I awake the next morning, greeted by a pulsing headache. My eyes are swollen and puffy, the puzzle book still safely nuzzled to my chest.
I glance at the door, half-expecting to hear it unlock and Bucky walk in. My eyes drift toward the bathroom, hoping maybe he woke before me and decided to wash up. But no. All I find is a hollow apartment, barely lit by the dull bulb above, the sound of the sink dripping echoing through these empty four walls.
"No. This isn't the time," I say aloud, swinging my legs off the bed.
I walk to the kitchen, pull a plum from the bag, and take a monstrous bite. Juice erupts down my hand.
I need to do something. I won't just sit here and wait for death to come.
Tossing the pit into the bin, I wipe my hands clean and flip open my laptop, scanning through every news source I can. Anything about the Vienna bombing. The victims. The fallout. The aftermath.
There isn't much on what happened here yesterday — which only confirms what I feared: the whole operation was likely organized by the authorities. It's being buried.
Scrolling, I finally land on a shaky video from a highway chase.
"Bucky?" The quality is terrible, but I know that red shirt anywhere. It's him. Looks like he found Steve — or maybe Steve found him. Either way, they're running. And someone else is chasing them. A guy in black. From the way Bucky moves, it's clear: not a friend.
I keep going down the rabbit hole. Eventually, I find still shots. Government agents. War Machine. All of them getting arrested.
He didn't leave me.
The thought hits hard and fast, a wave of relief crashing over me, immediately followed by guilt. What a selfish thing to think.
But he didn't leave.
He's not safe yet. We don't know how deep Hydra has gone into other governments. I need to help him. I just... don't know how.
I turn the news on in the background, letting it play aloud from my laptop — just in case there's an update. Though I doubt they'll release much. It's all too hush-hush.
Next, I pack a go bag with the essentials: a little food, change of clothes, first aid kit. While reaching under the bed for more clothes, something shiny catches in the light — tucked between the mattress and frame.
A knife. Big. Military-grade, if I had to guess.
Then I remember: Bucky's.
He'd shown me how to fight with it. I had a lighter pocketknife, but this one was his. I slide the blade from the sheath — still sharp, still clean — my reflection staring back at me in the metal.
Deep breath. You're okay. I push the knife back into its holster and tuck it into the back waistband of my jeans.
I glance back at the laptop just in time to catch a new headline: "Helicopter Crashes into River"
Something inside me twists. It's him — I don't know how I know, but I do. Not fear, not dread. Just... knowing. He's fighting. That means he remembers.
I won't worry. Not yet.
Or at least I'll try not to.
But this building is about to be swarmed with reporters the moment someone realizes what happened here. Maybe they already are, for all I know — I haven't looked outside since last night. Time to move. No excuses. If I get caught, I'm dead. That won't help anyone — least of all Bucky.
He'll find me. I made sure he wouldn't forget.
I need to finish packing, throwing my laptop and charger in the bag. Then I spot my purse near the door, half-fallen open. His notebook lies beside it.
He'll need that.
Grabbing it, and the puzzle book too, I'm almost ready. Just one last thing.
I go to the bathroom. Pull back the shower curtain. From the wall, I gently slice the caulking around the handle of the shower with my pocketknife, prying it back just enough for my hand to slip in.
Tucked inside, between the wall and rusted over pipe, hidden; a Ziplock bag.
Inside it? My new identity.
I was a little more prepared than I let on. The name I gave Bucky was my real one — but he's the only one who ever knew it. Everyone else, my students, my landlord, the utility company — they knew me as Emily Roșu. Now, I'd become Emelia Rodriguez, Portuguese citizen.
I'd kept the initials the same — ER — easier to keep the signature muscle memory.
The bag held it all: passport, burner phone, enough euro in cash to get me where I'm going, and a bank card.
Even though I hadn't wanted to leave Romania, I'd been ready. Truth is, if we'd left sooner... maybe he wouldn't have been caught.
After I left Madripoor, I didn't just squirrel away a little money in Romania. I scattered it across different countries. Different banks. All tied to different aliases. You don't work for criminal lowlifes for years without learning a few things — or picking up a few escape plans.
You certainly don't run from them with nothing but luck and a few prayers, like I let Bucky believe.
Once I get to safety, I'll find him.
Or maybe, just maybe, he'll find me first.
I turn back to the apartment, hand on the doorknob, ready to leave it all behind. This place — this concrete box with its flickering light, its ancient fridge, and the eternal drip of the sink — felt more like home than anywhere I've ever been.
But I realize it wasn't the walls or the furniture that made it home.
It was him.
My mind flickers back to a morning a while back—I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom, hair a mess, sleep still clinging to my face. Bucky came in behind me, half asleep, muttering something. He stood next to me, squinting at the mirror, then took the toothbrush out of my hand and handed me mine, like it was a ritual we'd been doing for years.
I remember the way our shoulders bumped as we stood in that tiny bathroom. No words. Just quiet. Safe. He rinsed his toothbrush, leaned in, kissed my cheek, and whispered, "You drool when you sleep, y'know that?"
I giggled, turning to see his face, "At least I own more than one shirt."
He smiled that rare little smile. The one that wasn't for the world, just for me.
The life we shared here, brief, quiet, hidden, was real. And it was ours.
We'll find our way back to each other.
Somehow...
We'll get home.