#stupid short unformed ideas | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wonderlandmind4 · 5 years

Text

The Winter Soldier: A Ghost Story- Chp4

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: Mild violence, murder, blood, language. Someone being stupid.

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: 7k

Ophelia is rushing down the hallway, double checking that all the pages are together in the leather case folder that Pierce asked her to bring as requested by one of the Councilmen. She’s half way there when her shoulder slams into something solid. The three folders tumble out of her arms before she can stop them, physically wincing at the sharp pain the impact caused in her bruised ribs.

“Well now, if those weren’t held with metal clips that could’ve been a disaster.”

Ophelia’s eyes snap up, knowing the voice as soon as they spoke. Her gaze lands on a clean-shaven handsome face with a chiseled chin, sharp jaw and an amused expression aimed at her. His blonde hair is trimmed neatly, short to his head, and his dark blue eyes are as friendly as ever.

“Daniel!” Ophelia chirps, a surprised smile on her face.

Daniel Pierce smiles brightly at her, bending over to pick up the fallen folders. He gathers them quickly before holding them up for her to take. He opens his mouth to speak when she halts him.

“Wait, give me a moment,” She tells him, taking the folders, “and thanks!”

She turns, leaving his mouth half open in an unformed sentence. Continuing down the hall, she makes it to the room without anymore interruptions. She quietly opens the door as someone is in the middle of speaking, carefully sliding the folders on the table over to her boss. Ten sets of eyes of the World’s Security Council glance at her, so she waves briefly, accepting their nods or waves back.

Then she backs out of the room while making sure the door stays silent. She turns so her back is to the glass, releasing a slow exhale. Now that she’s delivered the folders, the small spike of adrenaline is dying down and the dull aching in her ribs makes itself knows. She briefly touches her left hand to the area, gently rubbing her fingers over it as if that will soothe the injury.

Daniel. Right. Ophelia snaps back to it, ignoring the twinge of pain; a feat not foreign to her. As she approaches the son of her boss, also known as her ex, she glares at him. He has knowing smile on his lips, mirth dancing in his blue eyes.

“What’s that look for?” She inquires, hands on her hips.

“Good to see your perception of work hasn’t changed,” He quips, “Always so precise and on time.”

“It’s what got me this position in the first place. That, and apparently someone put in a good word after they found out that I applied.”

Daniel laughs, mouth wide open. “We both know you got this job all on your own, Affie.”

Ophelia leans forward to lightly smack his bicep as she looks around frantically. “Mark Daniel Pierce, don’t you dare call me that!” She scolds in a hushed voice. “No one knows that nickname except my sister!”

Pouting with an over exaggerated lip, he rubs his arm. “You just used my full name.”

“Because you compromised private, embarrassing information.”

“You’re so dramatic,” He chuckles, finally breaking his frown.

“Me? You’re rubbing your arm like a hit you with a bat,” She begins to walk past him. “Let’s go into my office.”

“So official.”

“You’re in town for two seconds and the teasing is through the roof.”

“It’s been a year, I have to annoy you somehow.”

Ophelia rolls her eyes fondly, opening the door of her office for him. Daniel plops down on the chair in front of her desk as she sits behind her computer, wincing just slightly when her ribs jab with pain. She quickly answers an email that popped up on her screen, then gives her full attention to the man she hasn’t seen in a year.

“So,” She begins, leaning back in her chair, “What brings you to town?”

Daniel’s eyes light up at her question, sitting up straighter. “I’m engaged.”

“What!?” Ophelia snaps herself forward, a smile growing across her face. “Daniel, congratulations!”

He shrugs, a small blush coloring his cheeks. “Yeah, thanks, Elia. I’m just- she’s amazing, and I can’t believe she said yes. I came back to tell my parents. Well, I haven’t told them yet.”

“Why not?” She frowns in confusion.

“Alexis couldn’t get off work, so she’s coming in Friday afternoon,” He explains, pulling out his phone and handing the device to her.

Taking the phone, she enlarges the picture he displayed. “Well, damn,” She chuckles, staring at the decent sized ring. “I wouldn’t say no to that either.”

Daniel laughs heartily, accepting his phone when she hands it back. “Thanks. We’re telling them Friday at dinner. But I was wondering if you’re busy Saturday? Maybe three of us could do lunch? I’d love for you to meet her.”

