Chapter Text
hey! thanks for clicking on my word vomit! i really hope you like it!
Just so you know: yes, Jake is Bucky. Obviously. I know that's not his real name. Several people found that confusing.
9:49 PM
Charlotte is making soup and singing to music (Hips Don't Lie) when someone knocks on her apartment door.
"Just a minute," she calls, and sets down the spoon. Charlie opens the door. The stranger barrels inside and slams the door shut before Charlie can even react. "What the-" Charlie starts. The man clamps his palm against her mouth, and his other arm bars across her shoulders.
"Don’t make a sound," he hisses. Blood drips steadily onto the hardwood floor. Charlie doesn't move. Shakira keeps on blasting. The man is wearing tactical gear in all black. He drops his hand to his side.
"Betadine," he says. "What?" Charlie asks. "I need Betadine, hydrogen peroxide, or rubbing alcohol," the man repeats. Charlie's heart thuds wildly. "Okay," she says. She tucks her dark hair behind her ears. "Now," the man orders. His voice is scarily quiet.
Charlie runs to her bathroom and finds a bottle of rubbing alcohol. She tries to find something she can use as a weapon in case he tries to attack her, but all she has in the bathroom is her Gillette razor and eyebrow scissors. The razor does some damage, Charlie knows- she constantly has healing slices in her legs from shaving.
"Here," Charlie says. She hands the man the rubbing alcohol. He instantly takes the cap off and dumps it over his injured thigh without blinking. His jaw tightens and he blows a breath out of his nose.
Charlie's fingers trace the razor in the back pocket of her Levi's. She turns off the music, but leaves her phone on the table. She doesn't want to risk trying to call 911. The man is more likely to just get out if she doesn't call.
"What happened to you?" Charlie asks. The man glares at her.
"At least tell me your name," she tries. Charlie bites her lip and watches the man pour more alcohol over his wound. The injury is a gunshot wound.
dontpanicdontpanicdontpanic
"Well, I'm Charlie," she says. A huff escapes the man's mouth as he tears his right pant leg, right over his wound.
"My real name is Charlotte, but most people call me Charlie," she rambles on. The man interrupts her.
"I need a needle and thread," he says. Charlie's nose scrunches. "I don't have any. What do you think I am, a colonial lady? I don't sew anything."
Charlie holds eye contact with the man. "You're lying," he says.
Charlie breathes calmly. "Do you want a needle and thread? Looks to me like you're bleeding a substantial amount," she says. The man stares at Charlie, incredulous. "Jake," he mumbles. Charlie smirks.
"Good job."
It takes a hot minute to find the needle and thread. Charlie eventually uncovers them deep in her desk drawer, beneath stacks of written-on notebook paper, twelve hair ties, a Glock 19 and several handfuls of 9mm bullets. Charlie loads the Glock and shoves it in the back of her waistband.
"Got it," Charlie says. She hands Jake the needle and thread. Jake rolls his eyes. He tries to thread the needle, but it's sticking to one of his gloves. The man curses. "Want me to?" Charlie asks. Jake grunts in denial and keeps on struggling.
A scraping sound comes from down the hall. No, Riley, no, Charlie thinks silently.
The man is already on his feet, though, and has a gun in his hand. "Jake, no," Charlie says.
She can see that the gun's safety is off.
"Jake, that's my pit bull," Charlie warns. Jake keeps on limping towards Charlie's room's closed door. He kicks it open and Riley comes out, teeth bared. In an instant, Jake is aiming at Riley.
Charlie pulls out her gun and snaps, "You shoot her, I shoot you. Riley, heel." Riley trots to Charlie's side. "Guess what, Jake?" Charlie says. "This dog is just about one of my only friends in the world. If you hurt her, you will regret it. And get off my rug. You're dripping blood everywhere."
Jake glances uneasily at Riley. "She won't bother you," Charlie says, "Unless I let her." Jake limps back to the kitchen and rewashes his leg in alcohol.
"Who's a good girl?" Charlie says loudly to her dog. Riley wags her tail and licks Charlie's hand.
Charlie is still trying to fend off a panic attack, and Riley significantly helps. Jake remains silent as he stitches up his leg.
Whoever Jake really is, he has an insanely high pain tolerance. He barely winces as he makes each careful stitch.
Blood keeps on dripping onto the floor, and Charlie is getting ticked off at his messiness. A low growl rumbles out of Riley's half-closed jaws. The brown and white pit bull is leaning forward, and Charlie is keeping her hand closed tightly around the blue and pink paracord collar.
