FOR REASONS UNKNOWN, I turn on the television. Maybe part of me is expecting to see my picture flash up on the flat screen, along with a warrant for my arrest, or - at the very least - a report on the two dead men found in the alley not far from my apartment building. So far, no such luck.

I can't tell if I'm relieved or not.

Stripping out of my clothes, I turn on the shower and stare at my reflection in the mirror. There's a thin red line on my neck from the knife that pricked me with a bit of crusted blood on it, but I can hardly see any change in my appearance other than my swollen red eyes. Twisting around, I try to check my back for bruises after the man slammed me against the brick wall. It's tender to the touch, but no discoloration has appeared on my caramel skin. Yet.

While I might be fine on the outside, inside I feel like I'm slowly suffocating.

I head back into my bedroom to snag a towel from my closet, thankful for the privacy of my master suite, and run my hand through my knotted and rain-soaked extensions. Normally I'd tuck my long hair into a shower cap to protect the weave, but I really don't care at this point. Glancing at the television as I pass, a wave of recognition moves through me and I freeze.

The face in the blurry photo on the screen is hard to make out, but I'd recognize those piercing blue eyes anywhere. It's him.

<><><><><> Flashback <><><><><>

"I don't know why you insist on getting your coffee from Dunkin' Donuts," I tell Mara as we exit the coffee shop. I carefully sip at my black coffee sweetened with single packet of Splenda, holding the door open for her while she juggles her wallet, iced latte, and chocolate cake donut. There's already a bite missing from it, and I can't help but laugh. "Just admit it. You're addicted to those donuts."

Mara shakes her head, "I am not! I just happen to love the combination of coffee and donut. Otherwise, what's the point? Besides, I'm a journalist. We thrive off caffeine and junk food. It's the fuel to my last-minute late night writing sessions."

"It's the afternoon," I point out.

"I know," Mara quips. "I'm fueling up early for tonight."

We turn right down 23rd Street toward Virginia Avenue, heading back to the GW Hachet office where Mara is going to be spending her afternoon. We're both in our second year of grad school at George Washington University, where I'm on track to get my doctorate in Physical Therapy and Mara's getting her Masters in New Media Photojournalism.

The sound of an explosion ahead causes me to jerk my head up, and I drop my coffee in shock as I watch a bus collide with a service truck and go tumbling into traffic. Chaos erupts around us, the sounds of screaming and distant gunfire from the bridge filling my ears. People begin running past us, but Mara's journalistic sensibilities kick in and she drops her coffee and donut into a nearby trashcan while sprinting toward the madness.

"Mara, wait!" I shout after her, pulling out my phone to dial 9-1-1 as I run after her into the throng of fleeing civilians. I'm not a medical doctor, but I know enough about first aid to know that I can help anyone injured in the bus.

A police car speeding toward the accident explodes, the fireball consuming the officer inside, and I barely resist screaming into the phone. I tell the operator my location along with as many details as I can gather about what's going on before I see him.

His long brown hair hangs past his chin, and he wears a black muzzle over the lower half of his face. With only his eyes exposed, I freeze where I stand and watch him lift the assault rifle equipped with a grenade launcher over his shoulder. He's dressed in solid black leather, but I hardly notice as I can't peel my eyes away from his left arm - his metal left arm. As someone who studies mobility, I notice how it's shaped to mirror the muscles and movement of his other arm before registering the look on his face. He kneels down next to a van, rolling something underneath, before standing straight and taking aim at a car parked less than a block from where I am.

The car explodes, and I stumble backward at the sight of it. A redhead jumps out of nowhere, landing on the man's back only to be tossed off like she weighs nothing. She pushes herself off the ground, throwing something at his metal arm, before taking off running toward me.

Oh shit, she's running toward me.

"Get out of the way!" She shouts as she runs, waving off the people scurrying toward shelter. "Stay out of the way!"

Taking a cue from her, I spin on my heels when she's less than a few feet from me and begin to run only to hear the sound of a gunshot shattering glass and a cry of pain behind me. Every fiber in my body tells me to duck, so I instantly lower myself to the ground whilst protecting my head. Like an idiot, I whirl around to see the redhead clutching her left shoulder and rush over to her.

