Author's Note-
1. Before we begin this chapter, I want to take a moment to thank all of the reviewers! Thank you so very much for the kind words and encouragement. I usually PM all the registered users that review and thank them personally, but I do want to give a special shoutout to ffstars, Jo, Hannah, xxxgirl, MsMarvel, and any other guest reviewers that I haven't had a chance to thank personally. Thank you all so very much.
Ch. 19
The cold water hit Steve like a blow. Instantly, he saw Alma's body, her white sweater a smudge of light contrasting with the dark sea. He grabbed her and hauled her above water. He checked her and she was unconscious, but still alive, still breathing. He shook out of relief. For a moment there, he had feared the worst.
Twelve miles, he thought, treading water. We're at least twelve miles from shore.
He looked up at the night sky, a myriad of stars above him. They were still in the Rio de la Plata with Uruguay to the north of them and Argentina to the south. Once he felt reasonably oriented, he began to swim south, back towards Argentina, back towards shore. He used a backstroke to keep Alma's head above the water, holding her on her back.
Twelve miles, he thought. I can do this. I have to do this.
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Nearly an hour and a half later, his limbs trembling from the effort, Steve finally saw a high concrete embankment that hugged the shore. Awkwardly, he hauled Alma up the ten foot barrier and onto the soft grass above. As he looked around, he saw that they were at some waterfront park, streetlights illuminating the area.
As he laid Alma down on the grass, he winced at the bullet hole at her heart. She was still breathing regularly and he saw that she had a small wound at her head. She most likely hit it as she fell overboard, knocking her unconscious, he thought.
Gingerly, he crouched down next to her and pulled up her sweater for a better look at the bullet wound.
And then, he grinned at what he saw.
She was wearing a bulletproof vest. The bullet had been stopped completely.
He breathed a sigh of relief, understanding at last what she meant about getting supplies back at her old apartment. It also stood to reason that she wouldn't want to get frisked and have her secret revealed. He saw that she was wearing a black tanktop under the vest, so he decided to take off her wet sweater and the bulletproof vest to prevent her from getting too cold.
And that's when he saw it.
Her arms were covered in ugly, yellow-brown bruises. There were a few shallow cuts, half-healed also.
At first he thought they were from the fight with Moreno's men earlier that day, but the wounds were at least a week old, maybe older.
His mind flashed to something she said the first day he met her. Something about having a cracked rib.
Tentatively, he lifted her tanktop just enough to reveal her stomach, which was also a mass of angry bruises. And on her right side, right at the level of her rib, one bruise looked particularly nasty. The shape looked familiar and it took him a while to place it.
It was shaped like a large boot.
He looked down at her and he noticed something odd about her wrists. There were half-healed wounds there also, shaped like bracelets.
Or handcuffs.
He felt sick to his stomach when he tried to imagine what she must have gone through. "What happened to you?" Steve said aloud.
Alma's eyes fluttered open. "What . . . What happened? Where are we?" she moaned gruffly.
"Pavlov shot you, but luckily it hit your vest. He threw you overboard."
She gave him a half-hearted smile. "Let me guess. And then, you saved me. Again."
"You saved me first. Warning me not to drink the champagne. And then, the knives. Knocking out those goons with the magnetic handcuffs. If they would have gotten those on me, it would have been all over. You did great. You were wonderful," he said, smiling down at her.
"We do make a pretty good team," she admitted.
"The best," Steve said warmly. "Now, it looks like you hit your head when you went overboard. We should take you to the hospital. Get you checked out."
"No. No hospital," Alma said firmly. She forced herself to sit up, blowing out a slow, steady breath as she did. "I'm fine. I'm gonna be just fine. Let's just get back to the hotel. I'll feel better once I've taken a shower and gotten into some dry clothes."
Alma looked down and her face fell when she saw she was only wearing a tank top. "My sweater," she requested dully, her hand out.
Steve reached behind him and picked up before handing it to her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to . . . I would never . . . I had to take it off. To see the bullet wound. And then I saw . . ." his voice trailed off. "What happened to you, Alma? Who did that to you?" he asked.
"Later, after we get back to the hotel. I just . . . I can't right now," she said simply, looking down at the ground.
