A/N: Spoiler alert for Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Avengers: Age of Ultron, Captain America: Civil War, Ant-Man, and Spiderman: Homecoming.
As always, many thanks go out to CapriceAnn Hedican-Kocur for the Beta. Thanks also to Winter-Soldier-88 and karina0001 for the brainstorming.
Year From Hell: Season 3, in progress. Please stand by…
Note: I'm issuing a warning for this chapter due to it containing dark subject matter.
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 70
The video ended. Bucky closed the application and got to his feet, hands clenched as he paced from one side of the room to the other, faster and faster, his rage increasing with every step.
"Degheneraat! Zhopu porvu margala vikoliu!"
He drew his fist back to drive it through the wall, and stopped. Nothing would be accomplished by destroying Andrei's home. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, held it, and let it out again several times. The anger was still there, but now he wouldn't beat the shit out of the next person who crossed his path.
With a sigh, Bucky resumed his seat, closed down the computer, removed the thumb drive, and put it in his pocket. Taking out the key that had been in the book with the drive, he went through the kitchen to the back door, using a gloved finger to move the curtain aside. Andrei's backyard was much smaller and better maintained, but no shed. Whatever the key went to had to be inside the house.
Bucky began his search in the master bedroom. From there he checked out the second bedroom furnished with a twin bed, nightstand, lamp, and a small dresser. The only things in the closet were empty hangers.
The hall closet likewise yielded only frustration. Then, he remembered something from a movie he'd watched with Natasha. In it, the killer came and went through a series of secret passages behind the bookshelves in the library. The house wasn't large enough for that, but it wouldn't hurt to try.
In the living room, he stood in front of the bookshelves, once again hoping for inspiration. Nothing seemed out of place, though logic told him that Andrei would likely have placed the access at head height. They were approximately the same height, so he began his search at one end. He removed the books and passed his hand over the edges, feeling for air currents and locks, finding none. Moving onto the next one, he did the same.
On his third attempt, Bucky knew he'd found the right one because, there in the upper left corner, he found a lock. Most wouldn't have seen it, but then, he wasn't most people. He inserted the key and turned. There was a click inside the wall, and the entire floor-to-ceiling panel swung out. A light automatically turned on, and the scene that greeted Bucky made him angry all over again, and a little nauseous.
Secție de Poliție
DPIR Office
Giurgiu, Romania
The Next Morning
A young police officer stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "This came for you, Inspector." He laid the package on the desk. "The bomb squad and the K-9 unit checked it out. No booby traps."
"Thank you, Sergeant."
Inspector Serghei Zaituc completed the report on which he'd been working when the Sergeant came in, saved his work, and closed the application. While sipping coffee, he examined the package noting that it had no postmark, stamp, or return address.
A fine layer of black powder indicated that it had been dusted for prints. The tattered end let him know that a sample had been sent to forensics for DNA analysis, but Serghei didn't hold out any hope. Most people were savvy enough to at least attempt to not leave traces. If any had been found, Theodor Trelles, the Sub-Inspector over Forensics, would have contacted him directly.
The envelope wasn't heavy and barely more than seven by ten centimeters. He dumped the contents, a single sheet of paper, a flash drive, and a key on the desk. The drive was a commonly available discount brand, as was the paper. The key was unusual in that it was an old fashioned skeleton key.
Watch the video
It was followed by two addresses, one at the outskirts north of the city, and the other to the east, a half kilometer outside of downtown. Next to the second was the notation, "Check the bookcase, third from the left". The skin around Serghei's watery blue eyes crinkled with annoyance.
"Probably a waste of time," he muttered under his breath as he inserted the drive in a USB port, put in his earbuds, and clicked play. By the end, his mouth was hanging open in shock. He closed it, swallowed hard, and played it one more time, pausing to write down a list of names.
Serghei shut off the video, downed the rest of his now cold coffee, and pressed the intercom. "Sergeant Nicu, please come to my office."
Moments later, a young woman wearing the insignia of a Police Principal Agent, Roxana Nicu, came in, standing at ease. "You wanted to see me, Inspector?"
"I have need of your specialized skills, Sergeant." He held out a sheet of paper. "Get me everything you can find on these people."
