"You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view." - Harper Lee
Chapter 3: The People
Ali stared in the mirror, straightening her shirt with a quiet sigh. Another interview today, for a job she likely wouldn't get. Architecture was no easy field to break into, it seemed, particularly when one had to explain that they were fired from their last job because they punched their boss in the nose.
It hadn't been her fault. He'd been asking for it, the asshole. Technically she could have had him on a sexual harassment charge, but it was more satisfying to punch him in the face and leave. Strangely, most of the white males she'd interviewed with so far hadn't found that a strong recommendation. Whatever. She had some savings.
Key word being some.
At least her vlogging earned her a little money. People apparently thought she was funny and relatable, so talking about current events to a fair-sized audience got her some extra cash. After her interview she planned to discuss the Winter Soldier situation again – it was a controversial topic, but controversy got her views. And she needed views. Unless she got this job in spite of her "I punched my last boss" spiel. Then screw vlogging.
She took one last look at her reflection, second-guessed her blue slacks and jacket for the thousandth time (what else was new), and headed out the door, snagging her purse and portfolio as she went.
How long had she dreamed about actually putting her degree to work? Way too long, probably – the stupid degree had gotten fat and lazy. Realistically, maybe she should thank her previous boss for all the times he groped her ass (ha, hilarious; no way) if it got her off said ass and headed where she wanted to go.
Yeah, let's not get too crazy here, Ali. Maybe she should go back and punch his ugly nose again. Because now no one would hire her because he couldn't keep his hands to himself. Fair, it was not.
Of course maybe if she'd kept her fist to herself and just quit, this would be going better.
But she didn't really regret it anyway.
This architecture firm claimed a lot of prestige for having helped design Stark Tower (which Ali thought was an eyesore, but whatever) and therefore she figured they couldn't be that bad of a place to work. If a literal superhero (although one she didn't like much) worked with them, they must have something to recommend them.
She was met at the entrance by a woman who she assumed was a receptionist but who quickly kept her from making any stupid blunders by introducing herself as the hiring manager. That was a good start – this lady was likely to hear her "I punched my boss" story with a bit more sympathy.
The interview itself went well except that she was given a bottle of water at its start and she managed to spill it all over the carpeted office floor. She could have melted into a similar puddle except that wouldn't have been very professional. Then again, what was the professional reaction to spilling twelve ounces of liquid all over someone else's floor?
They said they'd call her, which was definitely better than she'd expected, so that was a relief. But between the spilled water, her work history, and her skin color, she was a little doubtful they'd hire her. Even if the design manager had ooed and ahhed over her portfolio.
Better not get her hopes up.
Eh, who was she kidding? Her hopes were so high she was considering sending them to rehab. This was the best an interview had gone in literally months.
She changing into sweatpants and a cozy sweater, set up her camera, and flopped onto her bed. She spent about twenty minutes going into the most recent details on the Winter Soldier situation, including the most popular late-night commentaries and some photos taken in the Tower of the Avengers eating Chipotle with the guy. She tried to keep her vlogs pretty open-ended, so to that end she researched a lot.
"Hey guys." With the camera on and her favorite blanket folded over her legs, she was ready for anything. Mostly. "It's Ali Pérez back with the most talked issues of the week. I had another job interview today, so I'm in my comfy clothes, but I think it went well for once. I failed pretty hard at it, but I drew some good pictures, so on balance I think it was good."
Her opinion on Bucky Barnes hadn't changed much since the story first aired. When she'd been in school, her favorite period of history had been World War 2. It always sounded like a sci-fi movie: energy-beam guns, a rogue science division going up against the Nazis and the good guys, a literal superhero and his team punching Hitler (she didn't know how many papers she'd written on the Howling Commandoes, alone). Now her whole world was a sci-fi movie (aliens, for crying out loud), and although her opinion on World War 2 Bucky Barnes was that he was one of the greatest heroes in the world, her feelings about modern Barnes were much more mixed.
She, like so many others, had watched the events in Washington, D.C., unfold with a cold horror in the pit of her stomach. First there had been the news that Steve Rogers, Captain America, one of her childhood heroes, had gone rogue and may have been involved in a terrorist attack that resulted in the assassination of the head of SHIELD. Then there were the men who'd shot up a D.C. overpass and fought Black Widow and Captain America (one of whom, it later turned out, was the Winter Soldier). Then there had been helicarriers in the sky, SHIELD owned but making the whole country feel as if they were being watched, menaced. And before that news even had a chance to sink in, those same helicarriers had crashed back to earth wreathed in smoke and flames. And all of this terror precluded the announcement that Hydra had been around all along, pulling strings and controlling their most powerful security organizations. Many adults were remembering 9/11, others were convinced the aliens were back, but everyone was utterly terrified. It was a horrible week.
So naturally even Ali couldn't help but mistrust this new development. Of course she wanted to believe that Bucky Barnes was back, but there was no disputing the fact that he had done some very public, very devastating things. She'd seen the interviews with the families of his victims. She knew what was going on. She'd also seen the facts the Avengers released about Hydra's treatment of Barnes.
So she verbalized all that to her vlog, keeping it as light as she could. She wanted to get her viewers to be critical and smart, because there was a lot of news out there and she was a little worried about the Soldier and what would happen to him if everyone insisted on believing he was evil.
Technically her vlog couldn't change anything, but this was what she did. Anyway, she liked to talk. It was soothing, just rambling on about things.
Things like robot-armed terrorists that had been born in the 1910s. You know, no big deal. Whatever.
Sometimes Ben wished he just didn't know.
His life had been hard enough before the story broke and now he could think of nothing else but the accident.