He nodded and helped her to stand. He could see that she had completely shut down, her face devoid of all emotion. She wrung out sweater the best she could and put it back on, even though it was still dripping wet. She reached down and grabbed her vest, too and smiled a bit at it.
They walked slowly across the deserted park to the main road. She didn't touch him, walking a few feet behind him, clutching her bulletproof vest in front of her.
Once they reached the wide street, they paused. "Now what? We need to find a way to get back to the hotel," Alma said.
"I got this. You're not the only one with 'mad skills'," Steve said, trying to lighten the mood a bit. He walked up to a dark sedan that was parked along the street. Five minutes later, they were warm inside with the heater cranked up, on their way back to the hotel.
"Stealing cars? Is that part of your resume? " Alma asked quietly.
"You'd be amazed at how often it comes up. It's a useful skill to have," Steve said. "And, we're just borrowing. We'll return it tomorrow."
When she didn't respond, he looked over at her and he saw that Alma had fallen asleep, sheer exhaustion claiming her.
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Steve followed the road that paralleled the river, knowing that it would lead them east, back to Buenos Aires. Before long, the streets and landmarks started to look familiar to him and he was able to find the right street to turn down to get back to their hotel. His whole body was sore, aching from how hard he had driven himself to swim to safety. The super-serum allowed him to push himself to the brink of human capabilities, but even he had his limits.
I just need a good night's sleep. I'll be better in the morning, he thought wearily.
He couldn't stop thinking about Alma. The weather had been cool, so it never seemed odd to him that she was always wearing long sleeves, but now he could see that she had been trying to keep the wounds that riddled her body covered and hidden. Even the dress she had worn to Pavlov's party had been modest, concealing every inch of skin. No wonder she gulped down Ibuprofen like it was candy, he thought. It's amazing she could function at all.
Steve was no stranger to the effects of torture. The men that he had liberated from the Hydra camps, Bucky included, had all born the marks of it in some form or another. He remembered Bucky had nightmares, too. During their time leading raids against Hydra through Europe, he'd see his friend in the morning during a debriefing, bags under his eyes, gulping down endless cups of coffee and he knew that Bucky had spent another night ravaged by the dreams he had of his time with Hydra.
How could I have missed it? he thought. He felt like the last missing piece of a puzzle had been found. The reason behind her anger, her bitterness now all seemed so clear. He winced when he remembered how he and Sam had cornered her in that alleyway, how he had grabbed her to prevent her from leaving, how he had hectored her into helping him.
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Before long, they had reached the hotel. Steve gently shook Alma awake after he parked in the underground parking lot. She roused and nodded sleepily. He walked around and opened the door for her, holding his hand out to help her get out of the car. She hesitated for a moment and then took it, but let go of his hand the moment she was standing.
She walked with him to the elevator and they were silent on the ride up. Steve didn't have any words and he could tell that Alma didn't want to talk. When they reached their floor, Steve let her our first and then followed her into her room.
"I know you have a lot of questions, but I really need a shower first. I need to put on some clean, dry clothes. Then, we'll talk," she said curtly as she walked to her bathroom, not looking behind her.
"Alright," Steve said, feeling impatient but trying to not push.
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Steve walked into his room and stripped off his own dirty clothing, leaving them in a pile in the corner of the bathroom. The car heater had dried him off some, but he felt dead tired and gritty. He stepped into the shower, hoping the warm water would revive him. He felt a bit better by the end and once he finished, he changed into a pair of clean sweats and a white T-shirt. He knocked on the adjoining doors when he was done.
"Come in," Alma said in a small voice.
He winced when he saw her sitting on the edge of the bed. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap and she was staring down at them. Tension radiated from her body. She was barefoot, clad in a red tank top and matching shorts and he could easily see the bruises and wounds that extended throughout her entire body. She clearly had been beaten and tortured for days.
"What happened to you, Alma? Who did that to you?" Steve said.
She looked up at him and he felt his heart break. He wanted to rush over and hold her, but he had never seen her look so fragile and so vulnerable. She was in her late twenties, but in that moment, she looked impossibly young to him, like a child, so lost and forlorn. He felt like the slightest touch would shatter her into a million pieces.
Her eyes were shiny with unwept tears as she stared at him for a long moment.
"You did."