{5}
Coldness solidified over his lips. Barry lowered his body into spiriting position, he balanced all of his weight on one leg; gritting his teeth, he felt the pain residing in his lower, bruised abdomen. Wincing as his body decried for rest, Barry managed to steal a glance at Captain Steven Rogers: he was dressed in a dark navy blue Avenger's hooded sweatshirt and track pants; he'd aligned his bulky frame parallel to Barry. His spiked blond hair was ruffled, unkempt and his light azure eyes were gleaming with icy flecks of cold steel- the unyielding, daunting and unyielding gaze of Captain America—the First Avenger.
Taking in a lungful of air in his lungs; Barry became highly aware that the lethal and ethereal Natasha Romanova was watching them, the red haired spy sat indignantly on the hood of her sleek black Corvette; casully sipping a thermos of hot chocolate which Steve had whipped up back at the apartment, while she scarlet ringlets twirled against her ivory skin, and draped over her keen obscured teal eyes.
"Focus Barry," he chided in his frigid breath, feeling his stiff muscles protest against the strain."Don't be a showoff in front of Natasha," he pushed away those invading thoughts of impressing Natasha. It made no sense of crushing on her, it was obvious that she had deep feelings for Steve, the way he had been with Iris—unspoken. Every waking moment was filled with the constant thoughts of Iris, he was using those reserves of hope as a distraction, always stirring in the depths of his subconscious.
It was endless torture, to feel his heart bleeding, especially when he saw her sitting at the Coffee Bean with Eddie and the hidden truth of her dark eyes were like siren call every time he looked past her masks and found the beautiful, strong and stubbornly independent woman he had loved since he first walked into Joe's home—but she was in love with Eddie, and he couldn't tamper with her happiness, regardless on how much he cherished her more than a friend.
He needed to run. Shifting his eyes back onto super-soldier, Barry felt his lips curl into a smirk, "I'll try to match your pace to make it an even race for you, Cap," he lightly teased, feeling his blood recharging in his veins. His knuckles cracked as the cold ground penetrated against the soft flesh of rigid palm.
"Thank you, now I feel more assured that might have a chance of beating the fastest man alive," Steve joked back, with an even a drawl, even though a hollow laugh emitted from the back of his throat.
His focused eyes burned into smoldering blue embers of determination and relentless fire, the broadness of his jaw squared, and his lips pressed into a thin line, the currents of the serum began to surge in his veins; he recalled of his heightened-enhanced speed; he felt the adrenaline rush coiling in his mass of thick, sculpted muscles as each tendon flexed under his clothes.
Gathered up a deep breath, Steve leveled his firm stare on the young man, and planted his gloved hand against the snow coated cement, "Stay on my right, son," he spoke with authority rising in his firm voice. "... and I'll stay on your left."
Barry nodded in response, his eyes flickered with red charges of energy—almost like intense red lightning.
"Okay, on my mark..."
"Maybe you should get a head's start," Barry offered, heaving out a steady breath, amused that Steve was glaring at him with a patronizing look. "I'm just trying to be nice." The Speed Force glowed in his gray eyes, his bones turned to fire, heart sped out faster as he a took a second to cherish this moment with his childhood hero and one of the greatest men he'd ever had a honor to know in his lifetime:Captain America.
As he closed his eyes, Barry listened to the pounding of his heart—his greatest strength—resounding in his ears. For some reason, he was breaking into a sweat, and breath seemed ragged. The pain was still idle in his mid-section. His skin became flushed, but he wasn't backing down from the challenge. When he felt the vibrations of Steve's voice telling him to run...His eyes snapped open and and the speed coursed through his body, he took off like a bullet released from the chamber of a gun, leaving a jet stream of red and a dumbfound super-soldier behind him.
The ground beneath his feet rumbled with the aftershocks he kept sprinting, forgetting about the pain; the world became a blur and Barry felt himself coming alive-admonishing the thrill of running into the white vortex of snow and ice.
