A/N: Spoiler alert for Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Avengers: Age of Ultron, and Captain America: Civil War.
As always, many thanks go out to CapriceAnn Hedican-Kocur for the Beta and Winter-Soldier-88 for the brainstorming.
Note 1: I know it's been a while since this story was updated, but it couldn't be helped. Not only is my muse a fickle little scamp, my family has been experiencing a great deal of emotional turmoil that may not get better any time soon. Such is RL.
Note 2: This story is being revamped. Some scenes will be removed completely. Others will be changed to better conform to the MCU movies. Also, parts 2 and 3 will be eliminated and the chapters posted all under one title.
Namaste,
Sunny
"I will come back to you, I swear I will;
And you will know me still.
I shall be only a little taller
Than when I went."
― Edna St. Vincent Millay, The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems
Winter Soldier
And You Will Know Me Still
Chapter 22
Frankenstein; or The Modern Prometheus by Mary Shelley
Closing the book, James held it in his lap while he thought over the premise of the story and how it related to himself, especially the quote at the beginning.
Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay
To mould me man? Did I solicit thee
From darkness to promote me?
- John Milton, Paradise Lost
He hadn't asked to be remade into the Asset, the Winter Soldier. Hadn't volunteered, and no one had made the request of him. Under any and all scenarios, he would've said no.
James understood Natasha's reason for suggesting this particular story. The monster hadn't had a say in its creation and then was forced to do harm to others just as he had. But that didn't make either of them evil. They were just tools, like a wrench or screwdriver. Use it then put it away when you're done.
A shadow fell over him, and he looked into Natasha's eyes, green with flecks of brown. James set the book aside and followed her to the computer area. She signed in, and he looked on in astonishment as she quickly and efficiently disabled the library's website blocking programs and firewalls. A few minutes after that, she hacked into the Washington D.C. medical examiner's encrypted files to bring up Dugan's autopsy report. There wasn't much as the ME had easily found the cause of death. The former Howling Commando had suffered a stroke in his sleep. It was the ME's opinion that the stroke had been inevitable due to Dugan's indifferent attitude towards taking his prescribed medications.
The relief James felt at the knowledge that he hadn't directly caused his friend's death was great. One less transgression he had to atone for. Natasha pushed back from the desk, preparing to leave. He stopped her by touching her hand. "Look up one more." She waited expectantly, hands hovering over the keys, waiting. "Isolde… Isolde Gruber. Leipzig, Germany. 1945."
Natasha's hands stilled on the keys for a moment, noticeable only to him. "Girlfriend?"
How was he supposed to answer that? All he remembered was her name, the city she lived in so long ago, she had black hair, and they'd spent at least one night together.
He rubbed his forehead to ease the ache. More and more, whenever he tried to grab onto a memory, to bring it into focus, he experienced incredible pain. On some occasions, it was minor and easy to ignore. Others, like now, it felt as if he'd been stabbed through the eye.
The keyboard clicked as Natasha did the search. Closing his eyes, James breathed deeply, letting the cool air of the library and the muted ambient sounds surround him.
"Barnes." The flat, emotionless quality of Natasha's soft voice popped his eyes open. She drew his attention to the screen, clicking through the few documents displayed, and enlarging one in particular. It was not pleasant.
As James skimmed through the information, nausea clenched his stomach and anger boiled over, drowning out all other emotions. He rushed outside, barely making it around the side of the building before vomiting the contents of his stomach. His vision blurred, he took a few steps and then his knees gave out. He sat down hard in the grass.
Soon, Natasha knelt beside him, holding a cup of water. He swished the water, spit it out, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Again, he closed his eyes, inhaling and exhaling in a steady rhythm, barely stopping himself from shrinking away when Natasha touched him with a cool, wet towel, gently stroking his face and neck.
"Good thing Pierce is dead." Firm pressure under his chin forced him to meet her eyes. "Now you won't have kill him and I won't have to help you, though I doubt he was involved with HYDRA in 1945." James pulled free and got to his feet. Natasha stayed with him. "Barnes?"
Without conscious thought, James started walking. He had to move, to get away, to be alone for a while, but how could he when Natasha wouldn't let him?
If he told her the truth, would she accept it without question? Or would she simply ignore his request? She'd been careful to keep their plans fluid, and he appreciated it. Her attitude reminded him of one of the few good memories he'd been able to hold onto.
