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Setting: TWS
Gunshots rung out, piercing the silence. Your hands shot up to cover your ears as you pressed your back against the cool metal of your car. You let out a shaky breath, scared to peek around the edge of the car. As long as they were still shooting at each other, you weren't going to budge.
You had been driving home from work as you did any normal day when you came to a complete stop on the highway. You rolled your eyes and tapped you fingers nervously on the steering wheel. Traffic jams were the worst, especially since that specific day, you had worked an extra shift and were more than excited to get home and relax.
Only it was a little hard to relax now that you were hiding behind your wrecked car, which was smoking by this point, trying to avoid getting shot by the red headed woman or the brunette haired man with the metal arm.
You weren't sure how it had all happened so quickly, but one minute you were humming along to the radio, and the next minute there was a car slamming into the back of your vehicle. Your car was pushed violently into the idle truck in front of you, thus setting off a domino effect amongst all of the cars in the traffic jam. You groaned in pain as you lifted your face off of the steering wheel; your air bag hadn't gone off, but luckily, the only noticeable injuries you sustained was a gash to the forehead and your cheek had been cut by glass from the broken windshield.
You wiped your hand across your cheek and head, blood staining the once pure pigment of your skin. You moved to unbuckle your seatbelt, but didn't quite get the chance when the man ripped your door off its hinges. If you hadn't been so dizzy, maybe you could have thanked him, but you just couldn't seem to form the words.
His hair was long and several pieces fell in his face, a few strands plastered to his forehead with sweat. You felt as if your movements were delayed, and you wanted nothing more than to get out of that car and go home and go to bed. The only explanation for how you were feeling had to be a concussion, but then again, you weren't a doctor.
"Ты в порядке," the man said softly, scooping you up out of the driver seat and into his arms.
You had no earthly idea what he had said, but you knew you wouldn't mind listening to him say whatever it was again; his voice was beautiful, and he was even more beautiful. You could see that he was hiding things; he had seen things through those sky blue eyes. Little did you know, the things he had seen would have scared you away in a heartbeat if you knew.
You could feel the cold metal of his left arm through your jeans, though you were unable to process that the mystery man's metal arm was odd. Maybe it was because you'd hit your head; maybe it was because it made him your knight in shining armor. He carried you to the opposite side of your car—the side facing the railing of the bridge.
He sat you down on the ground carefully, your head throbbing. You looked up at him to see him staring down at you, his expression concerned. Had he been driving the car that had hit you? If he hadn't, then why had a stranger pulled you from the car and carried you to safety?
Only it wasn't safe; you knew that now.
"Oставайся здесь." He said, though you were oblivious to what he meant.
He walked away for a moment, disappearing from your sight for a brief window of time. When he came back into view, he held a white rag in one hand—one he probably took out of one of the other wrecked, evacuated cars.
"Do you speak English?" You asked finally, somehow forming the words, though you still felt strange.
"I can." The man squeezed the rag in his metal hand as he held it up to press against your face to stop the blood.
"Where are you from?" You asked him, carefully studying every single one of his beautiful features.
"Don't remember." He muttered, as if ashamed of himself for not knowing the answer to such a simple question.
"What's your name?" You asked as he took your hand with his free one and placed it over the rag, then removing his.
"Barnes." He furrowed his brows as if in pain.
You weren't aware of how much pain he really was in, though. He was trying desperately to search his brain for a memory of his name. Was that something they allowed him to keep? Or had they stripped him of that, too?
"James, maybe."
"Maybe?" You raised an eyebrow.
"I'm afraid I know about as much as myself as you do." He said quietly, his jaw twitching as he swallowed.
"But we're strangers, so I don't know you."
"Exactly." He replied, a saddened, forced smile on his face.
"Do you—"
His head snapped up before you heard a thing, but seconds later, a bullet flew past his head and hit your car. Suddenly, the entire situation had escalated, and you were left sitting on the ground holding a rag to your bleeding wounds while he stood up and pulled a gun out.
"What's going on?" You asked James, panic surging through every vain in your body.
"забудь меня," James whispered, taking one last look at you before looking over the tops of the cars in search of the person who'd shot the gun.
"What does that mean?" You asked, catching his attention before he walked away.
"It means, 'forget me.'" He explained, his blue eyes giving you a cautious look before he turned and stalked away, gripping his gun tightly.
You simply shook your head as the gun shots continued piercing the quiet, your hands only slightly helping mute the sound.
The truth was, you probably would never forget him.
You would never be able to get James Barnes out of your mind; he was a stranger that had made himself a home in your heart, and you didn't care how strange it was, but everything inside of you hoped that he was okay. However, everything inside of you knew that he never would be.
