"You're gonna turn it on, right?"
Clara Murphy contemplated the bulging plastic bag on her desk. The museum café staff had given her so much rice that the smartphone barely fit.
"It's only been in there an hour. You think it's dry enough?"
Susan shrugged, twisting her swivel chair back and forth and tapping her pile of ticket receipts with the gnawed end of a pencil.
"I dunno. I'm not an electrical engineer."
"It might not be his," Clara pointed out.
"Oh, come on," Lewis laughed from her other side as he handed an elderly couple a map of the Captain America exhibit. "It's an iPhone 5, those things aren't even out yet. Of course it's his."
Clara grimaced. She had suspected as much when she spotted the sleek new phone in a puddle on the National Mall. But Steve and his friend were long gone by that point.
"It's just weird, you know?" she moaned for the umpteenth time. "I don't want to invade his privacy."
"Girl, it's probably locked anyway," Susan said, shaking her head. "Just turn it on, then he can use that… where's my iPhone thing to track it here."
Clara raised a skeptical eyebrow at her colleague.
"He does not know how to use Find My iPhone."
Susan cocked her head and looked off into the middle distance, no doubt remembering the war hero's obvious discomfort with his own credit card.
"… yeah, that's fair."
"I'm gonna have to get into this thing and call his friend Sam," Clara said woefully. "Or just hope he comes around looking for it."
"'Cause that would be so terrible," Lewis sassed, turning to grin at her. "One of the sexiest men in history coming to see you again."
Clara threw an eraser at him, cheeks flaming.
"Mmhmm," Susan hummed from the other side. "Boy looked even better in person."
"I can't believe I missed him," Lewis complained. "Of all the times I could have gone to the bathroom – "
"He just looked sad to me."
Her colleagues fell silent. Clara crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, gaze still fixed on the bag of rice.
"Apparently he mistook one of the cosplayers for the real Jim Morita," she informed them quietly. "And he was crying out there. In the damn rain."
These words were met with silence. A lifetime of glorified Captain America comics, novels, films and documentaries had left Clara entirely unprepared for the real thing. The idea that Steve Rogers had human emotions was still difficult for her to fathom, and she'd seen the evidence with her own eyes.
The trio handed out several more tickets to a thinning afternoon crowd before Lewis finally spoke again.
"… how long has he been out of the ice?"
Clara thought for a moment, but it was Susan who answered.
"Four months. My nephew's an EMT in New York, he said Cap helped them for two days straight after the attack. They didn't find out 'til afterwards that he'd only just woken up."
"What a mindfuck that would be," Lewis mused, leaning back in his chair and looking up at the ceiling. "Can you imagine? Thinking you're gonna die in 1945, then waking up a minute later in 2011."
"Then going straight out into the modern world to fight off an alien invasion."
Clara's sharp tone earned her looks from both directions.
"Look who's all protective," Susan teased. Clara glared at her.
"Forgive me for caring, but there is no way that man is okay. Four months ago he was in World War Two, and now everyone he loved is dead. He should be in therapy, not… gallivanting about with Iron Man."
"You should definitely tell him that when he comes back for his phone," Lewis suggested with mock solemnity.
"Maybe I will," Clara sniffed.
"So you're gonna turn it on?" Susan asked eagerly. "Come on, he might have a juicy background photo or something. Can we just take a peek?"
Clara let out a loud, weary sigh.
"… fine," she muttered. Unzipping the bag, she reached in and carefully extracted the iPhone. A few grains of rice scattered across her desk as she turned it over, examining it as best she could.
"It looks dry. Doesn't mean it is, but here goes."
She pressed the power button and held her breath, waiting for the smell of burnt electronics. To her relief, the screen stuttered to life and nothing caught fire. Plastic wheels squeaked on linoleum as her colleagues pulled their chairs closer. They watched the familiar iPhone bootup in silence, then…
"Wow."
Tony Stark's face grinned out at them from Captain America's phone. It was obviously a selfie, taken from an uncomfortably close and awkward angle. The internet contained a wealth of pictures of the infamous billionaire, but none of them were quite this ridiculous. Clara couldn't help but snort.
"I have a feeling Steve doesn't know how to change his background."
"Or maybe he and Stark are an item," Lewis suggested smugly. "I can totally see that."
Clara furrowed her brows.
"I dunno…" she mused. "He seemed pretty straight to me."
"He's from 1945, C. We all had to act straight back then."
The phone was indeed locked. But as they debated the sexual preferences of a no-longer-historical figure, it started to buzz with incoming messages. Two voicemails and a curt text from 'Sam Wilson'. It flashed across the screen just long enough for Clara to read it.
Dude are u ok?
For some reason, the words made her smile. The Steve Rogers of legend had always chosen his friends wisely. It seemed the real man was no different.
Another delayed text popped onto the screen, this one from 'Nat'.
Mission alert. Extraction imminent. Meet at the curb. :)
"Uh oh," Susan muttered. "That's not good."
But it was only the beginning. An alert from a group chat titled simply 'Team' brought them words from Iron Man himself.
Tony: Capsicle, did you just punch a cosplayer in the face?
Tony: Pep found a video on Twitter, and I'm trying real hard not to laugh during a board meeting
+16149274829: he did what?
Tony: Who dat?
+16149274829: Clint. My old phone fell off a helicarrier and made a crater in death valley.
Tony: smooth
+16149274829: Cap punched a cosplayer?
Tony: yeah, check it out – link
Lean Green Machine: oh my god Steve, is that guy okay?
Lean Green Machine: who changed my name
Tony: not guilty
Lean Green Machine: TONY
+16149274829: Captain America was trying to give him a fist bump ahahahahaa
Tony: please tell me you still have my lawyer's card
Tony: also Bruce, you've been ignoring the groupchat for months and THIS is what brings you back?
The exchange was hypnotizing. Clara knew she should look away, yet found herself physically incapable of doing so. The onslaught of messages had slowed, indicating that they were now watching the conversation in real time.
"Holy shit," Lewis said, voicing her exact feelings. "We're eavesdropping on the Avengers."
Lean Green Machine: this is way more interesting than cat videos, Tony
Russian Roulette: guys, have you heard from Steve? He's not answering my texts.
Tony: see above, Romanov. He's busy beating up the populace
+16149274829: ah fuck, guys
+16149274829: link
+16149274829: this was taken just after the punching incident
Tony: FUCK
Lean Green Machine: why does everyone in the goddamn world have to film everything
Tony: Steve are you okay?
