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nikkmarie · 3 years

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Delicate Edges (1)

series summary: Trapped under a mountain of debt to the Hydra club, it is only in moments when Bucky walks into your flower shop that you forget the cruelty of the biker clubs of this town. But a war is brewing. And Bucky will stop at nothing to keep you safe. (Biker!AU) pairing: Bucky x reader chapter word count: 7k chapter warnings: sexual harassment, reference to parents’ deaths (cancer, heart attack), extortion, drunken assholes, a blue eyed stranger to the rescue a/n: the first chapter!! welcome to my new series! reminder that there is no tag list, but you can use notifications on @wkemeup-fics for updates 🖤 can't wait to hear what yout think!

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Your hands were shaking as you attempted to flatten a five-dollar bill against the counter; rolling the paper along the edge, smoothing out the stubborn crinkled lines. At the far end of the shop, the clock hanging above the door echoed with every tick – its hour hand inching toward the eight in short, threatening strokes. The sound carried over the static laced strum of Seven Bridges Road on the radio as if it could strike you through the chest.

“You alright there, deary?” Ms. Leary asked, pointing a finger to your trembling hands as you fumbled with her change. Her tone carried a light waver in its inflection – a charming symptom of her age and years of cigarettes in her youth. To your left was a bouquet of sunset orange marigolds and white carnations – Ms. Leary’s regular Tuesday order the night before she visited her husband downtown at St. John’s Nursing Home. “You seem awfully nervous. Do you have a date tonight?”

Pennies spilled onto the counter as you dared another glance up at the clock. Despite the paralyzing twist of anxiety knotting in your stomach, you pressed out a smile. Ms. Leary was a kind woman; one who shouldn’t trouble herself with knowledge of the men who would find their way into your shop in less than a few minutes time.

“I’ve got enough on my plate with the flower shop these days, don’t you think?” you said, dismissing her assumption awkwardly.

“Always time for love, my dear.” She grinned, gathering her bouquet in her arms. She did not appear bothered in the slightest by the unintentional sharpness in your tone. A smudge of red lipstick touched the edge of her cheek as if her hand had tremorred as she applied it that morning.

You nodded, though you found her romanticism rather unrealistic, and quickly extended the change you were almost certain you miscounted. The register would be short a few dollars, but you didn’t care. Not this close to eight. Not as long as Ms. Leary was gone before he showed up.

“Send Lionel my best, will you?” you asked, willing a kindness back to your voice.

You walked her to the door, a gentle hand guiding against her back as she attempted to linger by the roses. She was slow in her pace and you threw a cautious glance back to the clock again. It mocked you, taunted you – with its bright red hands violently ticking along the notches. Inching closer.

By the time you finally escorted Ms. Leary through the door, sweat had beaded at the nape of your neck. She gave you a wave, promising to see you again next week and bring a batch of her “world famous” chocolate chip cookies beloved by her rowdy grandkids. Charming and kind, oblivious to the threatening loom of shadows as she waddled to her car. You waited in the window until you knew she was safely inside and only when the bright flash of her headlights filled the shop, you shut the front door and locked it.

Next, came the overhead lights; turning off each switch one by one until only a low cast of a single lamp was all that remained. The neon open sign was unplugged, the lights flickering until it, too, faded to back. Those were the rules – lock the door, turn off the lights. Your father had taught you from a young age how to avoid attention when it was time to pay your dues.

Only a few minutes were left as the hour hand approached eight o’clock. You rushed back to the register, nearly tripping over a vase of carnations and the watering hose laying in the middle of the walkway. You cursed under your breath, shoving the hose under the table.

The register wouldn’t have the money you needed. You’d have to fish some extra change out from your wallet to make up the difference for the extra dollars you’d given Ms. Leary. It would make you short on groceries for the week, but you’d rather face an empty stomach than whatever consequences laid in store for being any more under on your payment than you already were.

You rummaged in the bottom of your bag in search of your wallet, nearly threatening to spill the entirety of its contents onto the counter in frustration, when you finally grabbed a hold of the old, faded leather. It had belonged to your father once. His initials were still engraved on the inside pocket.