"Son of a gun," Steve panted, curving his lips into a weak grin. He felt the air slice over his skin. He edged forwards to the remaining energy, his feet driving into the ground as he mustered up the full extent of his athleticism, blood pulsating faster and body spearheading through the wall of snow as Barry zipped ahead to the finish line, he couldn't beat the young man's enhanced speed or resilience.
In the moment Barry had blazed down the trail, Steve smirked and paused, his blue eyes fixed incredulously on the red streak piecing through the snow; he pressed the comlink lodged in his left ear, "Well, Nat, what do you think of the kid?"
"The kid's good...Really good." Natasha returned smartly, with an impressive smirk crossing over her lips. "Now, if he can pick up Thor's mighty hammer, he'll be an Avenger by the end of the week..."
"Yeah, I know. The kid moves like a speeding bullet," Steve intoned with an astonished timbre in his wavering voice; falling specks of snow brushed over his chiseled stoic features.
He felt discontentment singed with vexation as he watched Barry halt at the end of the path, moving with clambering steps to the cut of barren trees. He clenched his jaw, against biting wind, and released a breath, "We need to keep an close eye on him, Nat if HYDRA's top thugs discover that Barry is apart of the Avengers."
There was a gravity of unsettling wariness in his voice. Something felt displaced in his core, the situation could turn dire if he didn't keep both eyes open.
Steve had to protect Barry; keep him under the radar and away from the public. The Avenger's Tower would serve as a safe haven for the young speedster, but the uneasiness residing in his gut was paramount, and he needed to search for answers—he need to become embroiled in Barry's past and leave his team left in the dark.
Considering his options, Steve narrowed his eyes down, his brow creased into hardened expressed and his fist clenched. "He'll be a marked a target...an obsession for Strucker's inhumane experiments," he warned through clenched teeth, a look of a heated glare shone in his eyes; he blew out a frustrated breath. "I'm not gonna risk his life, and let HYDRA claw their way into Central City." His stern words held an edge of defiance as he looked at Natasha from afar. "Call Maria, tell her we need information on STAR Labs. Something just doesn't feel right in my gut."
Natasha smacked her lips together, sourly. "Well, I'll let you worry about that, Cap," she played out, smirking darkly. She slid her lithe frame off the car's hood, smacking her heeled boots on the frozen cement. "Now, if you will excuse me, old man, I have go give the winner a victory hug."
Steve shook his head, she was torturing him with degrees of manipulation; and he had to walk away. "Stay close to him, Nat," he ordered, firmly. He pulled out his mobile phone, and quickly sent a text into Sam Wilson's mailbox. "There's something I've gotta do."
"Let me guess, duty calls for the super-soldier," she prodded, with an indignant tone. Her eyes darkened in the moment her teal eyes stared at Barry sitting on a mound of snow. "Don't worry, the kid and I are going to have some fun."
"Just keep him standing, Nat, and no vodka," Steve adjured smugly, glancing at her slender body sauntering through the clusters of trees. "I mean it, Natasha. I want him alert enough for training tomorrow."
"Relax, Cap," Natasha echoed back, with a hint of snark. "I'll keep him under my shadow."
"That's what I'm worried about," Steve retorted walking away, his boots thumped sternly and his braced his hands pockets.
Moaning out a noise of anguish, Barry swiped his hand over his frozen lips, looking down he noticed a fleck of red smeared over his knuckles.
His features went slack, and his eyes hazed over as feverish wave clashed against him, and he felt sick—he was tasting a coppery tang of blood. When he caught Natasha's ablaze of red hair in his view, he straightened onto his feet, and smiled back at her, pretending that every was fine, despite his dizziness and sense of feeling utterly drained. He needed to show that he was strong for both her and Steve. "Hey," he dared, quirking his stiff lips into a bright smile. "I'll race you to the nearest Starbucks?"
Natasha cocked her eyebrow up, feeling blood heat in her veins. "You're on, kid..."
The nightmares slipped away. Everything around him became swallowed in a vast gray haze of morning light. The scent of brewing coffee permeated the apartment, lulling him to recall his strength at matching the pace of his heartbeat.