Taking on bullies who thought Steve and other kids like him would be easy targets for their meanness. That may have been the reality, but they had to get past James to do it. And the same kid or group of kids never came back around more than once when he was done with them. James did remember that he never initiated the many playground fights he'd been involved with as a child, but he always finished them.
Natasha's phone beeped and she rushed to answer it, careful to keep him in sight at all times. She scrolled the screen, and to go by the easing of the tension in her shoulders, it was good news. The phone went into a pocket as she started walking again, and James was tempted to just let her go. He wanted to be alone, but he didn't. Now that she was leaving, he wanted her to stay.
"Yo, Barnes. We gotta jet." Jogging to catch up to her, James was surprised when she held out a stack of folded papers. "I made copies, if you want to read them later."
He took the pages, folded them one more time, and pushed them into his back pocket. "Jet?"
They faced each other again, Natasha with a half grin. "It mean we're getting out of the city for a while." She patted the pocket holding her phone. "That was one of my contacts. One that wasn't in SHIELD's database when it was dumped onto the Internet. A car, IDs and cash are waiting for us in long-term parking down the street from JFK. We'll pick them up and drive to the safe house. We can get something to eat on the way."
"Not hungry."
"You gotta eat, Bucky."
Wanting her to know that he wasn't asking, James pulled her to a stop. "Don't call me that. I haven't been him for a very long time."
"Your choice, Barnes." They reached a main thoroughfare, falling into step with a group headed down to the subway. In just a few minutes, they were on a train headed for JFK. James didn't know what or who JFK was, and didn't really care as long as he got away.
The paper in his pocket crinkled, reminding him once more of everything he could've had and lost because of the scientist with the glasses. Involuntarily, his left hand clenched into a fist, and inside, he felt the small vibration that signaled an increase in energy to the limb. He pressed his right hand to his left forearm to stop it, earning him a comforting smile from Natasha.
~~O~~
Reaching under the back bumper of the small SUV, Natasha retrieved the key. They got in, and when the dashboard display was active, she touched the screen in a particular order to bring up the address of the safe house with GPS guidance.
James hadn't said much since they'd left the library, and she didn't blame him after what they found out about the woman. All she could do was be there if or when he wanted to talk or needed comforting.
A soft snore from the passenger seat told Natasha that Barnes had finally fallen asleep. Mental and physical stress sapped the body's energy more than we're aware of consciously. You think you're fine, that you can party till dawn, and next thing you know, the sun's up and you don't remember a thing. James had wrapped his arms around himself and was sleeping with his head against the window. If he was still out when they reached the cabin, she'd leave him until he woke up on his own to avoid the whole sorry-I-tried-to-kill-you-again scenario.
She turned the radio down until she could barely hear it, ignoring that little voice in her head screaming obscenities at her in Clint's voice. As her friend and partner, he deserved to know what was going on, but how could she explain it to him when she wasn't certain herself?
~~O~~
The cabin was accessible by a road barely wide enough to allow two vehicles to pass each other, meaning there were no grocery stores within walking distance. They'd have to stop soon if they planned on staying more than a few days.
Signaling for a turn, Natasha pulled into the parking lot of a small store that also sold souvenirs and hand-made wood furniture to the big city tourists as well as camping equipment and generators. The cabin had all the amenities, power, Wi-Fi, microwave, hot and cold running water, alarms, hidden rooms filled with weapons-for defense only, of course. All they needed was food and drink.
The moment the engine shut off, Barnes sat up, looking around at the unfamiliar surroundings. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. Natasha got out, waiting for him to join her to grab a cart. "You push, I'll pick out the food. Anything in particular you like?"
Barnes seemed reluctant to say what was on his mind. Natasha was patient. She could wait him out.
"Norman called it French toast."
One side of Natasha's mouth curled upward in a half smile. "I assume you mean the real thing, not frozen."
"Can you make it?"
"I can try. What d'you like on it?" He hesitated, unsure what his answer should be. "I'll take care of it. You can wait in the car, if you like." His eyes shifted side to side, then a slow nod. "You'll still be here when I come out?"
Again, that hesitation. This time, the nod was more definite, and she rewarded him with a smile as she walked toward the entrance.
Two Hours Later
Turning in a circle, James looked around the inside of the cabin. He neither liked nor disliked the décor. It was what it was. Sturdy wooden furniture, wood floors with rugs scattered throughout the rooms, few items of interest hung on the walls or sat on shelves and over the fireplace. Natasha came in with the rest of the bags, setting them on the small table between this room and the kitchen. Not sure what to do next, he did the same and waited for her to speak.