Your thumb brushed against the lettering. A gift from your mother on your parent’s fifth wedding anniversary. The poor thing was holding on by a thread with all the cracks in the binding and the withered down leather. But your father had carried it for decades. Parting with it felt like betrayal.

“I heard you had a date tonight.”

You froze, hands gripping tight to the cash inside the wallet at the sound of the familiar voice. You hadn’t even noticed the creak of the hinges at the back door, or his footsteps carrying gravel and mud in from the alley. Foolish mistakes your father spent years warning you against.

Always be prepared. Never show your fear. Don't let you guard down for even a second.

Over your shoulder, a figure emerged amongst the shadows. The outline of the sort of man that had been terrorizing your family for almost a decade – black motorcycle jacket hanging off his shoulders, silver rings upon his fingers, and muddied boot prints following in his wake against the clean tile. On his back was faded stitching of a skull with six tentacles emerging from its base – the insignia of the Hydra club.

Marked by the skull on his jacket and the loud hum of motorcycles in the streets, the smart folk in this town had learned to steer clear of Hydra’s men. Scattering in the streets at the sound of engines in the distance, closing up shop before nightfall when the shadows were at their highest. You’d never had a choice in the matter. You’d been thrown under the boot of Hydra long before you were old enough to know what it meant.

“Don’t hold back on me, Y/n. I heard the old lady say you were looking nervous. You miss me that bad?” He shoved his hands in his pockets as he approached, eyeing the vases full of flowers lining the walls of your shop as if he could set fire to the petals with a mere glance.

As he stepped forward into the dim light, you took in the jet-black hair swept away from his face, the hardened look about his features. Wide jaw and cold eyes. Lackey for the Hydra club and right-hand man – Jack Rollins.

You felt the edge of the counter against your spine. Paper crumbled inside your grip; dollar bills molding to the shape of your fist with every step he took. Still, you stayed silent. Couldn’t speak if you had the voice to try. Not with the near decade old Hydra insignia carved into the wall above your doorway – a mocking reminder of what your father had desperately done to help pay your mother’s medical bills and get her into an experimental treatment that didn’t take. Hidden behind an old clock for the sake of your own sanity, but you knew it was there -- watching.

It didn’t matter that it had all been in vain, that the cancer still managed to take your mother after years of suffering through chemo and withering away beyond the woman you knew. The flower shop your parents had dedicated their lives to was now in the hands of the most notorious biker gang on the west side of town. Known for shaking down men in the streets and burning businesses to the ground for shorting them on payments; violent and ruthless – and they were coming to collect their dues.

Rollins set his hands on the counter – caging you between them. You held your breath, looking beyond his shoulder to avoid meeting the cold glaze of his stare. His knee pressed against your thighs as his gaze shifted down to your apron where cut stems and fallen petals lined the pockets. Close enough to feel his breath hot against your neck. He parted your legs.

It was a familiar routine – one where the men of Hydra took advantage of their time in your shop under the cover of darkness. They never pushed it further than what it took to instill a slow moving, paralyzing dread into your stomach, but it was enough to remind you that they could. They could do a hell of a lot worse than scare you. Rollins thrived in every reminder.

“Down, boy,” a voice ordered from the shadows.

Rollins tensed; his jaw wiring shut as he grumbled under his breath. It was only when Rollins put half the distance of the shop between you that you were able to draw air back to your lungs. You could still smell the pungent scent of his cologne – bitter and stinging the back of your throat – and you held back a cough before it could choke you. Under your grip, you relaxed your hold on the money, only to find it dampened with sweat and warped to your fingers.

“What did I tell you about playing with your food?” the voice drawled again and slowly, the leader of Hydra club stepped into the light.

You didn’t dare look him in the eye, didn’t dare let your gaze travel over the mesh of scars on the right side of his face or the way his tongue swept out along his bottom lip as he looked at you.

Brock Rumlow masqueraded himself under the guise of prestige and civility, but it was him you feared more than anyone else. Perhaps it was the calm aura he carried, the deadly quiet in his movements and the knowledge that he could snap under even the slightest of pressure and destroy anything within his reach.