“I’ve met her, Daniel,” Ophelia chuckles, genuinely happy for her giddy friend.

“Yeah, but it’s been years and you haven’t met my fiancé,” When he says the word, the softest expression on his face.

“Of course. I’d love to meet your fiancé. Just give me a time and place and I’ll be there.”

“Great!” Daniel stands up, prompting her to do the same. “I’ll let you get back to work, I just stopped by to give something my dad forgot at home.”

Ophelia gives him a quick parting hug, flinching just slightly at the pain in her ribs. “Alright, tell your mom I said hi, and I’ll see you Saturday.”

Daniel nods, walking towards the door. He stops to turn around, a bright smile on his lips. “I’m so excited to get married.”

“I’m excited for you! Now go, before you get me fired,” She playfully shoos him away.

He cackles as he exits her office.

March 18th, 2012 9:30pm

The night is brisk, although one might not remember with the warmth of the vault a half mile beneath the bank. Sweat prickles at Agent Bernstein’s temple, a drop running down his cheek as using the sleeve of his gray lab coat to wipe it away. He has been fixing the slight electrical malfunction of the computer’s hard drive, tinkering with a faulty wire, for the past hour. He works cautiously but with precision, knowing the ever presence of threats hanging over his head should he fail.

When he has tampered with the wire, glancing over once his shoulder for prying eyes, Agent Bernstein crawls out from under the table. Switching on the computers and electrical system, he hears the gentle sound of machines coming to life. He’s alone in this certain room, the one he dubbed as the psychiatric torture chamber, allowing him the privacy to work. He knows the other agents are preparing to receive instructions for the next mission, which means the Asset will be arriving soon.

After he scans his fingerprint to unlock the computer, he pulls up the data functions of the chair itself. All looks correct, as does the system meant to digitally read vitals, and the digital scan of the Asset’s brain. He keeps the vital scan up on the display screen, moving over to the control switchboard for the chair. Agent Bernstein tests the main dial, the cracking and whirling of electrical noises signal the chair powering on. He turns the dial up halfway, wishing he had a body to test it on; maybe that one agent who seems to abuse the Asset for no reason. He smirks down at the dial, listening carefully to the unmatched surge of power. He had no idea if what he just did will work, only time will tell.

“Bernstein!” Barks a sharp voice.

He startles, quickly turning the dial down until it shuts off. He turns to face the voice, the man who recruited him is flanked by a team of men in black clothing, and bullet proof vests. They’re armed with semi-automatic guns, held idly in their hands but, thankfully, not aimed at him.

“Sir,” Agent Bernstein responds steadily.

“Is the system functioning properly?”

“Yes, sir. It’s ready.”

“Good.” The man nods, turning to the agent on his right. “Bring the Asset.”

Agent Bernstein keeps his slight relief to himself, turning back to the computer in front of him. The doctors in charge of monitoring the Asset’s brain activity and scans enter the room, quickly getting to work on either side of him. He keeps his eyes on the screen, bringing up a data box to monitor the chair’s system. He hears the heavy footsteps of boots enter the room a few minutes later, along with the scraping of another set of shoes. As if they’re dragging him. Bernstein inhales and exhales slowly, trying to keep his heart calm.

Soon the screams will start.

Bernstein reluctantly turns to face the chair; the Asset, the Soldier, already strapped down. One of the doctors leaves his post to push a rubber guard into the Soldier’s mouth. Bernstein has noticed the mouth piece before, sometimes they give it to the poor man, other times they leave him to bite down on his tongue. Those are the times when Bernstein is forced to clean the blood away from the Soldier’s chin.

He catches the eye of the doctor, nodding his head. Ignoring the sickening curl in his chest, Agent Bernstein clicks the system control panel on the screen. The chair buzzes to life, the extra restraints snapping into place against the Soldier’s body, his breath coming out in short panicked huffs of air. Bernstein slowly turns the dial up, the paddles of the machine crackling with electrical current. He hopes his tampering works.

The clenched screaming begins.

It’s hard to ignore the sounds, the horrible noises that will echo in his chest for the rest of his life. However, Agent Bernstein is distracted by the agent pulling out a small, dirty red journal he didn’t notice the last time. A solid black star is imprinted on the front, matching the red star on the Soldier’s left arm. The agent cracks the book open, easily falling to a page previously marked.