She quickly scanned the list, and Serghei knew she'd already committed it to memory. "Of course, sir. How soon?"
"Yesterday." With a nod, he dismissed her, knowing she wouldn't let him down. Typing furiously, he sent an email to the heads of several departments, advising them of an emergency meeting in the main conference room.
Of those he called to arms, Simon Gheorghiu, a long-time friend and the chief of detectives, slipped into the office without knocking. He pushed the phone out of the way and perched on the corner of the desk. "You've stirred up a hornet's nest, my friend. What's going on?"
Serghei ejected the drive, holding it as if it were a bomb about to explode. "How would you like to close out roughly twenty-odd cold cases going back, oh, say, fifteen years?" he tapped Simon's shoulder with the drive.
Taken aback, Simon sat up straight, and blinked. "What? Seriously?"
Proud that he'd stunned his friend, Serghei smiled. "If what is on this is the truth and not someone having fun at our expense, then ink up your 'closed' stamp. You're going to need it." He sniffed the air. "Mmm. Smells like someone's going to prison for a long, long time."
~~O~~
Hiding the attic of an empty house near Antonia's, Bucky watched the police surround and enter the premises by force. Not long after, two female officers came out with Antonia between them. She was wild-eyed, hair a mess, screaming that she had no idea what was going on. At the direction of the man in charge, the officers put her in the back of a squad car.
Bucky was sorry it had turned out like this, but if she was to get the help she needed, this was how it had to be. The brutality of the deaths and her constant denials, along with a magical appearance by some of the personalities, coupled with the irrefutable proof, would assure that Antonia would be sent to a mental health facility instead of a standard prison.
Via the app on his phone, he viewed another squad entering Andrei's home. Several of the officers hurriedly exited the home, standing in the grass, hands on their thighs, breathing through their mouths. At least one fell to his hands and knees, his stomach heaving. Again, this was how it had to be. And though Bucky kept telling himself that it was for Antonia's good, that didn't stop his thoughts and feelings of remorse. Much of it because he had genuinely liked Antonia, or rather whoever it was he'd been casually dating for the last few weeks. Maricara, if she was to be believed.
He let himself out the back door, reset the alarm, and made his way back to the hostel. To leave town now would look suspicious to the police who came around asking questions. Better he should wait until after the questioning.
That thought gave him an idea, but to make it seem plausible, he couldn't be seen again by the employees of Vasilescu Shipping and Transport or by anyone at the hostel. He needed some of his personal items, or he would just head out of town now. The only thing to do was to make it appear that his locker had been broken into and his possessions stolen. Once the police realized he was gone and no one had seen him in over twenty-four hours, it would, hopefully, be assumed that he'd been another of Antonia's victim, her last one, and the body hadn't been found yet.
Taking up a watchpoint from the rear of the general store across from the hostel, Bucky waited for most of the residents to go to bed. His plans to travel to Bucharest would have to be changed. If he was seen by anyone who knew him, then they might alert the authorities in Giurgiu. He gave a passing thought to Paris, dismissing it immediately. There was no way he could stay in the most romantic city in the world without Natasha.
He considered several other European cities that weren't too big, with plenty of tourists to hide among, and the residents weren't too nosy. No firm choice had been made by the time the manager had turned most of lights out. Moving around to look in other windows, Bucky found that only three of the current tenants were still awake. A young couple from Australia backpacking across Europe for their honeymoon were making out in a dim corner out of the way. Not that Bucky blamed them for choosing a public place for their semi-intimate moment. The bunks were roomy enough for one, but quite small for two. A single man sat in front of the television with headphones on, watching a documentary about African wildlife. From what he'd observed, the man could be anything from a zoology student to documentary filmmaker to someone who a thrill from watching a pride of lions devour their prey.
While they were otherwise occupied, Bucky snuck in the back door after disabling the camera and broke into the room housing the CCTV equipment. With just a few keystrokes, he'd disabled the entire system in such a way that no one would know it had been compromised. Then, he quietly climbed up to his bunk where he removed the photo of Natasha, stashing it in his shirt on the way back down. From there, he slipped into the room where the lockers were housed, and instead of using his key, he broke the hinges. The door swung open to hang by the small piece of metal in the lock. He shrugged into his backpack, buckled the chest straps, and tossed a few items he didn't need on the floor. To further set the scene, he broke into one other locker and left the clothing hanging half out as if the thief had been disturbed in the midst of the crime.
