#i simultaneously dread and cannot wait to show it during the next stream

[theycallmekaibara]

✿ yessssss

Send “✿” for the Jamz with a Passion for Fashion from DJ HoneyBee

“You’re a book person, right? What’s Gonna Happen is a song about wanting to stay behind and finish a good book although I’m completely certain that you aren’t anywhere near as useless as Barbara was in this atrocity of a movie.” 

[wonderlandmind4]

The Winter Soldier: A Ghost Story- Chp5

Pairing: Winter Soldier x OFC

Summary: Most of the intelligence community doesn’t believe he exists. The ones who do call him the Winter Soldier. He’s a ghost story. So why does he keep coming back?

Warnings: Mentions of blood, language. 

Important Note: This story is a lot darker than anything I have ever wrote with the themes in it. Please proceed with caution during those moments. Everything in this story is a connection. (translations not from google)

Words: 3.7k

March 19th, 2012 12:05am

An irritate huff breaks the chilly quiet of the night. The Soldier stumbles into a wall, leaning his weight on it as he presses his metal fingers roughly against his temple. That sharp pain zings through his head again as he rapidly blinks away the image of green eyes. Grinding his teeth, he clenches his fist slamming it into the concrete wall. It cracks under the weight of the metal, pieces of rubble sprinkling to the ground.

He has successfully completed the mission; one Hydra traitor down. The success does not change the obvious fact that the man had been waiting for the Soldier. The man was prepared and slightly quicker. Slightly. It was enough for that damn bullet to lodge in his shoulder.

Shaking his head roughly, the Soldier grips at his hair, the mask clutched between his fingers of his flesh hand. Why had he remembered the building that was no longer a rendezvous point? Why did he recognize the fifth-floor window? It was all a blur to him, images twisting in his brain in a chaotic whirl. The carousel of colors halts abruptly, landing on shades of green.

Enough of this. The Soldier gathers his bearings, grits his teeth and straightens up. He squeezes the hard material of the mask in his hand before he lifts it to his face. The moment the temple tip touches his skin, he pauses. He doesn’t feel the hard press of plastic. He doesn’t see the pitch-black road ahead of him. He doesn’t smell the wet pavement, the trees in the distance, nor the lingering metallic scent of blood.

The plastic of his mask fades into something softer, warmer. The press of textured cotton, of warm fingertips just grazing along bloodied skin. It’s something he can’t ever remember feeling.

Gentle?

The shades of green in his mind morphs into the shape of eyes. Eyes that stared at him wide with fear, yet with an underlying but a strange emotion he can’t recall ever seeing before.

Concern?

The smell of sharp sweat and copper blood fades into an aromatic scent of wildflowers, overtaken by the earthy tone of ripe grapes and spices. The Soldier doesn’t think he has smelled anything like it before. It wasn’t the dark drink that stained the floor, it wasn’t the sweat on his skin, the blood on his vest. It was something else entirely.

Sweet?

Her. It’s the woman he sees in his mind. The gentle touch of her dressings, the concern in her jade colored eyes, the sweetness lingering on her body. Who was she? Who is she? A former handler? A scientist? Doctor?

His head twitches. No. No handler has ever showed him what she had tonight. It was foreign, not proper protocol for the people who surrounded him before and after missions. She was different. She was afraid, yet threatening, if pathetically so.

He does remember the involuntary pull of his mouth when the woman held up a device; it was comical. Watching her try to defend herself with a piece of plastic. When she had gotten ahold of the knife he threw, brandishing his own weapon at him, he felt a spike of intrigue in his chest. She wasn’t stupid. She knew how to defend herself. It sparked a vaguely familiar tickle in his mind. The woman had only turned her back to him once, clearly knowing it wasn’t the smartest thing to do.

He recalls her clearly. Startled with his intrusion, frozen in a spout of terror, bare torso with the blue lace undergarment, on display. He had assessed her quickly when she entered the room after his eyes adjusted to the light. The woman wasn’t too thin, he could see that from the subtle toned muscles in her arms, when her legs shifted.

