[oom] you don't need to save me, but would you run away with me? // Part 2

[from_the_outside]

It's a long, long week. 

All the weeks here are long. She's been exhausted since she first arrived, and it hasn't gotten any easier – she's just gotten used to it.

What she isn't used to is watching what it does to Bucky.

He keeps busy, vanishing shortly after breakfast and not reappearing until well after dark, sometimes not until close to midnight. That doesn't mean she doesn't have eyes on him – she has eyes everywhere in this city. Some of what he gets up to he tells her about. Some of it she sees or hears about.

Some she only pieces together after the fact.

For example:

Four days into his stay she sees a flurry of alerts and messages about a gang of thugs that had decided to tangle with him in a Lowtown market. The videos of him throwing them into plate glass windows and walls and storefront doors travel through Madripoor like wildfire.

And then there are the rumors. It's public knowledge he killed Cade and that he's been seen with the art dealer: what no one knows is why, and the whispers grow steadily more frenetic as the week rolls on. The general consensus seems to be that the art dealer had Cade disposed of in order to help her own climb to power. More than one person attempts to contract him for help with an unsolvable problem. No one manages to hire him. No one seems to know what he wants.

Worse is that as the power dynamic between those on the lower rung vying for Selby's position fluctuates, he deliberately allows himself to be seen more often, delves more deeply into Madripoor's seedy shadows. She doesn't understand until her security catches a would-be assassin she saw coming a mile away, and then she realizes: his involvement with her, with Cade, has painted a target on her back.

So he's decided to paint a larger one on his own.

He loses weight. She pushes breakfast and dinner at him, but he eats mechanically, hardly seems to notice. The lines drawn on his face seem carved into rock. He stops smiling except occasionally when they're alone in the middle of the night, or when his phone pings with a text from Sam.

On the fifth night, he stops sleeping. 

He wakes up from a nightmare he refuses to talk about, and for the next few days she doesn't see him sleep at all. He's catching catnaps like he used to back in the Winter Soldier days, she thinks, but she's not sure. Every day he's a little quieter, a little more grim.

Which is why it's so strange that her apartment is completely filled with flowers.

Everywhere she looks now, there they are: large, expensive bouquets in fancy vases on nearly every available surface. He's had one delivered every single day, and every day she hates herself a little more for bringing him here. Every day he tells her come home with me.

Every day she tells him I can't. And he looks at her with those determined, weary eyes, and her heart breaks a little more.

It's a little over a week after he'd first arrived that she's hosting clients again. The party hasn't even started, and she already wishes she had a drink.

(There weren't any flowers today. She wonders if that's a sign.)

Comments

[from_the_outside]

"Good."

She walks back towards him, setting the champagne flute down on the table as she goes, and puts her arms around his waist, leaning back a little to smile up at him. This giddiness will fade eventually – it's a long flight – but until it does, she's going to ride it for all it's worth.

It's been a long, long six years without hope. "How're you feeling? Good?" She studies his face, the weary lines drawn there. "Tired?"

[nerves_of_ice]

"Good," he confirms, as he turns to put his back fully against the wall and slides his arms around her in turn. "Not that tired. It might be worth seeing if there's coffee in stock at some point, but I'm good to get us home."

[from_the_outside]

"Pretty sure I saw a few packets of pre-ground in the galley," she tells him. "I'll make some in a bit. It won't be as good as Sarah's, but it'll be caffeinated."

She already knows she's not going to be able to stay up the whole flight. Neither of them have slept well the last few nights, and she's still healing from the poison she'd inhaled, and frankly? She doesn't have super soldier serum running through her system to keep her going. At some point, she'll have to try to sleep.

But not yet. "I can come keep you company in the cockpit, if you want to keep an eye on things."

[nerves_of_ice]

His smile is slow and sweet as he leans down and kisses her.

"Come on up. The view's amazing."

[from_the_outside]

"Okay."

She kisses him again and steps back to let him push back off the wall, tangling her fingers loosely with his as she follows him back to the cockpit. She has to let go of his hand to sit back down in the co-pilot's chair, but he's well within arm's reach.

And besides, he's right: the view is amazing. "Look at those stars," she says, softly, leaning to look up at the speckled sky. "I could barely see any in Madripoor."

[nerves_of_ice]

"Too many city lights," he agrees. "None of that up here."