As the man begins to recite words in Russian, Agent Bernstein discreetly turns down the dial.

“желание. Ржaвый. Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

Finally, the clamps of the machine release from the man, moving back into their original position. Bernstein swallows the thick lump forming in his throat, pulling his gaze away from the Soldier’s twitching head.

“Печь. Девять. Добросердечный. возвращение на родину. Один. грузовой вагон.” There’s a short pause. “добро пожаловать обратно, солдат.” (Welcome back, Soldier)

Agent Bernstein can’t keep his eyes from slipping back to the scene in front of him. The man in the chair takes a short breath. Then his shoulders drop into submission, his head tilts forward just slightly. His body, dressed in a dark gray thermal vest and matching pants, remains clam. His dark hair is stringy, slightly dripping droplets of water onto his shoulder.

“готовы соблюдать.”

When the Soldier speaks, his voice is low, rough from being locked away for a few days. Bernstein still isn’t sure how exactly the man is locked up or kept, since the people he works for haven’t given him access to that certain area. Agent Bernstein hadn’t noticed the new presence in the room as the Soldier was being tortured into submission once again. When he does, his heart rate speeds up, but he grits his teeth to remain silent and ignores the sting of bile churning in his stomach.

Alexander Pierce takes the few steps needed to stand in front of the Asset.

“New mission, Soldier,” He informs him with a steady, poised voice. He has a manila folder in his hand, slipping out a photo, holding it up. “This man is a traitor to Hydra. He obtains valuable information that could compromise our plan to help the world. If he is successful in trading that information, we can’t continue to give what mankind needs. What the world needs. Eliminated him.”

March 18th, 2012 11:00pm

Nightfall brings the last lingering round of winter. It holds onto the plants with its icy fingers, not relenting to the life of Spring just yet. Snow is absent from the dark sky, a silence through the night except for one lone faint breath. The quiet draw of an inhale, the soft hiss of an exhale, then, a light crinkle of a withered paged book.

The man lounging in the chair with a novel held in his hands fleeting wonders if he should light the idle wood in the fireplace. Just one last cackling warmth before the weather turns warm; chase away the lingering scent of winter.

Shifting, the man adjusts his book, eyes staring at the page in front of him, but not reading. He listens, carefully, with ears attuned to the tiniest sound. Waiting. A hard metal object digs into the side of his thigh, slowly dropping his right hand to place his fingers over it. Waiting.

Inhale. He hears nothing. Exhale. Nothing.

Inhale. Exhales. Nothing.

Inhale. Something shifts in the air. He lifts his eyes from the book, trying his best to remain clam, keep his heartbeat down. Fear can be pungent. Noticeable. It can make the skin prickle, make blood run cold, and Winter just found him.

He slowly lowers the book, eyes locked on the shadows of the far corner of the room. His hand tightens around the metal object, index finger quietly slipping over a trigger. He had waited for this moment. He had known this moment would come, that his past, his betrayal in their eyes would catch up to him. No one is safe from the monster; cut one head off, another takes its place.

He is one of those doomed heads. Death has come for him, but he refuses to go as quiet as the night.

“Я ждал тебя, Зимний Солдат,” The man declares in his native Russian tongue with a low, gruffy voice. “Зима ищет моей смерти. (I have been expecting you, Winter Soldier. Winter seeks my death.)

The man knew this day would come, that his time was running out. The Winter Soldier remains silent in the shadows, the halo of light from the street lamps is the only source illuminating a strip of gold over his metal appended. The red Soviet star standing is contract against it. A blood red reminder; no one gets out alive.

Setting the novel down on the side table, the man begins to stand, as the Soldier’s cold gaze follow his move. As expected, the Soldier wears the mask they gifted him, the one that silences the shell of the Asset. The hard plastic being the object that will keep this night a secret forever, lost in another burned file of the dead. Of the betrayers.

The man tightens his grip on the gun in his hand. The Soldier’s eyes flicker to the movement. He has yet to draw any of his own weapons from the plethora of options strapped to his person. The man swallows, feeling sweat begin to bead down his neck.

“Я уверен, вы понимаете. Я не пойду спокойно,” He speaks to the stoic Soldier. (I’m sure you understand. I won’t quietly.)

