Eleven and a Half Months Post-Snap.
Steve, though he could still not be sure how, continued to manage keeping himself in check where his friend was concerned. Phone calls, text messages, picture messages, visits… He maintained the "concerned friend" to the best of his ability from afar and could only hope she did not notice any slips to the contrary.
The anniversary of one heart-wrenching year loomed and Steve, in his usual, selfless self, wanted to do something special for someone special. Incidentally, such an affectionate gesture involved an item he had not seen in quite some time and to go leafing through it may rouse feelings that the blonde might prefer to leave lie. He did so anyway, enduring it for her to benefit from while he continued to suffer in silence; a common theme for Steve when Elsa breached his thoughts.
The Brooklyn bachelor pad (posted in a cosy corner of Williamsburg, should you care to visit) bathed in the late morning light, perfumed by freshly brewed coffee of Wakandan origin; the same blend as Elsa's gift to the meetings. He would need it for the contents of the brown file spread across his kitchen table.
Morning run, resulting shower and breakfast over and done with, Steve turned his attention to the aged photos of James Buchanan Barnes; confined in a steel tube with only a pane of reinforced glass keeping it from coffin-status. The frost crackled on the glass and the eerie blue hue it cast caused his Brooklyn protector to look positively corpse-like; a detail the Captain flinched when he realized it. That's about right, He thought bitterly, Like a corpse in a Goddamn coffin.
And really, without the serum, the cryostasis would have killed him. Like the river should have. The icy rush to catch him, if you will forgive the contradiction, was a warmup.
The documents and the notes attached to the Winter Soldier's file had (naturally) been composed in Russian but, after a shy heart-to-heart with Natasha, the Black Widow had obliged him with an English translation of each document carefully paperclipped its corresponding page. He let the coy expression as she handed it over slide without much more than a sheepish grumble of "Thanks".
A Spotify's playlist, comprised of 1930's to 1950's jazz, droned low in the background; enough to lull him into concentration but not enough to distract him. The coffee, a constant reminder of not just Wakanda but her, put him in the frame of mind of what he needed to do and why he was doing it.
Cryostasis temperatures and monitoring figures, sure… Medical reports… What else did he expect, sifting through the Winter Soldier's file? Of Hydra's own keeping? The boring stuff, for want of a better word? Engineer reports… For the arm, probably… A list of Hydra doctors and scientists and their secrecy agreements… Whatever…
Falling listlessly back from the kitchen table with a soft thump against his chair, Steve grimaced in regret; the closer inspection of the file falling short of his hopes. Yes, he hadn't seen it in some time and yes, what he had seen perhaps he could not understand it, so… why would Elsa want it? Even the pictures were… disturbing; bar one or two that he could tell her he had found elsewhere.
And Bucky's dog tags, she might want those too.
Maybe I didn't think this through. All this is is a reminder of what happened to him. What he went through. She's not gonna want this. Even seeing Zola's signature will make her wanna puke.
Intending on giving up, and asking his elderly neighbour if he could walk her dog, Steve gave the papers one more half-hearted shuffle then poised himself to rise until… Hang on…
Completed Mission Reports: 1956 – 2014
"They had trouble wrangling me after they found me in the snow." He remembered his oldest friend recounting on a shaded run in the African brush; clear ground where they could spot and avoid snakes, spiders and anything else that might cause them problems. Cody, daft and all as he appeared to be, knew by instinct. "I fought those bastards ev'ry step of the Goddamn way, tore at the arm I dunno how many times. Took em' a while to break me, but they got there. Zola got outta prison and was workin' as part'a Operation Paperclip, but he was building Hydra inside SHIELD and moulding me right under everyone's Goddamn noses. Not just him either; he was directing other scientists in what to do with me remotely. All SHIELD had to do was look at his correspondence. By the mid 50's, I was completely under. I was the Winter Soldier."
Steve, smacking his lips anxiously, re-mantled over the file and braced himself with another sip of coffee; cooled significantly since he poured it. There were so many, so prolific, and just to skim down through them reminded him of the notoriety of the Winter Soldier; the hushed tones in which his legend was uttered and reserved only for the most important targets. A few jumped out at him; some he recognized by name, other by title, others just… snagged his eye without commitment or overly apparent interest.
French Defence Minister Jacques Dupuy – April 1st, 1956 – Status: COMPLETE
President John F Kennedy – November 22nd, 1963 – Status: COMPLETE
Senator Harry Baxtor – March 12th, 1973 – Status: COMPLETE
Howard Stark – December 16th, 1991 – Status: COMPLETE Note: Maria Stark (wife of target and witness), also eliminated.