It seemed impossible at first, almost a vague taste of living in a surreal world. He was miles away from Central City, spending his days hiding under the shield of Captain America and regaining his will to fight the demons of his past.
He had lost trust within himself, allowing emotions to consume his heart when the tension of battle struck him down. He had craved for a chance to redeem his failures and to find another reason to get back into the game. Sacrifice had kept him barred. He made a difficult decision so that a family wouldn't have to undergo the same tragedy he endured for a lifetime in being haunted by recurring memories.
Barry took a deep breath, willing his mind away from the ridges of his dark memories. He stood in front of the wall-mirror in the guest room; he allowed his passive gray eyes to drift over the darkened area of the closet, fixing his intent gaze on the heap of red gathered on the floor boards. His suit...a symbol of the impossible—of speed and justice.
While staring at his suit, Barry's hand absently dug into the pocket of his jeans and pulled the tarnished golden heart-pendent that belonged to his mother. He used to keep it underneath his pillow when he was haunted by nightmares. It was the only valuable of his family he still carried; one that he had managed to salvage when the boxes were packed and the house was stripped and left hollow. Many of times he had run back there, searching for remnants of the truth that wasn't thrown into the evidence bags.
It always led to another dead-end that left him nothing but heartache. He had to let the pain go, let the remorse and vexation slip out of his bones. It was fifteen years of grieving and searching. Chances were offered to him through scholarships—to move to England for apprenticeships and rebuild his life. Release. He couldn't focus on those regrets, he'd clung to the threads of grief and allowed his scarred heart to bleed.
Feeling the breath hitching in his lungs, Barry receded a step back and quickly grabbed a wrinkled black shirt from the floor, unaware that he was being watched by a pair of keen and observant eyes in the shadows of the hallway. Momentarily, he straightened his posture, feeling the coils of muscle of his compacted abdomen flex as the bleak white light streaming from the window laved over his firm skin.
Drawing out an unwavering groan, he pulled the shirt over his head, feeling the jolts of energy surging in his veins as his pectorals rippled and created static against the thin material covering his exposed skin. He leaned into the dresser and took another deep breath, absorbing the sight of the endless, crisp blanket of fresh snow that had piled over the vacant street and parked vehicles.
Snowflakes whipped against the glass as the rapid gusts of wind blew icy clusters in between contortions of branches from the barren trees along the curb. Everything was still and held a somber, yet tranquil resolve—almost like a calm before the storm.
Barry felt a bit displaced, knowing that he needed to return back to his city but hesitation rattled in his chest. He tore his gray embers away from the outside world and briskly moved out of the room, keeping his gaze fixed on the floorboards. He moved until he collided with a smaller but ample body.
"Hey," he gasped in a moment of surprise as his bones jostled at the impact. Blinking, he regained clarity and found himself staring into vibrant mussed scarlet locks bundled into a messy pony tail. She was wearing one of Steve's hooded sweatshirts and frayed jeans.
He dreaded to look down at her toned, ivory skinned thighs concealed under the denim. If there was ever a clearer distraction it now stood in front of him. "Whoa, Natasha," he stammered, feeling intimated by her elusive and beautiful pretense. "I'm so sorry, I should've—"
"Not a morning person, kid?" Natasha returned lively, her alluring teal eyes steady on his faltering smirk. She casully stepped closer to his proximity, allowing him to feel the heat radiate from her lithe body. Her hand was edging over his chest, breaching his speeding heart. "Did you sleep well?"
"Yeah," he said, with a softer pitch in his voice. His eyes flicked up to her steely gaze, her fingers waltzed over the visible wrinkle of his shirt. He felt his senses coming alive, and gave her a gentle smile of regard before he slipped away, keeping himself distant. "Uh…where is Captain Rogers?" he asked, darting his eyes over the collection of framed photographs of the Howling Commandos aligned on the wall.
He couldn't be certain, but it felt as though Natasha were trying to pull him into her weaves of seduction that she would use to acquire information-a useful skill of the venomous, cunning and efficient Black Widow. 'Why are the beautiful ones the most dangerous?' He couldn't help but think. He had to keep his guard up around her and not allow her to infiltrate.
