the soldier was in your apartment.

having a brainwashed assassin standing in your hallway in the dead of night would be inconvenient under any circumstances, but all the more so given that you were presently babysitting. said toddler, penelope fernandez, was the daughter of an old friend that had been staying in your flat; hugo fernandez.

hugo, quote on quote, needed somewhere to lay low while he sought out a new flat in queens; but apparently he was also on a bloody HYDRA hit list.

that would have been helpful to know before you had turned down stark’s offer to install high-tech home security into your modest home, which he had less than charitably dubbed a shithole.

the winter soldier, known to the smithsonian's america's golden boy exhibit as sergeant barnes, had been roused from his cryogenic slumber by whichever HYDRA-SHIELD boss monstrosity was in power to assassinate darling hugo. unluckily for you and him, hugo was out drinking. and with penelope asleep in her room, you were on your own.

“где этот ублюдок.” the words left his lips in an octave so low that it felt like someone had poured gravel down the back of your shirt; not that you knew what that felt like. his metal arm glistened in the low light from the television, which had stubbornly stayed on since you lost the remote, drowned in the couch cushions.

his dark hair was disheveled and roughly shorn, his piercing blue eyes regarding you in a manner that was disconcertingly detached, like the gaze of a machine.

“hugo fernandez. where is he.” he repeated, in english this time; an accent that was distinctly american, which jarred you more than the infiltration of your property. “this is is address of residence. do not withhold information.” a click of a gun, somewhere in his shadowed hand. “or this will not end well for you.”