Tony: come on buddy, talk to us
Tony: do we know where this was taken?
Lean Green Machine: looks like a museum
Russian Roulette: I've got a lock on his phone, it's at the Smithsonian. I'm almost there
+16149274829: since when are there cosplayers at the Smithsonian?
Tony: kid, can you just get online for a second? You don't have to type anything, I just wanna know you're alive
Russian Roulette: he's alive Stark, stop being melodramatic
The phone started ringing. Loudly. The name 'Tony Stark' pulsated on the screen in bright red letters. The three museum employees froze.
"Shit," Clara finally managed. "Shit, shit, shit. What do we do?"
"Answer it!" Susan almost shouted.
"I'm not gonna answer his phone! We're already invading his privacy enough, for fuck's sake – "
A small hand reached across the ticket desk and grabbed the phone from under their noses. Clara looked up and almost choked.
Natasha Romanov – the Black Widow herself – was arching a single eyebrow at them as she answered Iron Man's call. As she held the phone to her ear, a distant part of Clara's brain noticed that the infamous spy bit her nails.
"Stark," she said by way of greeting. After a moment, her brows furrowed and she pulled the phone back down to look at it. She muttered something in a foreign language, then stabbed another button on the screen.
"Yeah, it's me," she said, sounding annoyed. "He broke this thing already, I can barely hear you. Try now, you're on speaker phone."
"Goddammit. It sounds like you're underwater."
A tinny voice sounded from the phone. Romanov shot the three ticket agents a look, and Clara found herself answering the unspoken question.
"He dropped it in a puddle and forgot about it," she held up the bag of rice. "We tried to dry it out, but…"
"Who's that?"
"Museum staff," Romanov said shortly, gaze fixed on Clara. "Where is he?"
She didn't need to explain who he was.
"He's with Sam. I think they went to a pub."
"Oh, thank god."
One corner of Romanov's lips twitched.
"I told you he wasn't dead."
"Excuse me for wanting proof."
The Russian defector rolled her eyes.
"He's not going to commit suicide, Stark. He's far too Catholic for that."
"Why are you looking for him, anyway?"
The tinny voice sounded suspicious. Clara was having difficulty reconciling this worried man with the billionaire playboy the world seemed to know. Romanov flicked red hair over her shoulder.
"We have a mission."
This statement was met with a string of curses.
"You need to leave him the hell alone. He's not SHIELD's personal attack dog."
"Need I remind you that he volunteered?"
"Of course he volunteered. Only other thing he knows how to do is shine shoes, how else was he gonna distract himself?"
"This isn't a private conversation, Stark," Romanov said testily, shooting Clara and her friends a wary glance.
"I don't care. I'll tell the whole world if it means you'll stop taking advantage of him."
"Why are you blaming this on me? I don't call the shots, I just watch his back. If you have a problem, take it up with Fury."
"Oh, I will, believe me. When was the last time that kid had a day off?"
Romanov shifted on her feet and crossed one arm over her chest.
"… well, he took today off. Clearly that went well."
"… for fuck's sake."
There was a burst of static as Stark let out a frustrated sigh.
"Just… do me a solid, will you? When you find him, duct tape that damn phone to his hand. That's the third one he's lost in four months."
Again, Romanov's lips twitched.
"Will do. But you'll be happy to know he's still got your photo as his background."
A bark of laughter.
"He probably doesn't know how to change it."
"Oh, he knows. I showed him a few weeks ago."
There was a brief moment of silence. Clara hardly dared to breathe, lest Romanov decide to take this surprisingly personal conversation somewhere else. Finally, Stark drew in a shaking breath over the line.
"God, Natasha. I don't even know what to say to him half the time."
Romanov glanced down at the floor.
"Just keep doing what you're doing, Tony. He knows we care. The rest is up to him."
"… yeah."
"I need to go track down our missing American hero."
"Okay. Just… watch out for him, will you? He might be too Catholic for suicide, but it'd be all too easy to get killed the old-fashioned way on one of those clusterfucks you call missions."
"They are not clusterfucks, Tony. I'm not even sure what that means."
"Then how do you know the description is inaccurate?"
"I'm hanging up now."
"Byeee – "
Romanov hung up on his protracted farewell, then fixed the three museum employees with a deadpan stare she'd probably perfected whilst interrogating prisoners for the KGB. Lewis and Susan shifted uncomfortably in their seats, but Clara had something other than fear on her mind.
"He's right, you know."
Romanov cocked her head, and Clara tightened her hands into fists.
"Steve needs a break. He shouldn't be going on – on missions, or whatever."
The Black Widow examined her for a moment, gaze steady and unreadable. Clara glared back. Finally, Romanov shifted on her feet and crossed her arms, brows furrowing into an expression that one might easily mistake for amused.
"And just how long have you known Steve, Miss…"
"Murphy," Clara replied, raising her chin. "I don't know him at all. But I know he was sobbing his heart out on a park bench in the rain today."
Any trace of humor vanished from Romanov's features. Her lips pulled into a thin line, and she was suddenly finding it difficult to meet Clara's eyes.
"Yeah, well… I don't know what I'm supposed to do about that. He keeps saying he's fine, which is obviously bullshit. I've tried talking him out of fieldwork, but it's like reasoning with a brick wall."
"You could have a doctor declare him unfit for duty."
The words brought Romanov's gaze back to Clara's with laser focus.
"Bold words from a ticket girl."
"I'm going to be a registered nurse in three weeks," Clara countered fiercely. "I didn't specialize in psychiatric care, but you don't have to be an expert to see PTSD written all over that man."
Romanov stared grimly at her for a moment, then conceded.
"You have a point," she grunted, looking away. "I'll see what I can do after this mission."
Clara blinked. She hadn't expected to fight a battle like this today, let alone win it. Romanov's lips quirked and she glanced back at her, one eyebrow raised yet again.
"But if he gets grounded, he's gonna be pissed. And I'll tell him it was your idea."
"He can be pissed all he wants," Clara said, with more courage than she actually felt, "so long as he doesn't punch any more cosplayers in the face."
Romanov winced.
"He really did that, huh?"
"Yeah."
"Was the guy okay?"
"Oh, he was fine. He's probably gonna brag about it at Comic Con, honestly."
This drew a surprised chuckle out of the steely-eyed woman. Clara got the distinct impression that Natasha Romanov didn't laugh very often.
