Chapter Text
The first snow of the winter season is always a bittersweet one–decades of environmental mishandling by the people in charge had shifted the winter of the northeastern seaboard from one marked by powdery snow and the laughter of children playing in it to one of bitter, biting and windy winter days–often followed by 50 degree days right after. It is a cycle that had grown increasingly common throughout the last few years–and much to the sadness of the snow lovers in the area, the first snow of the year could very well be the last.
Rosalie Ames is no exception to this rule. An avid snow lover, all she yearns for day in and out is for some snow to fall, for snow to stick–to coat the landscape in a pristine white hue as it did when she was a child. Those days now long gone and her well into her late 20’s, all she can do is push by year after year and hope for something to change–for someone in charge to put an end to the greed that consumed the minds of so many–but it never happens.
The first snowfall of the year is always bittersweet. It’s late at night when she clocks out of her job in New York City, and when she steps out of the office building she doesn’t notice the snow until a snowflake flutters down and lands on her nose.
“Hm.”
Exhaustion from work makes it impossible to enjoy even as she watches the snowflakes flutter down onto the sidewalk. All she can think of is the fact that the forecast had been wrong, and she’d forgotten her scarf at home, and now she has to walk from her office building to Penn Station while the biting wind tries to knock her over. On the train ride home, she doesn’t get to enjoy the snow because the windows on NJ Transit trains are always filthy and opaque. Finally, she gets off the train and scurries across the parking lot to her car, where she’d have to wait for it to warm up before beginning to drive.
The car ride back to her house is harder than the ride to her old home–one she’d departed very hesitantly. Whereas her old home was closer to the train station, the home she’d moved into with her closest friends three years ago is further–more into the woods than she’d have preferred. But it’s cheap, and it has enough space for 5 people and several pets. Truly, she loves it–even if it means the commute to work goes from 1.5 hours to nearly 2. It gives her more time to listen to the music she loves in relative privacy, and today, to brood over the way her life is going, over the misery she can’t escape. Usually she’d be able to admire the falling snowflakes whizzing past her car as she drives just above the speed limit and watch the sky for any airplanes that she may be able to identify with a flight radar app, but today is different.
Today, she is drained. It had been a long day—she had to go in early, and didn’t get out until 7pm. She’d spent all day in meetings that never seemed to end, and when she wasn’t in a meeting, her boss was piling editorial work onto her. She isn’t even an editor—they weren’t even her articles.
But deadlines were approaching, and they had to be met—even if everyone else was allowed to leave before her.
A stop to Wawa and the drive continues, the snow still falling. As she veers further into the woods where the cars were scarce and she feared she’d lose cellular connection, it happens.
A figure, out in the road. Rosalie cries out in shock, slamming on the brakes as the person stumbles into the road right in front of her. Her tires screech as the car comes to a stop a few feet from the person.
The bright beam of her LED headlights bounces off what appeared to be metal, and through the darkness of the night she can’t make out anything else until she gets closer. He remains unmoving–not like a deer in headlights, but more so as if he isn’t sure what was going on in the first place. He? She? She can’t tell.
She keeps the doors locked, and the person doesn’t move aside from a slight sway. He seems to stumble, a gust of wind threatening to blow him over, and finally she isn’t sure what the fuck gets into her. Years and years of overprotective parents might’ve made her desire to spread her wings a little too strong, but this? She can’t believe she’s doing this.
The lurching in her stomach pulls her towards him. And so, with trembling hands, she gets out of the car like an idiot and approaches.
“Sir?”
He doesn’t move–but she can see him more clearly as her headlights gave some better lighting than the dim streetlights that hadn’t been washed in years. Tactical gear–black leather tactical gear adorn him, tightly fitted to what she can only assume is a muscular and well-worked body. A muzzle-like mask clings to his face, leaving only his eyes–cold, ocean blue hues–to stare down at her, unflinchingly.
But he is also bleeding, she notices. Several rips in his tactical gear prove that, and though she grew up heavily sheltered she can tell that they are bullet holes. Bullet holes? Had there been a shooting nearby?
“Sir…?”
And once more, he says nothing. Honestly, she wouldn’t have believed him to be real had he not collapsed to the ground. Her eyes widen, a sudden shout leaving her–more so from shock than anything–and quickly, she kneels down next to him and reaches a hand out.
It happens in slow motion, really. One minute, she’d been reaching out to an injured stranger on the road, and the next he’d grabbed her wrist with his metal arm and snapped it like a candy bar. The pain doesn’t register for a moment, though when it does, she does everything in her power not to scream. Something isn’t right about this entire situation–and he moves far too fast to be someone ordinary.
“Alright–I…” She grits her teeth. “I deserved that. But I–I won’t hurt you.”
She does her best to steel her breathing. The look in his eyes is\ not one of aggression, she’d note–more like fear. Confusion? He seems out of it, for sure.
“The hospital–it’s not far from here, so–”
“No.”
Sharp words pierce through the icy wind. He hadn’t let go of her wrist, but the pressure he applies no longer hurts what was clearly sprained.
“...No hospital. Got–got it…” She nods shakily. “It’s cold–you’ll…you’ll die out here, so…my car–it’s…”
No more words are exchanged. The silent man in tactical gear allows her to lift his weight–something she struggles heavily with, and drag him to her car. She tries her best not to wince as blood begins to stain her seats–something she’d have to get handled with a professional, no doubt.
The drive back is silent–not even the music plays when she realizes her new fugitive doesn’t appreciate it. Hopefully, her friends would be asleep when she returns.
–
She looks so familiar.
Perhaps it’s the disorientation from the blood loss–something about this stranger feels so familiar…so disarming…his memories are always a jumbled mess, and nothing sticks with him for long. They made sure of that. Still, despite that, he has the vague sense that something about her is familiar, is trustworthy.
He doesn’t notice that the car has stopped until the harsh wind hits his face. The civilian stands next to him, the car door swung open, holding out her uninjured hand.
“May I?”
He nods, against all better judgement of himself. All commands, all instructions, he ignores it. There is no command here–just an extremely persistent stranger and the blood staining his hands. She once again strains under his weight, and all he can do is try to hold his own as she walks him to the front door. Keys jingle from her free hand before the door swings open. It’s dark, though she still calls out before ushering him inside–not that he has a choice.
The next few hours are a complete blur. He spends more time unconscious than conscious, only being woken up when the other person in the room accidentally inflicts pain while trying to treat his injuries.
“I wish Evelyn were here…” He hears her mutter under her breath. “She can sew–that must count for something…”
It’s easier to tune her out than try and decipher what she’s saying. The clock ticks on, the sun pokes over the horizon. His thoughts still swim in confusion. Definitely blood loss–but he’d dealt with and survived worse. Has he? These memories that trickle in don’t seem his own.
And finally, she lifts her hands away from his body, wiping her forehead with her wrist and sighing. “All done…”
Underneath her eyes, dark circles hang–the Winter Soldier doesn’t have the capacity for guilt, for remorse, though. In the end, he’s nothing but a burden. Still, the civilian in front of him doesn’t kick him out, doesn’t throw him away.
No. Perhaps that’s why she’s so familiar.
“Get some rest,” She whispers, finally. And despite himself, he allows his eyes to close, to fall into the warmth of sleep without the obligations of his past.
For the first time, the Winter Soldier sleeps without dreams.