Now it's time for me to find my Bucky.

Jersey. Not a place I'd assume to find him, but it's a damn good place to hide I guess. Cold. Unpredictable weather. Lots of traffic. Just what a broody, overdramatic drama queenTM would love.

I ended up spending the rest of yesterday mapping out likely areas for my dear ghost to be haunting. I last spotted that crazy mop of curls that belonged to none other than my second half 12 hours ago on a traffic cam. He's either getting sloppy, or I'm being baited. My attempts to locate the irksome brunette haven't been the most subtle, I'll admit. But I've gotten desperate.

Maybe I should get him microchipped.

The thought brings me back to a time long past. The middle of one of our many Russian summers with Carter. A pair of kittens had been born and somehow the two of us managed to plead with Carter to let us keep them around. We told him they could be trained to hunt the mice around the small village. After a long discussion about responsibility, the two of us were proud owners of our very own little squeaky balls of fur. I remember rummaging through Alissa's sewing box for a ribbon and bell for mine. I told the brunette that kittens were so small, they could get lost too easily. It would be much easier to find them if they had little bells. He didn't believe me, no, but what boy does? He believed the cat would bond with him and they'd be inseparable, as like dogs. I knew better, Alissa knew better, but some things you must learn the hard way. Weeks later his little kitten had wandered away, or maybe ran away, but it was the last time we saw the little thing. I remember waking up the next morning, my homemade collar and bell sitting on the floor. I was in a child's panic, only to find my partner with the small kitten in his arms - fur painted to look like the kitten which had disappeared. The fool tried to tell me it was his kitten even as the vials of paint sat at his feet.
It was such a long time ago that all we could think about was what adventure we'd set off on the following day after chores. A long time ago since our innocence was stolen. Since we were stolen.

As I walk down the busy sidewalk, I peer down the grimy alleys. I'm nearly positive that it's the place he'd find himself holed up in. Surrounded by rats he's trained to attack if someone so much as looks at him the wrong way. God, what an actual lunatic he is.

My lunatic.

I walk for blocks with no luck before I huff angrily. How can someone as stupid as him, who doesn't even know how to boil water on a stove, be so good at hiding anyways? I step aside and pull out my phone to rewatch the footage again. I'm in the right area, I must be. The clinking of an empty can rolling across the concrete makes me peer over my shoulder at the delirious, dilated eyes watching me carefully. As my eyes flutter across the people watching, I lift my sunglasses onto the top of my head. I can't say I see what's coming next.

"Oh- OH- OH EVERYBODY RUN IT'S A DAMN WEREWOLF! LOOK AT HER EYES!" I'd recognize that voice from beyond the grave. Even buried beneath 67 layers of muck and 3 feet of beard, I'd know who belongs to that mop of curls. However, what I don't expect is for all the crackheads to go ape-shit crazy — but I should've. Now Curls is making a run for it at the back of the alley and the inhibited backwood crack dealers are screaming bloody murder and hurdling any piece of trash within a 2-foot radius at me. I swear on the only thing good and holy, waffles, that the little shit won't get away from me that easily. I throw myself into the trash-heap madness and make it halfway down the alley before a damn SHOPPING CART is thrown into me. Crackhead strength at it's finest, people.
As I'm knocked to the ground by the force of impact, the lot of frothing creatures surround me. Since I'm dealing with the inhibited, might as well play on their fear, huh? God, he's never going to let me live this down. I turn on those who have tightly packed a semi-circle around me and bear my teeth with as ferocious a snarl I can muster. I could piss my pants laughing at their panicked shrieks of horror as they trample each other to escape had the circumstances allowed. No, I just get to my feet as quickly as I can and run. The blood roars through my ears while my boots thunder against the concrete. I'm desperate to close the distance as I vault over trash, dumpsters, and anything else thrown in my way in an attempt to slow me down. But I've always been lighter on my feet than he has. I'm quick to close the distance, I even grasp a handful of his coat before he allows it to slip into my grasp.