"Right, well…" Romanov looked down at Steve's half broken phone again, "you said he's with Sam?"
"Yeah."
"I'll give him a call."
The woman pushed away from the counter, started to turn, then stopped. She fixed Clara with one last, calculating look.
"Thank you."
"Anytime."
The Black Widow walked away, heading for the front door, and Clara sank back in her seat.
"Holy shit," Lewis breathed from her right.
"Damn, girl," Susan laughed almost hysterically. "That was intense."
Clara let out a long breath and ran both hands down her face.
"… this is s'posed to be my chill, part-time gig," she groaned into her fingers. "Why do I feel like I just pulled a night shift in the ER?"
"You might've just gotten Captain America declared unfit for duty," Lewis said, sounding stunned. "I don't know whether to be impressed or appalled."
"I think it's a good call," Clara assured herself, then turned to Susan. "Don't you?"
Her friend shrugged.
"Guess we'll find out. She's right though – he's gonna be pissed at you."
Two days later, Steve Rogers was declared an enemy of the state, and Clara got a text from Susan.
It was nice knowing you.
Logically, Clara mused as she and her fellow nursing students watched the news in the Georgetown ICU, the two things couldn't possibly be related. Steve had seemed sane enough. A bit unpredictable, yes, and rather emotional, but that was to be expected. He did not seem like the kind of person who would commit treason because a doctor told him to take a break.
At least she hoped not. The press were having a field day with a leaked video showing the man singlehandedly taking down a SHIELD jet. If he could do that to a million dollars-worth of military equipment, she did not want to find out what he could do to her Ford Fiesta.
Thankfully, another day passed without any angry visits from an unstable super soldier. She was standing in an empty hospital room, trying to get vomit off her last pair of clean scrubs, when she next heard of his escapades.
"… getting reports of the fugitive Steve Rogers, of Captain America fame."
Clara looked up at the television in the corner of the room. Grainy footage of a highway, obviously taken from a helicopter at height, greeted her. A battered sedan was swerving drunkenly through heavy traffic, a black-clad man clinging to the hood with a hand that glinted silver in the sun.
"He seems to have been involved in a high-speed car accident on 295 South, west of Anacostia."
Clara's stomach lurched. That was spitting distance from her apartment. In fact, she could see her exit coming up.
"It appears to be… oh my god."
The sedan was momentarily airborne, and someone – no, three someones were plummeting from the side of it. She caught a glimpse of a familiar shield and a flash of red hair. A muscular, dark-skinned man was rolling down the highway. Steve, Romanov, and Sam.
"This footage was captured only minutes ago from a police helicopter. It appears to be an attempt by SHIELD to bring Rogers in for questioning, but I must say this seems rather…"
The tiny, pixelated form of Steve pushed Romanov out of the way a second before he was violently blasted off the side of the highway. Clara let out an involuntary cry, clapping a hand to her mouth.
"… forceful."
It got worse. The helicopter circled round for a closer look, and by the time the camera had a clear shot again, Steve and the metal-armed man were fighting desperately in the street. Wearing khaki pants and sneakers, Steve looked more like a college student than a superhero. He also looked scared. His opponent was even bigger than him and moved with frightening purpose.
Somewhere in the distance, an alarm was going off. Mr. Davis's respirator. Clara jerked out of the breathless stupor into which she'd fallen. She was needed.
Reluctantly, painfully, she tore herself away from the news and hurried off to do her job. It wasn't until she got home that evening – after navigating around the snarl of traffic created by the destruction wrought on 295 South – that she had time to pull up the footage on YouTube. The video, uploaded only an hour earlier, had ten million views already.
Steve survived. Once Clara recovered from her relief at this fact, she examined the footage more closely. Something was… off about it.
The metal-armed man. His exposed face was difficult to make out in the grainy video, but Steve obviously recognized him. Something about this man made him freeze like a deer caught in headlights, and only the timely intervention of Sam and Romanov kept him from getting a bullet between the eyes.
She was not the only one who had noticed this. A brief scroll through the comments revealed several wild theories as to who the metal-armed man might be.
Johann Schmidt, aka "Red Skull". She scoffed. The footage might be grainy, but anyone could see the man wasn't red.
Bucky Barnes. She scoffed again. Even if he hadn't fallen to his death in 1945, Steve's best friend would be pushing 90 now. Hardly the age one needed to be to take on Captain America and almost win.
Tony Stark. Clara shook her head and closed her laptop. She had better things to do. Like sleep.
The next day, helicarriers began falling from the sky. It was the end of her last shift of the week at Georgetown and she was looking forward to a well-earned glass of wine when the ER began flooding with patients from the Triskelion. Six hours later, she heard through the grapevine that Captain America himself had been airlifted in at some point during the chaos. If the hospital rumor mill was to be believed, he was somewhere on the top floor in an improvised ICU, heavily guarded and in critical condition. At this point, Clara was so tired she could barely see straight, let alone go up and confirm this. It was all she could do to get home without falling asleep behind the wheel, scrubs covered in dried blood and scenes of horrible trauma branded into her memory. Some days are worse than others, the older nurses said. She hoped to God she never had a day worse than this one.
Clara woke after noon on Saturday – her one day off. For a while she just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Her whole body ached. The scent of blood still lingered in her nostrils, even after the shower she'd practically slept through last night. She was severely tempted to forego coffee for wine and spend the rest of the day binge watching Harry Potter films.
But she still had no idea what had happened yesterday. No explanation for the Triskelion collapse, or the helicarriers at the bottom of the Potomac. She'd been so busy dealing with the effects, she'd had no time to wonder about the cause. Letting out a weary sigh, she grabbed her battered Android off the bedside table and opened a browser. The internet would have the answers.
Ten minutes later, she let her phone fall onto the bedspread.
Fuck.
Hydra had survived World War Two. Not just survived, but thrived. And yesterday, they'd been minutes away from assassinating over seven hundred thousand people. If it weren't for Captain America and his friends, they would have succeeded.
Clara spent a minute wondering if she had been one of those slated to die. Apparently Hydra's files had been dumped onto the internet for all to see, so she could find out if she really wanted to. But she quickly decided that it didn't matter.
What mattered to her, she was rather embarrassed to admit, was Steve. He – like everyone else – had probably thought that Hydra died along with Schmidt. He'd given his life to destroy the last of Hydra's weapons. And now here he was, almost seventy years in the future, still fighting the same damn war.