He looked at her with a harden stare, showing no weakness under her unpredictable, coy demeanor.
"I…I'm guessing Steve's in the kitchen preparing us big breakfast?" he asked, keeping his distance from her.
Natasha curved the fullness of her lips into a faint smirk, she was a master of utilizing the complex nature of her duel identities, without the tiniest of rifts breaking her unreadable semblance. She had studied Barry Allen's behavior and mannerisms in social interactions—from the way he fidgeted with his hands when he was nervous, to the droll yet awkward beginning of his sentences whenever he wasn't sure what to say. He was almost an open book.
"I take you're not a cereal guy who likes to have his morning fix at a fast pace?" she pried, her voice held a cool edge. "Unless you do prefer the old fashion home style cooking from the 1940's, since that is what the old man's cooking for you."
Hearing the snark laced in her low tone, Barry felt heat pooling into his flushed skin; a sheepish grin managed to etch into his face. He shrugged a little, knowingly, she was trying to downplay against his defenses. He was taught to treat a woman with all measures of kindness, and never turn his back on her. His grandfather gave him lessons in morality, to justify the values of trust and compassion.
His ethical sense of right and wrong was indomitable and naively unyielding while his heart was the greatest strength he used to grasp onto courage when doubt threatened to make him fall. He would take the time to assess someone's pain and try to help them heal. He was a sincere and earnest gentlemen. His mentor was Captain America—the man who would never run from a fight.
"I like anything that tastes good. Even the simplest things." He settled his unwary eyes on the print of a Captain America war bond poster. "...sometimes even the old fashion ones."
"I can see you're following in Cap's footsteps, learning the ropes, the ethics and values that you don't often see today... It won't take long until you even sound like him..." Natasha cleared her scratchy throat obstructively. "Good boys in uniform never have fun..." She teased, holding her lips into a rueful smirk. She crossed her arms securely over chest, holding his even stare. She seemed unbreakable. Resistant. Immune to the cold threadbare of pain.
Her views of the concept of humanity were in the gray shaded areas of choice and emotion. People died, all because of choice and holding onto attachment that bound them to little things that exposed their vulnerability. Natasha had many walls to conceal the damaged that resided in her heart. Barry could see right through her mask, that she could easily bleed if the wounds dug in deeper, beyond flesh and bone. "You want to feel more alive, Barry, take a few risks, instead of allowing yourself to become obedient do a world that is beyond saving. That's the only way you'll survive."
"I wish it was that easy, Natasha," Barry released dismal sigh. He shifted involuntarily, feeling his heart descending into the clashing waves of his uneasy stomach. He leaned against the doorway, pressing his palm against the frame molding, and tapping his fingers, chewing on his bottom lip. It felt like he had splinters of ice piercing his skin; a constant sting reminded him of his bereavement. The trauma haunted him. Every night those memories chased after him. It was really painful to fight them on his own.
"All my friends tell me that it's time to move on—that I can't change the past." Barry dipped his disquiet eyes to the floor, trying not to expose his trepidation to her. "What happened to my family isn't something I can leave behind me. Every day, I'm searching for another piece of truth that will lead to my father's innocence. That's all I want, Natasha. And I will keep on looking for answers until the yellow suited monster is brought to justice by my hands," he avowed, with an calm breath of resentment, trying to show his defiance against the torment.
Natasha kept her composer guarded and collective. "Most of the monsters that we fight are people we wouldn't expect to have a dark side," she whispered with husky tone, and leveled with his, not breaking contact. "What happened to your parents wasn't your fault. Don't blame yourself for unpredictable circumstances. Things happen that we can't stop, you just pick yourself and let the scars fade."
She closed the distance between them, placing her hand on his chest, staring into the energy surging in the depth of his passive gray irises. Intense lightning pierced the darkness of his pupils as she sensed the ignition of something powerful pulsating in his veins, grasping onto every nerve ending, and making his heart accelerate faster. The Speed-Force he had called it.
