Rwanda. Small border town close to the Wakandan frontier. Two days later.
The cafe Natasha had directed him to had a big red ‘CLOSED’ sign in the window but when Steve went around the block to canvas the area, he found the backdoor unlocked and standing wide open for him.
He figured it was unlikely to be a trap. Sending him several highly personalized messages from the Widow’s phone wasn’t an easy feat and ultimately, a much bigger risk than it was worth to their enemies.
To be completely honest... Even if it was a trap, the idea of beating anyone who dared to challenge him to a pulp didn’t turn Steve off as much as it probably should. He was itching for it, that promising rush of a fight in his head, just to blow off some steam. Most of the time, he managed to keep it under wraps. Steve was patient, kind, supportive - everything Bucky needed him to be. For his boyfriend’s speedy recovery, he ignored the unquenchable thirst for violence that he dealt with on a daily basis (especially when he remembered how much Hydra had taken from them already) and focused on being smart instead.
So far, every lead he had on Ward and the others had turned to smoke, but it was just a matter of time. They would trip up eventually and when they did, Steve would be waiting. No matter how long it took, the second he’d get his hands on the men responsible for Bucky’s suffering, Steve would be in the mood for murder.
And so, he knocked on the open door rapidly with his knuckles. Once. Twice. Repeating the sign in a familiar pattern only Natasha herself would recognize.
There was no answer but Steve barely even hesitated before he slipped inside. Immediately, the strong smell of fresh coffee hit his nostrils, effectively dulling one of his senses. With caution and his shield raised, Steve walked through the narrow corridor that went past an empty kitchen and stopped to look at one of the framed pictures on the wall.
A man with a woman on his arm. One of them looked very familiar...
Passing by the bathroom door next, Steve entered the round open-plan area of the cafe to his right. There he stopped for a moment to asses the situation: The building itself was secluded but it had an almost panoramic view of the city through the big glass windows on the front. There was no suitable vantage point for a sniper but it was exposed.
After walking all the way through the empty rows of upturned chairs and tables, Steve arrived at the one in the middle of the room that waited for him like the center stage of an Elizabethan theater. All it missed was a proper spotlight - a single light bulb maybe, swinging ominously from the ceiling.
There were two empty chairs, left and right of the table, with soft padded cushions on them. One of them had been pulled out, a clear invitation. Steve checked if there was anything under the cushions (both negative) before he took his designated place on the left.
A cup of black coffee sat on the table, still hot and steaming. Steve downed the rest of the scalding liquid without acknowledging the burn on his tongue. His taste buds regenerated faster than almost everything else and he liked the rich bitterness they detected. He just hoped to God that it was a natural flavor of the beans - not artificially masking the salty taste of Rohypnol or some other sedative. If he had misjudged the situation...
“Lucky for you, I know the owner of this place,” a teasing voice announced from the kitchen area, coming closer with confident steps. “Don’t worry. It’s his day off which means we have it all to ourselves. We’re leaving a gracious tip for the coffee though. Otherwise, that’s just stealing...”
Steve stood up slowly and pulled out the chair opposite of him like a gentleman.
“Natasha,” he said, when she claimed her seat with graceful movements as fluid as a dancer’s, “you’re spoiling me.”
She slid a new coffee pot in his direction with a smirk.
“Am I? Taking what isn’t yours? Steve Rogers... I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“It’s good coffee,” Steve said with a shrug of his shoulders as he joined her at table and poured himself another cup. “Couldn’t let it go to waste.”
“I guess the Great Depression will do that to you.” She winked and leaned forward to lay her hand on top of his forearm in a comradely way. The red leather gloves complimented her short black wig and fair complexion which made her look distinctly French.
“So, now that I’m convinced you didn’t die on me...” she said with a certain playful reproached that told Steve he wasn’t out of the woods yet. “How are you? Really?”
Steve swallowed around the forming lump in his throat and busied himself with the coffee pot. “Been better.”
“I see. And how’s the missus? Too busy living the simple life to meet an old friend?”
Steve arched his brow. Natasha didn’t seem surprised not to find Bucky with him. Considering the meticulously staged welcome for one, she probably knew more than she led on - or had at least guessed that something was seriously wrong with Steve’s other half if he started ghosting people out of the blue.
He sensed that this was her way of leaving him an opening. As far as excuses went, it was as good as any.
“He’s not with me. He’s... God damn it, Nat.” Steve pushed away from his chair and took a couple of steps through the room.
Natasha didn’t startle. Instead, she continued to sit at the table and sipped her coffee with nearly unnerving calm, watching Steve pace with a blank expression.
“Alright, listen. I have to tell you something,” Steve started. “Bucky, he— Wait... Who the hell is that?!”
He came to a sudden halt in front of the bar and stared.
Steve hadn’t discovered the body earlier, so she had probably masked the scent of blood with something else - but there he was. Some guy in his thirties with a gaping bullet hole in his head, leaning against the bottom shelf of the liquor cabinet.