A chill suddenly ran through her. Critical condition.
She fumbled for her phone again. Her fingers shook as she texted one of her nursing friends she knew was on duty.
You know if Captain America is still alive?
It was agony, waiting for the reply. Finally, she got up and made a pot of coffee to distract herself. A few pieces of toast later, her phone buzzed on the counter. She dove for it.
Alan: Yeah, far as I know.
Whilst comforting, this was far from definitive. But she could hardly march up to the guards around his room, demanding information. She had no claim on the man, no right to be upset. She was a stranger to him, and he to her.
Except he wasn't. She was from Brooklyn, right down the street from the monument that marked the location of the demolished tenement building in which he'd grown up. Stories of the Howling Commandos had filled her childhood, and she'd lost count of how many times her Irish grandfather had told her about the tall American boy with a triple ration card who knew every member of the SSR kitchen staff by name. Nobody ever knew if Gramps was telling the truth or not – he had a habit of adopting other people's stories as his own. But the stories were so good that Clara never cared.
She knew it was a bit… well, creepy. But she really felt as if she knew Steve Rogers, at least in some small way. When she was touring colleges in DC, her first stop was the Captain America exhibit. When she was looking for a part-time job and came across the advert for ticket clerks at the Smithsonian, it felt like fate.
Now it really felt like fate. The universe seemed to be pushing her in Steve's direction, saying help this poor guy, for fuck's sake. He was in her hospital, and tomorrow she would be selling tickets so other people could look at his stuff.
And suddenly, Clara Murphy knew what to do.
"Absolutely not."
The curator of the Captain America exhibit was a meticulous little man with a quirky fashion sense. Today, however, he looked a bit worse for wear. His thinning hair was sticking out in every direction like he'd been running his hands through it, and his bow tie – lime green with white polka dots – was hanging loose around his neck.
"I can't spare anything else. Director Stofan already let you have the sketchbook," he said bitterly, "and two nights ago, someone stole the uniform!"
He brandished a finger at the naked mannequin leading the phalanx of Howling Commandos. Clara had to work very hard to keep a straight face.
"It wasn't just someone, Adrian, you know that. You should be proud! He clearly thought it was well-preserved enough to wear into another fight with Hydra."
Adrian fixed her with a withering glare.
"And where is it now, hmm? At the bottom of the Potomac with some holes shot in it?"
"No," Clara retorted, crossing her arms. "It's probably at Georgetown, where he is. But yeah, he probably has some holes shot in him."
The pointed words sobered Adrian and he crossed his own arms, averting his eyes. After a tense moment, he let out a frustrated sigh and lifted his face heavenward.
"… what exactly do you want?"
Sensing victory on the horizon, Clara tried not to smile.
"The quilt."
Adrian's gaze came down to rest on hers. She could imagine what he was thinking. The quilt Sarah Rogers made before she succumbed to tuberculosis in the winter of 1939. The quilt on the sofa in the background of the only known photograph of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes before the war changed them both. The quilt that was one of the only items found in Captain America's locker at SSR Headquarters after he went down with the Valkyrie.
Adrian knew what she was asking for. And she knew the minute he caved.
"… alright. Let me wrap it up for you."
Natasha Romanov looked exhausted. There were dark bags under her eyes, and Clara suspected that the yoga pants and sweatshirt she was currently wearing were a far cry from her normal attire. While she sported no visible bruises, she looked… battered, somehow. Like the last few days had knocked some of the sharp corners and hard edges off and left her a bit softer than the woman Clara had met less than a week ago.
Surprisingly, she recognized Clara at once.
"Miss Murphy," she said with a faint smile as she brushed past the armed guards who stood between Clara and the room at the end of the hall. "Let me guess – this is your other job."
Clara returned the smile and held up her hospital ID.
"Right in one. I'm actually off duty today, but I wanted to bring him this."
She held out a large paper bag. A curator to the last, Adrian had insisted on wrapping the quilt in several layers of tissue paper. It made the bag look bulky, and Romanov just stared at it – a reaction Clara was beginning to think was common amongst combat veterans.
"It's not a bomb, I swear," she said for a second time. "It's his mother's quilt."
Romanov blinked at her and made no move to take the bag. Clara set it down awkwardly in the middle of the hallway and wiped her suddenly clammy hands on her jeans.
"Right, um… thanks for… you know. Saving everyone."
She could feel a furious blush rising up her cheeks. It was time to leave. She gave Romanov one last smile that she could only hope looked somewhat normal, then turned and started to make her way back towards the elevators.
"Do you want to see him?"
She looked back. Romanov was staring at her, arms crossed tightly over her chest.
"He's not awake yet," she continued, "but you could…"
She trailed off, jerking her chin towards the room at the end of the hall. Clara hesitated, then shook her head.
"No, it's alright. He doesn't know me, it'd be weird to… you know. Watch him sleep."
"Why?"
Clara blinked. Romanov looked genuinely curious, like she made a habit of watching people while they were sleeping.
"Um… it just… would be."
The two women examined each other for a moment longer. Then Clara raised her hand in awkward farewell.
"I'll, uh… see you later, then."
She stabbed the button for the elevator. Mercifully, it opened at once and she escaped inside. As the doors closed, she caught a glimpse of Romanov reaching down to pick up the bag. As the elevator began to descend, Clara leaned back against the wall and let out a weary sigh. At long last, the bottle of wine at home would get the attention it deserved.
There were still a few grains of rice on her desk. Clara flicked one at Lewis as Susan sold tickets to yet another group of cosplayers. Two days after the second fall of Hydra, the Captain America exhibit was more popular than ever. Only now – an hour before the museum closed – was the steady stream of visitors slowing to a trickle.
"My goodness," Susan groaned, sinking back in her seat as the cosplayers wandered off. "First chance I've had to breathe all day. That boy of yours needs to stop being so heroic, I can't take much more of this."
"He's not my boy," Clara laughed, rolling her eyes.
"Uh huh," her friend sassed back. "That's why you went back to the hospital on your one day off to bring him his mama's blanket."
"I still can't believe Adrian let you take it," Lewis said, flicking the grain of rice back at her. "You should've seen him the morning after the suit went missing. I thought he was gonna tear the rest of his hair out."
"He's still got plenty of toys to play with," Clara said with a smirk. "And he knows how much that quilt means to Steve. It really didn't take much persuading."
Lewis conceded this point with a shrug.
