Chapter Text
Chapter 3: 1983-1984
Winter
The ocean goes on for much longer than I expected. A great big, blue abyss that fades seamlessly into the sky’s paler coloring. We’ve been traveling for nine days and just yesterday we came across a beach. Emerald Eyes was immediately enthralled, but I have to get him a uniform meant to withstand water before he can play in the sea.
That’s why we’re in a small coastal town, the sign leading into Moss Beach, Mississippi declared the population barely surpassed two thousand. Emerald Eyes is strapped to my chest with a soft, cotton scarf. I used a technique I learned from ‘Easy Tips For Moms On The Go’. Em likes to rest his head on my shoulder and babble nonsense that’s occasionally mixed with intelligible words.
There are, I have discovered, too many options when it comes to uniforms- er clothes. Dozens of different colors, shapes, and materials all for garments meant to serve the same purpose. The accepted style of clothes you should wear is always changing and it’s all very confusing.
Trying to blend in with the normal ones- civilians is hard enough without having to find Emerald Eyes a suitable waterproof uniform- swimsuit. A throat clears pointedly behind me. I don’t startle, I knew someone was approaching my back, but I wasn’t expecting them to actually try to communicate.
“You're looking a little lost there, son,” A weathered old man observes amusedly when I slowly turn to face him.
He’s a couple of inches shorter than me, though that may be caused by his hunched back. His hair has mostly faded, only hanging on in little wisps of white. His bread, on the other hand, is alive and well. It hides the lower half of his wrinkled face with the help of a large, bushy mustache. He’s dressed in trousers, so different from the preferred pants of today, a plaid button-up, and suspenders. He’s got laugh lines around his eyes and mouth and there is something charming about his sly grin. Threat level: low.
His eyes widen in shock once he gets a good look at my face. A hand flies to his mouth as he searches my features desperately. Not shock then, but recognition. For one heart-stopping minute, I think he must be a Hydra operative of some kind. Someone close enough to the Winter Soldier Program to have memorized my face, but a second later his face shutters in a distant grief. Like he’s seeing someone he already mourned, but wouldn’t mind meeting again.
“Sorry about that, son,” He says, flashing me a sheepish smile. “You look a mighty lot like someone I served with is all.”
He stares at me pointedly until it becomes clear he’s expecting some kind of response. I shrug, blinking at him, and that seems to be enough. He chuckles under his breath, making faces at a delighted Emerald Eyes.
“I’m Charles Perez, but everybody calls me Charlie,” He informs me, holding out a hand. When all I do is stare at him he lowers the limb with another hearty chuckle. There’s an awkward moment where Charlie entertains Em and does not appear to be leaving any time soon before I realize again he’s waiting for me to say something.
“Winter,” I grunt out, pointing at my chest. My voice is rough after nine days of barely speaking, but Charlie doesn’t seem to mind. “This is Emerald Eyes.”
“A pleasure,” Charlie declares, pitching his voice high to get Em to squeal. Emerald Eyes is happy to comply and the tiny seafront store is soon filled with a toddler’s happy giggles. My lips twitch. Charlie straightens, sending Emerald one last smile before clapping his hands. “Let’s get this little man outfitted for the beach, march!”
It turns out Charlie is the owner of the store and he spends the next hour showing me the best ways to outfit a smaller small one for water. It ends up being a lot more complicated than I had initially thought. Em needs floaties so he doesn’t drown, and lots of sunscreen. He needs goggles so the saltwater doesn’t burn his eyes and waterproof diapers. The diapers are probably my favorite discovery of the day, very useful. Charlie shepherds us into an extremely colorful section of the store and declares we haven’t gotten to the best part yet, “Toys!”
Needless to say, Emerald Eyes is in love with the old shop clerk and I can’t find any reason to refute those feelings. Charles Perez who everybody calls Charlie is a very good salesman and an even better person. Emerald Eyes toddles out of the shop in his new superman swim trunks, two neon pink floaties wrapped snugly around his arms and clutching a sandcastle building kit. Charlie looked at me nervously when Em picked his floaties, but when I had no further reaction he relaxed. Maybe some people feel very passionately about the color pink.