Pointing with her chin, she indicated the food items in the bags he'd brought in. "Put the perishables in the refrigerator, and the cans and boxes in the cupboard." He did as directed and returned to find two piles of clothing neatly folded. She handed him the larger stack, one hand on the bottom and the other on top to steady it. "Pick a bedroom and put these away while I make us something to eat. Then you can tell me about Isolde."
Still not ready to verbalize feelings he wasn't sure of, James merely went into the bedroom on the left and shut the door. He opened the drawers, randomly shoving the clothing in, all the time wondering why they were even here.
He approached the window from the side, using one finger to make a gap between the curtain and the wall so he could look out. All he could see was trees, bushes, dirt, rocks, and at the edge of his hearing, water.
The glass itself had an odd appearance. Instead of being reflective, it seemed to absorb the light. He drew a metal finger down the edge. Electricity vibrated through the touch and up his arm. The surface felt slick and oily. Rubbing his finger and thumb together, he sniffed, but whatever it was had no scent.
Not knowing what to do with himself in this unfamiliar place, James took off his boots and jacket, and lay down on the bed. Natasha wanted to talk about the incident at the library, and as much as she wanted to, he didn't even more.
Certainly, the photo had sickened him, showing that Isolde had not only been killed by the Einsatzgruppen, the Nazi's mobile death squads, she'd been tortured mercilessly. Why would the Nazis have done this to Isolde? Medically speaking, she was nothing exceptional, not that he remembered. In the back of his mind, he felt that she'd been special to him.
The printed documents Natasha had given him were still in his back pocket. He rolled to one side to take them out, but couldn't make himself look at them. Opening the drawer in the bedside table, he dropped the pages in and slammed it closed again.
Turning onto his side, James stared at the painting on the wall. It too was nothing special. Animals grazing by a stream, their sleek bodies and long necks giving them a graceful appearance even in their fixed state. His eyes drifted shut and fell into a light doze.
~~O~~
James awakened an unknown amount of time later. The room had cooled off some and darkness had draped itself over the land. He stood and stretched on his way to the dresser where he took out the long pants and t-shirt Natasha had told him was for sleeping. He changed and went down the hall to the bathroom.
A few minutes later, music drew him to the main room. The lights were low and Natasha had moved the furniture around to make an open space in the middle where she performed slow and graceful movements that seemed familiar. Closing his eyes, James could see the movements, only it wasn't himself doing them. He was seeing a group of men and women in the park, wondering how anyone could think of it as exercise.
Without making a sound, James went to join her, standing where he was able to see her in order to follow her movements. Soon, they came to the end pose, a return to the beginning. And just then, his stomach growled. Natasha looked at him over her shoulder with a smile. She seemed annoyed and amused at the same time. "You're harshing my mellow here, Barnes."
They saluted each other, and Natasha walked past him into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and removed a plate of French toast and a small bottle of brown liquid. She poured the liquid over the toast, returned the bottle to the refrigerator and slammed it shut. The plate of food she put into a small rectangular devise and pressed a button. "Have a seat."
Taking down a glass, she went back to the refrigerator and poured a glass of milk. She set the milk, napkin and silverware on the table. The device dinged, and when she took the food out, he could smell the eggs, the scent reminding him of Norman and Lucy. He wanted to know how they were doing, but was reluctant to make contact for fear of bringing attention to them.
James placed the napkin in his lap the way Norman told him. He picked up the fork as Natasha set the plate in front of him. He cut a corner off and ate it with her watching, obviously expecting some response to her efforts. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
And those were the last words they said to each until he awoke during the night, screaming.
Brooklyn, New York
Unsure of the etiquette involved for a first date in this new century, Steve elected not to give Maria flowers. She didn't seem the type to expect such a gesture. He asked Kiba, and she agreed that flowers were more of a special occasion thing these days.
A door opened and closed, then footsteps tapped on the hardwood floor. Looking up from the bottom of the stairs, Steve smiled when Maria appeared, dressed in black pants and a brown vest with a black top underneath that had lace across the front affording him a view of her cleavage. She looked cool and sophisticated making him feel drab and old-fashioned in comparison in his khaki slacks, white t-shirt and plaid shirt with the top button open.
When Maria reached the bottom step, Steve smiled and she returned it. "Ready to go?"
"I am. Want me to drive?"
For an answer, he handed her the keys. That way, he could watch her instead of the road. Sam crossed the living room, taking in their unusual attire. "Aren't you a little overdressed for chicken and dumplings?"