It has been too long since the Soldier had viewed a female openly like that. The curves of her body, the set in her jaw, the trembling of her fingers, the rise and fall of her breath expanding her cheat and lean stomach.

Her skin was marked, a map of freckles on his inner arm inked together to match a constellation. When she turned, her spine revealed scripted words along the length, and a sketched small bird on her left shoulder. A little dove. It was the sickly display of discoloration on the right set of her ribs that did not match the permanent ink. A mark stating injury, a reminder of pain, hurt. The sight made his chest tighten, made something hot curl in his gut.

The Soldier replaces his mask, fastening the rubber ends behind his head. The mission is finished, the incident in the once vacant building, over. He continues, heading toward the area he hid his motorcycle at. Once he finds it, tearing off the dry brush he used to disguise it, he mounts the seat, kicking the stand back.

A distorted image abruptly flashes through the forefront of his mind. His body goes rigid as the pictures piece itself together. A black cat with a scarred leg. A man attacking a woman, the man shoving the woman, the woman’s right side connecting with unforgiving granite.

Track and report mission. It was during that night where he viewed the disturbance from across the way. The Soldier makes the connection; the woman from that night and the woman cleaning his wounds are the same. He recognized that fifth floor window. He remembered.

He winces as the throbbing pain makes itself know in his temples. The imaged fades almost as quickly as it came. His breath escapes in short pants as he gathers himself once more.

“What the hell,” He grumbles, rubbing his hand across his forehead.

With the movement he’s reminded of his wound burning in his shoulder. The wrappings. The dressings around his shoulder the gentle woman provided him. He quickly unfastens the vest, finds the material, ripping it off with one tugging jerk. He disposes of the stained gauze and tape on the side of the road, kicking as much dirt as he can on it. They cannot find the wrappings of his wound, it would raise suspicions. They might come looking for the kind woman who helped the Soldier. He briefly touches his left hand to the bullet hole.

Starting the engine of the bike with more strength than it requires, the Soldier shakes his head once more. Simultaneously, he wants to rid the images yet hold onto the gentle caress of the woman’s touch just a little longer. He doesn’t recall ever having kindness shown to him. He is the Soldier, their Asset.

He drives back to the base. The ever-growing dread of what awaits him settles in his chest. No kindness for the Soldier.

*

“Sometimes I wonder why we even use it.”

“The job gets done, shapes the course for the next path. Who cares if the Asset is injured in the process?”

“What’s the next mission?”

“The Congressman. It’s been a week since the last recon.”

“And the boss? What are his orders?”

“The Asset has only been out of Cryo for several hours. The absolute longest without a wipe is eight days before the memories begin to leak through. Unless it’s mission critical, the boss doesn’t allow for missions longer than a week.”

“This plan with the Congressman could go on for weeks on end. How is it-“

“The set up has already begun behind the scenes. That reporter wasn’t placed there by accident.”

“Ahh, feed the sleeping monster, so to speak.”

“Exactly.”

The voice pass by the room, however the next set of footsteps grow closer. Bernstein hears them coming, hurriedly replacing the wires and closing out the coding box on the computer screen. He turns in his chair just in time to see the door open, the Soldier entering with two armed guards behind him.

“Agent Bernstein prep him but wait on the wipe. The dog got itself injured,” A dark mocking chuckle escapes the burly Handler stepping into the room. “The doctor is on his way.”

He jumps into action, knowing better to follow orders quickly than to linger. He waits for the Soldier to settle in the seat, his dark hair obstructing the right side of his face. Since the doctors aren’t present in the room, it’s his job to place the small Electroencephalogram pads against the man’s temples to monitor recent brain activity. He moves to do just take, cautiously pushing aside the Soldier’s hair.

Agent Bernstein pauses. There’s a five-inch cut breaking the skin on the man’s forehead, a trickle of blood has dried on his skin. It’s not the discovery of the cut itself that made Bernstein stop short. It’s the two strips of butterfly band-aids holding the cut together that do.

He hasn’t been a part of Hydra for long, but he’s positive the Soldier has never returned with bandages place neatly and carefully over his cuts. Bernstein swallows thickly, coming to a quick realization. Someone spotted the Soldier. Someone found him, someone had the nerves of steel to get close enough to take care of the cut.

