I idle the car in a dark alleyway between the two apartment buildings while Bucky unbuckles his seat-belt and pulls a handgun out of the duffel bag at his feet.
My eyes linger on the rear-view mirror as I contemplate the silent darkness beyond the trunk of my car. At the intersection of the four alleys that twist behind the apartment complexes, there's an open lot. It's dimly lit, but I can just make out a shipping container in one corner.
A somewhat unusual, but conspicuous, safe house.
This whole situation feels uncomfortably like a much more dangerous version of the mission I went on with Rumlow, except now it's me who's going to be waiting it out in the car. A cloud of unease settles over me, and I convince myself that everything will be fine.
"Here." The sound of Bucky's voice startles me slightly, snapping me out of my thoughts. I look at the handgun he's holding out to me.
"I can't." I shake my head, my eyes never leaving the weapon.
"It's here if you need it." He places it on the dash, and I'm grateful he's not going to chide me or ask why I'm being such a wimp. Rumlow would have.
"This won't take long." He lifts his hood over his head, reaching for the door handle.
He's gone before I can say anything, the car door closing behind him as he disappears into the shadows. I unlock the trunk, lean back in my seat, and wait.
For a long time, I don't hear anything. It's faint at first, but there soon comes the sound of shouting, followed by sounds I can't identify. Things breaking, maybe? Silence again. Running footsteps. I grab the gun from the dash and sink back into my seat, trying to hide as best as I can.
The footsteps get closer, and I know they've seen the car. My heart is racing a mile a minute as I hold my breath, praying that Bucky will find and deal with the threat before I have to do anything.
Hands shaking, I point the gun at the window, thinking at least I can be proactive about defending myself.
I catch sight of the unfamiliar stranger's face. The last thing I see is the terror that fills his expression as he glances back, then he's reeling backwards, his body crumpling as the bullet tears through his chest.
I catch a glimpse of Bucky in the driver's side mirror before he disappears back into the darkness, but I don't get a look at his face.
I wonder what kind of expression he makes when he's taking out a target; what do his victims see in their last moments, so terrified that the horror is etched onto their faces?
I try not to dwell on the thought, and also try to restrain myself from peeking at the dead man lying just inches from my driver's side door. Instead, I while away the silent minutes mentally chiding Bucky on how long he's taking to get this over with. Sure, he used a suppressor on his gun, but the Hydra goons could have alerted their higher-ups of the attack if they saw him coming.
He makes a total of four trips back with boxes, duffel bags, and what I assume are rifle cases. I wish I'd known just how much weaponry he'd intended to retrieve; I might have been able to convince him to take less. What does he need it all for, anyway? He's not equipping an army.
When he finally closes the trunk lid and returns to the passenger side seat, I find that I can barely meet his gaze. He pauses as he glances at my sweating, clammy hands, and I realize I'm still holding the gun.
He extends an expectant hand to me, his fingers brushing against mine as I pass the weapon into his grip.
"You never took the safety off." He comments quietly, returning it to the duffel bag.
"I uh… guess I should be grateful I didn't have to use it, then." I offer a stupid smile, fumbling to turn my keys in the ignition.
I'm too preoccupied trying to drive with shot nerves to be bothered by the fact that he's noticed how shaken up I am.
But after we return to the house and the things have been moved inside, I make an excuse about wanting to go to sleep early, and it's impossible to miss the visible disdain on his face. I pretend not to notice and begin to walk away when he calls after me, his tone dripping with impatience.
I freeze, turning to meet his gaze from across the room.
"Don't hate me."
The request is so blunt, so sudden, that I'm taken aback.
"I don't… why would you think I'd hate you?" I frown.
"I'm an assassin. Killing without thinking, without feeling, it's my job. It's all I know how to do. You know that." He levels a piercing stare at me, and I look away, switching my focus to the boxes of ammunition sitting on the coffee table.
I hear his light footsteps on the hardwood as he crosses the floor.
"I shouldn't have asked you to come, I'm sorry." He's speaking quietly now, "I don't want you to see that side of me anymore."
I glance down at his scuffed combat boots, then shift my gaze to his metal hand, still unable to look him in the eyes.
I'm afraid of what he might see in mine.
"You don't have to be an assassin, Bucky. It's your life now, not Hydra's, and you can do what you want with it." I reply, stealing a quick glance at his face. His expression is skeptical, his mouth curving into a frown.
"As long as Hydra is out there, it's not my life. It's not yours, either. They'll never stop looking for you if it means they can find me."
"Is that all you're doing? Getting rid of the ones hunting me?" I finally manage to hold his gaze, challenging him to lie to me.
"That's all. I promise." He frown deepens, "I have nothing to hide from you. And I… I would never hurt you. I understand if… you think I'm a monster."
There's an air of resignation in that last sentence. And a little disappointment. His brown hair falls across his face as he glances at the floor, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. The other is jammed into the pocket of his jeans.
"I've met a monster." I reply, "You're nothing like him."
He reads the pain in my eyes, and a multitude of unspoken questions linger in the silence between us. Finally, he opens his mouth to speak… but he doesn't have a response, and I don't give him the time to think of one.
"Good night, Bucky." I cut him off with a faint smile, and turn to leave.
He doesn't try to stop me.