haven ; 𝐛. 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 , 𝟏

027. all alone

TWENTY-SEVEN—ALL ALONE
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THE SIGHT OF my parents left me temporarily frozen, but when I saw Sam at the window out of the corner of my eye and gesturing me to run inside, I felt my feet lose their seemingly magnetic attraction with the ground. Shots fired as I hauled ass to the side of my house, fumbling with the doorknob as I tried to let myself in. 

I should have gotten this thing fixed, I scolded myself internally as I jiggled it, waiting for the click that would let me know the door was no longer stuck like it always seemed to be. It felt like forever that I was standing there, cursing under my breath at every bullet that rang out around the yard, sounding impossibly close and too loud to be legal. 

I itched to look back and find Bucky, to see if he was okay, but then the door gave way, and I darted inside, feeling a bullet rip through the air where my head was right as I turned around and slammed the door closed. Inhaling a sharp breath, I put a hand to my chest and felt my pounding heartbeat, an unbearable twinge of fear chasing its way from my head all the way to my heart, squeezing the vital organ for all it was worth. Holy shit. It was actually happening. They'd finally come for Bucky.

"Sam?" I called out, deciding it wasn't the most dangerous thing to do in this situation, as he would probably end up being put in the line of fire by his own doing at some point anyway. It was the military man in him. But as I crept through the house on the lookout for my next-closest ally, he was nowhere to be found. The kitchen was empty. The living room was just as we'd left it, blankets strewn everywhere from a late night of watching movies. 

My heart hiccuped at the sight. Even if we managed to keep him out of the hands of the CIA, this would never be over for Bucky. God, I barely knew anything about this man's past; he refused to tell me about his lost arm, why Steve was no longer going by his famous moniker or anything else that involved delving into his memories. But it did nothing to change anything that I'd said to him in the woods only minutes ago. 

If Sam wasn't in here, that meant he was already outside. My thoughts were validated as I saw a man thrown against the window, his nose cracking from the impact, sending blood gushing out of the wound and splattering against the glass. Sam looked in at me, only for a second, with wide eyes that clearly said, stay there. Then he grabbed the stranger by the back of his black jacket and slammed him against the glass one last time for good measure; his forehead split open this time. 

Stay here? I repeated, shaking my head in disbelief. Fat chance, Wilson. I started rummaging around the kitchen, looking for something, anything to use against these sons of bitches who were going to take my—my what? What was Bucky to me? My boyfriend? No, that sounded too childish. Lover? Ew, too intimate. 

Focus, Elda, I slapped myself internally. I hurried down the hallway, trying—and failing—to ignore the pained grunts that sounded all too familiar. I burst into Cade's room(well, Bucky's), threw open the closet door, and felt around for a wooden handle. 

"Aha," I mumbled triumphantly, pulling out a thick wooden baseball bat from Cade's high school seasons. "Thanks, big brother."

Squeezing my eyes shut, I took a deep breath. "You're probably going to die for this," I told myself, but the words seemed distant and failed to sink in. So I just took my bat and ran for the front door. 

As soon as I felt the cool air on my face, I wanted to go right back inside. 

The gunshots were less sporadic than before; they were probably running out of ammo. Amateurs, you'd think the CIA would bring plenty of ammunition for collecting a "dangerous weapon."