"You...dumb...bitch! It's....me!" My heart is beating so hard due to the amount of epinephrine coursing through my veins I'm almost sure I'll go into cardiac arrest. I haven't been on such an intense chase since our terminal date in Russia. Weaving between buildings, down alleys, across busy intersections, even through a park at one point and he still manages to stay a few steps ahead of me. Once again we start to cross a busy street, where he luckily manages to make it across unscathed, but I find myself landing on the hood of a honking car. My legs and ribs are not going to be very forgiving. I slide off the car's hood and note the cracked windshield, but immediately begin to scan the growing crowd of people for my target. "Damn it!" I scowl to myself before holding my hand up to the crowds. "Don't worry, please move along! Undercover police business..." Man does the term sheeple apply to large crowds of people. They'll believe anything you say if you say it with confidence and authority, or mention a position of authority. Now before the REAL cops show up, I quickly integrate myself into the nearest crowd and blend into the noise of the city. That was my one chance to catch him. Now he could be MIA for the next year or two...

Banking on the possibility of getting lucky, I scour the city until the sun sets over the horizon without so much as a hint as to where to look now. A failed day indeed. However, now that he's flushed from Jersey, I may be able to catch him leaving the city on cameras. A lead for tomorrow, perhaps. For now, I'm stuck sitting on a train station bench with my head in my hands, waiting for my ride back into the city where sleep is overrated. A clinking akin to the squeaks of distressed rodents causes the hair on my arms to stand up. I clamor to my feet at once. My hands are poised in front of me to blast whatever hellspawn has dared sneak up on me back to the enraged depths.

I'm nearly reduced to tears.

Out of the shadows, wrapped in a black trash bag fashioned into a coat with a feather duster as a lapel, he rolls sitting sideways in a shopping cart. His eyes are shaded by cheap, large white sunglasses that take up half his face. In one hand he holds an unlit cigarette. The other hand holds a...rat? The fuck? "I'm still faster than you, bitch." He boasts while gracefully removing himself from the cart. I almost choke when he tosses the rat haphazardly onto the tracks. He folds his arm over his chest, cigarette still poised between his fingers like a rich divorcee. 

"Yeah at finishing during sex, maybe." I snap back. The two of us share a heated look, tension filling the air like a gas leak ready to decimate anything within reach. But me, being the softer of us, cave first. I take the two large steps needed to close the distance between us and enclose him in a hug. It lasts maybe 30 seconds before I pull away and flat-palm bitch-slap the mofo, sending his sunglasses clattering. "Malik Kholodov you are the stupidest, most dense douchebag to ever walk this planet. Do you know how long I've been looking for you, Murk? I told you that we were not playing extreme hide-and-go-seek!"

"Damn, I'd remember that bitch-slap special even if it wasn't on my ass." There's that cheeky smile, that stupid lopsided grin, and that heavy Russian accent. "Now now, come on. You sound like a sore loser of extreme hide-and-go-seek." I'm fuming at this point, ready to berate him in a swear-heavy Russian barrage. "Isn't this our train?" He takes me by the upper arm and guides me into an empty rail car. He sits down before kicking his legs up while I stand and run my hands through my hair angrily. "You know, I'm not even sure you are who you say you are—"

"Who the hell else do you know of that has golden eyes?!" I swipe my sunglasses off my face and stare him down. As the train starts moving, I reach out and grab the nearest pole.

"Well you see, I had this lil Russian Gray with yellow eyes — named her Iris — and I thought she was a real one, yeah? Then she goes and STEALS my pizza crust right from my hand. You know, and I was like, okay...okay...strike one, right? Yeah well then she goes and right up murders my little rat buddy, Fury-"

"Murk that has literally nothing to do with me—"

"Then there was that time when this scruffy dog would always turn up and hang with me on the corner — named her Iris too. Always gave me those puppy dog eyes, she was always hungry so I shared my food with her. Turns out that bitch's owner worked the shop up the road and she was USING me for table scraps..."

"Murk there is literally zero correlation you crusty cow hoof. How did I forget how grating you are on my nerves?" I collapse on the benches on the other side of the car and stare at Murk with exhaustion. "I'm bringing you back to Stark's tower with me. You're gonna take a shower, shave that ugly-ass beard off—"

"Yeah, see I'm gonna stop you right there—"

"—and eat as many wings as your bottomless pit stomach can handle—" Food. I should've led with food. The man's singular true weakness.

"Well Iris, why didn't you say so!" He exclaims while moving over to my side, throwing an arm around my shoulders and pulling me close.

"You smell like rat urine and Leptospirosis." I shove him two seats away from me.

"Oh, come on Iris—"

"Don't talk to me until you've had a shower. I'm mad at you, you crazy moldy log."

"Hey, hey, I'm not crazy."

"You thought the world was ending because you saw the moon during the day."

"...touché."