Rumlow stepped forward, casually eyeing the series of pre-made bouquets in the display. He picked a lily from its vase, examining it in his hand before he crumbled the petals in his grip. You watched as they fell in a fallen heap to the floor.

“Tell me you have my money, darling.”

You nodded quickly, eager for this dance to be over. “Right here. As much as I’ve been able to set aside. Business has been slow lately.”

You emptied the register and shoved the crumbled dollars from your wallet into the bag Rollins slid across the counter to you. It would only leave you with enough spare change to scrape by for the rest of your month, but you didn’t care. Just as long as they left.

“I’ll get you the rest,” you added, panic laced through your tone as Rumlow approached the bag with a viciously inpatient look upon his face. “This is all I have. I swear.”

“The Hydra club has done business with your father for more than a decade,” Rumlow said, ignoring your attempts to persuade him. “Do you remember what we did to him when he was short on his payments?”

You clenched your jaw so badly, blood pooled into your mouth. Flashes of your father stumbling into the small apartment past midnight flooded your vision – his right arm clung tight to his bruised ribs, his skin stained in shades of blue and purple. Swelling around his eyes. Unable to look your mother in the eye for fear of his shame.

Afraid to speak and allow the blood to slip past your lips, you only nodded.

“Good. Take that into consideration, won’t you?” He spoke as if he wasn’t threatening to beat you within an inch of your life in the alley behind the shop – as casually as one might ask another to remember their keys on the way out the door.

“Maybe we give her a taste right now,” Rollins snickered from his place in the shadows. “She just admitted she’s holding out on you, boss.”

Rumlow stilled, a hardened look crossing his features though he did not glance back in Rollins’ direction. “We’re not animals, Jack. I provided a warning and she knows to heed it. Besides, the girl has to eat. We can’t get our money if she’s too weak to open shop.”

Rollins pressed his lips together, giving a short, infuriated nod, though he said nothing else. He was right, after all. It was impossible for you to give Hydra everything you made in the last month and still be able to keep the shop open, your bills paid, and food in your stomach. But he was wrong if he assumed you were holding back for anything less. You wanted these Hydra assholes out of your life and you wouldn’t hold onto a single dollar extra if it meant getting them off your backs.

“If I may,” a third voice inquired from the shadows.

Under the dim glow of moonlight from the windows, Loki Laufeyson came into view. He was the only one of the crew wearing a fully pressed suit in favor of the motorcycle jacket and laced boots. He ran the numbers, so you heard; handled the financing side of their extracurricular activities, held the deed to your parents’ soul. He didn’t bother himself with the bikes or dirtying his hands in the streets. No – instead, he found his thrills in the stacks of money lining his pockets.

“Miss Y/L/n has been consistent in her payments since she took over ownership of the shop,” Loki continued, fingers coaxing through the long black hair slicked away from his face. “As a token of acknowledgement, consider simply increasing her interest for the next month to make up for the losses today.”

You paled as Rumlow poked a finger into the bag, briefly eyeing the small mound of bills at the bottom of the bag. You held your breath. Minutes, hours, passed in the time he took to decide your fate, to decide whether he’d take follow Rollins’ feral instincts or take Loki’s advice. You’d never be able to come up with the money next month – not with compounded interest – and perhaps Rumlow knew that. Maybe, he got off on knowing he was setting you up for failure, for whatever horrible consequences he had in mind.

But it would give you another month. Misplaced hope that this time would be different. Hope that left you ruined on the first Tuesday of every month.

Then, Rumlow pursed his lips. He gave a nod to Loki, who swiped the bag into his grip.

“We’ll be back next month.” Rumlow gave a short wave to his men as they headed to the back entrance from where they came. But then, Rumlow paused – the shadows obstructing half of his face, touching over him like an old friend. A wicked smirk pressed at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t be short next time. I keep a tight lease on Rollins. I imagine you'd like me to keep it that way, yes?”