Upon a closer look at the Soldier’s bare torso, a small gaping bullet hole displays itself on his shoulder. This too, looks like it’s been cleaned, no recent streams of blood, or even dried flakes. He swears the tiny gray markings over his shoulder are from the residue of medical tape.

Without even thinking about it, Bernstein hurriedly removes the strips from the Soldier’s forehead, wincing slightly as the movement tugs the cut back open. Steely blue, murderous eyes snap to his face before they drop to see the strips Bernstein holds between his fingers.

His heart races in fear, thinking the man will lash out, grab him by the neck and throw him across the room like he’s seen before. Instead, the Soldier reacts queerly. His jaw shifts, his eyes close briefly, his nostrils flaring.

All signs the Agent takes as the Soldier forgetting about the strips. He shoves the band-aids inside his lab coat pocket as the Soldier eyes land on him once more. The menacing stare is back, a silent threat. Bernstein remains quiet, finally placing the pads against each temple.

That’s when the doctor’s step in, and Bernstein steps back, turning towards the computers. His mind is racing as he brings up the tampered system, pondering who in their right mind would take pity on the poor man in the chair, and dress his wounds. How did they even meet in the first place? Before or after the confirmed murder of a former agent?

Whoever it may be, the optimistic part of Bernstein’s brain hopes this person will continue to help the Soldier. Maybe, just maybe, they can save this controlled, tortured man’s soul.

With that in mind, he turns on the machine with the go ahead, praying that his secret, risky decoding of the system will work.

*

The night stretches on, minutes pass by as Ophelia stands frozen in her room. Silence fills her ears, listening to any little noise she might pick up. She has been staring at the window for god knows how long now, utterly and completely bewildered, now that her adrenaline has worn off and her “good Samaritan” trait is over.

There was a stranger in her home. A dangerous, threatening stranger, who broke into her apartment and decided to bleed out in her bathtub. He could have easily thrown that knife through her chest, could have easily killed her and no one would know until Monday. He had plenty of opportunity to harm her, given how close and vulnerable she had made herself.

She had been shirtless; bra and bruises on display. For some reason, that’s the thought that snaps Ophelia out of her shell-shocked brain. She shoves her fingers through her hair, her body still trembling slightly.

No, that strange man dressed in black with that weird muzzle mask did not kill her, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to continue standing there waiting for him to double back. Ophelia quickly locks the latch of the window, then moves to grab her duffel bag from her closet. She stuffs in the first pair of leggings and t-shirt she can find, grabs her phone charger before realizing she clearly doesn’t need it, then heads to the bathroom.

There she stops dead once more, the wide streak and splattered bits of blood vividly standing out against the white porcelain of the tub. It’s a morbid kind of display, one she doesn’t want to focus on too much. Forcing herself to move again, she turns on the shower, hoping most of the spray will wash away the evidence.

Evidence. Shit! What if that man committed a crime and she just- no. No. She’s not going to think about it. She just needs to get out of her home, since it no longer feels safe. Not with her ex finding her, and then this crazy incident.

Ophelia grabs what she needs, shoving it into the bag. She turns off the water after adjusting the spray to rinse all the blood away. She figures she’ll just deep clean tomorrow, given that she doesn’t want to sleep here tonight.

Finally, she grabs Binks, who mewls in protest, storms through her living room to grab her purse and keys and heads out the door. She locks it, a nagging voice in the back of her telling her it’s useless to do so anyway.

Her cat squirms in her arm as she hurriedly runs down the five flights of stairs. Forgetting all about how exhausted she was just an hour ago, she makes it to her car parked just several feet away. Binks nearly scratches her as she dumps him in the passenger seat, clearly distress by her actions.

Ophelia drives for five minutes before she even realizes she doesn’t know where she’s going. She can’t drive to her sister’s, given that Saige is an overnight in-house nurse. She doesn’t want to worry or stress her father out this late at night. Then it clicks. She knows who to go to.