"Get some bandages," Jake says gruffly. Charlie narrows her eyes. "Hand over the gun first," she says.
"No."
Charlie's eyes are cold. "Then give me the ammo. I don't trust you around my dog, and I know you can't walk or you'll rip out your stitches."
Jake is motionless, but Charlotte Grace Etlim is as stubborn as he is. Some people confuse her stubbornness for bravery. She isn't going to give in.
"The gun or the ammo, Jake." Jake slams his gun on the tabletop. Charlie seizes the firearm. Riley follows Charlie into the bathroom.
Charlie digs a box of Band-Aid gauze pads and a roll of medical tape out of the bathroom cabinet. She glances at Riley, who stares at her owlishly. "I don't like this either," she says. "But he'll shoot me if I don't help. He made that clear the moment he walked in." Charlie's chest is getting tight. Riley whimpers and sticks her nose against Charlie's knee.
"Get your crap together," Charlie tells herself. But her hands are already shaky, her pulse is already racing. Adrenaline shoots through her body and the panic gets its claws in her.
Charlie is sitting on the floor. Riley shoves her head into Charlie's sweaty hands. "Frick," she whispers. Charlie hasn't had a panic attack in a while. She knows exactly why she's having one now.
Jake.
Riley lets out a loud whine.
Jake sits at the glass-topped kitchen table, waiting for- what did she say her name was? Charlie? For Charlie to come back. His leg is throbbing. He'll ask for some Tylenol next. The whole resistance about giving up the gun wasn't because he wanted to stay armed- he has multiple guns hidden all over him. He just likes that Glock. It loads more smoothly than any other gun he has. He's annoyed about the dog. Maybe because it's obviously cared for better by its owner than he is, himself.
Speaking of the owner, if Jake wasn't a trained assassin, he would be slightly intimidated. Charlie is around average height at 5'6, which isn't tall, but she's obviously strong. She's thick in a toned way; the kind of toned that results from a habit of going to the gym. Mostly muscle. So she's at least fit, if not strong, plus the fact that she's willing to use a gun. Her personality is... intense, as far as Jake has seen, and brash. And very abrasive.
Charlie is taking forever. Jake hears Riley whining. Jake stands up. He tries to keep his leg from moving too much. Those stitches he did were nearly perfect, and if they rip, he'll have to work with shredded skin.
Jake looks into the bathroom and sees Charlie on the floor, arms wrapped around the dog. Her breathing is erratic. She doesn't notice him. Riley sees Jake, though, and Jake could swear that the dog is giving him the evil eye. Jake quickly puts it together- Riley, who has obviously been trained to help Charlie, the startled, heaving breaths, the facade of confidence. She's having a panic attack. Jake has had several before, himself, but learned how to shut it down in mere seconds. Somewhere deep inside him, he feels a twinge of sympathy.
She's your asset until you're healed. Then you have to deal with her, just like everyone else.
Jake stands there for about fifteen seconds before he loses patience. "Charlie," he says. Charlie's face is buried in her dog's fur. "Charlie." Charlie looks up. Jake lifts her to her feet by her arms. He turns on the sink and waits a moment for it to fill up. Charlie is trying to get away from him. Jake puts a hand on the back of her head. "Hold your breath," he says, and dunks her face in the sink.
Charlie screams underwater.
Jake holds Charlie's face under for a solid five seconds before Riley sinks her teeth into Jake's left calf.
Jake backs up, slamming against the wall. He fumbles for one of his other guns- maybe his 19, maybe the backup 22. Charlie stops him dead in his tracks by shoving the mouth of her 19 to his forehead and Jake's confiscated 22 against his chest. Her now-wet hair frames her face and her raging, dark brown eyes. She's surprisingly pretty when she's mad.
Riley is still attacking Jake's leg. "Riley, sit," Charlie says quietly. Riley sits.
Jake resists the urge to look at his calf, which is definitely bleeding.
"I don't know why you did that," Charlie hisses, "But if you ever touch me again, I will shoot you and sic Riley on you. Easiest case of self-defense an attorney has ever seen."
Jake's face is expressionless. "It stopped the panic attack," he says. Charlie is silent. She has no good comeback, no defense to this. Because it did work- it stopped the attack instantly. Charlie brushes the wet hair out of her face. "How long would you have held me under for? Until I passed out?" Charlie demands. Jake grits his teeth.
