It is occurring to me now, that this may have been the worst decision of my entire life.
And that bar has been set pretty high.
Blunderingly sprawled on my dark, snug lounge the assassin lay, his head half on the sofa with one arm draped across himself, whilst one leg and one arm limply hung off the edge of the couch. I tried, okay? Do you know how friggin heavy this dude is? I've met lighter elephants than this guy—
That's a lie; I've never met an elephant. I've watched Dumbo though, so I have a general idea of what they're like.
Still clumsily seated on the floor not even one meter away from his head, I narrow my eyes through my battered, time-worn glasses in speculation. There's a cut on his head, and it looks like he may need more blankets. How do you even take care of random people you find on the side of the road? Movies and books make this look so simple.
Scattering myself around the house for a while, I collect a couple more blankets, a hot pack, a packet of Band-Aids and a warm, damp hand towel. The entire mad scurrying around the house reminds me of some kind of comedic sketch, only increasing in hilarity every time I almost trip over Lady due to her happy, excitable circling around my legs.
Shuffling quickly back over to the lounge room, I collapse into a cross legged position with my arms brimming with items, allowing them to tumble delicately in front of me as I fish out my phone. Kitty cat T'Challa seems to be quite contently perched on the chest of the assassin, preening vainly with a regal air about him, quite like the person he's named after – though, Cha-Cha the Prince keeps his own preening for when others aren't around. He's kindly modest (most of the time), unlike the smug feline now stretching on Mr Barnes' torso.
"O-kay, that is not okay. He will snap you like a Kit-Kat if he wakes up to see you like that," I lightly and unconvincingly scold the Bombay, delicately picking T'Challa up and resting him besides Everest, who himself disregards the cat and continues his rhythmic snoring.
Returning to my phone, I open up the webpage I already prepared before retrieving everything I needed for the ex-Soviet, HYDRA assassin.
Thank-you wikiHow.
What? Don't judge me. You rescue a half-frozen half-dead Nazi-Russian terrorist assassin who tried to kill you five years ago from the side of the road, and know exactly how to react and what to do. Until you do, I don't need your judgmental eyebrow raises.
Pulling the double layer of blankets already encompassing the wall of a man, I shimmy him out of his still damp jacket (probably something I should've done when we got back). Tossing that to the side, my hand tenderly slides under his shirt and rests on the bare skin of his chest, attempting to feel the level of warmth above his core. All I feel is muscle. I can practically hear Shuri and Naomi whispering vulgar things in my ear about this. Small, jagged, uneven patches of tender skin brushes the tips of my fingers from time to time, the same kind of sensation one would feel grazing over scars. Well, he is an assassin, what did you expect Tori? He didn't exactly get that arm from being a hot dog vendor.
Reaching out with my other hand, I retrieve the recently heated hot pack, slipping it under the battered fabric of his stained white shirt and resting it on his core. Retracting my hands from the torso of pure muscle, I enwrap him with the assortment of quilts once again, having doubly analysed his chest, back and limbs for any additional injuries first. Bringing myself closer to his face, I gingerly brush the unwashed, matted strands of his rich brown hair aside and softly grasp his jaw with my dainty fingers, meticulously inspecting his face for any other notable signs of wounds or trauma.
YOU ARE READING
In the Dead of the Night || Winter Soldier
Fanfiction"Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy." - F. Scott Fitzgerald ~ Victoria Morana Kingsley is average in nearly every aspect of her life. She isn't a great fighter. She isn't a brilliant genius. She doesn't have the greatest paying career. And...