You nodded, afraid to say much of anything else. Your heart was pounding so loudly you were almost certain Rollins could hear it from across the room. The way his eyes followed you as a terrifying grin tugged on his lips was enough to make you wonder. Then, he turned; the white stitching of the Hydra insignia watching you as he left.

It wasn’t until the door closed behind him and the low rumble of engines spurred in the distance, fading into the night, that you finally allowed yourself to breathe.

***

“I don’t understand why you can't just go to the police.”

Pietro slid a steaming cup of apple spiced tea across the table. The mug was hand painted from the month he spent at the ceramics shop down the block chasing after the pretty girl with clay on her cheeks and down the front of her smock. You never learned her name, only that Pietro walked away with dozens of sloppily hand painted mugs and a broken heart curtesy of the boyfriend he didn’t know she had.

Pietro slumped into the chair opposite you, brushing his hands against his apron and spreading baking flour down his chest.

“The Hydra club’s a menace to this town,” he continued, a heavy gravel in his voice. “They've got half the town’s businesses under their thumb—”

“—and the precinct in their pocket,” Wanda added, pulling up a chair beside you. She set a tray of dishes on the table and tossed a drying rag at her brother. He gave her a short glare, a battle of wills between them, before he picked up the towel and got to work. Wanda smirked, leaning back into her chair. Her expression sobered as she turned to you. “What did they do this time?”

You shrugged. It wasn’t anything worse than the usual encounters. Rollins was a power-hungry asshole. Loki loomed in the corners in his fine pressed suits like a devious fly on the wall. Rumlow made his less than subtle threats and took your money. You told them as much, though you left out the part where they’d threatened to do you worse if you failed to deliver on your payment next month. Business at the shop had been slower than usual lately, but it wasn’t as if Hydra cared for your excuses. You didn’t want to worry your friends – not with the concerned looks they shared as you spoke.

“How much do you have left on the debt?” Pietro asked quietly.

You clenched your jaw, keeping your focus down on the tea bag as you swirled it inside the cup. Watching the steam circle into the air, the heat of it against your cheeks, the sweet smell of apples in its wake.

“A lot.” More than you could ever hope to pay off.

Your father was desperate when he went to Hydra – offering up the entire deed to the shop and a promise to return double on interest if only they would pay off his dying wife’s medical bills. It was a problem to be dealt with later, he’d told you. All that mattered was climbing out of the medical debt long enough to see your mother get healthy again, to afford an experimental treatment that she wouldn’t live long enough to see the end of. Alexander Pierce was a dangerous man but he played by a certain set of rules. As long as he received his payments, it would be just fine. Your mother would get the treatment she needed and the family business would stay open.

Truthfully, it had worked for a few years. You learned the routine. Tuesday evenings – eight o’clock. Lock the door, turn off the lights. Ready the money. Don’t look them in the eye and don’t make trouble. Don’t resist. Your father had taught you well enough, but the panic of hearing the turn of their engines as they rolled into the alley behind the shop never lessened. They scuffed the tiles when they walked – leaving permanent black marks upon the floors as if to remind you exactly who owned the store your family had given their lives to.

It seemed worth it for a while.

Hydra’s leadership was passed to Rumlow. Your mother was getting better. You survived the worst day of every month.

But then, the treatments stopped working and the cancer took your mother in a matter of months. Your father died of a heart attack not long after. Folks liked to tell you that it was a broken heart that got him in the end, as if that were meant to comfort you in some way. He couldn’t live in a world without your mother, they’d said. It was romantic.

But your heart was broken, too. And you were the one left to deal with the fallout. A mountain of debt. A chain shackled to Hydra. The paralyzing grief of losing both of your parents. There were no words of comfort that could lessen the burden you carried.

“They’re expanding, you know.” Wanda tapped her fingers against her thigh, gaze glancing out the café windows. “I heard from Gregor down on 6th that Rumlow’s starting to charge all of the businesses that fall within Hydra borders. They’re calling it a territory fee.”

Pietro scoffed. “We’re lucky we’re on this side of the line.”

