Chapter 2: Dirty Mop Water Makes A Fine Weapon
He'd have to make two trips to the basement, one to dump the mop bucket and another to haul down the box of books. No problem. Not like at midnight he had a full agenda of things to do. He thought about taking the books down first, but an echo of his mother's voice chided him to take care of business first, pleasure second. Besides, no one was likely to steal a box of old books tucked away on the second-floor landing.
He could have carried both with absolutely no problem, since the cybernetic arm made the box of books about as hard to carry as a feather pillow, but then he'd have both hands full. Couldn't draw his knife with both hands full.
You don't need a knife here in the building. You're as safe as that box of books in the corner.
Yeah. Well. Maybe.
Be stupid to risk it, though. He could survive if someone stole the books. Be annoyed, but alive. A HYDRA agent showing up with shutdown codes and shackles? Bye-bye, memories. Maybe even bye-bye, pulse.
No thanks. Messed up as his life was, he still cherished breathing and waking up each morning on the right side of the dirt.
He descended the stairs, careful not to let the water slop out of the bucket. He had already mopped the steps and even if the linoleum was cracked and ancient, he didn't want to have to go back and polish out water droplet stains, which he would definitely do because he had discovered he had a perfectionist streak a mile wide when it came to making sure he did a job right.
He tried not to think about how HYDRA had exploited that particular trait.
He stopped in front of his door, set the bucket down and dug out his key. He opened the door a crack and stopped to listen like he always did. Didn't hear anything. He picked up the bucket and shouldered the door open. He shoved his key back in his pocket, then reached for the light fixture chain.
And froze.
He heard breathing, the quiet, slow breaths of someone trying to hide. Coming from his left, by the bed.
Damn it.
He'd been so proud of keeping both hands free, but now he was stuck with a mop bucket in his metal hand and his right hand up in the air, where it would take .2 seconds too long to draw the knife in his back pocket.
He had the bucket, though, and…
Well, mattresses dry out.
Acting as if he was fumbling to find the chain, he swung the bucket hard toward the bed. Amidst a cascade of filthy water came a very loudly shouted, "Motherf-" that was interrupted by coughing.
Bucky yanked the chain and the light revealed a black man with an eye patch and a long leather coat, currently bent over with his hands on his knees as he choked and spat. Bucky started toward him, but the man held up an empty right hand and yelled, "Barnes! Stop! I'm a friend!" His left hand was busy swiping water off his face and out of his eye.
Hearing the man say his name stopped his headlong rush more than any belief that the stranger was a—
—he aimed the rifle at the wall, behind which sat his target. He knew the bullet had the power to punch through masonry and insulation and plaster, just had to make sure he accounted for the difference in elevation and the northwest breeze—
He blinked. This man wasn't a stranger. He was… shit. He'd been a mission.
Bucky yanked out his knife. If the man wanted revenge, Bucky wasn't going to make it easy for him. "I shot you. In D.C."
"Yes, you did," he replied, as calmly as if Bucky had said they'd met once at a Christmas party.
"You here to kill me?"
"No. I'm here as a friend. The guy that shot me isn't around here anymore, far as I'm concerned."
Oh, wasn't that cute and naïve. "Friends don't break into a fella's apartment." If he growled a little as he said that, oh well. He wasn't exactly planning on serving up cookies and milk, even if he had any, which at the moment, he didn't.
The man wasn't fazed by Bucky's tone. If anything, he looked amused. "Damn, you really do sound like you're from 1940."
Bucky glared so hard a headache bloomed between his eyebrows. "Who the hell are you?"
"These days, just a friend of Cap's."
Cap. Steve. Oh no. He wasn't ready for that. The echoes of you're my mission were fainter these days, some ten months after… everything. But… no. He wasn't ready for a face to face, no matter how much he wanted it. In the future, maybe. The far future, when his brain wasn't full of holes and lingering echoes of violence. "He here?"
"No."
"He know where I am? He send you to take me in?"
The man swiped his hand down his face, trying to clear away the filthy water. "No and no. Hell, if he knew you were here, he'd have busted down your door himself and been waiting for you with a cake and balloons."
The man probably wasn't wrong about that. Bucky lowered the knife but didn't sheave it. "Who are you, besides the guy I shot? And a friend of Steve's."
"A man who keeps his eye on threats."
Back up with the knife. "Like me?"
"No, not like you. Unless I'm reading you wrong, you're no threat to the good guys anymore."
This guy was apparently criminally stupid. Bucky could be a threat to anyone at any time if someone said the trigger words. "Why did you break into my place?"
The man held up a key. "Didn't break in."
What the hell. "Where'd you get that?"
"My cousin owns the building."
Ice crackled down Bucky's spine. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. How long has Mr. Franklin known who I am? "Mr. Franklin's your cousin?"
"His mother is my mother's sister."
Bucky deliberately did not let his gaze dart to the secret exit he'd added to his basement room, despite every brain cell in his head screaming at him to dive into it. The words scraped out of his fear-dry throat, but he kept his expression calm. "You got a name?"