Then, he left the way he came in, softly closing the door, and breaking that lock as well. He ran in a different direction than his approaching footprints, disappearing into the park not far from the hostel, giving the police a trail to follow until he got to a fence. From there, he circled back to his starting point. If the police used dogs to follow the trail, they'd go around in circles.
When Bucky reached the fence on the second lap, he eyeballed the height, and easily jumped over, landing in a pile of sand ten feet from the barrier.
Bucky spent a few moments mentally sending well wishes to his co-workers and his friends from bakery, Lazlo and his wife.
All of the cities he was considering as his next temporary home were in the same general direction: east and north. But first, he had one more stop to make.
Secție de Poliție
Interrogation Room 3
Serghei watched through the two-way mirror while Simon interrogated Antonia Vasilescu regarding the deaths of twenty-three men and the disappearances of several more over the last fifteen years. At the age of twenty-seven, if she was indeed the killer, she'd committed her first murder while still in her teens. It wasn't for certain that all of the unsolved murders of men in that time could be attributed to the first female serial killer in Giurgiu, and only the second in the entire country. And their little station would be renowned throughout history as the ones responsible for her arrest and conviction.
Antonia kept glancing over at the armed officer stationed in the corner and tugging on her restraints where they were chained to the table. The table itself was bolted to the floor, so Simon had little to fear. However, caution was always an excellent idea in these cases.
She slapped her hands against the table. "I'm telling you I didn't do it! Why would I kill those men? Most of them worked for the company, and yes, I remember some of their names, even dated a few. But that doesn't mean I killed them. I have no motive. If memory serves, they were industrious workers who just stopped showing up one day. We assumed they'd moved on."
With the bland, slightly bored expression that belied Simon's steel-trap mind, he opened a folder and removed a stack of photos, which he handed to Antonia. As per protocol when attempting to elicit a confession, the photos were of the bodies as they appeared at the time of the investigation. Some were partially decomposed, two had been still quite fresh at the time of discovery, all had been stabbed multiple times with a knife. The same knife found beside the body of Andrei Vasilescu. "Do you expect me to believe you had nothing to do with their deaths when we have physical evidence to the contrary?"
"What evidence?" Antonia, challenged, pushing the photos away and covering her eyes.
Another series of photos slid across the table, but she barely looked at them. "We found these at your brother's home, hidden behind the bookcase in the living room. Each is a photo of one of these men," he nodded at the stack scattered over the table that he hadn't bothered to remove, using them to unnerve her, "with name, date, and approximate time of death that coincides with the coroner's reports." He leaned forward, putting emphasis on his words, "You are in at least three of them, holding the murder weapon, and your own brother claims it was you who did the deeds."
"My brother would never do such a thing. And why won't you let me see Andrei? He wouldn't stand for the way I'm being treated, like a common criminal. He's very protective." Her chin came up, pride for her brother in her expression.
Sighing, Simon opened the folder once more, giving the top photo a long stare before passing it to Antonia. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks as she sobbed. Simon watched for a few moments, then the crying abruptly stopped. Antonia lifted her head, her eyes saying she'd remembered something.
"O Doanme! It was them!"
"Them who?" Simon glanced over his shoulder with a puzzled shrug.
Antonia was still speaking, but to herself. "I never believed, but now it all makes sense. The blackouts, the bruises, bumps, and cuts where none had been before I went to bed." She turned pleading eyes on Simon. "It wasn't me who killed those men! It was them. The ones inside my head. The therapist and Andrei, they tried to tell me there were others," she tapped her temple, "in here. The story was so absurd, I thought they were lying." Her fingers clutched at Simon's and he did nothing to stop her. "Please believe me! I didn't do it! I'd never harm anyone. It was," her eyes twitched back and forth, searching her memory, "Mary something. I-I don't remember. And she's not the only one. Dr. Szabó said there were others."
Serghei clicked the intercom. "That's enough for now, Detective." To the female officer standing with him, he said, "Supervise the return to her cell and put her on a suicide watch while I contact the staff psychologist."
"Yes, Inspector."