“No one.”
Steve raised a judgmental eyebrow at her. “Doesn’t look like no one to me.”
She stood up and casually walked over to his side, only to dig him in the ribs with an elbow. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?” she asked with a wolfish grin.
Steve didn’t look impressed. “So?”
“You’re no fun.” She yawned. “He’s a tail. I caught him staking out the place earlier. I think they broke into my phone and got the coordinates I sent you.”
“Shit...” Steve said. “That’s serious.”
“I know. I realized I was being shadowed a week ago but I let him come. He fought me. I won. The natural order of things. Unfortunately, I had to put him down early before I could extract any intel. His passport’s fake, too. I checked, but I’m pretty sure he’s Hydra.”
Steve swallowed hard. “How do you know?”
She sauntered around the bar, crouched down beside the corpse and exposed his right forearm. There, about halfway up his wrist, was the Hydra insignia. An ugly red skull with 6 octopus legs. It looked like it had been burned into the flesh.
“Well, that’s new,” Steve said, staring back at Natasha once he could pull his eyes away from the mark.
The hate he felt for Hydra was bubbling hot under his skin. This had to be one of Ward’s men. Maybe even one of the guys who had assaulted Bucky in front of a bunch of innocent children. Otherwise, this was one hell of a coincidence.
“My guess? New management,” Natasha said. “They don’t want any defectors. After Insight, half of their staff pretended they’d never heard of Hydra much less joined ranks. Like rats leaving a sinking ship. Looks like they’re rebranding. Come on,” she snapped her fingers and lead him back to their table.
Steve trailed after her but he was too agitated to sit down just yet.
Natasha didn’t seem to mind.
“Care to tell me what this is all about?” she asked. “First the radio silence, now this... You’re almost as secretive as Fury these days and he’s been resurrected twice. A little mistrust is understandable there, don’t you think?”
Steve shook his head. “I don’t distrust you.”
She snorted dubiously.
“Hey, I really don’t. It’s just— Hell, Nat. I promised him I wouldn’t tell anyone else.”
“...But?”
“Shit, I can’t do this alone! I just can’t...”
“It’s ok. I can keep a secret.” She shrugged and looked at him expectantly. “Ask anyone. All the people who confided in me before are either very happy with my ongoing discretion - or very dead.”
Steve laughed nervously. “Well... That’s comforting.”
“I know. So shoot.”
He nodded grimly and tried to brace himself for the conversation that was about to follow. Bucky would understand. He had to.
Fill: The Quiet Game (12.1/?)
Rwanda. Small border town close to the Wakandan frontier. Two days later.
The cafe Natasha had directed him to had a big red ‘CLOSED’ sign in the window but when Steve went around the block to canvas the area, he found the backdoor unlocked and standing wide open for him.
He figured it was unlikely to be a trap. Sending him several highly personalized messages from the Widow’s phone wasn’t an easy feat and ultimately, a much bigger risk than it was worth to their enemies.
To be completely honest... Even if it was a trap, the idea of beating anyone who dared to challenge him to a pulp didn’t turn Steve off as much as it probably should. He was itching for it, that promising rush of a fight in his head, just to blow off some steam. Most of the time, he managed to keep it under wraps. Steve was patient, kind, supportive - everything Bucky needed him to be. For his boyfriend’s speedy recovery, he ignored the unquenchable thirst for violence that he dealt with on a daily basis (especially when he remembered how much Hydra had taken from them already) and focused on being smart instead.
So far, every lead he had on Ward and the others had turned to smoke, but it was just a matter of time. They would trip up eventually and when they did, Steve would be waiting. No matter how long it took, the second he’d get his hands on the men responsible for Bucky’s suffering, Steve would be in the mood for murder.
And so, he knocked on the open door rapidly with his knuckles. Once. Twice. Repeating the sign in a familiar pattern only Natasha herself would recognize.
There was no answer but Steve barely even hesitated before he slipped inside. Immediately, the strong smell of fresh coffee hit his nostrils, effectively dulling one of his senses. With caution and his shield raised, Steve walked through the narrow corridor that went past an empty kitchen and stopped to look at one of the framed pictures on the wall.
A man with a woman on his arm. One of them looked very familiar...
Passing by the bathroom door next, Steve entered the round open-plan area of the cafe to his right. There he stopped for a moment to asses the situation: The building itself was secluded but it had an almost panoramic view of the city through the big glass windows on the front. There was no suitable vantage point for a sniper but it was exposed.
After walking all the way through the empty rows of upturned chairs and tables, Steve arrived at the one in the middle of the room that waited for him like the center stage of an Elizabethan theater. All it missed was a proper spotlight - a single light bulb maybe, swinging ominously from the ceiling.
There were two empty chairs, left and right of the table, with soft padded cushions on them. One of them had been pulled out, a clear invitation. Steve checked if there was anything under the cushions (both negative) before he took his designated place on the left.