Itsu Akihiro – May 2nd, 2006 – Status: COMPLETE
Jack Monroe (AKA: Nomad) – January 3rd, 2005 – Status: COMPLETE
Colonel Andre Rostov (AKA: The Red Barbarian) – May 6th, 2012 – Status: COMPLETE
Director Nicholas J. Fury – April 14th, 2014 – Status: COMPLETE
Wait…
Amid the myriad of presidents, senators, ministers, high ranking army officers and the generally assassinate-able, a name (with neither title nor pomp) ebbed at the corner of Steve's suspicious recognition. His stomach dropped in anticipation of something terrible; enough for him to swear the cream in the coffee had curdled in his stomach. The desperation hit him hard, in a way it may not have before, but recently… a lot of things had changed.
It might be nothing but… Oh God, please be nothing…
Fiadh Collins – May 16th, 1993 – Status: COMPLETE Note: Infant spared, as instructed.
The plain of a muscular back hit the chair as Steve slumped back; ripped from his concentrative huddle. It did not last long, however, for a few seconds later, he brought himself to and dived frantically for his laptop. With uncertain fingers, he typed into the search engine:
Fiadh… Collins… 1993…
He should have expected an obituary (from October 1st, 1993), given the nature of the file and the finality of the bold print declaring it COMPLETE, but the reluctance to click on it came from the fear of what it would read. Swallowing the bile, he summoned the nerve for the micromovement to tap on the track pad as dread clawed at his insides; the thumb nail on his left hand firmly wedged between his teeth.
Oh Jesus, Buck… What did you do…?
Fiadh Collins
August 11th 1963 – May 16th 1993
Died unexpectedly in her home on the evening of Thursday, May 16th.
A Truly Kind, Generous and Compassionate Human Being: A Much-Loved Daughter, Baby Sister and Mother.
Too Dearly Missed to be Forgotten.
Fiadh is survived by her parents, Colm and Siobhán
Her brothers, Patrick and Brian.
And her daughter, Elsa.
May She Rest in Peace.
Ar Dheis Dé Go Raibh a Anam.
And in that very instant, Steve leapt from his chair, darted to the sink, and brought up his breakfast in unceremonial chunks.
"This is rough."
Steve kept his distance, anxious of what else he might see on the screen but Nat, having seen and done worse, scrolled through with little more than a wince; being removed from the situation no doubt helped.
"Think she knows?"
"I don't think so." Pouring back over his memory for the umpteenth time for some scarce clue, hint or allusion he might have overlooked, Steve came up empty. Again. Having spoken to both of them on an intimate level on more than one occasion, there were plenty of opportunities for that one vile piece of information to drop. "One of 'em would've said. Bucky said he told her everything, so he either didn't make the connection or didn't remember. I don't think he would've just… kept it from her. Or me."
"You sure? It's not somethin' you just throw around either. "Oh by the way, y'know the wife I adore? Yeah, I killed her mom"-"
"Nat."
"Sorry." Another bout of agonizing silence as Natasha scrolled, nothing she came across offering any sort of comfort or alleviation of the rather dramatic discovery. That said, Steve tried to placate himself that, at least, the trauma lay only with him. Had he not checked and simply handed the file over to Elsa, only for her to call him in floods of tears, he may never have forgiven himself. Now… The next hurdle would be trying to hide it.
Not that it would be the only thing he tried to hide from her.
"Did you find anythin' else?"
"I did…" The Black Widow admitted cautiously, lips folding into each other at the headline that cast an ominous glow, highlighting the trepidation in her features. "But it's not pretty, Steve."
"Lemme see."
"You sure? You might not be all puked out yet."
"Just gimme the main points."
TOP SURGEON'S SECRETARY GUNNED DOWN IN NOTTING HILL BREAK-IN
"It's short." Nat imparted, scrolling on the article to make sure. "That tells me they know sweet F-A or, more likely, knowing what we know, they're hiding something."
Steve remained close to the sink.
"I think we know which one it is. That bastard knew what he was doin'. Then he had to make the Goddamn article about him."
Natasha, to be utterly fair, had been tasked with an arguably worse job: Picking through the article (painstakingly transferred to digital by some unfortunate intern) and deciding what to tell an already distressed Steve Rogers. He wanted the truth but what went too far? What gory detail was too gory? So… She just read.
"Senseless tragedy unfolded in Notting Hill last night when a break-in went awry." The redhead at the table began uncomfortably; knowing subtle lies well enough, let alone when they glared back at her in black and white. "It ended in the shooting of an unarmed mother of one who, authorities say, confronted a lone intruder in her home. F… Fi… I don't know how-"
"The "dh" is silent." I'd never seen it written down before today… I've only heard her say it.