Hand to his chin in thought, Serghei swore under his breath. Their open and shut cold cases had just taken a detour into what the Americans would call the Twilight Zone.
The Bennett Home
Joliet, Illinois
The Next Day
"I got it!" Dylan yelled to the household. As he rushed down the hall from the kitchen, the doorbell chimed again. Holding in his annoyance for their visitor's impatience, he put on a bland smile and opened the door. "Can I help you?"
At hearing his accent, the couple looked at each other and back to him, the woman doing the talking. "We're here to see Kaitlyn Bennett."
The woman, stylishly silver-haired, slender to the point he would call her skinny, with few wrinkles, and green eyes that looked as if they'd faded from have been left out in the sun too long. Her bearing was regal and haughty, as if she expected everyone to know who she was.
It was the same with the man. He exuded an imperiousness that was at least one level above arrogance, maybe more. Where the woman was silver, the man was grey with strands of white in his painstakingly sculpted four-inch beard. His eyes were the color Christine told him was called hazel, his body was trim and muscular.
Their clothing fairly screamed "money", and lots of it, and they wanted the world to know.
"Please come in and have a seat." As he ushered them into the living room, he saw that they both moved with the grace of a dancer. No wasted movements, each step precise. To poke a small hole in their arrogance, he smiled. "Who shall I say is calling?"
The woman's chin came up, her eyes narrowed, and lips pursed in annoyance. "Dinah St. John and Klaus von Richthofen. We operate the Evolve Academy for the Performing Arts. Kaitlyn auditioned for us several weeks ago."
"I will get her for you." Dylan's first stop was the top of the stairs where he sent a text to Christine and Oliver to let them know they had guests. At Kaitlyn's door, he put the phone away and knocked.
Kaitlyn scowled at seeing it was him. "What do you want?"
"Sorry to disturb you, but you have guests. Dinah St. John and her husband, Klaus von Richthofen." She gasped and closed the door in his face. Trying not to laugh, Dylan made his way back downstairs. "Kaitlyn will be right down. May I offer you something to drink? We have a fresh pot of coffee, water, a variety of juices and soft drinks, and milk. Unfortunately, we have nothing with alcohol."
That was a lie, but their behavior grated on his nerves to the point that it would be a very cold day in hell when he offered them the good wine.
Without consulting his wife, Klaus waved him away. "Nothing, thank you. We cannot stay."
As he reached the kitchen, Christine and Oliver came in from the back yard where they'd been sitting in the swing enjoying the sunshine and watching Eli playing soccer for the first time in over a year. They asked a question with their eyes and Dylan nodded toward the front of the house. "We appear to be entertaining royalty. Do not forget to curtsy and bow."
He made an exaggerated bow in demonstration. The couple rolled their eyes, and Christine swatted him on the behind as she passed.
Ignoring the murmur of voices from the front of the house, Dylan went back to washing the dishes and planning what to make for dinner. Though, if their guests were here for the reason he suspected, the family would likely go out to celebrate. That meant he would only need to feed himself tonight.
The last of the dishes had been stacked in the drainer and Dylan was drying his hands a high pitched squeal followed by excited babbling startled him into dropping the towel. He picked it up, tossed in the laundry room, and wandered out to the living room. Kaitlyn was jumping up and down in between hugging her parents and brothers. She'd put her hair into a bun and changed before coming downstairs.
A car engine roared to life and Dylan looked out the front window in time to see a long black limousine pull away from the curb. He turned at the sound of running coming toward him. Putting on a smile and holding out his hand to congratulate Kaitlyn, but didn't get the chance. She threw her arms around him, squeezed tight, and was gone up the stairs so fast, it was as if she hadn't been there, except for the memory of the squeals still ringing in his ears.
"I gotta call Emma!" was the last thing he heard before the slamming of her bedroom door.
Shaking his head and smiling to himself, Dylan went to the living room, poking a thumb over his shoulder. "Does that mean what I think it means?"
Eli, having announced that he wouldn't be using the wheelchair and oxygen for the entire day, jumped to his feet, doing his own version of a victory dance with Sawyer. "She got into the ballet school!"
However, Christine and Oliver, while happy, were more subdued. Not like them at all. "That's the good news." He crossed his arms, leveling his gaze at the couple. "Now what is the bad news?"