"Shit! Are you okay?" I ask, slowly lowering my hands and hurrying over to her. I kneel in front of her, pushing her hand out of the way so I can inspect the wound. She's breathing heavily, her eyes wide as they frantically search the chaos behind us for the shooter. I hear a thud followed by the sound of a gun cocking to my right, and we both whip our heads in that direction to see the man with the metal arm on top of a car ready to fire.

Our eyes meet, blue and brown, and he hesitates. A split second feels like an hour, and I'm certain that my heart has stopped beating as I stare into his angry eyes. If my voice worked, I might ask him what he's waiting for, but instead I'm left with my eyes locked onto the blue eyes of the man pointing an assault rifle at us.

That delay turns out to be a lifesaver - literally - as a blonde man comes charging at the man with the metal arm. Distracted from us, he pulls back his left arm and throws a punch at the blonde who holds up a shield to block him. The sound of metal impacting against metal hits my ears, and my jaw drops as I recognize the shield.

It's Captain America. The one from New York, who stopped the aliens. Which means I must be caught in the middle of a bigger shitstorm than I originally imagined.

"C'mon," I say to the redhead, grateful that Captain America's appearance has bought us an opportunity to escape. "Come on, we need to go."

Pulling her to her feet, I wrap her uninjured arm around my neck and grab her by the waist. Luckily, we're almost the same height, so I'm able to support her weight without much of a problem. We flinch at the sound of more gunfire, but thankfully it doesn't seem to be pointed at us.

"Why are you helping me?" She asks, her voice flat as she grits her teeth from the pain. "You don't know if I'm one of the bad guys."

I snort, "You're with Captain America. I'm pretty sure you're not one of the bad guys. Besides, you're not the one with the grenade launcher."

We take a few more steps forward, then she stops suddenly. I turn to look at her face, praying that she's not about to pass out on me, and she whispers the words 'grenade launcher' before tugging away from me.

"Hey, no," I tell her, holding her tight so she can't pull away from me. She's losing blood pretty fast, and I don't think she needs to go back into the fray. "We've got to get you to the hospital. It's only a couple of a blocks north of here. Your friend can handle this."

She shakes her head, "You don't know him like I do."

I can't help but look confused at her statement, because I'm pretty sure Captain America deserves at least some vote of confidence. After all, whoever he is - the man with a shield is clearly capable of holding his own. Then the realization hits me as she manages to slip out of my grasp, rushing toward where the assault rifle the man with the metal arm had pointed at us earlier. She's not talking about Captain America, she's talking about him.

Running after her, I see the two men between the cars, and I watch as the Captain throws the man with the metal arm. The black mask covering his face clatters to the ground, meaning when he turns I can see his entire face. I don't know if I expected to see some sort of disfiguration or something, but the man who stands in front of the Captain is not what I am prepared to see. He's...well, gorgeous. He can't be more than a few years older than I am.

The Captain seems baffled too because he's staring at the man - dumbfounded - instead of continuing his assault.

"Bucky?" I hear him say.

"Who the hell is Bucky?" The man with the metal arm replies, squaring his body to face the blonde and pulling out his gun.

Before he can squeeze off any shots, a third man - this one wearing mechanical wings - swoops down and crashes into this Bucky, toppling him to the ground. I gasp at the spectacle, and his piercing blue eyes meet mine from the distance - a look of confusion deep within them - before he pushes himself to his feet and lifts his gun once more.

A different gun fires near me, and I whirl around to see the redheaded woman - using a truck for support - armed with the now-smoking grenade launcher. Heat from the explosion hits my bare skin, and I turn back to watch as the fire and smoke clear from where the man with the metal arm stood.

He's gone.

*****
AUTHOR'S NOTE

Have you seen Captain America: Civil War yet? Don't worry! I know this is a post-CA:CW fanfiction, but I'm not sharing any spoilers...yet.

Expect smaller details from the film to trickle into the story in about a week, but no major spoilers will appear for at least 2 weeks.

In the meantime, be sure to tell me what you thought of the chapter in the comments below. As always, please vote!

x