Emerald Eyes takes off immediately for the water. Of course, being three years old, he runs in the completely wrong direction, but we eventually figure it out. There are a couple of normal ones- civilians lounging on the sandy paradise, but not enough to overwhelm me and they aren’t acting suspiciously so I let it go.
The water is crystal clear, painting the horizon in a beautiful turquoise, and it feels pleasantly cool on my skin. Emerald Eyes splashes around, giggling madly. His happy ruckus inevitably attracts the attention of the other toddlers playing on the beach, and Em soon has two cohorts to fool around with.
The other guardians look up occasionally but generally leave their children to their whims. Their nonchalant behavior is in direct contrast to my anxious hovering, but I just can’t help it. I keep getting flashes of Blues Eyes hacking up a lung anytime he got remotely wet. I can vaguely recall having to fish him out of a river when the colder months were approaching.
From what little I remember, the following weeks were not fun, to say the least. Neverwreaking, terrifying, and gross are some words I could use to more accurately describe them. Emerald Eyes seems to be worlds different from the tiny scrap of a child Blue Eyes was, but it’s still hard not to worry.
Eventually, though, the toddlers’ appalling lack of coordination while swimming distracts me. The splashing is put on hold for a minute or two while I try to teach three squirming smalls one how to swim. An hour later I tactfully admit defeat and retreat to safer land. The small ones, while easily conquered on their own, are a force to be reckoned with when united. I am thoroughly soaked by the time I’m officially overthrown. The mission wasn’t a complete failure, however. Emerald Eyes and his new comrades can successfully tread water for sixty seconds, long enough for reinforcements to get there. Namely their parents and I.
Charlie is waiting next to the pile I left our things in. Earlier I had to cut my losses quickly or face losing Emerald Eyes to the mercy of the waves. He’s dragged two lawn chairs out with him and has changed into board shorts. Having him so close to our go-bags, our safety net, is making me twitchy, and I have to force myself to control how I walk. Normal ones are easily intimidated when I let the monster lurking in my chest influence how I move. If Charlie can sense my unease he doesn’t let it show, he just motions to the empty chair beside him until I take a seat.
“I served in the 107th regiment, in World War II,” Charlie quietly says after we’ve sat in silence for a while. It’s like his words open up the flood gate. I flinch back as my mind is bombarded with fragmented memories, flashes of life I’ve been forced to forget.
A room full of cages, hundreds of soldiers dressed just like me. We’re starving, our clothes threadbare, and yet you couldn’t break our spirit with a sledgehammer.
A big factory. Day after day spent working from dawn to dusk. We’re making weapons, weapons I’ve never seen the likes of before.
A small German doctor. He walks through the lines of half-dead men, inspecting us one by one. He’s chosen nine men so far. What does he want with them? He stops in front of me.
Pain. It hurts. God, it hurts. Fire is twisting through my veins.
IthurtsburningpainIthinkI’mdyinghelphelphelp. Steve, I want Steve. Please I want Ste-
“Winter!” The sharp call snaps me out of whatever daze I’ve slipped into.
Charlie is kneeling in front of me. Threat Level: Low.
A couple is ten feet to my left, college students. Threat Level: Low.
A family of four on my right. Threat Level: Low.
Two small ones playing are with Emerald Eyes in the water. Threat Level: Low.
Em is smiling, laughing. His floaties are still securely wrapped around his arms. His cheeks are a little red, more sunscreen is needed.
Emerald Eyes is safe. I am safe.
“Winter?” Charlie calls again, his tone inquisitive this time. I focus on him, on his bright gray eyes. “You good?”
I nod a little too sharply, but Charlie trusts my judgment. He slowly rises to his feet, grumbling about his old knees the whole way. My lips twitch. He turns to face me after he’s settled back in his chair, his expression contrite.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause a flashback,” Charlie apologizes, keeping his voice low, soothing. I shrug, meeting his gaze, and hope he can read the forgiveness in my eyes. Charlie nods after a long moment, relaxing into his chair.
“You’ve got this look in your eye, Winter, a look I’m very familiar with. You’ve got the look of a soldier trapped in their war. I don’t know your story, even if I suspect I know where it began, but I’m positive I’ve heard stories similar to yours. Hell, I’ve got one of my own.”