Clint and Santino drifted over leaving Dooney and Kiba on the sofa. Santino crossed his arms and put on a mock scowl. "Where are you kids off to?"
Steve helped her on with her jacket then grabbed his from the chair by the stairs. "Out to dinner."
"You're not invited, Barton," Maria tacked on as she buttoned her jacket. Her eyes met his, and that spark of mischief was there. "Might go to a movie as well."
Unable to help himself, Steve smiled. "Or a baseball game."
As they left through the garage door, Maria called out, "Don't wait up!"
Steve opened the garage door while Maria started the car and buckled her seatbelt. At the corner, she turned to look at him with that provocative smile. "Baseball game, huh?"
Shrugging, he graced her with a smile of his own. "Hoping to at least get to first base."
She pulled into traffic, keeping her eyes on the road. "That's a sure thing, Rogers. In fact, you might even make it as far as third. We could try out one of those variations I mentioned."
Shaking his head at their conversation, Steve turned on the radio, softly so they could talk. "Sounds like you have it all planned."
Talk moved on to other topics for the remainder of the drive to The Old Haunt. They took their place in line, and soon a uniformed valet exchanged the keys for a ticket. Maria held Steve's arm as they climbed the steps, and just before they went inside, she whispered, "If you liked bases one through three, you're going to love the home run and the grand slam."
Before he could formulate a response, they were being shown to their table. And for the first time, it actually felt like they were on a date, not just two friends sharing a meal.
When she smiled, a slight dimple appeared in her right cheek. The urge to reach across the table to touch it hard to resist. Instead, Steve saved that for when they were alone and the first pitch had been thrown out. For now, he was content to just hold her hand. He wanted to say something romantic and affectionate without being over-the-top. Nothing had come to mind by the time their drinks arrived.
Maria sipped her ginger ale and cranberry juice then set it aside to look at the menu. "Haven't seen Sullivan since yesterday."
She set the menu aside and picked up her glass. "Meant to tell you. His only living relative is his maternal great-aunt. He called to check on her and was told she'd been taken to the hospital. Left in the middle of the night."
"Hope she's okay."
Nodding, she took another sip of the drink. "Don't be surprised if he doesn't stay in touch." She scooted her chair back and stood. "I'll be right back."
Steve stood as well, watching her walk away before resuming his seat.
The server came by to refill their water glasses just as Maria returned. The man held her chair, nodded and stood ready to take their order.
One of the things Steve liked most about Maria was that she knew what she wanted and seldom compromised. "Turkey club, easy bacon. Dijon instead of mayo, just a few fries. Steve?"
"I'll take the same with a full order of fries plus a double cheeseburger."
The server looked at him as if he were crazy, but didn't say a word about his food choices. He picked up the menus and tucked them under his arm. "Would you like refills on the drinks?"
"The same for the lady, and bring me a beer. Whatever's on tap." When the server was gone, Steve held out his hand and Maria lay hers in it. "You okay?"
"Fine. Why do you ask?"
He shrugged one shoulder. "You seem tired."
"Meh. I can sleep when I'm dead." She said the last with a rueful smile so he'd know she was teasing, and he returned it.
"Still want to see a movie?"
She pulled her hand free and picked up her drink. "A moonlight stroll along the boardwalk is fine."
"Then that's what we'll do. After we dance, of course."
~~O~~
Used to keeping a straight face under the worst kinds of conditions, it irked Maria that she was having a problem doing so now. The throbbing in her hand seemed to get worse every day. With the search for Barnes in limbo for the time being, she could afford the time to see a doctor. Until today, she hadn't wanted to be away from the team. She also hadn't wanted Steve to know that the over the counter pain meds had stopped working. In order to keep going, something stronger was needed.
A few days ago, she'd seen Dooney taking prescription meds. She got him alone and asked for a couple of the pills. At first he'd been reluctant, but in the end, he'd given her three, with the admonishment to see the doctor ASAP.
Maria had used her trip to the ladies room to take one of the pills. They worked quickly, and by the time their food arrived, she was feeling better except for the annoying dizziness. Her appetite had taken a beating too. She was only able to eat half of the sandwich. The rest, she pushed across the table for Steve to finish. His metabolism required almost four times the number of calories of the average adult male. That made about two thousand just at dinner.
A server came to take their plates. "Would you like coffee and dessert?"
"None for me. Steve?"
"Maybe later, thanks."
This time, Maria reached for Steve's hand. The music changed from the light jazz the band had been playing to something more his style. "Dance?"
"Sure."