He takes several cautious steps toward him, coming as close as he can. He slowly points the barrel of the silencer under his own chin. The Asset’s eyes gleam for a split second, his head tilting just a fraction. It’s enough of a distraction for the man to unleash a small knife from his left sleeve. He abruptly jerks his arm up in an attack, pointing the gun towards the Soldier at the same time and fires.

Two soft pops echo around the room, followed by the splatter of blood and the shattering of a bullet greeting a skull. A heavy thud plunks on the wooden floorboards, the dark thick flow of red beginning to seep into the designs of the wood. The Soldier looks down at the man on the ground for a moment, his eyes now vacant with life.

The Soldier bends to take the Gerber knife from the former Hydra agent’s slack hand, leaving the body there, as he slips out of the house as soundlessly as he came in. Minutes pass until a vaguely familiar twinge of pain stings through the Soldier’s nerves, down his right arm. With a flare of annoyance rising in his chest he adjusts his course, a vague memory of an old rendezvous point flashing through is mind.

Pressing his steel fingers to a spot on his right shoulder just under the collarbone, he releases a sharp breath. When he pulls his hand away, the sliver is coated in bright red blood. He furiously shoves his right hand through his long hair, frustrated with the strands and the wound the traitor inflected. His palm comes away with another smear of red.

The Soldier ignores the injuries, pushing forward towards the meeting point. He details his surroundings, calculating every small movement, every little noise, his body moving as if his legs were out of his control. He reaches the point, an abandoned building just streets away from the dead man’s home.

He finds his way in, easily climbing steel railings despite the blood oozing out of the wound. He finds that one window, accessible and inconspicuous with no breaks to the glass, slipping inside. Once there, he walks into a smaller room, finding a curved porcelain seat and sinks into it.

He grinds his teeth in irritation as it’s not often he is wounded. Wounds, injuries, are a nuisance, just little blips to slow down a mission that could be handled quickly. He lifts the blade of the knife, pressing it into the gaping hole through his vest. A clenched noise emits from behind the mask for several moments, as the sharp pain sends fire through his veins briefly. The blade sinks easily into the wound, slicing through leather and new flesh, until he feels the solid piece of metal lodged in his shoulder.

He flicks his wrist, the bullet making a tinkering noise as it hits the ground. The Soldier drops his left arm, dropping his head back until it plunks against the wall behind him. Then he waits for his handlers to arrive, reveling in the success of his mission.

Friday, March 18th, 2012 11:45pm

Ophelia finally makes it to her door after what she thought would be a normal work day. Pierce had been in meeting after meeting, which required updated policies to be proofread and sent back. It took her working overtime to finish proofing, but then there was a strange fail to the computer systems. On every floor.

She had groaned and thanked her past self for saving the proofs every few minutes. Aggravated, she had marched right down to the IT and Computer Specialists floor to see what in the hell was going on. Carter and half of the department had been absent, long gone by now and probably eating hot dinners at home. It gave Ophelia the privacy she needed to access Carter’s computer, pulling up the programming to the central control system. Briefly, she pondered if it was just a ruse for Carter to get her to “work her magic” as he liked to call it. However, Carter would’ve been there to gloat, and not be home with his loving husband probably eating pizza or curry. God, she had been hungry.

Finally, after several minutes of pulling up the codes and statistics, she had figured out the problem. She added a few formulas here and there, for future prevention should something like this happening again. Just little back up system to the back up system. She had logged off his computer, then marched right back to her office.

Now, Ophelia rest her forehead against her door for a moment, exhaling. She had finally grabbed food on the way home, eating the tacos in a record pace in her car. All she wanted to do at this very moment was take a bath with some bubbles and open a bottle of wine. She unlocks her door, stumbles into her apartment, noting the time on her clock; 11:46 pm. One of the latest nights she’s had in a while. She closes the door behind her making sure to lock it as she kicks off her heeled boots. She walks through her apartment, turning on the lights as she goes and dropping her purse on the coffee table.

She’s sighs, feeling the weight of the stressful work day ease from her shoulders as she takes off her blazer, tossing it on the couch. She calls for Binks by making clicking noises with her tongue and begins unbuttoning her white blouse. Her cat doesn’t greet her, but usually that means he’s sleeping under his fuzzy blanket tent. By the time her shirt is half open, she already has the bottle of wine in her hand, finding a glass and pouring the red liquid into it. Ophelia makes sure to refill Binks’ food bowl, otherwise he’ll be yelling at her at four in the morning.