Getting to her feet, Christine paced over to the fireplace where a portrait of the family hung in a place of honor. "It's not bad news, per se. Just unexpected."
Oliver sat back, laying an ankle on the opposite knee. "Because the school's local, we thought she'd live at home. However, Ms. St. John and Mr. von Richthofen prefer that their students live on-campus. Early to bed and early to rise. They're of the opinion that commuting to and from the school every day would put unnecessary stress on the girls."
"I see." There were several conclusions to draw from their responses. The boys wouldn't have their older sister around to give them grief. Christine and Oliver alone could have more than a few concerns. They would miss seeing their daughter on a daily basis, of course. However, at seventeen, it was time for her to begin spreading her wings, so to speak. A major concern could be that the cost for Kaitlyn's housing would create a financial burden. With him there and not contributing to the household income in any way, the burden would be even greater. "It's understandable that you will miss your daughter."
If Dylan had learned anything about the couple who so generously opened their home to him, it was how to read their expressions. His thoughts must be open to them as well because they exchanged an uneasy glance.
Christine crossed the room, touching the boys on the shoulder. "Go outside and play, guys. And don't forget, we're going out to dinner."
"Okay, Mom!" they shouted in unison over the muffled thumps of their sneakers on the carpet.
"And don't slam…" Oliver winced when the back door rattled in its frame. "Why do I bother?" he mumbled under his breath. Once all was quiet again, his attention returned to Dylan. "What's wrong?"
How to express what he was feeling without hurting theirs? "With these unforeseen expenditures, my presence in your home will put an even greater financial burden on the family. You've been so kind, I cannot allow it to continue. Next week, I will begin looking for a job and find a place of my own as soon as possible."
To Dylan's surprise and shock, Oliver leapt to his feet, exclaiming, "You'll do no such thing!"
As if they'd planned it, Christine stepped forward, one hand out placatingly, "What Oliver's trying to say is you're a part of this family now, for as long as you need or want to be, Dylan. That means you get a job and move out when you want to. Not because you think you're a burden."
"Because you're not." Then, they both smiled, and Oliver explained, "The ballet school offers a full scholarship to a student who has shown exceptional talent, which includes room and board. This year, it's Kaitlyn."
"Right. All we need contribute is spending money for clothes and such." Christine touched him gently on the arm. "We both make a good salary. More than enough, even without the scholarship."
"Oh. I did not see that coming." Embarrassed that he'd assumed the worst, Dylan sighed in relief. "Then I suppose there's only one thing left to say." He grinned. "Where are we going to celebrate?"
~~O~~
To keep from upsetting them, Dylan kept his smile until Christine and Oliver returned to their place on the wooden swing in the back yard. Inside him, there was a presence. He didn't know what it was. Only that it seemed related to whatever Sonja had done to him before Christine had come along.
Each time one of the bad dreams came to him, he awoke with the sense that something dark, powerful, and extremely dangerous lurked deep in his mind just waiting for the right opportunity to kill and maim anyone who crossed his path. Living with the Bennett family virtually guaranteed that they'd be the first to die. Consciously, the thought sickened him, but his subconscious had other ideas. It relished death and being the cause. His stomach clenched, bringing with it nausea, dizziness, and a pounding headache similar to that he experienced after one of the dreams.
Time away from the house that didn't entail shopping or taking a solitary walk was just what he needed, or so he hoped. Maybe then he would sleep without the nightmares and he could stay in the den instead of moving to Christine's office after the household had retired to their rooms for the night.
On those nights they were especially terrifying, he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, and that's why he'd taken on making the meals and doing many of the chores around the house. Keeping his hands and mind busy seemed to help. But it wasn't enough. And he sensed it would never be enough. He needed… more. But more of what, he wasn't sure.
Even though he wasn't a spiritual person, he said a prayer that it would all end before innocent people died because of him.
The Lewis Family Home
Orlando, Florida
Scratching his stomach through his t-shirt, Steve yawned and padded barefoot into the kitchen, lured out of bed by the enticing scent of coffee. He poured himself a cup and went out to sit on the back steps. The door to the studio was open and Darcy was scrubbing the windows, nodding her head to the beat of music in the same genre to which they'd danced the night they officially met.