“This is still a biker town, brother,” Wanda reminded him. “We don’t know much about the 107 but at least they don’t bother us. Sometimes I see them riding the streets or getting into it with the Hydra club near the border. I just try to stay out of whatever they’re doing. Doesn’t matter what side of the war you’re on, there’s always collateral damage."

Growing up in Sokovia, the twins would know that better than anyone. They moved from one war zone to another – though this one operated under intimidation and thinly vailed threats as opposed to open warfare and bombings in the streets.

All you knew of the 107 was that four of Hydra’s men ended up in the hospital as a result of a brawl that took place a year ago near the border. At the time, you’d felt an ounce of satisfaction to know Hydra had taken a hit, but it was quickly displaced with the knowledge that cutting off one head only allowed another to grow.

You didn’t care whether the 107 were the enemy of your enemy. They were all the same as far as you were concerned. Just as bloody and violent. Just as vindictive and manipulative. You’d heard rumors they charged protection fees for the businesses that fell under their territory lines. Little more than extortion disguised under a kinder name.

The bell at the front door chimed and it came as a relief. Pietro reached across the table and squeezed your hand lightly before he left to help the new customer. Wanda watched him for a moment, smoothing out the edge of her apron and the fraying stitching of her mother’s name on the left side of her chest.

“What will you do?” she asked gently.

You held the tea cup between your hands, allowing the warmth to coat into your palms. “What I have to.”

Pay Hydra your dues. Stay under their thumb. Do as they ask, when they ask. Survive. Keep your parents’ shop at all costs.

“You know our door is always open for you,” Wanda said. She offered a small smile, a sadness lingering in her eyes as she glanced the tea you had yet to take a sip from. “Hydra shouldn’t cross the border this far into 107 territory. You’re safe here.”

You pressed out a smile in return, telling her your thanks. You took a few sips from the lukewarm cup before you slid a few dollars in the pocket of her apron despite her protests. She meant well, but at the end of the day, you both knew that no matter how bad things got with Hydra, you would never abandon the last thread you had to your parents.

And the truth was, with Hydra looming over your shoulder – you wouldn’t be safe anywhere.

***

After you left the Maximoffs’ café, the sun had already begun to set. It would be a brisk walk to make it home before nightfall, but you figured the fresh air would do you good. You didn’t get out as often as you used to since you took over May Flowers and your weekly trips to visit Wanda and Pietro were about the extent of your socialization these days. Still, it was something, and not even Ms. Leary could fault you for that.

Your walk through the east side of town often felt like a living memory. On your right, you passed by the donut shop your father had often frequented, bartering with the baker to give his chocolate glaze a little extra on the top before he slipped a few extra dollars in the tip jar. A few minutes later, you saw the front entrance to the park where he proposed to your mother. They’d been surrounded in a garden full of purple lilacs at the time right in the early months of summer. It was your favorite spot to picnic as a child, because they’d tell you the story of how he proposed and sometimes – when you were extra good – he might reenact it for you.

You passed by the salon where you’d gotten your hair cut since you were a child and the local library where your mother had dropped you off for day care. You stepped over the pothole in the sidewalk where you’d cut open your knee when you learned how to ride a bike and touched the dent in the stop sign on the street corner when you learned to drive. This side of town carried so much history for your family.

It was better than passing the bank who had refused to give your father a loan before they foreclosed on the flower shop and forced his hand. The lamppost where he had met with Alexander Pierce under the cover of night and arranged for the deal that left you chained to Hydra’s demands. The alley where he’d been assaulted for failing to make a payment on time. Part of you wondered if drops of his blood were still visible amongst the pebbles but you were too afraid to look.

The only decent thing about the west side of the town was the flower shop. Everything else was just another reminder of what Hydra could do to you if you didn’t come up with their money. It was why you tried to escape to the Maximoffs’ when you could. It reminded you that you weren’t as alone as you often felt.

On your left, you walked past the entrance to the Centenarian – a local bar known for its long hours and the rows of expensive bikes parked outside. Even from the sidewalk, you could hear the low hum of Billy Joel playing on the jukebox and the off-key singing echoing inside as a couple danced behind the open window to Paino Man. It smelled of stale beer and even the sidewalk felt sticky under your shoes as you quickly passed by.