"Was he okay? Steve, I mean."
"I think so. He was still out of it when I got there, I didn't go in to see him."
"I still can't believe it," Susan shook her head. "Hydra's been around this whole time. I bet your boy was pissed when he found out."
"He's not my boy."
"Can I have him then?" Lewis asked with a devilish grin.
"If he ever comes back," Clara smirked, "you are more than welcome to try your luck."
"Ten bucks says he's gay."
Clara contemplated the wager for a moment, while Susan chimed in.
"I read an autobiography by one of the… you know, dancing girls on his USO tour. Apparently, he was really shy. Like, couldn't even string a sentence together in front of a woman."
"I can totally see that," Clara mused, twirling a pencil between her fingers.
"That doesn't mean anything," Lewis argued. "I'm not attracted to women, but I still don't know how to talk to them."
"You're talking to us right now," Susan pointed out, arching one eyebrow.
"You two don't count," he replied airily, straightening a pile of papers on his desk. Clara and Susan exchanged amused glances.
"I think Cap's gonna come back," Susan told her, smiling. "And you two are gonna fall in love and have beautiful, blushing Baby Americas. You better invite me to the wedding."
"Oh my god," Clara groaned, burying her burning face in her hands. "You're the worst."
"Excuse me."
All three of them jumped and looked up. They hadn't heard the soft-spoken man approach. He was tall and bulky, a black baseball cap pulled low over his face and dark, shoulder-length hair tucked behind his ears. His hands were shoved into the pockets of a black canvas jacket that had seen better days. Clara felt her cheeks heating up even more, but he showed no sign of being amused by their conversation.
"Captain America," he said abruptly, blue eyes peering out at her from under the brim of his cap. "I can learn about him here?"
She blinked.
"Um. Yes, you can. His exhibit is…" she gestured with her hand, "right back there, through the double doors. There's a discount today, only twelve dollars and you get a free map of the – "
The man didn't wait for the rest of her spiel. He pulled a crumpled wad of cash out of his pocket and slapped it on the counter with a black-gloved hand. Then he headed for the double doors without waiting for his map. The three ticket attendants stared after him in bemused silence.
"… well, he was a charmer," Lewis said finally, reaching up and pulling the pile of cash towards him. Clara was still staring at the man's broad back as he strode purposefully across the lobby.
"He looked really familiar."
"Yeah, he did," Susan agreed, sounding confused. "Has he been here before?"
"I would've remembered someone that weird," Lewis quipped as he straightened out the crumpled bills. "Only psychopaths wear gloves inside."
On that note, the man was swiftly forgotten. Another hour crawled by, and finally it was time to usher the last visitors out the door and go home.
"You good to close up?" Susan asked, wrapping a scarf around her neck. The weather had taken an abrupt turn towards fall. Clara nodded.
"Yeah, I'll do the last count and head out before Joe locks the door. See you guys tomorrow."
She tallied up the last of the ticket sales as her friends' footsteps faded. She never minded being the last one out. There was something oddly peaceful about being alone in the cavernous Smithsonian. Sometimes, she even took a solitary wander around the exhibits before heading home. Not tonight, though. Tonight, she was hearing the siren song of Chinese takeout and an early bedtime.
She stood and stretched the kinks out of her muscles with a groan. Then she grabbed her purse and stepped down from the ticket booth. She was about to head for the exit when she noticed something was amiss.
One of the fire doors was propped open. Clara could see a sliver of darkness through it, leading down one of the stairwells that accessed the storage levels.
"… that's weird…" she muttered to herself. Nobody really used the stairs; the curators preferred the elevator. An alarm should have sounded the moment this door opened. Letting out an exasperated sigh, she strode towards it. She really didn't want to have to call maintenance…
Cool air was flowing up the stairs and out through the door. Clara shivered as she reached for the handle. Maybe she could just close it and go –
A gloved hand reached out of the darkness and grabbed her wrist. Before she could react, she was through the door and it was slamming closed behind her. Then her back was pressed up against it, her scream smothered by another large hand.
"I'm not going to hurt you."
The voice was quiet, the tone flat and emotionless. Clara couldn't see a thing. She struggled, but the man just pressed her more firmly into the door.
"Stop fighting. It won't do you any good."
Hot, uncontrollable panic was coursing through Clara's veins. Joe didn't know she was still here. If she disappeared, nobody would think to look for her until morning. She had to get away.
With an ugly snarl, she sank her teeth into one of the man's gloved fingers. They crunched painfully against something hard and unforgiving. What the hell?
"I'm not going to hurt you," he repeated, almost sounding exasperated. "You are not my mission. Steve Rogers is my mission."
She jerked her knee up, but he swerved his hips to avoid it.
"You know Steve Rogers," he said, as though she hadn't just launched an attack on his man bits. "He is your boy."
Clara mentally cursed Susan and her exaggerations. The hand over her mouth and nose were starting to limit her flow of oxygen, and she was getting lightheaded. Survival instinct still going strong, she stomped on his foot as hard as she possibly could. He didn't even flinch.
"You will tell me about him," he said firmly. Then he wrapped one arm around her entire torso and picked her up, the other hand still clasped firmly over her mouth. Clara struggled, legs kicking in the air, but it was useless. She might as well have been fighting a statue.
The man moved swiftly down the stairs. Clara's heart sank. The Smithsonian showed only a small fragment of its collection to the public. The rest was stored underground, in tunnels that were literally miles long. With the right clearance, one could easily get lost down here. She could only hope he hadn't managed to steal an access card…
He had. He swiped a card against a door five levels down and dragged her inside. A few motion-activated lights flickered lazily overhead and he turned immediately to the left. In the small part of her mind that wasn't panicking, Clara wondered how he'd managed to scout this route while the museum was still open. This man was clearly good at what he did. She just wished he wasn't doing it to her.
They arrived at a small storage room. He pulled open the door and pushed her inside, dropping his hand from her mouth. She stumbled into the room and he followed, closing the door behind them and flicking the lights on. Clara whipped around to face him, chest heaving.
"What do you want?!" she hissed as her eyes filled with involuntary tears. There was no use screaming now – no one would hear her.
"I want answers," her kidnapper said simply. As she'd suspected, it was the strange man from earlier – the one with the baseball cap and the familiar face.
"Are you gonna kill me once you get them?" she spat. She was surprised by her own ferocity. She'd never been in a situation like this before, but apparently it brought out a fighting spirit she hadn't known she possessed. The man cocked his head, considering the question.