Now that Steve at least knew the basics, he led her to the dance floor and drew her into his arms, moving them around the floor to the slow and easy beat. The song ended, and Maria stayed still, waiting to see what Steve would do.
Maria recognized the next song, but didn't know the artist. A young woman dressed in forties style clothing, stepped up to the microphone. Her voice had a sultry, smoky quality that complimented the lyrics.
You'd be so nice to come home to
You'd be so nice by the fire
While the breeze on high, sang a lullaby
You'd be all my heart could desire
The remainder of the lyrics were lost to Maria when Steve leaned back and smiled. "It's true. You are nice to come home to. Or for me to be there when you come home."
Steve echoed Maria's slow smile, and though he seemed to have more to say, and she had a hunch what it might be, she wasn't ready to hear it. Not yet. To stop him from saying something they might both regret, at least for now, she drew a finger over the curve of his jaw to the corner of his mouth. "Let's get out of here."
~~O~~
From his seat the living room, Dooney heard Clint, Sam and Santino washing the dishes and talking football. Kiba was surfing the channels looking for something to watch. She stopped on a science fiction movie, something about a human living and working with aliens. The man had been kidnapped from Earth as a child on the day his mother passed away from cancer. Dooney had never cared for science fiction, but was willing to endure it to spend time with Kiba. Twenty minutes later, Dooney'd had enough. Swiping the remote from her lap, he turned off the television, stood and held out his hand. "Let's take a walk."
Those perfectly shaped eyebrows drew together over her nose as she took his hand. Outside, he tucked that hand around his arm, setting the pace slow and deliberate. At the end of the block farthest from the brownstone, he slowed to a stop in front of the store. It was still open, but would be closing soon.
"What's wrong, Dooney? You've been acting weird the past couple of days. Not that we've known each other that long."
He sat down on the brick planter filled with brightly colored flowers in full bloom and pulled her onto his knee, one hand on her waist and the other on her upper thigh. Intimate, but not too much so for being in public. "A couple of months ago, I was diagnosed with a rare form of leukemia. I declined treatment because the cure was worse than the disease."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I've since changed my mind. I'll be going to the doctor next week to talk options." Her sad smile made him feel like a heel for even starting this conversation, but it had to be said. "Look, Kiba, this isn't easy to say, especially now." The urge to hold her close, for comfort more than anything, was strong. "I like you, Kiba. A lot."
One slender arm snaked around his neck. "I like you too. A lot."
"I wanted you to know what you were getting into before we go any further." Kiba rubbed her palm up and down his bicep, and Dooney wondered if she knew her thoughts were reflected in her eyes.
"What did your family say when you told them?"
He shook his head. "The closest thing I have to family is Clint." At her inquiring glance, he explained, "My mother died when I was a teenager. Been on my own since I was sixteen. Ran away from the foster home."
"And those pills I've seen you taking?"
"Pain meds, iron supplements, anti-seizure meds, a few others. Only temporary relief from the symptoms. Every couple of weeks, the dosage has to be adjusted."
Her arm tightened around his neck briefly, then she stood, holding out her hand. "Come on."
Kiba led him back to the brownstone. "Where're we going?"
That sweet smile Dooney found charming turned devilish. More so when Kiba winked. "My place."
~~O~~
Kiba and Dooney circled around to the back door to enter through the garage. Sam, Santino and Clint were in the living room watching television. From the sound of screeching tires, gunfire, and souped up car engines, it could only be a Bruce Willis movie. The guys were so engrossed, they didn't notice Kiba leading Dooney through the kitchen and up the stairs to her bedroom.
The door clicked shut and Dooney immediately gathered her into an embrace. Because of the differences in their heights, Kiba snaked her arms around his waist. He urged her to lay her head against his shoulder and just held her.
They stayed just like that for what seemed like a long time. Then Dooney released her, and before she could make her next move, he picked her up and carried her to the bed. She scooted over so he could join her after he removed her shoes then his own.
The bed shifted with his greater weight, rocking her toward him. He took advantage and kissed her. At the same time, his leg came to rest between her thighs.
It had been so long since she felt desirable as a woman instead of being treated like one of the guys that she wanted it to last. Her last few experiences had been hurried encounters in the supply tent with one of the men on her squad. They hadn't even gotten completely undressed much less engaged in foreplay other than kissing. They'd satisfied each other for the short term, but that was it.