You had half a mind to wander in yourself. It had been years since you let yourself enjoy a decent night out – even if it was hunched over the end of a bar with a lone whiskey and quietly observing the people around you. But the sun was setting quickly – oranges and red coating the horizon in its wake – and you knew better than to be out on the streets after dark with the Hydra club patrolling around with liquor in their veins.

It also wasn’t lost on you that the Centenarian could be home to the 107. There were too many bikes parked out front for it to be anything less – but there was something inviting about the laughter that carried down to the sidewalk and the off pitch singing to Billy Joel that made you wonder if maybe you were wrong. Men like the 107 and Hydra wouldn’t dance with their partners in open windows or sing in public. You didn’t even think they had the capacity for it. The very thought of a man like Brock Rumlow wearing anything close to a genuine smile, twirling a woman in his arms for the sake of her laughter instead of his grimy hands snaking down her spine made you shudder.

You ran your fingers along the gold watch on your wrist. It was loose on your arm, with a few too many chains left in the band from when your father wore it. It had been a gift from your mother for his fortieth birthday. He wore it religiously – didn't even take it off when he was working, leaving behind small specks of soil in the creases. Gave it character, he liked to say. You wore it now to hold onto those pieces of him, comforting you when you needed him most.

You approached a small circle of light hanging under a street lamp, vaguely considering whether the spaghetti in your fridge was still mildly passable for consumption, when you felt hand snake around your wrist.

Panic jolted inside you, the instinct to scream smothered by the low chuckle of the voice behind you. He yanked on your arm, spinning you to face him – tugging you back into the shadows.

The first thing you noticed was that there was no skull and tentacled beast patched on the back of a motorcycle jacket. His face was not one you recognized. He reeked of rum as he dug his nails into your wrist. You weren't sure which was worse – the pinch of his nails to your skin or the putrid smell of his breath. He swayed as he leaned in closer to you.

“You’re a pretty thing,” the man slurred, his breath hot against your neck as you tried to inch your way out of his grip – but it was too familiar, a game you’d played dozens of times before. Cat and mouse. Hunter and prey.

When you looked at him again, he wore Jack Rollin’s dark features – the strong cut of his jawline and the cold, dead look in his eyes. It froze you – your stomach plummeting – because you were still on the east side. Hydra shouldn’t be able to cross without serious consequences from the 107, right? That had to be true. You were certain it was true.

But then you blinked again and Rollins’ face morphed back to the stumbling stranger with the flush of alcohol heavy in his cheeks. The panic from the previous night was still itching in your veins. Messing with you. Playing with you. It lingered and followed you wherever you went and even a trip to the east side to visit your friends could not allow you even a moment of reprieve.

“Let me go,” you warned, tugging at your wrist as you shot a desperate glance to the end of the sidewalk. Nothing appeared in the horizon – no one walking alone in the evening. This town knew better than that.

You wondered briefly if this man was part of the 107. He had no distinguishing features, no emblems on a jacket or tattoos of loyalty. You knew Hydra prided themselves in striking fear with the simple glance to the symbol on their backs and you didn’t suspect the 107 to be any different.

This man was just a drunk; an arrogant drunk who stubbled his way into your path and felt himself entitled to lay his grimy hands on you. But a drunk that held a vice grip on your wrist nonetheless.

“Shhh,” his breath traveled along your jawline.

You stilled yourself – holding your breath as his nose brushed along the side of your neck. He was practically incoherent and the stench of rum burned in your nose the closer he leaned into you. You knew he was a stranger – nothing more than an intoxicated man on the street – but you could smell Rollins’ cologne, could even smell the leather of a jacket that was certainly across the town border. It wouldn’t leave you alone. You squeezed your eyes shut.

Maybe if this had happened years ago – back when you still carried an ounce of strength in your bones and the weight of Hydra’s debt didn’t drag against your ankles in heavy, metal chains – maybe, you would have fought back. You would have swiped a closed fist to the side of his face and knocked him down to the dirt where he belonged.