A cup of black coffee sat on the table, still hot and steaming. Steve downed the rest of the scalding liquid without acknowledging the burn on his tongue. His taste buds regenerated faster than almost everything else and he liked the rich bitterness they detected. He just hoped to God that it was a natural flavor of the beans - not artificially masking the salty taste of Rohypnol or some other sedative. If he had misjudged the situation...
“Lucky for you, I know the owner of this place,” a teasing voice announced from the kitchen area, coming closer with confident steps. “Don’t worry. It’s his day off which means we have it all to ourselves. We’re leaving a gracious tip for the coffee though. Otherwise, that’s just stealing...”
Steve stood up slowly and pulled out the chair opposite of him like a gentleman.
“Natasha,” he said, when she claimed her seat with graceful movements as fluid as a dancer’s, “you’re spoiling me.”
She slid a new coffee pot in his direction with a smirk.
“Am I? Taking what isn’t yours? Steve Rogers... I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“It’s good coffee,” Steve said with a shrug of his shoulders as he joined her at table and poured himself another cup. “Couldn’t let it go to waste.”
“I guess the Great Depression will do that to you.” She winked and leaned forward to lay her hand on top of his forearm in a comradely way. The red leather gloves complimented her short black wig and fair complexion which made her look distinctly French.
“So, now that I’m convinced you didn’t die on me...” she said with a certain playful reproached that told Steve he wasn’t out of the woods yet. “How are you? Really?”
Steve swallowed around the forming lump in his throat and busied himself with the coffee pot. “Been better.”
“I see. And how’s the missus? Too busy living the simple life to meet an old friend?”
Steve arched his brow. Natasha didn’t seem surprised not to find Bucky with him. Considering the meticulously staged welcome for one, she probably knew more than she led on - or had at least guessed that something was seriously wrong with Steve’s other half if he started ghosting people out of the blue.
He sensed that this was her way of leaving him an opening. As far as excuses went, it was as good as any.
“He’s not with me. He’s... God damn it, Nat.” Steve pushed away from his chair and took a couple of steps through the room.
Natasha didn’t startle. Instead, she continued to sit at the table and sipped her coffee with nearly unnerving calm, watching Steve pace with a blank expression.
“Alright, listen. I have to tell you something,” Steve started. “Bucky, he— Wait... Who the hell is that?!”
He came to a sudden halt in front of the bar and stared.
Steve hadn’t discovered the body earlier, so she had probably masked the scent of blood with something else - but there he was. Some guy in his thirties with a gaping bullet hole in his head, leaning against the bottom shelf of the liquor cabinet.
“No one.”
Steve raised a judgmental eyebrow at her. “Doesn’t look like no one to me.”
She stood up and casually walked over to his side, only to dig him in the ribs with an elbow. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?” she asked with a wolfish grin.
Steve didn’t look impressed. “So?”
“You’re no fun.” She yawned. “He’s a tail. I caught him staking out the place earlier. I think they broke into my phone and got the coordinates I sent you.”
“Shit...” Steve said. “That’s serious.”
“I know. I realized I was being shadowed a week ago but I let him come. He fought me. I won. The natural order of things. Unfortunately, I had to put him down early before I could extract any intel. His passport’s fake, too. I checked, but I’m pretty sure he’s Hydra.”
Steve swallowed hard. “How do you know?”
She sauntered around the bar, crouched down beside the corpse and exposed his right forearm. There, about halfway up his wrist, was the Hydra insignia. An ugly red skull with 6 octopus legs. It looked like it had been burned into the flesh.
“Well, that’s new,” Steve said, staring back at Natasha once he could pull his eyes away from the mark.
The hate he felt for Hydra was bubbling hot under his skin. This had to be one of Ward’s men. Maybe even one of the guys who had assaulted Bucky in front of a bunch of innocent children. Otherwise, this was one hell of a coincidence.
“My guess? New management,” Natasha said. “They don’t want any defectors. After Insight, half of their staff pretended they’d never heard of Hydra much less joined ranks. Like rats leaving a sinking ship. Looks like they’re rebranding. Come on,” she snapped her fingers and lead him back to their table.
Steve trailed after her but he was too agitated to sit down just yet.
Natasha didn’t seem to mind.
“Care to tell me what this is all about?” she asked. “First the radio silence, now this... You’re almost as secretive as Fury these days and he’s been resurrected twice. A little mistrust is understandable there, don’t you think?”
Steve shook his head. “I don’t distrust you.”
She snorted dubiously.
“Hey, I really don’t. It’s just— Hell, Nat. I promised him I wouldn’t tell anyone else.”
“...But?”
“Shit, I can’t do this alone! I just can’t...”
“It’s ok. I can keep a secret.” She shrugged and looked at him expectantly. “Ask anyone. All the people who confided in me before are either very happy with my ongoing discretion - or very dead.”
Steve laughed nervously. “Well... That’s comforting.”
“I know. So shoot.”
He nodded grimly and tried to brace himself for the conversation that was about to follow. Bucky would understand. He had to.