"Call me Fury."
Yeah, and call me Grumpy. "What the hell kinda Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs name is that?"
"The one I prefer. My full name is Nicholas J. Fury. But you can call me Fury."
"All right, Fury. You still haven't answered my question. Why are you here?"
"To see what you can give me."
Bucky almost laughed. He waved his arm toward the nearly empty shelf above the hot plate. "You here to rob me of my last can of black-eyed peas? 'Cuz that's pretty much all I got right now." He was hoping to go to the Helping Hand food bank tomorrow afternoon, stock some shelves there so he could earn some canned goods to stock his own shelves here at home. Now it looked like he needed to get the hell on a plane to Europe or somewhere.
"No, I don't want your last can of food," Fury said, as if he thought dirt-flavored black-eyed peas were food. Black-eyed peas, like Brussels sprouts, would never go on Bucky's list of good things. Fury held up both hands, then used his left hand to slowly reach into his jacket. He pulled out a thick roll of bills secured with a rubber band. "I'm also here to see what I can give you."
"I don't need money." Bucky did, so he wouldn't have to eat those peas, but no need for this joker to know that.
"Bullshit." Fury tossed it on the table. "Sorry if they're a little damp."
"I said, I don't need—"
"It's HYDRA funds, confiscated from an offshore account, if that helps your pride—or your conscience—at all."
It actually did. But he still asked, "Why give it to me? Plenty of better people need it more."
"I need you alive and not weak from hunger."
"Can't have my sergeant collapsing from hunger…."
Damn it. He wasn't gonna be Nick Fury's sergeant. Still. He was curious. "Alive to do what? I'm not interested in killing for anyone anymore."
Fury nodded. "I understand. How is your head?"
"You mean do I have control over my own mind again?"
Fury waited.
Bucky shrugged. "Some days are better than others."
"I know people who could help."
"No. Can't put anybody at risk like that. Gotta do this myself."
"Rogers told me you were stubborn."
"That all he told you?"
"He told me you were a good man, back in the day. Best soldier he ever fought beside."
"Yeah, well, that was last century." And then, because he couldn't help himself, "How is he? Steve?"
"Last time I saw him, he was fine."
"When was that?"
"Right before I went to Europe last spring. I'm officially dead, by the way."
"Lot of that goin' around."
Fury smiled suddenly, which was a little unnerving. "Being officially dead is surprisingly convenient. No taxes, for one thing." He reached into his pocket again, holding out his free hand when Bucky tensed up. He pulled out a manila envelope and tossed it on the table beside the bills. "Driver's license, birth certificate. Credit card. Even got you a passport. You're now James Buckman. Full identity built into the system. Buckman's record is as clean as the floors around here, save for a speeding ticket you got three years ago, because nobody's perfect. Use that ID if you need to get on an airplane." He glanced at the book on the nightstand. "Or if you want to get a library card."
Bucky didn't even look at the envelope. Questions zoomed through his brain faster than he could sort out and it was making his chest feel tight.
Breathe, Buck.
Focus.
He finally said, "Look, you wanna cut to the chase and tell me what you really want from me?"
"I just want to give you an option to keep open, should you ever decide hiding out in south St. Louis is losing its charm."
More people like you show up uninvited and it will. But he opted for nonchalance. "Doubt that'll be any time soon. Haven't even been up in the Arch yet, and I hear the baseball team is pretty good."
"Well, far be it for me to stop you from playing tourist." He studied Bucky for a moment, then said, "Look, Barnes, whether you like it or not, you're part of something bigger."
Bucky ran his hand over his hair. Tugged on it in the back. Breathe, dammit. He gave Fury a long look, and something about the man's calm presence finally caused the panic to loosen its grip just a little. Whatever else Fury might be, Bucky didn't sense any dishonesty in him. "Look, I appreciate what you're tryin' to say. But I don't want to be part of anything bigger. I was, once. Didn't turn out so good for anybody." He sighed. "Nothing good'll come outta me diving in again, trust me. Hell, I don't even know for sure that it's a good idea for me to be living in this ratty building. I oughta be in a cave in a mountain somewhere, away from people."
Fury reached into yet another pocket—how many damn pockets did that coat have?—and brought out a phone and a charger cord. He put them on the table. "If you decide to move to a cave, that's up to you, but make sure it has a cell signal. I don't know if you watch the news much, but there's a lotta nasty stuff going on in the world these days, and it's only getting worse. I could use a man who's good in a fight. If you decide you want to do something about it, or even if all you need is some help or more money or even if that shiny metal arm goes on the fritz, I'll be at the other end any time you call. Night or day. No strings."
No strings, my ass. "How do you know I won't destroy that the minute you leave?"
"You might. I'm willing to bet you won't." He stepped to the door, then paused. "Keep it charged up." He walked out, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him.
Damn it. Now he'd have to mop the stairs again.
tbc...