But you’d learned to stay quiet. You learned to be still and let it pass – because it always did. You’d seen the consequences when you didn’t. The scar on the left side of your father’s temple was evidenced enough. It had matched the edge of a ring worn on Rumlow’s right hand.

It would pass. It would pass.

And then suddenly, as if the universe itself had bent to your will, the man was gone.

The open breeze brushed against your wrist, leaving behind a chill against the skin, and you no longer felt dizzy under the stench of alcohol. You heard the man grunt as he collided with the ground, a low grumbling as he shuffled along the sidewalk. A second set of footsteps approached.

It will pass, you told yourself again as you kept your eyes closed – the same way that Rollins always left at the end of the night and Rumlow took his cash. The line was never crossed. It was only ever about fear. Perhaps, if you dared to open your eyes again, you would be in your flower shop on the west side and the hum of engines would ignite in the distance – steadily fading into the night until nothing was left but the gentle coat of silence. Maybe, you wouldn’t be standing in the middle of an empty street alone after dark in a dangerous town.

A hand touched your shoulder – feather light, hesitant – and you flinched. Your eyes shot open; fists clenched as you readied to defend yourself, as foolish as it felt. You knew the drunk was twice your size, but you’d learned how to steel yourself against men like Rumlow and Rollins despite the terror they induced, so you’d go down with a fighting breath in front of this man, too.

But the drunk was no longer standing in front of you, invading your space. Instead, you were met with the calming surrender of startling blue eyes.

Bluer than the delphiniums lined along the outside of your shop – the very same ones your mother had stopped by every morning to touch a gentle fingertip to the petals and take in their scent; quite literally stopping to smell the flowers because she was the sort of woman to take stalk in the smallest moments of joy.

Bluer than the empty sky you’d woken to that morning – calm and gentle as it coaxed you away from the viced grip on your sheets, the sweat stained on your back, and the heavy locks on your doors. Kind on the horizon. Vast. Limitless.

Bluer than the lake behind your grandfather’s cabin as the sun touched the crests just before it reached its peak in the sky.

Blue. Blue. Blue.

It took a moment before you even allowed yourself to venture beyond his eyes to the bristle of stubble along his cheeks and the short wisps of brunette hair brushed back away from his face. He had lines along the side of his eyes – laugh lines, you realized, that must have taken years' worth of joy to produce.

Blue-eyes held his hands up in the air, taking a slow step back as he noticed the tension in your stance. “Are you alright, miss?”

You stared at him; jaw clenched. Your heart was racing too badly to reply, fingers numb under the rush of adrenaline, but you offered him a short nod.

He exhaled in what seemed to be relief, stealing a glance back in the direction of The Centenarian. Piano Man was still playing through the speakers and you realized that the entire encounter had taken place in less than three minutes. It had felt like hours.

“We cut him off an hour ago but I guess he stumbled into a liquor store anyway,” Blue-eyes said, his voice lower than you expected. “He won’t see a drop of our alcohol again, I promise you.”

You swallowed, following his gaze back to the bar. His eyes carried such heaviness – a strange mixture of anger and disappointment you couldn’t quite place.

“You work at the Centenarian?” you asked slowly, regaining your voice.

He smiled at that, his head hung low so you could not see his eyes or the way the lines pressed lightly around them, but still – you could see the faintest traces of a pleasant memory. “Something like that.”

You had half a mind to ask him if it was true about the bar – that it served as the meeting spot for the 107, Hydra’s counterpart on the east side – but you bit your tongue instead. He’d done you a favor by chasing off the drunken man before he’d done any real damage and you weren’t going to repay his kindness by accusing him of working for a bunch of low life criminals.

“It’s getting dark. I should probably get home,” you murmured rather reluctantly, stealing a glance down the open sidewalk. The sun had fallen behind the horizon, leaving only a trail of darkness behind. Stars peppered in the sky, but the shadows hung heavy over the sidewalks on your journey back. At least your shop was close to the border. You’d rather face a run-in with the 107 than Hydra any day. The 107 wouldn't recognize your face, wouldn’t operate under the knowledge that they owned you down to the last penny in your register, and somehow, that was the kinder option.