She finishes stripping off her shirt, leaving it on the dining table, not caring for the trail of clothes she’s leaving along the way. She adjusts her bra for a moment, cursing underwire and bigger breasts, and the fact that she barely got away with wearing a blue lace bra under that shirt. Grabbing her glass again, she finally makes her way to her room, taking her hair down from the bun she had it in.

Ophelia turns on light of the bathroom, then promptly screams.

The wine glass falls to the floor, shattering across the tile, deep reddish-purple splattering everywhere. Her heart flies to her throat and she grabs the nearest thing she can reach. Which happens to be the hair dryer.

Lounging in the bathtub, or slumped rather, is a man, tall enough that his legs hang over the edge, his toes touching the floor. The man is dressed in black from head to toe, a heavy leather vest over his board, heaving chest. He wears a black mask, something that almost looks like a muzzle that covers the bottom half of his face, as his eyes are covered with what she swears is eye black grease athletes use. His legs are clad in black tactical pants and his feet dawn heavy combat boots. There are thigh holsters on each side holding two knives and a pistol, a utility belt loaded with more weapons and there’s a semi-automatic gun resting next to his hip.

It’s the dark, long sleeve shirt that gets her though, for the left sleeve is gone. The man’s entire left arm, from his shoulder to the tips of his fingers seem to made of metal. The sleek silver gleams dully against the fluorescent lights of the bathroom, a red star imprinted on his shoulder. He same metal hand that is resting in the barrel of the gun.

Everything about this intruder screams danger. Turn and run away!

Except, he slowly lifted his head as Ophelia screamed. His irises are a startling blue, contrasting against his black smudge band around his eyes. A bright blue that belongs in paintings and not in the body of this dark, menacing stranger. His long, dark hair falls around his face, stringy and matted to the left side of his forehead. His eyes look cold, albeit tired, exhausted, and it’s then that Ophelia notices the man is injured.

There’s a decent sized cut on his forehead and a small hole in his leather vest in his right shoulder. Blood is seeping out of the wound, racing down his torso, catching in the bizarre straps across the vest. There’s a moment of sympathetic instinct that takes over Ophelia, wanting to help the man and tend to his injuries, or at least call 911. Because maybe, just maybe, he is a victim, just like she- No. He broke into her home, he’s armed. He looks dangerous and her fight or flight response is finally kicking in. Fight. It’s always fight with her.

“Who the fuck are you and why the fuck are you here!?” Ophelia demands, raising her menacing weapon of the hair dryer.

The man just blinks at her, as if he’s bored. He’s loaded with weapons. In retrospect, shouting at this sinister looking man probably wasn’t the best way to go about the situation. Ophelia’s eyes drop to the broken glass and she drops the dryer, opting for the sharp pointed stem of the broken wine glass instead.

“Fine. I’m calling the cops,” She hopes that by threatening the authorities arrival that this man won’t harm her.

With her free hand, she reaches into her pocket pulling out her phone. The man shifts, then abruptly her phone is knocked out of her hand. Ophelia looks at the counter behind her, her phone lying there with the screen black, the glass shattered beyond repair with tiny curls of smoke emitting from it. Because he threw a knife at her, at it. He threw a fucking knife at her phone. She’s about to panic, when she realizes said knife is on now on the counter. That was stupid on his part. She picks it up, now armed with a real weapon to defend herself. Grant, it’s a knife to a gun fight if it happens to go that route.

He remains stoic, despite her pointing his own weapon at him. Besides her phone, he hasn’t moved to attack her. Not even aiming his gun at her. Her eyes focus on his bleeding form once more, briefly and wildly wondering if this man isn’t truly dangerous, but scared. He’s wounded. Maybe he’s hiding.

Ophelia sighs, lowering her arms but keeps the knife at the ready. Alright, think. A strange, murderous looking man has broken into her apartment and is currently bleeding out in her bathtub. He just threw a knife at her phone, so she can’t call for help. He hasn’t shot her yet and didn’t even nick her hand with the blade; not even the slightest bit of skin. Skin exposed and on display.

With an internal start, Ophelia realizes she’s shirtless. Because of course life-threatening moments like this happen in embarrassing situations. She rolls her eyes so hard it gives her a headache. She understands how vulnerable she might seem to him but again, the man hasn’t acted upon it yet. With that in mind, and the continuously bleeding wounds, she makes her decision.