This one also had a bouncy beat and catchy lyrics.
You were my toy but I could be the boy you adore
If you'd just let me know, bah dah dah
Although you're untrue, I'm attracted to you all the more
Why do I need you so?
baby, baby, try to find
Hey, hey, hey, a little time and I'll make you mine
Hey, hey, hey, I'll be home
I'll be beside the phone waiting for you
Ooh ooh ooh, ooh ooh ooh
Why do you build me up, build me up, buttercup, baby
Just to let me down, let me down, and mess me around?
And then worst of all, worst of all, you never call, baby
When you say you will, say you will, but I love you still
I need you, I need you, more than anyone, darlin'
You know that I have from the start
So build me up, build me up, buttercup, don't break my heart
Darcy spun around, waving her arms over her head until she got to the sink, winding up for the big finish. She rinsed the cloth, wrung it out, and went back to cleaning the window.
I, I, I need yo-u-u more than anyone, baby
You know that I have from the start
So build me up, build me up, buttercup, don't break my heart
Happy that she seemed to have risen above the usual depression that sets in upon hearing of the death of a loved one, Steve set his cup on the step, stood, and applauded as he walked to the open door. Her face lit up at seeing him, motioning for him to join her.
The room had once been what was called a mother-in-law apartment. Now, it was filled with the unfinished work of a supremely talented artist. "That was quite a performance." He gestured to the room. "You've been busy."
"Woke up and couldn't go back to sleep. There's a lot to do in the house, but I didn't want to wake you."
"You could hire a company to pack it up for you."
"Can't afford it."
He didn't want to bring up the next subject, but needed to know their plans coming up. "How did it go at the lawyer's office?"
"Oh, you know." She made pinching motions with her fingers. "They talk, talk, talk, and never really say anything."
Crossing his arms, Steve instinctively took a wide stance as if preparing for battle. "Something must've gotten through. I tried to wait up for you. Went to bed around midnight."
She grabbed a tin can filled with paintbrushes, stiff with dried acrylic. None had been cleaned telling Steve that what happened to Joni Lewis had come on suddenly. Darcy waved the brushes as if she didn't know what to do with them. "Mom preferred natural to synthetic, but natural is too hard to clean." She tossed the brushes in a large silver can lined with a plastic bag. "All I really cared about was the funeral arrangements. We, uh, we never talked about it, Mom and me."
Taking a seat on a padded bench, she folded her hands together between her knees. "Didn't want to because that would make it more real, I suppose."
Steve sat next to Darcy, taking her hand, and just holding it. "All while she was in the TB ward, Mom thought she'd kick it, so we never talked about it either. Left it all up to me."
Darcy squeezed back and produced a smile. "You were just a boy when it happened."
"I was seventeen," he shot back indignantly, but also with a small smile. "The plot next to Dad was available, so I used most of the life insurance to buy it. Bucky was the only one of my friends who came to the funeral. He and his mom."
"Mom wants to be cremated and her ashes buried on the Guggenheim Museum property."
He couldn't help it. Steve snorted and shook his head. "We can't do that."
"No, of course not." She seemed to be agreeing with him, if not for the gleam in her eyes. Getting to her feet, Darcy went to one of the easels, gripped the edge of the cloth cover, and flipped it over. The canvas was blank.
On a table near the center of the room was an incomplete sculpture, the cloth was dried out, as was the bit of clay that could be seen. Without asking if it would be okay, Steve carefully removed the cloth and stared. Joni had nearly finished a bust of Darcy, captured as a younger woman, head tilted up to the sky, a dreamy expression of wonder in her eyes. All that was necessary to complete it was the details. "Inspiring."
An elbow jabbed Steve in the ribs. "Take it in the house for me. Most of the rest has to be thrown out."
Steve picked up the bust and set it down again, pointing to a dark corner. "Are those blank canvases?"
Darcy looked where he was pointing, unconcerned. "Probably. I'll donate them to the high school or something. While you're in the house, get changed, and you can go through them just to be sure."
"Okay. Um, Darce?"
She didn't look up from her task of tossing out the dried out paints and brushes. "Hmm?"
"Whenever you're ready to eat, let me know."
A scoff greeted his request. "No, thanks, Rogers. You're a terrible cook."