“Let me walk you,” Blue-eyes offered. His gaze trailed over you, though it wasn’t in the hungry, demoralizing glare that men like Jack Rollins’ carried. It was almost a kindness – a quiet observation for a sign to step back, to put space between you if he crossed an unwanted line. “The streets aren’t always safe when the sun goes down. Could be a lot worse than running into handsy drunks.”

You swallowed, nodding slowly. You were well aware and it didn’t seem as though he took any pride in reminding you. If anything, there was a dangerous sort of anger pressed into his features – a sharp clench of his jaw, his hands taunt into fists. Almost as if he carried the responsibility himself.

“I’m not far,” you told him as he stepped in line with you. “I live above the flower shop on Culver.”

He paused, a slight waver of hesitation in his stance. “May Flowers? On the west side? It’s yours?”

You were surprised he knew of your shop considering the black combat boots and tattoo peeking out from under the sleeve of his t-shirt. You were certain you would have recognized a face like his if he’d ever shown up in your shop – standing out in rugged contrast to the delicacy of brightly colored flowers and plants inside – but something about his expression was painted in familiarity. You nodded.

But then his jaw clenched, his gaze fixated on the end of the sidewalk. Something like reluctance holding him back.

“It’s only a few minutes from here. I can manage on my own,” you said despite the nerves inching their way back up your spine. You barely knew this man – didn't even know his name – and still, something about this stranger felt safer than the terrifying alternative of being alone. But you’d handled worse before – you'd stool in front of men like Rollins and Rumlow and survived. You could manage another six blocks.

Blue-eyes took another cautious glance back at the Centenarian before his shoulders slumped. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a string of keys. Before you could ask him what he was doing, he unclipped a plastic charm and shoved the keys back into his pockets.

“Take this,” he offered, extending the keychain to you.

You stared blankly at it until he gestured patiently for your hand – never reaching for it before you could offer it yourself. You placed your hand into his, the calloused touch of his palms coaxing against your fingers – rough and labored through the years, a story within the palms of his hands. You shivered as you watched him slide the plastic keychain along your fingers, your pointer and middle finger fitting securely in the openings. He closed your hand around the keychain, leaving two sharp edges piercing through the center of your closed fist.

“You won’t hurt yourself on it,” he told you, tapping his finger on the edge of the plastic, “but if anyone comes at you, this will do some damage if you swing at ‘em.”

You turned your fist in your hand, testing out the motion as Blue-eyes stepped back to give you the space. His arms folded over his chest, a smile brimming upon his lips as he watched you. You found as you clutched the keychain in your grip, that the nerves slipped from their viced grip in your muscle, the panic easing its way from your bloodstream.

You felt the warm ache of a smile against your cheeks. “How can I return it to you?”

“It’s yours,” he replied with a quick shake of his head.

You nodded, biting at the edge of your lip as you played with the sharp edge of the plastic. “Thank you. For this and... for coming to my rescue.”

He shrugged, a teasing grin brightening his features. “You had him on the ropes.”

“Right,” you laughed, surprised to find it possible in your voice. You stole a reluctant took down the sidewalk. “I suppose I should head home now.”

“Yeah,” Blue-eyes sighed, sinking his hands to his pockets. “Get back safe, okay?”

You gave him one last smile, trying not to focus on the way his brow wrinkled at the center or how the edge of his lip was scarred as his teeth bit into the fullest part. As you faced the west side, inching towards the border, you could feel his gaze on you and a shiver crawled up your spine.

It was only after you’d crossed the border into the west that you dared a glance over your shoulder. The Centenarian was long out of view and so was the blue-eyed stranger. You clutched his keychain a little tighter, picking up you pace until you spotted the dark, overhanging sign of your parents’ flower shop.

It wouldn’t be until you finally locked the door behind you that you realized you never learned Blue-eyes' name. A sliver of disappointment sank into your stomach as slid the keychain around the metal loop with your apartment keys. You peered out the window, looking back to the east side of the city, wondering if maybe you might run into the stranger again.

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