[from_the_outside]

"...Yes," she agrees, amused as she looks over at him. "That's true. Very few city lights up here, in the sky."

She won't be able to see too many stars in Brooklyn, either, but that's okay. "It makes me think of the night sky photos you used to take back in Wakanda."

[nerves_of_ice]

"I can see why." He smiles a little at the thought. "I'll have to start taking pictures again."

[from_the_outside]

"You stopped?"

She thinks about all the pictures he'd taken in Wakanda, of the children, the goats. Her. Steve.

She swallows the why? that comes to her lips. She can guess. Reaching over to him, she curls her fingers over his forearm, smiles a little. "You'll definitely have to start again. I can't believe how many missed opportunities you've had to take pictures of Sam."

[nerves_of_ice]

There's no mistaking it: a pained expression crosses his face when she mentions 'pictures' and 'Sam.' Bucky groans, and leans his head back against the seat.

"I guess I'll have to," he admits.

[from_the_outside]

She squeezes his arm and laughs as she pulls her hand back again. "Attaboy," she tells him, cheerful.

[nerves_of_ice]

He rolls his eyes at her, and decides not to mention the video Sam had Redwing take of his plunge from the plane a few weeks back. Maybe the file's lost.

"Anyway, the boys might get a kick out of it. Especially if I can talk them into showing off the boat."

[from_the_outside]

"I bet they'd love that. Especially now that it's all fixed up."

The thought makes her a little wistful. Whatever Bucky might say, she knows it's going to be a long time before she can get to Louisiana... if she ever can.

But that's something to worry about later.

[nerves_of_ice]

"They're good kids."

The radio chatters suddenly, and he adjusts the volume as he listens, then points out the window to the northeast. "There they are. See them?"

In the distance, a tiny light flashes: red, then green, then red, then green.

"Probably headed to Hong Kong or Tokyo or something like that."

[from_the_outside]

There's something inexpressibly fond in her expression when she looks at him, before the radio sputters with sound and he points toward a blinking light in the distant sky. "Probably," she agrees, watching as the other plane travels calmly along its way.

All those people with all their problems and joys, small and large. "It's going to be a hell of an adjustment to start thinking of life as something that exists outside Madripoor."

[nerves_of_ice]

"But a good one," he murmurs. "Right?"

[from_the_outside]

"Yes," she says, but it's soft.

Six years is a long time. She'd said I don't know who I am anymore and she's still not sure she does. "I keep tripping over pieces of who I used to be. Am," she amends, after a second. "Who I am.


"It's just... going to be an adjustment."

[nerves_of_ice]

"I know."

His tone is quiet and very, very gentle.

[from_the_outside]

"I know you do."

She smiles slightly at him. "I'll probably need to make a list of names of my own."

[nerves_of_ice]

He reaches out to take her hand in his, and squeezes gently.

[from_the_outside]

She presses his hand to her lips, runs her thumbs over his knuckles before letting go.

"Anyway."

Her lips press into a rueful smile. "How about I make that coffee?"

[nerves_of_ice]

"Sounds good."

The corner of his mouth quirks up, very slightly.

"I don't know if they've got cinnamon, though."

[from_the_outside]

"I think I'll live," she tells him, dry, and gets up, stopping on her way to lean down and press a kiss into his soft hair before heading back into the galley.

The coffee maker seems pretty simple: she pulls out two bags of the pre-ground coffee beans and pours them both into the percolator. She can't stomach coffee this strong, but he prefers it – she'll just add some extra hot water to hers. She checks the water level on the machine and flips the switch, waiting until she hears the water begin to heat before coming back to lean against the side of the cockpit door. "Should be ready in just a bit."

[nerves_of_ice]

"Thanks," he says, looking up at her with a smile.

[from_the_outside]

She pats his shoulder and looks out past him to the night sky, trying to think of what time it'll be when they land on the East Coast. She's more tired than she thought, because her brain just gives up on the problem after stuttering on it for a minute or two. After that, she just watches the clouds roll past and tries to imagine what they're flying over until the coffee maker beeps.

Heading back into the galley, she digs out two mugs, fills one halfway and one to the brim, then adds hot water, sugar, and creamer to hers before bringing them both back into the cockpit. "Here," she says, offering him his mug. "This is as strong as I could make it."