She couldn't care if he denied the truth, he was stuck in a painful void that had kept him barred from embracing the happiness he deserved. He needed to be saved. Steve was the only one who could pull him out. Barry needed a friend who would his shield when he raced into the storm. "You saw something that night that changed everything you know. Whatever it was, it also changed whatever boyhood dreams you had for your future...Tell me what you saw, Barry."
Finally, Barry opened himself to her. Obviously, he still didn't trust her, but he was willing to give her a chance to come into his world. He looked steadily into her eyes and pressed his lips into a tight line, grasping onto the hints of sentiment in her cold gaze. "I saw the impossible happen in a few seconds." His voice dropped into a low octave, almost broken and threatening to crack, "I remember watching streaks of energy that clashed around my mother who was screaming out my name. Then, a whirlwind of red engulfed me and…" his expression became somber, a wetness collected in his distant eyes, "I was running with energy, until I woke up on a street blocks away from my house."
Natasha stared at him, watching the strife etch over his chiseled visage in a fleeting succession of vastly different torrents of agony. He looked defeated, the scars of his past were clear as bullet wounds, like his body refused to mend. He tried to explain more, but the words remained cemented in his throat. Bitterness was rising and he stood there, unbalanced, gazing at her emptily, silent—almost haunted.
"Barry?" she asked, concern surging in her voice.
Suddenly, he was assaulted by increase images that invaded his mind. There were tantalizing fragments of memory, weaved into knotted threads of guilt. They surrounded him; dark phantoms, gravestones, an encroaching storm.
Red and powerful bolts of lightning devouring the sky and emerging from every chasm. Each one struck him hard. Agony flooded his veins and thunder rattled through the dark storm front powerful and deafening. His heart. Running. Running faster through the red haze of rain, struggling to fight the pain, struggling to find his way back home.
Desperation rattled through his bones and he saw the shattered reflections of the man in yellow—the inhuman monster who stabbed his mother's good heart—emerging from the jagged pieces and reaching to drag him into the spiraling vortex.
Feeling another jolt of pain, Barry became unsteady on his feet. His muscles clenched against ripples of tension. He crashed onto the floor, landing on his back and releasing labored pants of breath. He couldn't process what had been consuming his system when the bullet embedded his mid-section. The logical part of his fogged mind registered that it had to be some foreign bio-weapon or a panic inducing toxin that his body couldn't dismiss.
Natasha dropped to his side instantly and whipped her head around, looking down the hall. "Steve, get down here!" She ordered firmly, listening the clutter of dishes echo from the kitchen.
She rested her hand on the young man's forehead; his skin was clammy and hot. Her fingers kneaded over his rakish brown hair as she remained relatively calm, despite responding to the distressed gasps emerging from his paling lips; attempting to slur out a few words. He convulsed violently on the floor, every breath was a ragged struggle to produce. Barry was drifting; lost within the barriers of his mind, fighting against the flames of torture he felt burning in his chest. 'What's happening to me?' He thought as Natasha's hands slipped through his hair.
"Barry needs medic attention!" she demanded as she slid her finger down his neck, checking his pulse. "Call Clint. Tell him to get the Avenge-Jet down here. I think the kid's been poisoned—"
"Natasha—" Barry heaved out a breath, the pain was overwhelming. He grasped her arm; his eyes were dimming into pale color of ache. "I'm sorry we didn't get to run—"
"Don't worry about it, Barry," Natasha said calmly, wrapping her hand behind his neck and watching his face fracture into a semblance of pain. She gently stroked her thumb over his jaw, trying to soothe down his distress. "Just calm down and try to hold onto—"
"Natasha," Steve's concerned voice crept behind him, she turned and saw the super-soldier fully dressed in a winter coat, his vivid azure eyes hardened with worry. He lurched closer to his injured friend, dropped into a squat and encompassed his massive palm over Barry's head. It seemed irrelevant. Barry was breaking out of his remissions of pain, the toxin was increasing in his veins and he was falling into a stupor. It was seizing and weakening with the imminent sickness.