"I could," he acknowledged without inflection. "But you are not my mission."
"What does that even mean?"
"Steve Rogers is my mission. But I failed. I could not kill him."
Clara's heart was trying to beat its way out of her chest. The pieces were coming together – the gloves, the way her teeth bounced off his finger, the words he was saying…
"He said he was with me till the end of the line."
The man was staring blankly at a cardboard box on a shelf. Clara noticed vaguely that they were surrounded by rusting airplane parts.
"He called me Bucky."
Bucky.
"Oh my god."
The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Now it was her own hand covering her lips. Suddenly, those YouTube theories didn't seem so farfetched. The man's blue eyes snapped back to hers.
"You know this name."
Clara couldn't speak. She was too busy kicking herself. Of course this man looked familiar. His face was in every school history textbook from 1946 onward. Generations of hormonal teenagers had swooned over his brooding good looks and tragic death.
But here he was. Decidedly not dead. And apparently just as confused about it as she was.
"I do not understand why Steve Rogers would call me this," he said, eyebrows knitted together. "Bucky Barnes is dead. I read it. Up there."
He pointed at the ceiling. Clara presumed he was talking about the exhibit. She drew in a long, shaking breath, then dropped her hands.
"… Bucky Barnes fell off a train in 1945. He was Steve Rogers' best friend; they grew up together."
"I know," the man said, sounding disgruntled. "I read that, too."
"You look just like him."
The man blinked. He didn't seem to know what to do with that information. Finally –
"The Asset is not called Bucky."
Clara gaped at him. The asset? For a moment, she floundered. The man with Bucky Barnes' face was looking at her expectantly, like she had the answers. But all she had were questions.
"Um…" she stammered, "what… what is your name, then?"
He contemplated this for a long time, eyes fixed on the floor. Then –
"I am the Winter Soldier. The New Fist of Hydra."
Clara's stomach twisted. She was in way over her head here.
"… right. Um… so, you – you work for Hydra?"
This question proved to be even harder than the last. The man clenched his fists and glared daggers at the back wall for over a minute before answering.
"I cannot go back to my handlers like this. They will put me under before I can finish my mission."
It was like having a conversation with an alien. Clara understood the words individually, but together they made no sense whatsoever.
"Your mission. That's… to kill Steve Rogers?"
The man flinched. He turned icy blue eyes to her, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
"… yes."
"Well, I can't help you with that," she said firmly. "So, if you don't mind…"
She started for the door, heart in her throat. Predictably, the man blocked her path.
"What do you want from me?!" she cried, throwing up her hands. "I don't have any answers for you!"
"The quilt."
"… what?"
"You brought him the quilt."
Clara gaped up at him. This man had clearly been listening to her conversation with Lewis and Susan for a lot longer than she'd realized.
"… y- yeah?"
His eyes were still locked on hers, but they were distant now. Clouded over with an emotion Clara couldn't name.
"… I used to wrap him up in that quilt when he got sick. Like a little… Irish burrito."
Silence thundered in the tiny room. Clara hardly dared to breathe, lest she break the spell that had fallen over the man who must be Bucky Barnes. The emotion in his eyes was easier to identify now.
Horror.
He drew in a sharp, ragged breath and stepped away from her. His back hit the door and he slid down it slowly, expression going blank and eyes closing. He hit the floor with a thump, and Clara watched helplessly as he buried his face in his knees, arms coming up to cover his head.
She stood there for several exceedingly awkward minutes, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Her kidnapper was eerily silent, and utterly still. He seemed to have forgotten her presence, but he was blocking the only exit. Clara shifted uncertainly on her feet. She felt for the guy – something was obviously wrong with him – but her ability to empathize was rather stunted by her current predicament.
"Um…" she finally ventured. "Can I go now? Please?"
He didn't respond. She somehow doubted he'd even heard her.
"Sir?" she tried. "Um… Bucky?"
He stiffened. Slowly, his arms fell away and he peered up at her from between his knees. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. Clara was forcibly reminded of Steve, sitting alone on a park bench, soaked to the bone and miserable beyond belief. Something loosened in her chest. She was still terrified, but she had a feeling she wasn't the only one.
"That is your name," she said quietly, "isn't it?"
His eyes skittered away, all of his intimidating confidence gone.
"… I don't know," he finally whispered, and she saw his throat bob as he swallowed. "I don't know anything."
Another long silence descended. Clara's mind was whirling, trying to make sense of the situation and find a way forward. One idea kept knocking at her psyche until finally she gave up trying to find a better one.
"… do you want to talk to Steve?"
Bucky flinched again. His gaze – which had come to rest somewhere around her sneakers – lifted to hers once more. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then spoke.
"I can't. I'll hurt him again."
He blinked rapidly, gaze falling to her shoulder.
"I don't want to hurt him again."
"I don't want you to hurt him either," she said firmly. "That's why you're only going to talk to him on the phone."
The idea was clearly intriguing. Bucky stared up at her, eyes watery and lost. He'd gone from a terrifying harbinger of death to a kicked puppy in less than ten minutes, and Clara was fighting whiplash.
"We have to go back upstairs, though," she crossed her arms. "I don't have any service down here."
He hesitated for a moment longer. Then his throat bobbed again, and he nodded curtly.
"Yes. I will talk to him on the phone."
He clambered awkwardly to his feet and pulled the door open, ushering her out of the room with a civility that was baffling, considering how they'd entered. Clara led him back up the stairs and out the fire door, grabbing her dropped purse along the way. She didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed that the night guard was nowhere to be seen as they made their way across the lobby. She wasn't even sure if she needed help at this point, but regardless, Joe was no match for the man walking behind her. The thought made her freeze in her tracks. Bucky stopped as well, and she turned to look up at him.
"You didn't hurt Joe, did you?"
He blinked.
"… Joe?"
"The night guard."
"… no," he replied, brows furrowed. "I just avoided him. He is not very good at his job."
Clara suspected it had less to do with Joe being bad at his job, and more to do with Bucky being very good at his. But she wasn't about to argue the point.
"Okay. Good."
With that, she turned around and continued to lead him out of the museum. As they walked, she couldn't help but marvel at how bizarre her life had become. Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers were characters out of the history books, out of comics and films. She'd researched their lives, handled their personal belongings, guided tourists through an exhibit dedicated almost entirely to them. They weren't supposed to be walking around in the modern world, punching people in the face and kidnapping young women.