She’s not completely rude, has enough awareness to find a payphone and call before she arrives. She’s given consent, and Ophelia parks her car in the driveway of the small suburban home. She takes her bag, and Binks, glaring annoyingly at her, and runs up to the door. She knocks five times.

The door opens to reveal Carter’s concerned face, his shoulders shagging when he sees her. He quickly lets her in, opening his mouth to ask.

“Bathroom?” Ophelia asks before he can say anything. “Binks’ is stressed enough.”

“Cat room, remember?” Carter reminds her kindly, pointing down the hall. “Sweeney is in there, but they like each other.”

She nods, scratching behind her cat’s ears to calm him.

Once she returns, Ophelia collapses on the couch. She remains still for just a moment, before she shoots back up, pacing. She can feel Carter’s eyes on her, his worry palpable. His husband suddenly comes out of the kitchen, a steaming mug in his hand and passes it to Ophelia.

“Thanks, Jeremy,” She mumbles, halting her steps. The warmth of the mug helps relax her. “I’m so sorry to barge like this on you guys.”

“Please, Fawkes,” Carter scoffs, “You aren’t a burden.”

“I just-“ She sighs, bringing the mug of tea closer to her, inhaling the scent. “I don’t want to stay at my place tonight.”

It’s not that she’s scared per say, more like she doesn’t know who else could just break in. Maybe the man with the weapons and muzzle and those piercing blue eyes will return. She mentally shakes her head. She can’t seem to get the man’s eyes out of her mind. They were the least dangerous thing about him.

“Is this…” Jeremy speaks up quietly, “about Isaac?”

Ophelia, about to take a sip from the tea, freezes. “What?”

“About his release?”

Fear clenches her heart, and she absolutely hates that her body still reacts like that. Slowly, she carefully lowers the mug, placing it on the coffee table. Her ribs throb at her side, bringing her hand up to holding them.

“What?” Her voice sounds breathless in her ears. “He-he’s out of jail?”

“This evening,” Carter answers cautiously, meeting his husband’s eyes briefly. “Jere saw him leaving the courthouse after work.”

Ophelia stares absently at the wall behind them. Her skin prickles hotly, her blood beginning to rush in her ears. She doesn’t understand how, why. The police filed it as domestic violence with a deadly weapon, as Ophelia defending herself from her crazy ex. They promised her she didn’t have to testify, and he would be processed and locked up for good. What a bunch of bullshit.

“Hey, honey, why don’t you sit down,” Carter gentle coaxes. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” Is her autopilot response. When she shakes herself back, she’s now on the couch. “Really, Carter. I’m fine, thank you. I just, was caught off guard. I-“

Ophelia pauses. They’re going to ask questions if it wasn’t Isaac she was running from, then who? Right. She can’t drag them into the events of what happened tonight.

“I didn’t want to believe it, but yes,” She lies smoothly, leaning forward to grab the mug once more. She takes a long drink, the tea still warm enough to slight sting her throat. “Um, you if you both don’t mind, I’m exhausted.”

“Oh course! How rude of us,” Jeremy chirps, slightly smacking Carter on the arm. “The guest room is ready for you. Sleep in as long as you’d like tomorrow.”

She nods as Jeremy hurries away, muttering about doubling checking the towels in the bathroom. Carter moves next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. It clicks then, that she never told him what happened a week ago. She winces at the realization that she didn’t hide it as well as she thought.

“How did you know?” Ophelia whispers, gripping the mug.

Carter exhales slowly. “Lipstick can’t hide a cut, sweetheart.”

Fantastic. Maybe her expertise of covering up those marks has gotten rusty. Isn’t that a fucked up thing to be annoyed by.

“Ophelia, get out of your head,” Her friend coaxes firmly. “He’s not going to hurt you anymore. We won’t let that happened. Didn’t you file a restraining order?”

“That doesn’t do anything to stop anyone, Carter,” She responds. She shakes her, considering his words. He’s right. She shouldn’t be in her head, and Isaac will not get near her. She hopes, bitterly.

Abruptly, Ophelia smiles at him. “But you’re right. He won’t get near me. Let’s just drop it.” She stands, taking one last sip of the tea, thankful of its calming effect. “I’m just going to sleep now.”