"Fiadh Collins, 30, originally of County Cork, Ireland, died instantly of a single gunshot wound to the head while- Oh God… Steve-"
"Keep goin', Nat." Cold? Removed? Disinterested? The Captain could have easily, by someone who did not know, be construed as any of those. Natasha, however, who knew him (he was often convinced) better than he knew himself, knew otherwise. She knew it to be resignation to something truly awful, something he could not change. Something he would have to keep from someone he cared deeply for; despite his usual dedication to truth and honesty.
"While blocking an unknown assailant from her daughter's cot."
Natasha had never spoken to Elsa. She had seen her only once, in circumstances unfit for socializing. That said, the two tended to politely inquire after each other when Steve either arrived in or departed Wakanda. To that end, and through the blonde, they knew each other well; relaying stories, witty quips and recent happenings of importance in the other's life. Elsa finding Púca, for instance. And while it meant the little brunette could be considered a threat in luring Steve away (he had never admitted it, but a super spy knows those ticks of something being concealed. Super spy aside, she was not blind either), it would not be the worst thing for him; not when removing him from cloud nine upon his return proved an impossibility. It meant, in short, that Natasha could not help the pained sigh that followed. If not for the child in the article, then her friend by the sink.
"Neighbours were alerted to the disturbance, and in turn, alerted authorities, when the victim's two-year-old daughter Elizabeth-?"
"Everyone has their own way of severing themselves from their past." Steve responded weakly to the curious glance over Nat's shoulder; no doubt silently questioning the discrepancy in name. If anyone could relate to that, Natasha Romanov could.
"Two-year-old daughter Elizabeth "howled and screamed" consistently without comfort over an unusually long period of time; apparently unheard of for the family. This prompted neighbours to investigate. Having let themselves into the property, Mr and Mrs G. Elm reported the distressed toddler attempting to free herself from the cot to get to her mother's body. The couple comforted the child as they waited for police to arrive, going so far as to clean the blood off Elizabeth's hands from where the spatter hand landed on the bars of the crib- Oh my God…"
""We had to cover her (Fiadh) over, and my wife took Elsa to another room to clean her hands, poor mite." Mr Graham Elm, the next-door neighbour of the victim solemnly told The Resident. "We have a key for emergencies, she had one for our house too. She was always very good, popping round to ask if we needed anything, especially if the weather was bad; best neighbour we've had in many, many years. No, we heard no gunshot, just Elsa. She howled and screamed like no one's business, like she was trying to call us and tell us something was wrong. Wasn't like Fiadh to let her cry, we became quite concerned.""
"Silencer would be some standard equipment for someone who came to be known as a ghost." Steve observed quietly, unable to bring his voice above a disturbed utterance for fear of hurling again; understandable, at the very thought of baby Elsa with her own mother's blood on her hands. "Elsa wasn't the target but I'm guessing Fiadh assumed she was if she put herself between Bucky and the cot." Natasha found herself agreeing.
"That's pretty much it. Nothin' was taken, obviously. They're just appealing for witnesses; if anyone saw or heard anythin' strange at around 11pm that night. Or if they noticed anyone suspicious in the area on the night or leading up to it." Hesitating, Nat cast a cautious glance to the sink; half-hoping Steve would be too taken up with processing these vile discoveries to pay her any mind. She was met with a similar gaze, however, as if he knew there was just one more horrific addition to the tale.
"There's a picture."
"Tell me they didn't attach a crime scene photo to it."
"No. Worse."
What could be worse? Steve wondered, dreading. Never ask that though, your challenge may well be met. That very thing happened when Natasha reluctantly turned the laptop.
For the longest time, the blonde stared; devastated, struggling and completely breathless. Yes, it was worse than any crime scene photo, he had to ask for it to be proven to gut-wrenching effect but still… He stared. Like he tried not to do, like Bucky had tried not to do. Stared at the woman, barely older than his friend was now, beaming that same beam as the precious child hoisted in her arms; the beam he knew too well.
"Y'know… She always said she was like her mom." He managed, sombre, soft, with the barest traces of fondness. "I think it was one of the reasons her dad did his best to keep her down, keep her under the thumb. But when she said she was like her mom… I didn't think she meant like that."
Goddamn it, Buck.
Fiadh (Fee-a/Fia): Fiadh is an old Irish word meaning "wild," in the sense of a wild animal. It comes from the word for "wildlife," fiadhúrla.
Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam (Err yesh Day guh rev ah ann-am): May his/her soul be on God's right hand.