"True, but I can make toast and a mean bowl of Cheerios."
"What a coincidence. I just happen to love toast, butter, no jam, and Cheerios, milk, no sugar. And coffee."
~~O~~
True to his word, as always, Steve had changed into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt purchased at the local Discount Mart for working around the house. He brought them each a fresh cup of coffee and a couple slices of buttered toast.
Darcy didn't ask about the cereal. She was too lost in her own thoughts of her mother and conversations they'd had over the years about her biological dad. Greg had been a great father, taking on a child that wasn't his and loving her and her mom so much, he'd readily agreed when the possibility of adoption had been suggested.
Steve set his coffee cup on top of a tall cabinet and pulled out several canvasses, giving each a cursory glance as he flipped through them. He leaned them against the front of the cabinet and moved on.
They worked quietly except for the music. No unneeded conversation, and Darcy got lost in the past once more.
Queens, New York
After School
Ten Days Later
Taking a deep breath, Peter went over in his mind what he would say to Felicia on the subway ride, if anything, about the intense kisses he'd shared with another girl while at the same time being attracted to her. Shit. How do adults do this? I'll just wait a couple weeks. Try to figure out if Felicia likes me as much as I like her before asking her out.
"Yo, Peter," a familiar voice whispered next to his ear. "You in there?"
"Uh," he looked around. He and Felicia were alone at the school's side entrance where they usually met for the walk to the subway. "Yeah. Yeah. Fine." He motioned for her to go and came up next to her, thumbs under the straps of his backpack.
Felicia always seemed to be studying him and taking mental notes about his character and intellect, and finding him lacking in both. Then, she would smile and he'd forget what he was going to say.
"Looked like you were off in another world."
Peter shrugged and returned her smile. "Just, you know, thinking." Internally, he cringed. You need better material, Parker, just like Cat said. "I have an AP history exam tomorrow."
"Ditto," she replied while taking out her wallet and flipping to her MetroCard. "We could study together tonight. If you want."
He didn't have to think twice, except to hold down his excitement. "Sure. I can come to your place."
"Let's do it at yours. Too many distractions."
"That's cool. Oh, not that you're distracted, but, you know, coming to my apartment." His phone was already in his hand, so he quickly sent her a text with the address. Confidence, he reminded himself. "Come for dinner first. Aunt May's a pretty good cook."
Once again, Felicia tilted her head to the side thoughtfully, making Peter want to tug at his collar. "A homecooked meal sounds great."
That comment and her tone puzzled Peter. "Your foster family doesn't cook?"
"Not so much. Always too busy. Know what I mean?"
"Yeah." The train pulled into the station, stopped, and together, they hopped on, taking the seats to the left of the door. "If I wasn't there, May would probably eat Wong's takeout every night."
It was too noisy to talk, so they stuck in earbuds to listen to music and texted back and forth about nothing that Peter could remember later. Over the few weeks they'd known each other, they'd become comfortable with each other. Not like his friendship with Ned or MJ or Betty, but more… he wasn't sure how to categorize it. When they were together, it felt familiar and new at the same time.
Two stops before Peter's, Felica stood and put her backpack on. They waved to each other as the doors closed between them.
The Parker Apartment
Queens, New York
5:45 PM
Peter did a quick hair, breath, and clothes check on the way to the door, and gave one last nervous glance over his shoulder at May tossing a salad. All he told her was a friend would be joining for dinner and to study without mentioning that the friend was a girl.
He opened the door, his smile of greeting faded when he saw who was standing next to Felicia. Then it hit him. The table had been set for four places, not three.
TBC
Russian:
Degheneraat! Zhopu porvu margala vikoliu! = Degenerate! I'll rip your ass and poke out your eyes!
Romanian:
Secție de Poliție = police station
O Doanme= Oh, my God!
DPIR = Detașamentul de Poliție pentru Intervenție Rapidă or Police Rapid Intervention Squad is the common name in Romania for county-level police rapid intervention units.
"Build Me Up Buttercup" is a song written by Mike d'Abo and Tony Macaulay, and released by The Foundations in 1968 with Colin Young singing lead vocals. Young had replaced Clem Curtis during 1968 and this was the first Foundations hit on which he sang.