“Yeah,” Carter says with a frown, taking the mug when she hands it to him.

“Thank you again, Carter. I really appreciate this.”

Then she leans over to give him a brief hug. He returns the favor. She’s halfway to the hall when he stops her.

“Why did you call from a payphone?” He inquires curiously.

Ophelia can’t stop her spine from going rigid. Flashes of those blue eyes, vacant and curious, of the red staining the tub, of the knife shattering her phone, zing through her mind. She turns, nonchalantly waving her hand.

“Dropped it from the fire escape. Landed face down and shattered. Completely ruined,” She smile, as if it’s no big deal.

“Klutz,” Carter chuckles.

Ophelia nods, bids goodnight, then collects Binks to go into the guest room.

*

Sleeping in did not happen for Ophelia. In fact, sleeping didn’t really happen at all. She could barely close her eyes, and when she did, she didn’t see the knife or guns that mysterious man had. Instead, she saw the familiar fist of her ex, saw the rage in his eyes, the snarl on his lips.

The one time she did drift off, she dreamt of blood-stained fingers, gleaming metal, a plastic muzzle. In her dream, nightmare, she had been staring at herself in the mirror of her bathroom, that black muzzle over her own face. She tried to rip it off, screaming behind it to get it off. She had looked back at the mirror and standing behind her was the man with the blue eyes.

The color resembles more like frosted ice in her dream, as they stared back at her. Slowly, the expression in his eyes turned dark, before his metal arm shot out. Just as he was about to grab her neck, Ophelia woke with a start, sweating damping her hair.

She opted to turn on the TV instead, Binks snoozing with his paws up in the air next to her. She finds an old comedic movie, watching it until she drifts off to sleep once more towards the end.

March 19th, 2012 8:45am

When Ophelia wakes up, it’s with the groggy sense of her not sleeping well, despite the two hours she did get. She forces herself up, carful not to disturb her sleeping cat, and takes a shower. The hot water stings her skin, but she stares at the floor, wondering if she had rinsed all the blood off her own.

A delicious smell of varies breakfast foods greets her as she entered the kitchen. Bacon, French toast, eggs, fruits and muffins are all sitting on the table in the dining room. A full pot of coffee is already brewed, and there’s syrup, whipped cream and powdered sugar on the table as well.

“Christ,” Ophelia says as a greeting, “is this what you wake up to everyday, Hines? If so, I’m moving in.”

Carter bristles happily, unwrapping himself from Jeremy’s back as his husband continues to cook. He grabs the pot of coffee, filling up the three mugs set aside.

“Most days,” Carter beams. “He is a chef after all.”

“Gotta come here more often,” She mumbles, gratefully taking the mug he slides over. She takes a seat at the table. “Jeremy, you didn’t have to do this.”

“First of all, missy, I thought you were sleeping in,” He responds. “Second, the perfect was to distress is a hearty breakfast.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” She shrugs, spooning on eggs, bacon and toast onto her plate. “No, it wasn’t the bed. I just couldn’t seem to is all.”

She misses the shared look the men give each other. She bites into the French toast, moaning dramatically. “Jeremy, will you marry me?”

“Of course, darling.”

“Both of you get out,” Carter mockingly pouts. “Too early for this.”

For the next hour, Ophelia forgets why she’s there in the first place. The mysterious man with the captivating eyes, silenced behind a mask.

***********************************************

Previous  Chapter six: coming soon

Tags: @justreadingfics @kat-lives @thecreatiivecorner @stressedasalways @chocolateturtlepeanutopera @moonbeambucky @barnesb1tch @denimandcabernet @keldachick @lovinglokiforever @violetrose90201@sonarsyndor @swagfancroissantpizza @funnymilkshakes @no-champagne-socialist @ryanemac @dc2791-blog @stringgeek13 @nova-stars @bubblegum-cotton-candy-romance @ruinerofcheese @cuckoobirdy @glitchydruid @darkunderworldqueen @ultramagicaltacofandom @marvel-fan23 @bennettk13 @cmorgana @thatcatoveryonder @watchoutforfrostbite @shirukitsune