(Okay everyone, be gentle this is my first time writing an OC! I just have a lot of Bucky feelings after WS so this is my way of getting them out. And don't worry fans of Culture Clash, I plan and balancing updates for both stories. Just bear with me here!")
Elena Summers pushed the frizzy blond curls out of her chocolate brown eyes as she made her way through the crowded streets of Brooklyn. The sun was threatening to be swallowed by the dark clouds that loomed behind it. People seemed to sense the oncoming storm, walking a little faster and pushing the hoods of their thin jackets over their heads.
Elena hurried a little faster too, not wanting to be late for her job. She'd recently moved to this part of town, seeking to get away from her crazy home life and a recent nasty breakup from her former boyfriend. She'd managed to find a tiny apartment she could afford, not in the nicest part of town. But she needed this; she needed to stick out on her own. She was hoping to be able to be able to balance work with taking classes at NYU across the city on the weekends.
Elena finally reached her destination: Brooklyn's Books, a tiny bookstore a couple blocks from where she lives. It's one of her favorite places. She loves it: being surrounded all day by books, the quaint tiny bookshop as welcoming as hot chocolate on a cold day. And the owner there treats her like family.
"Morning, Mrs. Gold." Elena called out, walking through the doors.
Mrs. Gold, a middle-aged, tiny woman, smiled from behind the desk. "Morning, Elena, looks like it's going to be a stormy one later on."
"Looks like it." Elena replied, hanging up her coat and making her way toward the front desk, stopping a moment to finger some of the history books. She loves history, every part of it, the people, the guts and gore. She's even looking to become a professor once her degree is finished.
The fist customer came in, and the day went by in a blur of talking to people, dusting off shelves, and reading idly. When the shop closes, it was about nine o'clock.
"So, how long do you think it'll take to finish your degree, Elena?" Mrs. Gold chatted to her as she's preparing to leave.
"A year or two, I think." Elena replied, tugging on her jacket. "Hopefully I'll get a job straightaway after that."
"Hopefully." Mrs. Gold smiled as she handed Elena a pan of homemade lasagna. "For you, for dinner."
Elena grinned. "Thanks."
The storm finally started as she exited the shop and made her way toward her apartment. The air was thick with moisture ready to be dropped from the sky. She just barely made it inside before it started pouring.
The place is tiny, but she's tried to make it as open and homey as best she could. She's covered the worn brick walls with movie posters and put her old vinyl collection in the corner. There's a main room, a tiny kitchen with a bathroom down the hall leading to her bedroom.
Elena cut off a hunk of lasagna and threw it in the microwave. As it's heated, she flipped on the TV and surfed the movie channels. A documentary about World War II was on. She watched while chewing on her food, engrossed in footage of soldiers on the battlefield. Footage of Captain America appeared. She grinned, still marveling how such an icon was still alive today.
Eventually her eyes grew heavy and she flips off the TV. She trudged down the hall to her bedroom, not even bothering to change clothes as she tumbles into bed. She can to that tomorrow. She drifts off to the sound of the rain ponding on her roof.
She woke to a soft rustling sound in the main room. She rolls over, thinking it's just the washing machine going downstairs. But then she heard what are unmistakably footsteps pattering across the floor. Her eyes flew open.
Someone's in her apartment.
Elena's heart started pounding as she listened to the footsteps move into the kitchen. She gets up and moves to the open door, straining to get a better perception of the sounds. She hears rustling, then a low moan as the fridge door is pulled open. It's clearly a man. She starts shaking. There's no phone in her bedroom. Maybe if she could get to the main room, she could call for help.
She moved down the hall as quietly as she can. She heard the man pull out a container of something and start eating ravenously. She suspects it's the lasagna.
She reached the kitchen door, trying to move past it and get to the main room. She peeked inside. The man has his back to her, still bent over the open fridge, but she could tell he's got at least a few hundred pounds of muscle over her. She'd never be able to take him if he attacked her.
Elena forced herself to take a breath, inching her way past the open door. Suddenly the man's body went rigid. He spun around, his eyes boring into hers. A mass of saggy, unkempt hair framed his face, along with a face that looked like it hadn't been shaved in months. He wore a thick jacket with a glove covering his left hand, soaked and dripping on the floor from the rain outside. He smelled like the street, and his hand was still gripping the lasagna pan.
Elena screamed. At the sound the man dropped the pan and it shattered on the floor with a crash. In an instant he was across the room, pressing a hand to her mouth. "Quiet!" He hissed. She could see anger in his eyes, but also fear and bewilderment and other sick emotions that she didn't want to examine too closely. She thrashed and kicked at him, pulling him out of the hallway and into the main room. She finally got her mouth free of his hand and screamed again. Why was no one hearing her?
The man pushed back on her, sending Elena sprawling into the wall. Her back hit with a painful thump, causing her to sink down to the floor. She opened her mouth to scream again, but suddenly she saw that the man was standing and gasping in the middle of her living room.
"I'm sorry!" He gasped. "I'm so sorry!" And Elena stared at him in shock and disbelief. He was apologizing to her? She knew she could probably run across the room and grab the phone, but she felt frozen in place. The man, still gasping, stared at her, before his eyes rolled back into his head and he slumped to the floor.