Clara led Bucky out onto the National Mall without even thinking about it. She wandered, as if on autopilot, to the bench where she'd found Steve barely a week ago. She sat down. To her surprise, the tall man joined her, his fists clenching and unclenching in his lap.
"I'm gonna call one of my friends, okay?" she said, pulling her phone out of her pocket. "If we're lucky, he'll be able to put us in touch with Steve. Does that sound alright?"
He just stared at her. Clara got the distinct impression he wasn't used to people asking for his opinion. Giving up on getting a response, Clara scrolled through her messages, clicked on Alan, and dialed the number. As she pressed the phone to her ear, she silently prayed that her friend picked up.
Five rings later, a harried voice filled her ear and her shoulders slumped with relief.
"Hey, C, things are kinda crazy here today. What's up?"
"Alan, I really need you to do something for me, okay? It's important."
"Umm… alright."
"Can you take your phone up to Captain America's room and give it to the Black Widow?"
Laughter filled the line.
"Is this some sort of dare? Are you drunk?"
"No," she retorted, though she couldn't blame him for thinking so. "I know this sounds weird, but I really need to talk to her. Tell her it's Clara Murphy, she knows who I am."
Alan hesitated.
"Please?" she begged. "I'll bring you crullers every morning for a month?"
He sighed into the mic.
"Fine. But if I get laughed at, it better be two months."
Despite the situation, Clara smiled.
"It's a deal. Thank you so much, Alan, I owe you one."
She could hear the familiar din of the hospital in the background as he got the elevator.
"What's this about, anyway?"
Clara glanced over at the man sitting beside her. Bucky had pulled a small metal object out of his pocket and was currently fiddling with it, shrewd gaze darting from one group of passing tourists to another.
"Um… it's… pretty much impossible to explain at the moment."
A huff of laughter from the other end of the line.
"… okay. I expect the full story on Tuesday, though."
"You got it."
As Alan headed for the top floor, Clara followed Bucky's gaze out onto the National Mall. The sun was setting, and it bathed the city in shades of orange and yellow. Far to the west, the Washington Monument was lit up against a fiery sky. The air was crisp and cool, a soft breeze carrying the faint scent of wood smoke. It was a beautiful evening, but Clara couldn't enjoy it. There was an unstable, 90-year old World War Two veteran sitting next to her, playing with a switch blade –
"Bucky!" she exclaimed, flinching away from him. "What are you doing?!"
He looked over at her, eyes wide and confused, as though flipping a nasty-looking knife around and stabbing the air repeatedly was a perfectly normal way to pass the time.
"What?"
She didn't get a chance to explain her exasperation. On the other end of the line, Alan was asking for the Black Widow. She could hear doors opening, footsteps on linoleum, and a distant voice saying, I'll be right back. Then the line crackled as the phone changed hands, and Natasha Romanov's voice filled her ear.
"Miss Murphy," she said, sounding oddly amused. "We were just talking about – "
"Is Steve awake?"
Clara was in no mood for pleasantries. There was a brief pause, then Romanov replied, sounding a bit miffed.
"Yes."
"Can I talk to him?"
"Why? What's going on?"
"Bucky Barnes is here."
This time, the silence stretched for several long, painful seconds. Then –
"Where are you."
"The National Mall."
Muffled voices on the other end of the line told her Romanov was covering the mic and talking to someone else. Then she was back.
"Is he armed?"
Bucky had gone back to playing with the switch blade. Oddly enough, Clara didn't feel threatened by his absent-minded display of skill.
"Yes, but I don't think he wants to hurt anyone."
"What's he doing?"
"Right now? He's playing with a knife. But he wants to talk to Steve."
"… he spoke to you?"
Clara blinked.
"Does he not usually speak?"
"It's not one of his strong suits, no. What else is he saying?"
"He said he doesn't want to hurt Steve again. He just wants to talk to him on the phone."
She hesitated, examining Bucky's profile for a moment before continuing.
"And you know that quilt? Apparently, he used to wrap Steve up in it like a…" she couldn't even believe she was about to repeat the words, "… a little Irish burrito."
Clara was again treated to the rare sound of Natasha Romanov laughing.
"A little Irish burrito?" she repeated. "Ah boszje, that's a good one, have to remember that…"
Romanov wasn't taking this nearly as seriously as Clara would have liked. But then, this was probably a normal reaction for someone who risked her life every single day.
"Can he, uh…" she stammered, trying to pull Romanov's attention back to the problem at hand, "can he talk to Steve?"
A moment of silence. Then –
"I don't think that's a good idea."
Clara narrowed her eyes.
"Why?"
"Steve is compromised. Barnes put three holes in him and almost punched his face off, but somehow he still thinks the man's a fluffy bunny rabbit. He can't do what needs to be done."
"What needs to be done?" Clara repeated, alarmed. "The hell does that mean?"
The scream of engines breaking the sound barrier only barely preceded the arrival of Iron Man. Clara shrieked as the enormous metal suit landed right behind Bucky with enough force to shake the ground. Bucky's switch blade glanced off red and gold armor as Iron Man wrapped a mechanical arm around his neck. Clara practically fell off the bench in her haste to get away from the struggling pair.
"Get outta here, lady!" a brash voice called from within the suit. Clara crawled backwards like a crab, phone forgotten on the ground. Bucky was trying to pry himself free, his blunted switch blade still looking for a flaw in the armor. But Iron Man had the advantage, and Clara watched in horror as the arm around Bucky's neck slowly tightened.
"Stop it!" she cried. "You're gonna kill him!"
But it was too late. Bucky's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he went limp, body collapsing against the enormous metal suit behind him. Clara leapt to her feet and rushed forward.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" she snarled at Iron Man as she batted him away from his victim.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Iron Man's voice was tinny through the speakers of his suit as he released Bucky and took a step back, "did I just save your life? How silly of me."
There was a pulse under Clara's fingers, frantic and thready. She let out a relieved sigh and closed her eyes, letting her chin fall to her chest for one exhausted moment.
"… you could have killed him with that stunt."
"He killed sixty-three people this week, and almost put Cap in a body bag," Iron Man spat, pulling a pair of heavy duty handcuffs out of a hidden compartment in his suit. "Forgive me if I don't give a shit."
He grabbed Bucky by the collar of his jacket and pushed his limp body face first onto the ground. Clara had no choice but to stand aside as he yanked the unconscious man's arms behind his back and cuffed his wrists together.