I tilt my head to the side, asking him what he means without words. Charlie smiles slightly, something that reads bittersweet.
“You and your boy need a place to stay, and I’ve got the room,” Charlie remarks, all casual nonchalance. I open my mouth to say something, I’m not exactly sure what, but Charlie holds out a hand to stop me before I can even think of the words.
“Don’t go thinking you’re special or some charity case. You’re not the first person I’ve offered this deal to and you probably won’t be the last. There’s a small apartment above the shop, big enough for you and the kid but nothing special.”
“In exchange for a roof above your head and three delicious meals a day, you’ll help me around the store,” He explains, not letting me get a word in edgewise. “I’ve got a couple of renovations in mind for the main house that requires a young man’s strength. This isn’t a something-for-nothing deal, son. You’ll have to earn your keep, but I’ll make it worth your while. What do you say?”
There’s quiet for a moment while I stare at him like he’s insane and he gazes serenely back at me. The first ten responses I come up with are not appropriate when within hearing distance of small ones. Charlie is not cowed by my steady glare, his wrinkled, odd face stays calm even when confronted by my confusion.
“I am dangerous,” I finally say, and the look on his face can only be translated to, ‘Well duh.’ He looks pointedly at my covered left arm. I’m wearing a long-sleeved sun shirt and my leather glove, but you can still kind of make out the metal groves now that I’m wet. Charlie smirks a little when he sees I’ve understood his point and I have to push down an embarrassed flush. International assassins do not get embarrassed.
“Danger is chasing me,” I try again. This time I receive a raised eyebrow, but that’s about it.
“Who is chasing you, Winter?” Charlie asks, looking for all the world like he’s ready to grab a gun and go to war, his creaking knees aside. I try to answer but I can’t seem to form the words. The harder I try the worse my head throbs.
“Okay, enough, it’s alright, Winter, you can stop,” Charlie says, grabbing my hand. I shake my head miserably at him. I can’t tell him about Hydra. Charlie nods, and waves it away, focusing on things I can actually answer. “Are they close?”
I think about it before shaking my head. I can’t remember all my missions, but for most of them, I have at least a little tidbit to go off on. I can count on one hand how many times a mission brought me to a beach town. I’ve tried to escape twice before, each time heading for more familiar ground. Cities, forests, even the desert. Hydra is still working under the assumption most of its programming is still working. The only difference is that instead of putting Hydra first I’ve managed to twist it so Emerald Eyes is the priority.
“Will you know if they get close?” Charlie questions, and I nod. Hydra agents have some pretty distinctive factors, in a town this small I’ll know right away if they’ve found me. “Perfect! Then it seems everything is in order.”
Wait, what? My head whips around to stare at the old man sitting beside me, and he must read something on my face because he sighs.
“Winter, this is a safe place for you and your boy. Take it,” he says, staring at me until I reluctantly nod. Charlie smiles, gentle and kind, before pulling a cooler I hadn’t noticed closer to him.
“Why don’t you call Emerald Eyes, I brought lunch.”
Winter
“Winter, please tell me that isn’t a handheld grenade you’re putting in Emerald’s bag,” Charlie pleads exasperatedly, his words freezing me in place. As subtly as I can manage I ease the grenade back into my pocket and turn to face the older man with my best innocent expression. Charlie raises a single eyebrow in response, unimpressed. “Put away those puppy dog eyes, Win. We already agreed Emerald Eyes only needs one weapon at preschool.”
He holds out a hand, and grumbling, I pass over the duffle bag of weapons sitting at my feet. We've been in Moss Beach for four weeks now. In that time the winds have turned harsher, the water colder, and the skies stormier. Last week Charlie declared Em ready to start attending preschool. I, obviously, disagreed vehemently. How am I meant to protect my small one if I’m not always nearby? But Charlie says it’s important for a child’s development to form bonds with other small ones and to learn to grow without their guardians hovering right behind them.
Unfortunately, Charlie spun tales of finger painting and friends and had Emerald sold in under two minutes. So after several days of careful observation, I was forced to admit that the preschool has adequate security and that the teacher doesn’t seem to be completely evil. If I was in the habit of being honest and expressing my every thought, I might have felt compelled to tell Charlie that the little cottage the preschool is hosted in looks comfortable and calming and that Miss. Brown is a charming young woman.
