the apartment, as dangerous as it was, was the closest thing to home he had left.
(She had been staring at him, and she looked like a shell of her former self. Any masks she had worn were gone. When he had held her, he had felt her clutching him desperately. Guilt had gnawed at his chest. His fault. It had to have been his fault. She got hurt, she was hurting, because he hadn't been able to stop it. His fault.)
He stared at the mirror in front of him, and he could still feel it under his nails, on his skin, on his clothes.
He had showered the moment he had made sure there was none waiting for him, and that all entrances were secure.
He had scrubbed at his hands, until the metal gleamed, and his skin was raw, but he could still feel it.
Even though he had seen her, he couldn't quite believe it. Every time he shut his eyes he saw her staring up at him, crying as she clung to him, bleeding out and dying. Every time he shut his eyes he heard the shot ring out, he could taste the blood on the tip of his tongue. He saw her lying in that hospital bed, cold and unmoving. His heart twisted painfully. All the guilt he had been feeling bubbled to the surface with a new intensity. Every dead body he had left behind haunted him, and hers had almost been one of them. If they had stayed few more minutes, or if that bullet had been a few inches up, and Cara would have died there. She would have died.
He looked up at his reflection, hands braced on either side of the sink. The dull fluorescent light made him look like a ghost. His face was gaunt, eye sunken. His hair fell in his face, and it was obvious he hadn't shaved in a few days. There were discolored bruises and cuts from his fight littered across his skin. One eye was purple. Every bone in his body felt heavy, and he knew that he needed to sleep, but he didn't dare try. He didn't want to know what was waiting for him in depths of his mind.
Backing out of the bathroom, he shot the mirror one last look. It didn't feel like his reflection. It was like looking at a stranger.
He found himself walking to her room, blindly. This place. It didn't feel right without her here. It felt cold, quiet, wrong. It wasn't home. It never had been. It was just a place. Home was wherever she was.
He pushed open the door, and the bed was unmade. He remembered the night after the HYDRA agent had attacked them. He remembered holding her as she woke up from the nightmare. He remembered waking up that morning, feeling her back pressed against his chest, and for a moment he had thought it was a dream. It was too good not to be a dream. Her hand had clung onto his, hair falling into her face. His heart had raced. He had brushed the hair out of her face, tentatively, fingers running down her cheek. He had tried to memorize every detail. Every mark, every imperfection, every curve. And as he gazed down at her, he felt like his heart would cave in on him.
Bucky pulled himself back to the present, and walked over, sitting down. There was a picture beside the gun in the drawer. He reached in, and picked it up, and instantly felt sick.
It was a picture of Cara, with a knife at her throat, head yanked back. It was clear why she was like that. It was clear they had been trying to draw him out. Trying to use her. He remembered the day she had gone missing, remembered the clothes she had worn. He knew exactly why she had been so late. He ran his hand over his face, leaning back.
His hand tightened around the photo, bending it, but he couldn't care. All he saw was the hatred in her eyes in the picture (her bright green eyes shining with tears as he clung to her limp form). The knife pressed against her neck, frozen in that photograph (the knife against her neck by the man she said she used to love). Her lying in his arms as she slept, warm and calm and at peace (her lying on that hospital bed, cold and motionless). He lay down on the pillow, burying his face against it as he brought knees up to his chest. It smelled like her, like flowers and summer and some thing so Cara, and all he wanted was to find her again. He wanted to be with her again, to run away with her, and give her that silly dream house out in the middle of nowhere. Their house, away from everyone, where they could be happy. Where they could be normal. Where they could be safe.
He wasn't sure quite when he fell asleep, lulled by his thoughts. That night he dreamt of dead birds lying at his feet. Of a dark glass cage where he stood alone. Of a woman with hair as red as the blood on her skin, standing just on the outside wall of his prison, crying. He dreamt that she had been consumed by flames, and all he could do was watch, helpless. He dreamed that he fell, that he fell far, far away. When he woke up, shaking and screaming, clawing at the blankets, there was no one there to hear him.
He didn't fall asleep again that night.
A/N: thank you to anyone who reviewed! i've been super busy, but trust me i read and appreciate them all! (college sucks, my guys. college sucks.)
so. this is our first direct interaction with the Deathless that isn't in flashback form. hope you guys hate him as much as Cara does. he's a real jerk. but shit, he's going to contend with cara's wrath, so he better watch his back
the ballet mentioned is the Firebird, which you probably guess if you've been picking up on my little motifs (victor stravinsky, project firebird, etc). great ballet. there's several full ones on youtube if you're curious as to the dance.
agent master btw is a canon character from the 70's. idk if he exists now, i don't even know which of my favs are alive at this point, comics suck :/
both cara and bucky are a mess right now. being psychologically tortured and then shot by your ex boyfriend, and being forced to watch someone you love almost die at the hands of the people who destroyed your life will do that.