The Winter Soldier had killed his son. That was how he characterized it, although a few of his well-meaning friends tried telling him that wasn't fair, it was really another car, a different gunman. "Just" a terrified driver, they said, "just" some other terrorist. He didn't really care who had done the shooting, he knew whose fault it was. He'd been on that highway. He'd seen the extra footage. The Winter Soldier had been giving the orders and leading the fight, and it didn't matter if he wasn't the one who'd shot his son.
Life in their world wasn't fair anymore. Things like this happened all the time. Most people had accepted that far worse things would happen to all of them without these fights, but none of them much liked that even when they'd been saved, they had to mourn. The government liked to capitalize on that; Ben had seen a few too many pictures of victims' faces on-screen as politicians ranted about how the Avengers didn't have enough oversight. Maybe it wouldn't bother him as much if his own son hadn't been added to the scrolling list.
It wasn't the Avengers' fault his son was dead, it was that metal-armed terrorist's, but no one was doing anything about that. He knew the Soldier was supposed to go on trial. He also knew that with the money the Avengers had, and the connections, and the sheer pressure of trying to convict Steve Rogers's "friend"… Nothing would happen. Nothing would happen and that terrorist would walk down the street when his son was dead and buried and everyone would sympathize with a killer while every day he was alone he was alone he was alone and that wasn't all. He would have to treat the Soldier like a hero
A hero when he didn't even save people he killed them – they let them die – and no one did anything and Jesse's little face was staring back at him out of the dust as his leg hurt. Because. Because. It wasn't fair. Jesse died and his killer lived and was called a war hero and that. was. not. right. Their bus rolled over and over. No one cared and no one would see and it was all falling apart no one saw him no one cared about anyone but themselves why did it matter so much? to them that some stranger got justice when a child didn't when he didn't when his world was gone-
Stop. Breathe. In; one, two, three, four. Out; one, two, three, four.
He knew he was still allowed to grieve. It was the panicking that was bad, said the grief counsellor. So he had to breathe.
Work was hell now. They were very respectful of his space but he still had clients to talk to, paperwork to be completed. But today was Saturday, and Saturday was alright. His wife, who had always been tougher than he was, had curled up on their couch with a book and was reading comfortably. She had sadder eyes now, and he knew she too was still having the nightmares. But she didn't have the panic attacks he did, and she wasn't as angry at the Soldier. (She still was. But not like him. She hadn't seen that inhuman thing stalking past the bus, sure it would kill him. No eyes, no expression. No hesitation. Like a ghost. It was not Bucky Barnes, whatever anyone said. It was a creature, and looking at it made him icy, made his stomach clench, and he so viscerally wanted to get away from that gun, that arm, that unceasing stride forward, and the sounds of people dying.)
"Good morning, honey." He blinked and smiled at Erin, pushing himself to go sit down. He still had this, and this was so good. She was his everything now. "One of those mornings, huh?" she said lightly, although her eyes got sadder. "Have you eaten yet?"
"No," he admitted, smiling a little. "I haven't. Do we have anything special?"
"Just cereal." She nudged her cold bare feet against his leg insistently. "Go eat. It helps."
He made a face at her but went to do as she said. It did kind of help, all the self-care things that everyone (literally everyone) he knew reminded him of. Drink water. Try to sleep. Eat healthy meals. Exercise. Socialize. Talk about your feelings. He knew all that was good, it just didn't feel like it sometimes.
He dug into the cabinet for his favorite gluten free peach oatmeal which he poured into his favorite peach bowl before turning on the stove burner under their old stainless steel kettle. He felt Erin watching him but pretended he didn't – he didn't want to talk to her about his almost-panic attack that morning. Knowing her, she knew already that he wasn't himself and would comment on it and then he'd have to talk about it.
Which he was supposed to do but really didn't want to.
She came into the kitchen, poured herself more coffee, and asked him, "What happened? Nightmare?"
He sighed. "No. I just started overthinking things, I'm fine." She snorted a little like she thought that was a ridiculous thing to say – it kind of was. She knew what it meant when he started overthinking stuff. Why he was still lying to her about this he wasn't quite sure. "I just mean I didn't totally lose it."
She nodded. "I understand. What started it?"
He shrugged. "I just got to thinking about the court case, and it went from there."
"Oh, honey," she sighed, not a frustrated kind of sigh but a sad one. "I wish you didn't have to think about that."
"Yeah," he said listlessly, turning off the stove so the kettle wouldn't have time to start screeching, and pouring the steaming water into his bowl. "I just can't stop. I hate him, Erin," he added, softly, carefully. It wasn't something he said a lot – a few people had started telling him that wasn't fair to Bucky Barnes and that he shouldn't make judgements until he had all the facts. But he didn't think that was fair of them. "This is all his fault."
Hesitantly, but firmly, Erin nodded. "I know," she said. Both of them knew how much the word "this" encompassed.
A/N: This is not a normal chapter, obviously. This is a brief foray into something I've seen some authors I like doing. Essentially I'm trying to make you see what the public is thinking in a way that you don't immediately assume they're prejudiced against Bucky.
If you respond to this chapter with "well they just don't know Bucky" that is, of course, true. But it's also not fair to these two characters who I've hopefully made at least a little sympathetic. And you must also realize that in this situation, we would all be in the position that these two are: not knowing anything besides what the media tells us and what we've seen ourselves. Idk where I'm going with this author's note except I think I'm trying to say,
A) to tell me if I made these characters well and if you like them
B) that people can get different results from the same facts based on their experience.
On a side note, I picture Ali looking like America Chavez but with shorter hair.
While we're here, I have a full-time internship going on where I write articles and things for the marketing department of a company. Also I know which college I'm going to. And I'm reading Harry Potter for the first time!
The next chapter is already in the works so it should go faster than this one did.