Today is Emerald Eyes’ first day, he is super excited, ready to make new friends and learn new things. Em’s favorite game right now is telling me a fact and then asking if I knew that already. He’s always delighted when he happens across something I hadn’t been taught before. Charlie is much harder to catch, but I think his memories not having been wiped repeatedly gives him an unfair advantage. Em is currently stuck on ocean facts, simply fascinated with the many wonders under the sea.
My latest argument against the dreaded preschool is the unreasonable rules against weapons. At first, I wanted to set up a sniper's nest on the roof across from the school, but Charlie vetoed that idea almost immediately. We compromised and agreed to send Em off with a safe way to defend himself. My first choices were promptly shot down. I still don’t see the problem with the M27 Infantry Automatic Rifle, the katana sword, or the poisoned darts. I’ve taught Emerald Eyes weapon safety long enough to go blue in the face, but Charlie was strongly opposed to anything capable of instant death or longer than Em’s body. I told him that of course, we’d get a rifle or sword in the proper size, but was still told in no uncertain terms that there is no way Em will be going to school with a gun, a sword, or poison. The rules against weapons are a little strict, in my opinion, but Charlie raised three kids and has nine grandchildren, so I’ll take his word on this.
Eventually, we found an acceptable solution for all sides and gave Em a taser. I tinkered with its inner mechanics so the small device was capable of knocking a grown man on his ass. What Charlie doesn’t know can’t hurt him, after all. Besides, Emerald is so easy going it would take a lot to make him actually use the taser. Very few things can make Em upset, he’s a happy little kid. Charlie had most of Em’s needed school supplies at his house, the only thing we needed to buy was a backpack. Emerald Eye’s recent obsession with Superman continued, and he is now the proud owner of a Superman-themed backpack.
“Now, Winter, the cottage is only a five-minute walk away. You can get there in under two when you sprint. We timed it,” Charlie reminds me soothingly, and I nod, expression sour. “You set up nine different cameras so you’ll be alerted if anything bad is happening, no matter the angle it’s coming from. School is important for kids, Win, and the both of you need to get used to spending time apart.”
I slump despondently against the wall behind me, staring soulfully at the old shop clerk. He just rolls his eyes in response, completely ignoring my pleading expression.
“Aww, you poor, poor international assassin,” Charlie coos, smirking slightly at my annoyed glare. “Come on, get up. It’s time to take your four-year-old to preschool.”
Emerald Eyes comes bouncing down the stairs seconds later, humming the theme song of his favorite T.V. under his breath. Mickey Mouse ClubHouse seems to be the favorite of the week. He’s wearing a cute little pair of jeans and his Superman hoodie, his backpack swung over his shoulder.
“It's my firs’ day of s’ool!” Em exclaims happily, racing over to the shoe cabinet. He pulls on his bright red rain boots with all the enthusiasm of a puppy chasing a ball. “I’m soooo es’cited!”
Charlie sends me a rather pointed look, his eyebrow raised. Sighing mournfully, I admit defeat and reach down to grasp Emerald's hand. It’s his first day of school, yay.
Winter
“Alright, pay attention boys! Welcome to Cooking 101,” Charlie exclaims, brandishing a spatula excitedly. We are gathered around the kitchen in Charlie's house. For all that Emerald Eyes and I technically live in the apartment above the shop, we spend most of our time in the main house. Thanksgiving was last week, and the holidays are quickly approaching us. All around town, almost faster than I can blink, red and green everything is taking over. Christmas lights and wrapping paper far as the eye can see. Personally, I don’t fully understand the hype. Gift-giving is something I plan to partake in all year long, why this one day is so special eludes me.
Charlie’s kitchen didn’t manage to escape the holiday cheer either, and garlands are mixed in with the bowls and plates. Charlie is going to visit his kids over the holidays, leaving Em and I to fend for ourselves. So, he has taken it upon himself to educate us thoroughly in the art of proper Christmas dining. Charlie took one look at my sad attempt at chicken noodle soup and declared we will be starting with the basics. Which is why I am hunched over in a corner of Charlie’s big kitchen wearing an apron that orders those around me to, ‘Kiss the Cook,’ and trying hard not to draw attention to myself.