Steve drew out an evened breath, not allowing the vexation to assail in him. He had lived with the fear that another friend would die because he hesitated, but he also knew that Barry was a fighter.
"Barry, listen to me, son, I am going to carry you out here and we're going to bring you to Stark Tower." There was no response. Steve lowered his head, registering the shallow breathing. "C'mon on, son, we're gonna to get you fixed up."
"Steve," Natasha interrupted tersely. She fixed her eyes onto the super-soldier, clasping his wrist that seemed like a pleading touch after he gently eased Barry's limp and leaden arm off the floor and draped the limb around his shoulders. "I know he's just a kid...We can't lose him. He needs to get back up and find a way to save himself from the past," she swallowed the iciness of the Black Widow, holding Steve's halcyon gaze. Fear for Barry's life had interwoven into a knot of dread. Doctor Banner had to save him. Although, she had only known him for a short time, she felt a pure and untainted connection—almost to say she was like his big protective sister. "I trust him, Steve. Barry deserves a chance to live without hiding from the pain."
"I know, Nat," he returned with a stoic composure veiled over his angular chiseled face. "I need you to believe that Barry is strong, and he won't give fighting. We need to protect him. Whoever shot him will be coming back for him."
Steve lifted his hand, and stroked his fingers through her scarlet curls. It was soothing, real and almost assuring. His lips was a fraction of a breath to graze over her jaw, he felt the softness of her skin tense against the heat of his breath.
"Whatever's going on, we need to be one step ahead. When Barry needs us to fight, we'll be at his side. I know you're worried about him, he'll come around stronger than before. I promise, but we need to show him that he can trust us, and that means you need to believe that you can become his friend. That's what he needs, Natasha."
She nodded, despite the harrowing situation arising under her gaze. She ran her fingers over Steve's knuckles, looking deeply into his blue eyes with agreement. She refused to protest, but she was definitely troubled. "Okay."
"He's my friend too, Nat," Steve whispered, curving his lips into a knowingly weak smile. His light eyes steadied on her as calmness became welled into his unvarying, confident azure irises. He was on the brink of feeling his own emotions slip out of the guarded exterior of his heart. He considered Barry as a little brother and created a war inside him, knowing that the young man's life was now in his hands.
He had to seize hope again and ride out the storm. He had to save Barry, not because he was obliged, but because he made a promise once to a defiant soldier on the battle field in Northern Italy seventy years ago. That was when he realized that Captain America did have a weakness in that moment he held the dying soldier's hand on in the trenches and looked into the desperation and fear in his eyes. That man died a his determination, Steve's eyes flared with purpose. He quickly swept Barry's trembling body off the floor and placed him over the broad expanse of his firm shoulders in a firemen's carry. His hand fastened over Barry's leaden arm.
"Make a clear path for landing on the rooftop, Natasha," he ordered, his voice wavering into a raw utterance. His eyes leveled at the pistol hostler attached to her hip. "The jet should be arriving at the extraction point in a few minutes." Natasha straightened up and looked at Barry's lax face resting on Steve's shoulder, before she paced down the hallway in fervent steps. Steve trailed behind her and called out, "Grab my shield. I've gotta a feeling we're going to need it once we get outside."
Natasha retrieved the vibranium shield from the couch, slipping her thinned wrist through the metal bolted leather straps.
Looking down at the faded red paint of the alloy rings, she felt the weight of it growing heavier as she sauntered out of the apartment and ambled up the stairway. Barry is strong. He will fight. He will win!
She pushed the lever of the door leading to the rooftop. Looking down, she caught a glimpse of Steve's mussed blond hair as the bleak morning light shone through a cracked window. He was climbing the stairs with steady and unyielding steps, Barry's unconscious body was draped against his rigid shoulders.
Sighing out a breath of relief, Natasha smirked faintly and listened to the repulsor turbines of the Avenge-Jet's engines hovering over the ledge of the roof. Clint was waving to her from protective glass of the cockpit. She knew that Barry was in safe hands...For now.