"Seven seconds. Give me the bandages."
~*~
Jake uses almost the entire rest of the bottle of rubbing alcohol on his calf. It drips all over the floor, and Charlie is shooting daggers at him with her eyes. Riley seems to be smirking. The alcohol burns like fire on his torn-up skin, but Jake keeps a straight face.
Fire doesn't even hurt that bad.
Charlie watches Jake. She could have shot him several times by now, but she honestly doesn't want to have to deal with all the legal crap. If he tries to pull anything, though, she won't hesitate. Charlie likes her life. She's happy. Her friend group is two people, and even though that's not many people, she's content. Mostly. As a kid, she always wanted to get married. But then she saw how her father treated her mother, and distanced herself from men. They scare her. This- having Jake in her apartment- terrifies her.
Jake bandages his thigh and calf. Charlie takes Riley back into the bathroom yet again and reemerges with hydrogen peroxide. Jake clenches his jaw. She couldn't have given him that? Charlie picks up a few rags and starts scrubbing her rug. Jake watches, now very ticked off.
"Tylenol," he says. Charlie squints at him. "Are you kidding me? I'm not giving you anything else. You nearly drowned me in my own bathroom sink," she snaps. Her heart is still working overtime, trying to get over the shock. Riley growls. Jake barely resists the temptation to pull out his Glock and send a bullet through the dog's head.
Charlie's stomach growls.
She stands up and takes a Maruchan Noodle Cup out of the kitchen cabinet. Riley follows her as Charlie adds water. The apartment is silent other than the microwave's dull humming. Three and a half minutes later, the timer goes off. Charlie takes her phone, her noodle cup, and a fork into her room. Riley is still following her. Charlie locks the door behind her- Jake hears it click.
He's starving.
Lady Gaga starts drifting from Charlie's room.
Jake stands up and limps into the kitchen.
There are endless amounts of Maruchan products- that can't be healthy- energy drinks, coffee grounds, Frosted Flakes cereal, bread, peanut butter, croutons, fajita seasoning, taco shells, and bananas in the cabinets.
In the fridge are grapes, cubed watermelon, orange juice, milk, butter, a takeout box from Chef Lee ll's, fried chicken, yogurt, fresh kale, cucumbers, salad dressing, carrots.
The freezer holds nothing but ice, ice cream, and Hot Pockets.
Jake puts four Hot Pockets in the microwave and pours himself a glass of orange juice. The oven clock reads 10:24. Jake sighs. Once the Hot Pockets are done, he scarfs them down at lightning speed. He doesn't care that they burn his mouth. He never gets food. Ever. Just I.V's to keep him going.
The music has gotten softer, and instead of pop, it's classical. Jake lays out on the couch. He'll try to sleep tonight, try to get going tomorrow.
~*~
Charlie takes her Maruchan noodles out of the microwave. She slips her phone in her pocket and grabs a fork on the way to her room.
Jake is silent.
Charlie locks her bedroom door behind her. She doesn't really care what Jake does in the rest of the apartment. She just wants him away from her.
Charlie sits down at her desk and turns on the music. Poker Face starts playing. Charlie feeds a noodle to Riley. Riley had been fed around eight, so she isn't very hungry. Which is a relief, because when she gives Charlie the puppy dog eyes, Charlie can never resist.
The noodles are gone too fast, and Charlie is still hungry. She doesn't want to go back into the kitchen, though, because Jake very well could be in there. I wonder if he's going to sleep. Charlie holds her phone and stares at the screen. She could call 911 right this minute. But something in her nags no, just wait, he'll leave. Charlie tosses her phone on the bed. She wants more food.
Charlie stands up. For a few seconds, her vision goes fuzzy and dark.
Never took any iron today.
Once Charlie's vision clears, she heads towards her bedroom door.
"C'mere, Riley," Charlie says softly. Riley is at her side instantly. Charlie decides not to take her gun.
Charlie silently walks down the hall. Riley's claws click on the hardwood floors. The kitchen and living room are quiet. Jake is asleep on the couch. He's frowning in his sleep. Charlie hits her hip on the edge of the kitchen counter and breathes a cuss word. Her pit bull is watching Jake. After some consideration, Charlie takes fried chicken and watermelon on a plate.
"Riley," Charlie whispers, and taps her leg. Riley bolts to her, and follows her to Charlie's bedroom.
The cold fried chicken is delicious.
no idea how this story will do over here on ao3. please feel free to give me feedback, negative or positive!