Granted, probably the stupidest decision she has ever made.

“Fuck me,” Ophelia grumbles under her breath. “Fuck it all, I’ll probably end up dying because I can’t leave well enough alone.” She raises the knife once more, jabbing it in the air, “Don’t move. You’re hurt and I’m going to help you. I’ll be right back.”

She slowly and carefully backs out of her bathroom, trying to avoid stepping on glass with her bare feet. The man’s blue eyes follow her movement until she can’t see them anymore. She hurries to the kitchen, grabbing her heavy duty first aid kit from the cabinet, then runs back to her room. She quickly pulls on a tank top, searches for the her sewing kit she knows she has, then slips on her sandals.

When she enters the bathroom, the man hasn’t moved, save for his head tilted back again. She lays her supplies out across the counter top, keeping her body half turned towards him. She opens the first kit, shifting through supplies until she gathers what she needs. Anti-septic wipes, small and large gauze pads, wrappings, medical tape, butterfly band aids. Tweezers, because she’s pretty sure that’s a bullet wound in his shoulder and grabs the bottle of alcohol from under the sink.

“I swear to God if you end up stabbing me,” She mutters as she sits on the edge of the tub.

Other than just tilting his head to watch her with expressionless eyes, the man remains still. She swallows her fear but lets the skills her mother taught her years ago take over. Glancing down she assesses the amount of blood he’s already lost, finding the cause of his shoulder wound. A small bullet coated in thick blood lays on the bottom of the tub. It’s a clear sign that the bullet had been lodged into the joint of his shoulder.

Going by the smaller knife next to the bullet as well, he definitely dug out the bullet himself. Ophelia reaches above the toilet to grab a smaller towel, folding it so when she presses it to the wound, the blood won’t soak through immediately. However, she can’t really d anything to help him if he doesn’t remove his vest. Or that mask.

“What’s your name?” She attempts as calmly as she can. Despite it, she can hear the shakiness in her own voice.

For the first time, his blue eyes flash with what she thinks is confusion. He doesn’t speak, but his eyebrows twitch down minutely. It was a strange reaction, but not one she’s hasn’t seen before. Maybe he doesn’t speak English.

“Okay then,” She utters, moving slowly holding up the towel. “Um. Cuál es su nombre?”

Nothing. “Come ti chiami?”

Again, nothing. So, not Spanish or Italian then. Maybe French.

“Uh, comment vous appelez-vou?”

Silence.

“Never mind. Hold this to your shoulder,” She instructs anyway, shaking the towel. She goes to press it against his wound, but his left hand tightens on the gun. “Right. Sorry. You do it.” She leans back dropping the towel. “But I’m cleaning the one on your head.”

She points to her own forehead, then his and makes a show of dabbing the gauze she picked up. For some reason, he allows her to do this. Although the voice in the back of her mind is screaming how stupid and dangerous this is. Using the anti-septic wipes, she gently wipes away the blood from his temple, careful not to touch his skin. Vaguely, she thinks if she says her name maybe he’ll truly realize she’s just trying to help him. She warily eyes the gun every few seconds.

“I’m Oph- Affie. My name is Affie,” She tells him, deciding to supply the rare nickname only her family knows. He doesn’t respond, but she didn’t think he would. She does notice the blood has run down his face, spreading along the edge of the mask. “Can I...can you, uh, take this off? It’ll be easier.”

He just stares at her for a long, tense moment. She taps her chin to insinuate his mask. His eyes flash again, but his metal hand slowly releases the gun, his fingers hooking around the edge of the mask, pulling it off. It clatters to the bottom of the tub, the noise overly loud in the silence between them.

The slightest whisper of familiarity echoes in the back of her mind, but she can’t place it. The man has a strong jaw, dusted with stubble and chapped pink lips. He looks, young, possibly around the same age as Ophelia. She forgets the feeling of familiarity, continuing to wipe the blood off his cheekbone. Some of it has already dried, flaking off into the gauze.

“This can be marked down as the strangest night in my life,” She murmurs, clearly just talking to calm her nerves.

