Distortion

He found her in the archives, settled on a chair pushed with its back against the wall for more support. James didn’t even know she had access to the documents, but perhaps she needed it to plan her next move on the chessboard she called the world. Yet again, he found himself questioning her style. Was it her choice, or just another mask she was trying on to get closer to Barnes? A vintage aesthetic peeked through everywhere: in the cut of her clothes, her hairstyle, her makeup, even in the movements reminiscent of a housewife on sedatives from the forties. James, having opened the door slightly, watched Lauren for a while as she sat with her legs crossed, leaning against the cold wall, reviewing another file. Her face was calm, thoughtful, but not cold—not like the one he was so used to. “Planning to stand there long?” she asked, closing the folder and adding it to the pile on the table, making it taller. “What are you doing here?” James stepped inside, realizing she had seen him earlier. “Reading,” Lauren took another folder in her hands, opening it. “And you?” “Just finished the speech for the upcoming press conference,” Barnes sat down tiredly on the chair opposite. “Thought I’d look for examples.” “The internet not working anymore?” she smirked, then preempted his question. “What I’m reading is still classified.” “And why do you need it?” he picked up the top folder from the stack, reading the titles. “Closed projects?” “More interested in why it’s here and not at the CIA,” Lauren skimmed the page with her eyes. “Don’t tell me you worked there,” James put the folder down, looking at the girl whose gaze answered the question. “Seriously?” “For a while,” she exhaled, closing the folder, understanding he wouldn’t leave her alone. “People like me aren’t on the employee list. We’re listed as 'grey workers.' Hired under direct management for missions no one should know about, not even the secretary.” “You left?” Barnes, who hadn’t expected to glimpse even behind Lauren’s mask, was pleasantly surprised. “Nowadays they’d call it freelancing,” she shrugged. “I choose when to work, but for now I decided to switch fields.” “As always—vague,” the man got up to put the unnecessary folders back in place. “And what was I supposed to say?” Lauren put the folder on the table nervously. “That I always had to keep a bullet for myself? That after Delta, I couldn’t imagine any other life but killing? That the only thing helping me sleep is sleeping pills? What?” “If you hadn’t been so cold from the start, I wouldn’t be asking such questions,” James struggled to wedge the folder back into its place on the shelf. “Don’t project your expectations onto me,” Lauren stood up from the chair to put away the last folder. “I came here to work, and my results speak for my work, not my past. You’d better not know.” “You didn’t know me back then,” James shot back, forcefully sliding the folder in, feeling the pages shuffle. “And you don’t know what’s going on inside others,” Lauren moved the folders aside with her hand and placed hers there. “Don’t think you’re the only one with problems.” “So tell me,” Bucky turned to the girl, grabbing her wrist. “My past is on display for everyone, but no one knows yours. Not even you.” Lauren fell silent, watching his bionic fingers tighten around her hand. She twisted her wrist and pulled it back, freeing herself. Taking a few steps back, escaping the prison of the shelves, she picked up her phone and car keys from the table. “Rehearse the speech,” she said restrainedly, disappearing behind the vault door. James just stared at the heavy door, unable to take a single step to stop her. He felt she possessed a privilege he could never obtain under any circumstances—the chance to start over.