Emerald Eyes is standing on the counter next to Charlie peering curiously over his shoulder. Although the chocolate chips the old shop clerk keeps handing him might have something to do with the four-year-old’s sustained observation.
“We’ll start with something nice and simple today,” Charlie is saying, flipping through one of his cookbooks. Em makes a vaguely encouraging noise and is rewarded with a chocolate chip for his efforts. Several festive candles are lit around the kitchen, soaking the room in a spicy, rich scent Charlie says is cinnamon. Charlie walks smoothly to his obnoxiously large fridge, retrieving two different kinds of cheeses and some tomatoes.
“Grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup is a good meal to begin building your foundation of cooking on,” Charlie declares, snagging a loaf of bread from his tin bread box. He hands one of the cheese packets to Emerald Eyes with instructions to unwrap it and then calls me to him with his stern gaze alone. “Winter, please get knives from the silverware drawer, we have tomatoes to slice.”
Charlie turns the radio on half through our cooking adventure when I start to really relax and get the hang of things. Charlie helps me follow the soup recipe, but for the most part, he makes me figure it out on my own. Cooking is one of those tasks that are easily overwhelming for me. From start to finish every step seems so complicated and unnecessarily detailed. Even picking what I actually want to eat is a chore. There are just so many choices and everybody has a different opinion. What’s healthier, which foods are best for small ones, what tastes better, the list goes on and on. Don’t even get me started on grocery stores, it’s like they were created solely for my own personal torture.
Charlie braved the local grocery store for Em and I during our first few weeks here, but eventually, he put his foot down and demanded I learn to navigate the confusing aislies as well. Every Friday, after I’ve dropped Emerald Eyes off at preschool, Charlie and I walk down to the grocery store to restock both of our homes. When we were in Chicago, I always went to the huge food shops late at night, after they were already closed and no one was crowding the narrow aisles. I would just grab the first couple of decent things I found and rush out of that hell hole as fast as possible. Em and I admittedly survived mostly off of Mrs. Bat’s cooking and the dinner food.
Charlie is always patient with me and sympathetic to my overstimulation, but that doesn’t stop the annoying old bugger from forcing me down each and every row of tightly packed shelves overflowing with food of all kinds. He has me write down a list of our needed rations before we go in, and even though we are usually out of there forty minutes after we arrive it’s always a stressful experience for me. I have to admit that it gets easier every time, and it feels really good to have healthy tasty food ready for Emerald Eyes every day. The four-year-old doesn’t always appreciate the growing presence of veggies in the apartment, but he is definitely more enthusiastic about meal time now than he was a couple of months ago.
I add the last of many seasonings to the tomato soup with a dramatic flourish, making Emerald Eyes giggle and clap his hands. It did take ninety minutes, but I have managed to complete the complicated recipe mostly on my own and Emerald Eyes has successfully freed both cheese blocks from their plastic prisons. Charlie has the radio playing a station dedicated to songs from the 1920s and some of the songs stir an almost melancholy feeling in my chest. The lyrics float through my mind like half forgotten dreams and I find myself humming along to the choruses like I’ve been listening to the songs all my life.
Every once and a while flashes of memories will play in the back of my mind. That’s been happening more and more often lately, memories coming back to me when something triggers them. I’m not sure exactly how I feel about it. It’s about a fifty-fifty chance of getting either a pleasant memory or a thoroughly horrifying one. It’s becoming increasingly clear I’ve been alive much longer than my pretty face implies and that most of those years were spent being brainwashed and killing people. By far most of my returned memories star people and happenings I’d much rather have stay forgotten, thank you very much.
Occasionally, though, when I’m warm and my heart feels light and happy, I’ll get memories of a nicer variety. Memories of a small, stubborn, blond punk that I seem to always be dragging away from fights he can’t possibly win. Memories of two girls and an older couple that share my eyes and coloring, people who must have been my family. Memories of a bigger, blond, punk who shares the smaller ones' bright blue eyes. I’ve come to the seemingly impossible conclusion that there are not, in fact, two punks, but instead one stubborn bastard that went through the growth spurt that puts all other growth spurts to shame. I have memories of hauling both the small and big punk away from fights, and they’re both sporting the same mulish, bull-headed expression.