She sees something move out of the corner of her eye, and for a split moment, she thinks it could be another intruder. Except it’s not. It’s Binks, who looks like he has been sitting in the doorway since she entered the bathroom again. He flicks his tail, relaxed composure, which she finds out of character. Binks isn’t too fond of strange men being in their home.

Ophelia focuses on the task at hand, throwing the red soak wipe away and grabbing a new one along with a gauze pad. She presses it to the cut, attempting to stop the bleeding, which strangely has seemed to slow down already. Once she’s cleaned the cut, she opens the butterfly band aid, carefully placing it over the wound. She uses three.

“One Down, another one which requires you to be shirtless, to go,” She clears her throat awkwardly. “This, um, needs to come off. For me to help you.”

His blue eyes shift to her again, narrowing just slightly.

“I can’t help you if you don’t let me,” She informs him gently.

Gently? She probably has a hitman for the Italian mob or something bleeding in her damn bathtub and she’s speaking to him softly? All she wanted to do tonight was soak in said tub and go to bed. Ophelia bites her lip, thinking.

“Alright. I’m going across the hallway to call 911 then. They’ll help you better than I can,” She throws away the scrapes of the band-aids, standing from the edge of the tub.

“нет.”

The curt voice makes her stop. It’s the first word he’s said to her, and she’s 100% sure it was Russian. She is also 100% sure he understood every word she has been saying. Slowly, she sits back down on the ledge, not wanting to anger this man, in case his clam demeanor abruptly changes.

“Then allow me to help you,” Ophelia insists, keeping conviction in her voice. “I’d really rather not deal with a stranger bleeding out in my bathtub tonight.”

When his eyes meet hers, there a hint of something there. As if she said something that was furthest from the truth. Slowly, his eyes warily roam over her face, down her body, and back up, as if he sees her as a threat. Ophelia keeps her ground, clenching her teeth to keep her jaw strong, confident. She meets his stare, not blinking in hopes to show him that she isn’t a threat at all.

This whole night is odd.

Finally, the man’s metal hand smeared with his blood, tilts his gun sideways until the length of it rest on the bottom of the tub, barrel point away from them. He hadn’t moved his right arm much, besides throwing that knife at her, but he does now and with it, a fresh pump of thick blood oozes out.

Over his shoulders and across his chest is a strange looking holster that he unclips, letting it hang to the sides. His vest, upon a closer look, oddly reminds Ophelia of a modern straight jacket, minus the actual restraining sleeves and chains. There are seven faux straps that secure the vest, as he pops each button open, tugging down the right side of it to reveal the wound.

The bullet tore a hole in the man’s under shirt, however it isn’t wide enough for Ophelia to do anything. She reaches for the small scissors in the kit, until she hears a small ripping sound bringing her focus back to him. He tore a bigger hole in his shirt, the bullet wound on full display. Despite the thick pluses of blood pumping from it, the surrounding area of the wound looks clean. Whoever shot at this man knew what they were doing.

Ophelia grits her teeth closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. Her stomach churns and she can taste the bitter sting of bile in her throat. She’s seen gruesome pictures of every type of wound when her sister was going to nursing school, as she would excitedly show Ophelia. Seeing it up close and personal is on a whole different level.

Swallowing thickly a few times and steeling her stomach, she opens her eyes once more. She grabs a bigger, thicker towel from under her sink – a red one- fold it and goes to put it over the wound. She hesitates, half considering to just risk it and call the EMTs.

“You do not have to,” The man speaks again. Despite the low volume of his voice, Ophelia jumped when the silence was broken.

“I-“ She exhales shakily, briefly glancing at him. “I can’t not- you’re bleeding in my home. I’m helping.”

Ophelia finally presses the towel over the wound, adding as much pressure as she can. Her muscles shake a little with her own body weight, moving one hand to the back of his shoulder to press on either side. From the corner of her eye she sees his jaw twitch, his shoulders tensing but he doesn’t make a sound.

“I think it, um, I think it needs stitches,” She tells him nervously. “Once the bleeding is under control I can-“

“No.”

“No?”

When her eyes snap back to his, his gaze had hardened, turned icy; a warning. Ophelia huffs, thinking she should probably keep her mouth shut if she doesn’t want her own wound bullet hole. Several minutes pass in tense silence, to which her damn cat had decided to get more curious and hop onto the tub’s ledge. Binks gracefully walks along the tub until he is right next to the man’s metal arm.