Now, Kiba wanted and needed a more emotional connection with her partner, and Dooney gave every sign that he wanted the same. If she had to guess, she'd say he'd reordered his priorities recently. From his tone, it sounded as if someone had convinced him that life was a journey and his was just starting, and she was happy to reap the benefits.
Curling her fingers, she dug furrows in Dooney's back through the material of his shirt. He separated their mouths to look into her eyes and smiled. One hand came up to brush the hair from her forehead so he could press a tender kiss on that spot.
Dooney kissed first the left then the right temple, her cheekbones, her closed eyelids, the corners of her mouth, and lastly, the end of her nose. And when Kiba laughed, he once again took her mouth, gently at first, as if asking for permission. In response, she gave him what he wanted while making a few requests of her own.
Kiba gasped when his fingers ventured under her shirt to touch the skin of her stomach, inching upward so slowly that it felt like torture while at the same time sparking a fire deep inside that sped along her nerve endings.
And suddenly, she no longer wanted to go slow. There would be time for that later. Prodding him over onto his back, Kiba raised up on one knee and swung the other over so that she was now straddling Dooney's upper thighs. She raised up onto her knees, leaning forward at the same time to capture his lips while her hands went to work unbuttoning his shirt.
Dooney's palms skimmed up her arms to her shoulders and from there, down her back to her hips, moving around to open the front of her pants. He slid under the edge of the loosened material, around to the back and down so that his big hands could squeeze her bottom through her satin bikini panties.
It was her turn to stop the kiss. She sat back onto the tops of his thighs, crossed her arms to grab the hem of her top. Unexpectedly, he stopped her. "Are you sure, Kiba? I can't offer you more than this. Don't know if I'll ever be able to."
"Doesn't matter."
He sat up, wrapped her in his arms and flipped her onto her back, his mouth so urgent against hers, she knew that he'd held back until given the word. Soon they were awash in sensation, Dooney treating her to his uninhibited fire and passion. And neither of them would ever be the same.
~~O~~
Patrol Officer Joy Stanhope cruised through the old apartment complex while her partner, a rookie by the name of Ricardo Ortiz, used a spotlight to check all the nooks and crannies for squatters. Graffiti covered the visible sides of every building. Much of it was true art, worthy of being hung in a gallery. The rest was merely obscene commentary on modern life and examples of the failure of the public educational system.
"What time should we be there Saturday?" Most of Ortiz's attention was on the job while a small percentage carried on a non-work related conversation with his partner.
"The party starts around three so two." Stanhope, a ten-year veteran of the NYPD, peered into the darkness, trying to see beyond the area illuminated by the high beams. "I really appreciate you and Michelle helping out with the twin's birthday party. With Hank deployed and my parents living in Boca, I'm so stressed out I can barely sleep sometimes."
Ortiz nodded at the vente coffee in the cup holder. "That's not helping, Joy. Caffeine, like sugar, is slow poison."
"This from the guy who always has a double serving of cake at every party." Stanhope eased her foot down on the brake, shining the spotlight between two buildings.
Her partner snorted. "I'm building up an immunity. Like being vaccinated against measles or chicken pox."
Stanhope snorted. "Bullshit. The first thing out of your mouth every time you're invited to a party is 'What kind of cake are we having?'" She accelerated around a corner and slammed on the breaks. "Stupid kids!"
Sighing, Ortiz got out, joined by Stanhope. With her dark skin and dark blue uniform, she was difficult to see in the near total blackness. A moment later, Ortiz's flashlight came on. One hand on her weapon, Stanhope led the way between two buildings.
They separated to approach the vehicle from opposite sides. The sounds of kissing and soft laughter came through the open rear windows, and she could see movement. Taking two steps back, she called out, "NYPD! Step out of the vehicle! Nice and slow, kids. Keep your hands where I can see 'em."
Above the whisper of the wind, Stanhope heard a dual groan of frustration. A moment later, the door opened and a man and a woman, stepped out.
Ortiz came to her side, purposely shining the light in their eyes. The man didn't seem to notice, though the woman turned her head to avoid the glare.
He was thirtyish, with sandy hair, blue eyes and looked like he'd raided his grandfather's closet. Confidence and a whiff of embarrassment emanated from him.
The woman was approximately the same age and looked chic in a black and brown top and black slacks. She gave off the same confidence, but without the embarrassment. Both were fully dressed yet disheveled in a way that said they'd been interrupted before the big event. With a smirk, the woman asked, "Help you with something, officers?"
TBC
"You'd Be So Nice to Come Home to" is a popular song written by Cole Porter for the 1943 film Something to Shout About.