Today the pleasurable, soft memories are winning. As the old jazz songs Charlie favors serenade my ears, flashes of big, rowdy dance halls flit past my eyes. Couples are dressed smartly, a style that would be called old-fashioned today. The men are in pressed button-downs and cotton slacks, and the women in pretty dresses that billow and swirl as the ladies spin across the floor. The fleeting feeling of a body pressed close to mine and the breathless exertion of following a rhyme with twirls and jumps flow up my arms and I know with sudden, startling clarity that I used to love dancing, maybe still do.
A secretive, pleased warmth spreads through my chest and my lips twitch up in response. Today has been a good day, and I suppose cooking isn’t all that bad.
Winter
Sweat trickles down my spine despite the cool weather of a January morning in Mississippi. Charlie started renovations on his attic three years ago and just never got around to finishing them. Charlie’s late wife, Izzabelle, had a passion for home improvement. Apparently, she was constantly changing her mind about her preferred style.
Charlie has many stories of the animated rows over paint colors he and Izzabelle got into over the years. Charlie’s wife lost the fight against cancer a little over two years ago, and the attic has been abandoned ever since. Charlie has grown past the heartbreaking grief of a fresh loss for the most part, but you can still see the love he holds for her in his eyes and smile when he reminisces about his feisty Izzabelle.
Charlie had the old plans for the attic tucked away in his home office, so it was relatively easy to pick up from where the last crew stopped off. The end goal is to make an art studio/guest room for Charlie’s youngest granddaughter. She’s heading off to college soon and her chosen school is super close to Charlie's house.
Today’s mission is to finish securing the hardwood flooring and stain it. The stain Izzabelle picked out is a cheerful, cherry red, and I’m excited to see how it looks when it dries. Charlie loaned me a record player for the duration of the job and I quickly get lost in the repetitive motions. Lay a panel out, nail it down, and repeat.
It feels good to use my hands and body to build something constructive. It’s soothing to see the same metal fingers that have crushed countless throats be used instead to create. It’s extremely amusing to imagine Hydra’s reaction if they knew what their prized weapon is using its incredibly deadly skills for.
I’m positive it wouldn’t be anything similar to Charlie’s exasperated pride and fondness or Emerald Eyes’ gleeful curiosity. It’d probably be a lot closer to horrified anger and if I ever get the chance to showcase my newly found skills in home renovations to a Hydra agent I will take immediate advantage in the most spiteful way I can imagine.
“WINTER!” My head snaps up at Charlie’s panicked call. I jump quickly to my feet, unholstering my long dagger from its place strapped to my thigh. Fast and silent, I jump through the hatch leading to the second floor of Charlie’s home and slink down the stairs on light feet. I can’t help but think of worse and worse situations as I near the living room.
When I left for the attic earlier Charlie was snuggled with Em on one of the couches with a few of his favorite books. Emerald Eyes is coming along amazingly well with his reading. Miss Brown, the preschool teacher, told me Em is very advanced for his age and that I should start buying more complicated books.
Sliping quietly into the room, I take stock of the situation. Emerald is burrowed underneath a mountain of pillows on the couch, his baby blanket clutched tightly to his chest. He’s fast asleep and completely dead to the world. Emerald Eyes is safe.
Charlie is leaning shakily against the doorway into the living room from the kitchen. Milk is gushing out of a broken glass by his feet, the cup most likely has fallen from his slackened grip. Charlie has a gobsmacked expression and is staring at Emerald Eyes in absolute shock. Charlie is safe.
I relax slightly and frown in thought. What could have spoked Charlie enough to warrant this reaction? The old World War II vet is remarkably hard to rattle. I follow his astonished gaze back to Emerald Eyes, trying to understand what he’s thinking. Emerald is still curled up on the couch, his hair ruffling a little as the couch sways in the air- oh.
I have to make a correction to my earlier statement. Emerald Eyes is indeed sleeping on the couch, but the couch in question is floating several feet off the ground, and judging by Charlie’s growing panic, that’s not a normal feature of his furniture. Oh, boy.