Ophelia glares in warning at her cat as he literally head bumps the man’s shoulders. Binks, of course, ignores her or any other cat self-preservation, and puts his paw on his silver shoulder, sniffing the man’s hair. Then, stunning his owner completely, Binks rubs his head against the man’s jaw.

Making a short psst sound through her teeth, Ophelia tries shooing her cat away. The man lifts his metal arm, making her heart clench in fear because for a moment she thinks he will take her cat and chuck him across the room. Instead, he pats Binks on the head twice then gently pushes him away. Binks begins to purr as the man repeats the motion, until her damn curious cat takes the hints.

Binks decides he’s bothered the man enough, and finally jumps off the tub, leaving the room. Ophelia shakes her head in disbelief, adding the most amount of pressure to the wound once more. She refocuses, counts to sixty seconds in her head, then ever so slowly removes the towel slightly to check. Only a light trickle of blood escapes, much better than earlier, but it still needs stitches, as she’s sure it’ll starting bleeding again.

She carefully folds the towel in on itself, dropping it into the trashcan to take care of later. Some of his blood had soaked through the cloth and onto her fingers. Ophelia grabs another towel, pressing it to the wound.

“Hold this there,” She instructs quietly as she gets up to wash her hands.

Once she does that, she gathers several of the big gauze pads, layering them together. She sits back on the tub, the man silently removing the towel, allowing her to place the gauze over the small gaping hole. Quickly she grabs the medical tape as she leaves the gauze on his shoulder, tearing several pieces off. Once all edges of the gauze are taped, Ophelia takes the wrappings out of the package. She works quickly, thankful for volunteering as her sister’s mock patient while she was in school.

Where the bullet entered the man’s body is right between his clavicle and humorous bone. It makes it a little easier to wrap, although having to weave the roll of wrapping through the vest was a little difficult. Ophelia leans back the second she’s finished, feeling proud that this man didn’t go into shock in her bathroom.

“Finished,” She announces, gathering the bloody wipes, and trash. She throws it all away wanting to deal with it later. She meets the man’s eyes once more.

He looks at the dressings, then back to her, his eyes flashing again. She swears he looks confused, curious even, but it’s gone in a split second so she couldn’t be sure.

“Um, you should probably eat something. Drink some water, or- I think I have some soda,” Ophelia stands, opening another packet of anti-septic wipes to clean her hands again. “You lost a good amount of blood, eating will put the sugars back in your body.”

The man stays silent, just lifting his metal hand to touch over the gauze. Ophelia nods, feeling as if her luck is running out. She’s so, incredibly curious, but the fear she had been ignoring is slowly rising to the surface. This man is still dangerous. He is still a threat.

“I’ll just…” She swallows the lump in her throat again starting to back away “I’ll get you an apple and water, maybe the soda.”

She continues backing up, keeping her eyes on the man, even if he isn’t looking at her. The second she doesn’t see him, she briskly walks to her kitchen. She grabs an apple from the fruit bowl, a bottle of water and a can of coke from the fridge. She also carefully takes that frying pan she had knocked her ex out with just a week ago. It saved her then, maybe it can save her now.

Ophelia notices Binks sitting on her bed, staring out the window as she enters her room. When she cautiously steps back into the bathroom, she halts. The tub is empty. She places the items in her hands on the counter, holding the frying pan up like a shield. She peeks her head out the door, scanning her room.

There aren’t many places to hide, even her closet is too small. He didn’t leave the room to follow her to the kitchen, which would’ve been a good plan to jump her then. But she was only gone for several seconds, and she would like to think that she would’ve heard him.

Narrowing her eyes at her cat, who is still staring out the window, Ophelia cautiously moves forward. The latch of her window is unlocked, which is probably how this whole situation happened in the first place. She peers outside, expecting to see a glimmer or flash of that strange silver arm. Instead she sees nothing but her breath fogging up the glass. She lowers the pan, her shoulders dropping. A strange emptiness settles throughout her apartment.

Like a ghost in the night, the man is gone. Just like that.

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

Previous Chapter Five

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

#tws: a ghost story #tws a ghost story #winter soldier x ofc #winter soldier!bucky barnes #winter soldier fanfiction #bucky barnes x ofc #winter soldier fanfic #bucky barnes fanfic #my fic #the winter soldier a ghost story

43 notes · View notes