"What are you going to do with him?"
His prisoner secure, Iron Man straightened up and finally opened the front of his mask. Tony Stark turned to look down at her. His signature goatee was a little rough around the edges, as though he hadn't trimmed it in several days.
"Why do you care?"
Clara raised her chin.
"Because he's James Buchanan Barnes. I have no fucking clue what's going on here, but he deserves better than… than this."
She gestured derisively at the unconscious man lying face down in the dirt at her feet.
"Does Steve know about this?" she demanded. "Does he know how you're treating his best friend?"
"That isn't his best friend," Stark snapped, also pointing at Bucky. "Maybe he was once, but Hydra scrambled his brain and pulled it out through his nose. There's nothing left in there but a mindless killer."
"Bullshit. He knows who he is. He remembers the quilt."
"Well, whoop-di-doo. Maybe he'll use it to suffocate Cap next time he sees him."
Clara clenched her fists at her sides.
"He doesn't want to hurt Steve again. He just wants to talk to him."
"Well, that's not gonna happen."
"Why not?"
"Have you ever had someone you love try to kill you?"
The question drew Clara up short.
"… no."
"Well, I have. It fucking hurts. And I'm really tired of watching that kid get hurt."
Clara shifted on her feet and crossed her arms.
"So, what are you gonna do? Cart Bucky off to some prison and keep Steve in the dark about it? 'Cause that won't hurt him at all."
Stark cocked his head at her, expression caught between exasperation and curiosity.
"Who are you?"
"Clara Murphy," someone answered for her. Natasha Romanoff strode onto the scene with a flourish of red hair and an amused smirk. She headed straight for the unconscious man on the ground.
"Twenty-six years old," she said as she turned Bucky over and wiped dust off his face, "originally from Brooklyn, went to Georgetown for a BA in History. She's been working at the Smithsonian for three years, and she's a week away from becoming a registered nurse. She has a job lined up back in Brooklyn; she'll be there next month."
She shot Tony a knowing look over her shoulder. Clara just gaped at her.
"What the fuck?"
"I don't give quilts to my friends without doing a background check on their source," Romanoff explained airily as she checked Bucky's pulse. "And no, Miss Murphy, we're not carting Barnes off to a prison. We'll get him the help he needs."
"I've got his paperwork in for POW status."
Sam Wilson had arrived. There was a black SUV parked illegally on the grass a ways off that Clara could only assume belonged to him and Romanov.
"He alive?" Sam asked, jerking his chin at the unconscious man. He was eyeing him warily, one hand resting on a pistol shoved haphazardly into his belt.
"Yeah, and out cold," Romanov said, divesting Bucky of several more knives and a pistol of his own. "You really did a number on him, Stark."
"Little wrestling move I picked up from The Rock," Tony quipped, servos whirring as he shrugged. "I wasn't taking any chances."
"He's gonna have one hell of a headache when he wakes up."
"Good."
Romanov shot her armored friend an amused glance.
"Don't let Steve hear you say that."
"Steve is the only reason I didn't finish the job," Tony snarled. He sounded angry – angrier than the current situation warranted, in Clara's opinion.
"… you alright, man?" Sam asked, obviously thinking along the same lines. Stark shook his head, gaze distant and troubled.
"… 'm fine," he muttered. Then he stepped forward, grabbed Bucky by his wrists and hauled his limp form up over one shoulder.
"Come on," he said, heading for the car. "There's a padded cell at the Tower with this psycho's name on it."
Romanov followed him, leaving Clara alone with Sam. She looked up to find him examining her closely. He had a few stitches along his jawline, a bruised cheekbone, and the bloodshot eyes of someone who hadn't slept in several days.
"He didn't hurt you, did he?" he asked quietly, gesturing at Bucky with his thumb. Iron Man was dumping the World War Two veteran unceremoniously into the back seat of the SUV.
"No," Clara replied, shaking her head. "He mighta… bruised my wrist a little, but that's it."
She held up her right wrist. Sure enough, dark bruises in the shape of fingers stood out against pale skin. Sam drew in a hissing breath.
"… shit. I'm sorry about that."
"It's not your fault," she shot him a rueful smile. "Doesn't even sound like it's his, really."
Sam nodded solemnly, crossing his arms.
"Hydra found him after he fell off the train. Apparently, Zola had already given him a version of the serum. They've been brainwashing him for almost seventy years."
"… God."
"Yeah."
"How'd Steve take it?"
Sam let out a huff of mirthless laughter and shook his head.
"Not well. But it'll be better now he's with us."
"You're gonna tell him, right?"
"Of course," Sam replied, incredulous. "Steve doesn't do secrets. He tends to blow them up."
Clara snorted.
"Yeah, I'm getting that impression."
"Wilson!"
They turned to find Iron Man and the Black Widow waving Sam back to the car. It was time to leave.
"Yeah, be right there!" Sam called back, holding up a finger before turning back to Clara. "Thanks for the quilt, by the way."
"Oh, of course. The curators tried to get all the dust off, I hope it was okay."
His lips quirked.
"Well, Steve started crying the second he saw it. Poor guy was embarrassed as hell, I'm sure he'd like to blame it on the dust."
Clara smiled faintly, a lump rising in her throat. Sam's eyes searched hers for a moment longer, then –
"… do you wanna come to my place for dinner tomorrow night?"
His smile grew in the face of her obvious confusion.
"He's staying with me for a few days before heading back to New York. Frank and Sue and I are trying to convince him to take a break from all this… superhero-ing. Maybe you can lend us a hand?"
Slowly, Clara's smile spread to match his. She had no idea who Frank and Sue were, but their goal sounded worthy of support.
"I'd love to."
Sam scribbled his address down on a scrap of paper and pressed it into her hand with one last smile. Then he was running for the car, it was speeding off into traffic, and Iron Man was taking to the sky. Within seconds, Clara Murphy was alone on the National Mall in the dying light of the setting sun. The only proof of her eventful evening were the bruises on her wrist and the address in her hand. She looked down at it.
902 10th St NE, Apt 3
Where the heck was that? She reached for her phone, but it wasn't in her pocket.
"Shoot…"
Glancing around, she finally spotted it – in a puddle underneath the bench. For a moment, she just stared at it. Then she shook her head. Then she started laughing. She bent down and picked it up, still chuckling as muddy water dripped lazily out of the microphone.
"… guess I need some more rice."